Annie became a matter of interested comment among the other servants.
They had all seen Peter recover from many incipient attacks of love, but
this they unanimously diagnosed as the real thing. Joe and his wife
talked the matter over upon his return from the hospital, and decided
that the time had definitely come for the livery stable; Peter, in all
fairness, had served as groom long enough. They would move out of the
coachman's cottage the following spring, and give the young people a
chance. Thus was the way open for a happy conclusion, and everyone was
preparing to dance at the wedding, except Peter and Annie themselves.
They alone were not certain as to the outcome. Neither was quite
comfortably sure that the other was in earnest, and when it came to the
point they were both a little shy. Annie, with laughing eyes, tempted
Peter at every point, but when he showed a disposition to control
matters himself, she precipitously fled.
The two were standing on the back veranda one moonlight night, and Annie
was engaged in pointing out to Peter the lady in the moon. Peter was
either stubborn or stupid; he frankly declared that he saw no "loidy,"
and didn't believe there was one. In her zeal in the cause of astronomy,
Annie unwarily bent her head too near, and while her eyes were turned to
the moon, Peter kissed her. She slapped him smartly, as a
well-brought-up young woman should, and fled into the house before he
could catch her. Peter, strong in his new-found courage, waited about in
the hope that she would reappear; but she did not, and he finally took
himself off to his room over the carriage-house, where he sat by the
window gazing out at the moonlight for two hours or more before he
remembered to go to bed. The slap had hurt neither him nor his feelings;
he liked her the better for it. She wasn't really mad, he reflected
happily, for she had laughed as she banged the door in his face.
The next morning Peter went about his work with a singing heart and many
a glance toward the kitchen windows. He swashed water over the stable
floor and rubbed down the horses with a mind happily intent upon what he
would say to Annie when he saw her. About ten o'clock Mrs. Carter
ordered the victoria, but as the carriage horses were at the shop being
shod, Joe sent Peter in to ask if Trixy and the phaeton would do as
well.
Peter dropped his sponge and started for the house at exactly the wrong
moment for his future peace of mind. He arrived at the kitchen door just
in time to see the man from the grocery put his packages on the table
and his arms around Annie, and kiss her with a smack that resounded
through the room and would, to Peter's outraged senses, resound through
all time. Annie turned with a startled cry, and as her gaze fell upon
Peter, her face paled before the look in his eyes. Without a word he
whirled about and strode back to the stables with white lips and
clenched fists, and murder in his heart for the grocer's man. He did not
hear what Annie said to him, nor did he know that she locked herself in
her room and cried; what he did know was that she had been making a fool
of him, and that she flirted with every man who came along, and that
that wasn't the kind of a girl he wanted to do with.
Several days before, as Peter was driving Mr. Lane, who was visiting at
Willowbrook again, and Master Bobby to the village, Annie had been
sweeping the front veranda as they passed, and had thrown a friendly
smile in the direction of the cart. The smile was intended for Peter,
but Mr. Lane had caught it, and had remarked to Bobby:
"That's a deuced pretty maid you've got there."
"Annie's the bulliest maid we ever had," Bobby had returned
appreciatively. "She swipes cake for me when Nora isn't looking."
But Peter had frowned angrily, as he longingly sized up Mr. Lane, and
wished he were not a gentleman so that he could punch him. It was none
of Mr. Lane's business whether Annie was pretty or not.
At that time Annie could do no wrong, and Peter had not thought of
blaming her for Mr. Lane's too-open admiration, but now he wrathfully
accused her of trying to flirt with gentlemen, than which, in Peter's
estimation, she could do no worse. As he could take it out of neither of
them in blood--which his soul thirsted for--he added it to the grocer's
score, and his fingers fairly itched to be at work. The grocer was just
the sort of man that he most enjoyed pummelling--big and florid, with
curling hair, a black moustache, and a dimple in his chin.
Annie, after her _contretemps_ with the grocer, passed a miserable day.
In vain she tried to get a word with Peter; he was not to be seen. Billy
was the groom who came to the house on all further errands from the
stables. That evening she put on her prettiest frock and sat for two
hours on the top step of the back veranda with her eyes turned
expectantly toward the carriage-house, and then she went to bed and
cried. Had she but known it, Peter was in a vacant lot back of Paddy
Callahan's saloon, blissfully remodelling the features of the grocer's
man.
Annie passed a wakeful night, and the next morning she swallowed her
pride and went to the stables in the hope of seeing Peter alone. Peter,
too, in spite of his victory of the evening, had kept vigil through the
night. He was listlessly currying one of the carriage horses when he
saw Annie leave the house and come slowly down the walk toward the
stables. His heart suddenly leaped to his mouth, but a moment later he
was bending over the horse with his back to the door, whistling as
merrily as though he had not a care in the world. He heard Annie's
hesitating step on the threshold, and he smiled grimly to himself and
whistled the louder.
"Pete, I'm wantin' to speak to you, if ye're not busy."
Peter glanced up with a well-assumed start of surprise. He looked Annie
over, slowly and deliberately, and then turned back to the horse.
"Aw, but I am busy," he returned. "Lift up!" he added to the horse, and
he solicitously examined her foot.
Annie waited patiently, struggling between a sense of pride which urged
her to go back and never speak to Peter again, and a sense of shame
which told her that she owed him an explanation.
"Pete," she began, and there was a little catch in her voice which went
to Peter's heart; in his effort to resist it and mete out due punishment
for all the misery she had caused him, he was harder than he otherwise
would have been. "Pete, I wanted to be tellin' ye that it wasn't my
fault. He--he niver kissed me before, and I didn't know he was goin' to
then."
Peter shrugged.
"Ye needn't be apologizin' to me. I ain't interested in yer amoors. If
ye wants to be apologizin' to any one go an' do it to his wife."
"His wife?" asked Annie.
"Aye, his wife an' his three childern."
"I didn't know he was married," said Annie, flushing again, "but 'tis no
difference, for it weren't my fault. I niver acted a bit nicer to him
than to anny other man, an' that's the truth."
"Oh, ye're a lovely girl, ye are! Flirtin' around with other women's
husbands, and lettin' every fool that comes along kiss ye if he wants
to."
"Ye needn't talk," cried Annie. "Ye did it yerself, an' ye're no better
than the grocer man."
"An' do ye think I'd a-done it if I hadn't knowed ye was willin?"
Annie backed against the wall, and with flushed cheeks and blazing eyes,
stared at him speechlessly, angry with herself at her powerlessness to
say anything that would hurt him enough. As she stood there, Master
Bobby and Mr. Lane came in on their way to visit the kennels. Mr. Lane
looked curiously from the angry girl to the nonchalant groom, who had
resumed his work, and was softly whistling under his breath. Master
Bobby, being intent only upon puppies, passed on without noticing the
two, but Mr. Lane glanced back over his shoulder at Annie's pretty
flushed face, and paused to ask:
"My dear girl, has that fellow been annoying you?"
"No, no!" Annie said wildly. "Go away, Mr. Lane, please."
Mr. Lane glanced from one to the other with a laugh. "Ah, I see! A
lovers' quarrel," and he followed Master Bobby.
Peter echoed his laugh, and in a tone which would have justified Mr.
Lane in knocking him down had he heard.
"So ye're his dear girl too, are ye? He's a nice gentleman, he is! Ye
ought to be proud o' him."
Annie straightened herself with her head thrown back.
"Peter Malone," she burst out, "I came here to 'pologize, 'cause,
without meanin' any harm, I thought as I'd hurt yer feelin's an' was
owin' an explanation. I niver had anything to do with that groc'ry man
nor any other man, an' ye know it as true as ye're standin' there.
Instead o' believin' what I say like a gentleman would, ye insult me
worse than anybody's iver done in the whole o' me life, an' I'll niver
speak to ye again as long as I live." She choked down a sob, and with
head erect turned and walked back to the house.
The two had had differences before, but never anything like this. Peter,
his arms dropped limply at his side, stood watching her go, while the
words she had spoken rang in his ears. Suddenly a lump rose in his
throat, and he leaned his head against the horse's neck.
"Lord!" he whispered. "What have I done?"
The week which followed was one of outward indifference and inward
misery to both. Annie mourned when alone, but under the eyes of the
stables she flirted openly and without conscience with one of the
painters who was opportunely engaged in re-staining the shingle roof of
the Jasper house. Peter watched her with a heavy heart, and formed a
brave determination never to think of her again, and ended by thinking
of her every minute of the day. He made one awkward attempt at
reconciliation which was spurned, whereupon he, too, plunged into a
reckless flirtation with Mary, the chambermaid, who was fat, and every
day of thirty-five. As neither Peter nor Annie had any means of knowing
how wretched this treatment was making the other, they got very little
comfort from it.
Annie sat at the kitchen table polishing silver with a sober face. It
was six days since the grocery man's historic visit, and the war clouds
showed no sign of lifting. There was a houseful of company at
Willowbrook, and the work was mercifully distracting. Mary, this
morning, had hung a long row of blankets and curtains on the line to
air, for the sole purpose, Annie knew, of being near the stables. Peter
was visible through the open window, greasing harness in the
carriage-house doorway, and exchanging jocular remarks with Mary.
Annie's eyes were out of doors oftener than upon her work. Nora, who
was sitting on the back veranda shelling peas, remarked on Peter's newly
awakened interest in the chambermaid, but as Annie did not answer, she
very wisely changed the subject.
"I guess that Mr. Lane what's visitin' here has got a heap o' money,"
she called in tentatively.
"I guess he has," Annie assented indifferently.
"He seems to be pretty taken up with Miss Ethel. That was an awful
becomin' pink dress she had on last night. Mrs. Carter would be pleased
all right."
Annie received this remark in silence, but Nora was not to be
discouraged. She felt that this new freak of taciturnity on Annie's part
was defrauding her of her rights. A maid whose duties call her to the
front part of the house is in a position to supply more accurate gossip
than it is given a cook to know, and it is her business to supply it.
"Mr. Harry would feel awful, havin' growed up with her like," Nora
continued. "He's a sight the best lookin' o' the two, and I'm thinkin'
Miss Ethel knows it. It ud be convenient, too, havin' the places joined.
The Jaspers has got money enough, an' him the only son. I guess they
wouldn't starve if she did marry him. I've always noticed 'tis the
people who has the most money as needs the most. I don't think much o'
that Mr. Lane," she added.
Annie suddenly woke up.
"I don't neither. 'Tis too fresh he is."
"That's what I'm thinkin' meself," said Nora, cordially. "An' I guess so
does Mr. Harry. I'm after observin' that he hasn't been around much
since Mr. Lane's been here."
Annie's mind had wandered again. Her own affairs were requiring so much
attention lately that Miss Ethel's were no longer a source of interest.
Out in the stable Peter was proclaiming, in tones calculated to reach
the kitchen, "There's only one girl in this world for me." Annie's lip
quivered slightly as she heard him; a week before she had laughed at the
same song, but as affairs stood now, it was insulting.
The peas finished, Nora gathered the yellow bowl under her arm and
returned to the kitchen, where she concentrated her attention upon Annie
and the silver.
"I'm thinkin' ye must be in love!" she declared. "Ye've cleaned that
same spoon three times while I've been watchin', an' ye didn't count the
plates right last night for dinner, an' ye forgot to give 'em any butter
for breakfast."
Annie blushed guiltily at this damning array of evidence, and then she
laughed. "If it's in love I am whiniver I forget things, then I must
a-been in love since I was out o' the cradle."
"An' there's him as would be in love with you, if ye'd only act dacent
to him--and I'm not meanin' the painter."
Annie chose to overlook this remark, and Nora's sociability was
suppressed by the entrance of Mrs. Carter.
"We have decided to have a picnic supper at the beach to-night, Nora,"
she said. "You will not have to get dinner for anyone but Mr. Carter."
"Very well, ma'am."
"I am sorry that it happens on your afternoon out, Annie," she added,
turning to the maid, "but I shall need you at the picnic to help about
serving."
"Certainly, ma'am," said Annie. "I don't care about goin' out anyway."
"We shall start early in the afternoon, but I want you to wait and help
Nora with the sandwiches, and then Peter can drive you out about six
o'clock in the dog-cart."
Annie's face clouded precipitously.
"Please, ma'am," she stammered, "I think--that is, if ye please----" she
hesitated and looked about desperately. "I'm afraid if ye're after
wantin' coffee, I can't make it right. I'm niver sure o' me coffee two
times runnin', and I should hate to be spoilin' it when there's company.
If ye could take Nora instead o' me, ma'am, I could just be gettin' the
lovely dinner for Mr. Carter when he comes."
"Why, Annie," she remonstrated, "you've always made excellent coffee
before, and Nora doesn't wait on the table. Is it because you want to go
out this afternoon? I am sorry, but you will have to wait until Miss
Ethel's guests have gone."
"No, ma'am," said Annie, hastily, "I'm not wantin' the afternoon, an'
it's willin' I am to help Miss Ethel, only--only--will you tell Peter,
ma'am, about the cart?" she finished lamely, "'cause if I tell him he's
likely to be late."
Mrs. Carter passed out of the kitchen door and crossed the lawn toward
the stables, casting meanwhile a sharp eye about the premises to be sure
that all was as it should be. Mary was shaking blankets with an air of
deep absorption; Peter was industriously cleaning the already clean
harness, and Joe could be heard inside officiously telling Billy to
grease the other wheel and be quick about it. Unless Mrs. Carter
approached very quietly indeed, she always found her servants oblivious
to everything but their several duties. As she drew near the doorway,
Peter rose from the harness and respectfully touched his cap with a very
dirty hand, while the coachman, with a final order over his shoulder to
a brow-beaten stable-boy, came forward hastily, and stood at attention.
"Joe, we are going to have a picnic at the beach this afternoon, and I
want you to have the horses ready at three o'clock. Miss Ethel, Mr.
Lane, and Master Bobby will ride, and you will drive the rest of us in
the waggonette."
"Very well, ma'am," said Joe.
"And Peter," she added, turning to the groom, "I want you to bring out
the supper with Trixy and the dog-cart at five o'clock."
"All right, ma'am," said Peter, saluting.
"Be sure to be on time," she warned. "Stop at the kitchen for Annie and
the hampers promptly at five."
Peter's face suddenly darkened. He drew his mouth into a straight line,
and looked sullenly down at the harness. "Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am," he
mumbled, "I don't think--that is----" He scowled defiance at Joe, who
grinned back appreciatively. "If it's just the same to ye, ma'am, I'd
like to drive the waggonette an' let Joe fetch the lunch. If I'm to be
coachman, ma'am, I'd sort o' like to get used to me dooties before he
goes."
Mrs. Carter was frankly puzzled; she could not imagine what had suddenly
got into her servants this morning. A lady who has a grown daughter, of
some attractions and many admirers, to chaperone, cannot be expected to
keep _au courant_ of her servants' love affairs.
"You have had a month in which to get used to your duties while Joe was
in the hospital; that is sufficient for the present. Joe will drive the
waggonette and you will follow with the supper--I wish you to help Tom
put new netting in the screen-doors this afternoon."
Her tone precluded argument. As soon as she was out of hearing, Joe
remarked softly, "Now, if she'd only said Mary instead of Annie I
'spose----"
"Aw, let up," Peter growled, and he fell to rubbing in the grease with
unnecessary vehemence. His misunderstanding with Annie was a subject he
would stand no fooling about, even from his chief.
At five o'clock, Peter, in a spotless top-hat and shining boots, looking
as stiff as if he were clothed in steel armour, drew up before the
kitchen door and piled the hampers and pails he found on the back
veranda onto the seat beside him. He climbed to the box again with an
air of finality, and gathering his reins together made a feint of
starting.
"Peter!" Nora called from the kitchen window. "Where is it ye're goin'?
Wait for Annie."
"Annie?" Peter looked as if he had never heard the name before.
"Yes, Annie. Did ye think ye was to cook the supper yerself?"
"I didn't think nothin'," said Peter. "Me orders was to stop for the
lunch at five o'clock, an' I done it. If she wants to come along she'll
have to sit on the back seat. I ain't a goin' to change these baskets
again."
Annie appeared in the doorway in time to hear this ungracious speech;
she clambered up to the somewhat uncomfortable footman's seat in
silence, and they drove off back to back, as stiff as twin ramrods.
The cart rolled along over the smooth roads, past country clubs and
summer cottages, and the only sign either of the two gave of being
alive was an occasional vicious crack of the whip from Peter when
patient little Trixy showed signs of wishing to take a quieter pace. At
such times Annie would instinctively stretch out a deterring hand and
form her mouth as if to say, "Please, Pete, don't whip her; she's doin'
her best," and then suddenly remembering that formidable vow, would
straighten up again and stare ahead with flushed cheeks.
The beach was five miles away, and there is an element of ludicrousness
in the spectacle of two people in one small dog-cart riding five miles
without speaking. Annie's sense of humour was keen; it struggled hard
with her sense of wrong. She was never an Indian to cherish vengeance;
her anger could be fierce at the moment, but it rarely lasted. And Peter
was sorry for what he had said, she reminded herself; he had already
tried to make up. By the end of the second mile two dimples appeared in
her cheeks. At the third mile she shut her mouth tight to keep a laugh
from escaping. At the fourth mile she spoke.
"Say, Pete, why don't ye talk to me? Are ye mad?"
Peter had been gazing at Trixy's ears with an air of deep preoccupation,
and he came back to the present with a start of surprise, apparently
amazed at finding that he had a companion in the cart.
"Ma'am?" he said.
Annie glanced around at his uncompromising back.
"Why don't ye say somethin'?" she repeated more faintly.
"I ain't got nothin' to say."
Annie's dimples gave way to an angry flush. Never, never, never again
would she say a thing to him as long as she lived. The remainder of the
drive was passed in a tumultuous silence. Peter, with grim mouth, kept
his unseeing eyes on the road in front, and Annie, with burning cheeks,
stared behind at the cloud of dust.
When the cart arrived among the straggling cedar trees which bordered
the beach, they found drawn up beside the Carter horses, Mr. Harry's
hunter and a strange drag which betokened impromptu guests. Annie had
barely time to wonder if the plates would go around and if there would
be salad enough, when the cart was welcomed with joyful shouts by a
crowd of hungry picnickers. She caught a glimpse on the edge of the
group of Miss Ethel, debonair and smiling, in another new dress, with
Mr. Lane scowling on one side of her and Mr. Harry on the other.
Ordinarily, she would have taken a lively interest in such a situation,
and would have had an appreciative fellow-feeling for Miss Ethel; but
she saw it now with an unhappy sense that the blessings of this world in
the shape of dresses and men are unevenly distributed.
Annie usually accepted the pranks of the young ladies and gentlemen in
good part, no matter how much extra trouble they caused; but to-day as
she caught a plundering hand on one of the hampers, she called out
sharply:
"Master Bobby, you let that cake alone! Them olives are for supper."
A general laugh greeted this outburst, and she turned away and began
unpacking dishes with a bitter feeling of rebellion. Mrs. Carter bustled
up, and having driven off the marauders, briskly took command.
"Now, Peter, as soon as you have hitched Trixy, come back and help about
the supper. Annie will tell you what to do."
Annie cheered up slightly at this, and for the moment waived the letter
of her vow. As Peter reluctantly reappeared, she ordered: "Get a pile o'
drift wood and fix a place for the fire. Them are too big," she
commented, as he returned with an armful of sticks. "Get some little
pieces and be quick about it; you're too slow."
Peter looked mutinous, but the eyes of Mrs. Carter were upon him, and he
obeyed.
"Now, take those two pails and go to the farm-house for water," Annie
ordered.
When he returned with the two heavy pails, cross and splashed, she
fished out a bug or two with an air of dissatisfaction, and told him to
build the fire. Peter built the fire, and, at Annie's suggestion, held
the coffee-pot to keep it steady. He burnt his hands, and swore softly
under his breath, and Annie laughed. Mrs. Carter, having started
preparations, suddenly recalled her duties as hostess and hurried off
again, leaving Annie to superintend the remainder alone.
"Here, Peter," said Annie, "I want ye to open these cans o' sardines."
Peter looked after the retreating figure of Mrs. Carter. She was well
out of hearing; he took from his pocket a cigarette and leisurely
regarded it.
"I want these cans opened," Annie repeated more sharply.
Peter lighted his cigarette.
"I'll tell Mrs. Carter if ye don't."
Peter threw himself down on the grass, and blowing a ring of smoke,
looked dreamily off toward the ocean.
Mrs. Carter showed no signs of coming back, and Annie saw that her brief
dominion was over. She picked up the can-opener and jabbed it viciously
into the tin. It slipped and cut an ugly gash in her finger. She uttered
a little cry of pain, and turned pale at sight of the blood, and Peter
laughed. She turned her back to keep him from seeing the tears of anger
that filled her eyes, and for the third time she solemnly swore never,
never, _never_ to speak to him again.
The two served the supper with the same grim silence behind the scenes
that they exhibited before the guests. When it was over, instead of
eating with Joe and Peter, Annie commenced gathering up the dishes and
repacking them in the hampers ready for departure. The two men laughed
and joked between themselves, without taking any notice of her absence,
and Annie angrily told herself that she wouldn't speak to Joe any more,
either. Just as she had everything packed and was comforting herself
with the thought that she would soon be back home, and the miserable day
would be ended, Mrs. Carter reappeared.
"Your coffee was excellent, Annie," she said, pleasantly, "and you and
Peter served very nicely indeed. And now, instead of going home, I
should like to have you wait and make some lemonade to be served later
in the evening. It will be a beautiful moonlight night, and you and
Peter can stay and enjoy yourselves."
"Very well, ma'am," said Annie, dully.