THE VILLAGE GOSSIP SNIFFS SCANDAL.
"Flavia, most tender of her own good name,
Is rather careless of her sister's fame!
Her superfluity the poor supplies,
But if she touch a character it dies."--_Cowper_.
It was characteristic of Marthy Perkins and her continual pursuit of
pleasure, that she should wade through snowdrifts to Squire Bartlett's
and ask for a lift in his sleigh. The Squire's family were going to a
surprise party to be given to one of the neighbor's, and Marthy was as
determined about going as a debutante.
She came in, covered with snow, hooded, shawled and coated till she
resembled a huge cocoon. The Squire placed a big armchair for her near
the fire, and Marshy sat down, but not without disdaining Anna's offers
to remove her wraps. She sniffed at Anna--no other word will express
it--and savagely clutched her big old-fashioned muff when Anna would
have taken it from her to dry it of the snow.
The sleighbells jingled merrily as the different parties drove by,
singing, whistling, laughing, on their way to the party. The church
choir, snugly installed in "Doc" Wiggins' sleigh, stopped at the
Squire's to "thaw out," and try a step or two; Rube Whipple, the town
constable, giving them his famous song, "All Bound 'Round with a Woolen
String."
Rube was, as usual, the pivot around which the merry-making centered.
A few nights before, burglars had broken into the postoffice and
carried off the stamps, and the town constable was, as usual, the last
one to hear of it. On the night in question, he had spent the evening
at the corner grocery store with a couple of his old pals, the stove
answering the purpose of a rather large bulls-eye, at which they
expectorated, with conscientious regularity, from time to time. Seth
Holcomb, Marthy Perkins' faithful swain, had been of the corner grocery
party.
"Well, Constable, hear you and Seth helped keep the stove warm the
other night, while thieves walked off with the postoffice," Marthy
announced; "what I'd like to know is, how much bitters, rheumatism
bitters, you had during the evening?"
"Well, Marthy Perkins, you ought to be the last to throw it up to Seth
that he's obliged to spend his evenings round a corner grocery--that's
adding insult to injury."
"Insult to injury I reckon can stand, Rube; it's when you add Seth's
bitters that it staggers."
But Seth, who never minded Marthy's stings and jibes, only remarked:
"The recipy for them bitters was given to me by a blame good doctor."
"That cuts you out, Wiggins," the Squire said playfully.
"No, I don't care about standing father to Seth's bitters," "Doc"
Wiggins remarked, "but I've tasted worse stuff on a cold night."
"Oh, Seth ain't pertickler about the temperature, when he takes a dose
of bitters. Hot or cold, it's all the same to him," finished Marthy.
Seth took the opportunity to whisper to her: "You're going to sit next
to me in 'Doc' Wiggins' sleigh to-night, ain't you, Marthy?"
"Indeed I ain't," said the spinster, scornfully tossing her head, "my
place will have to be filled by the bitters-bottle; I am going with the
Squire and Mrs. Bartlett."
"Doc" Wiggins' party left in high good humor, the Squire and his party
promising to follow immediately. Anna ran upstairs to get Mrs.
Bartlett's bonnet and cloak, and Marthy, with a great air of mystery,
got up, and, carefully closing the door after the girl, turned to the
Squire and his wife with:
"I've come to tell you something about her."
"Something about Anna?" said the Squire indignantly.
"Oh, no, not about our Anna," protested Mrs. Bartlett: "Why, she is the
best kind of a girl; we are all devoted to her."
"That's just the saddest part of it, I says to myself when I heard.
How can I ever make up my mind to tell them pore, dear Bartletts, who
took her in, and has been treating her like one of their own family
ever since? It will come hard on, them, I sez, but that ought not to
deter me from my duty."
"Look here, Marthy," thundered the Squire, "if you've got anything to
say about that girl, out with it----"
"Well, land sake--you needn't be so touchy; she ain't kin to you, and
you might thank your lucky stars she ain't."
"Well, what is it, Marthy?" interposed Mrs. Bartlett. "Anna'll be down
in a minute."
"Well, you know, I have been sewin' down to Warren Center this last
week, and Maria Thomson, from Belden, was visiting there, and naturally
we all got to talking 'bout folks up this way, and that girl Anna
Moore's name was mentioned, and I'm blest if Maria Thomson didn't
recognize her from my description.
"I was telling them 'bout the way she came here last June, pale as a
ghost, and how she said her mother had just died and she'd been sick,
and they knew right off who she was."
Marthy loved few things as she did an interested audience. It was her
meat and drink.
"Well, she didn't call herself Moore in Belden, though that was her
mother's name--she called herself Lennox," Marthy grinned. "She was
one of those married ladies who forgot their wedding rings."
The Squire knit his brows and his jaws came together with a snap; there
were tears in Mrs. Bartlett's eyes. The gossip looked from one to the
other to see the impression her words were making.
It spurred her on to new efforts. She positively rolled the words
about in delight before she could utter them.
"Well, the girl's mother, who had been looking worried out of her skin,
took sick and died all of a sudden, and the girl took sick herself very
soon afterwards--and what do you think? A girl baby was born to Mrs.
Lennox, but her husband never came near her. Fortunately, the baby did
not live to embarrass her. It died, and she packed up and left Belden.
That's when she came here.
"And now," continued the village inquisitor, summing up her terrible
evidence, "what are we to think of a girl called Miss Moore in one town
and Mrs. Lennox in the other, with no sign of a wedding ring and no
sign of a husband? And what are we going to think of that baby? It
seems to me scandalous." And she leaned back in her chair and rocked
furiously.
[Illustration: Martha Perkins tells the story of Anna Moore's past
life.]
The Squire brought his hand down or the table with terrible force, his
pleasant face, was distorted with rage and indignation.
"Just what I always said would come of taking in strange creatures that
we knew nothing about. Do you think that I will have a creature like
that in my house with my wife and my niece, polluting them with her
very presence?--out she goes this minute!"
He strode over to the door through which Anna had passed a few moments
before, he flung it open and was about to call when he felt his wife
cling frantically to his arm.
"Father, don't do anything in anger that you'll repent of later. How
do you know this is true? Look how well the girl has acted since she
has been here"--and in a lower voice, "you know that Marthy's given to
talking."
The hand on the knob relaxed, a kindly light replaced the anger in his
eyes.
"You are right, Looizy, what we've heard is only hearsay, I'll not say
a word to the girl till I know; but to-morrow I am going to Belden and
find out the whole story from beginning to end."
Kate and the professor came in laden with wraps, laughing and talking
in great glee. Kate was going to ride in the sleigh with the
professor, and the discovery of a new species of potato-bug could not
have delighted him more. He was in a most gallant mood, and concluding
that this was the opportunity for making himself agreeable, he
undertook to put on Kate's rubbers over her dainty dancing slippers.
Perhaps it was a glimpse of the cobwebby black silk stocking that
ensnared his wits, perhaps it was the delight of kneeling to Kate even
in this humble capacity. In either case, the result was equally
grotesque; Kate found her dainty feet neatly enclosed in the
professor's ungainly arctics, while he hopelessly contemplated her
overshoe and the size of his own foot.
Anna returned with Mrs. Bartlett's bonnet and cloak before the laugh at
the professor had subsided. She adjusted the cloak, tied Mrs.
Bartlett's bonnet strings with daughterly care and then turned to look
after the Squire's comfort, but he strode past her to the sleigh with
Marthy. Kate and the professor called on a cheery "Good-night," but
Mrs. Bartlett remained long enough to take the pretty, sorrowful face
in her hands and give it a sweet, motherly kiss.
When the jingling of the sleighbells died away across the snow, Hi
offered to read jokes to Anna from "Pickings from Puck," which he had
selected as a Christmas present from Kate, if she would consent to have
supper in the sitting-room, where it was warm and cosy. Anna began to
pop the corn, and Hi to read the jokes with more effort than he would
have expended on the sawing of a cord of wood.
He bit into an apple. An expression of perfect contentment illuminated
his countenance and in a voice husky with fruit began: "Oh, here is a
lovely one, Anna," and he declaimed, after the style usually employed
by students of the first reader.
"Weary Raggles: 'Say, Ragsy, w'y don't you ask 'em for something to eat
in dat house. Is you afraid of de dog?'"
"Ragsy Reagan: 'No, I a-i-n-t 'fraid of the dog, but me pants is frayed
of him.'"
"Ha, ha, ha--say, Anna, that's the funniest thing I ever did see. The
tramp wasn't frayed of him, but his pants was 'fraid of him. Gee,
ain't that a funny joke? And say, Anna, there's a picture with his
clothes all torn."
Hi was fairly convulsed; he read till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"'Pickin's from Puck, the funniest book ever wrote.' Here's another,
Anna."
"'A p-o-o-r old man was sunstruck on Broadway this morning. His son
struck him for five dollars.'" Hi sat pondering over it for a full
minute, then he burst into a loud guffaw that continued so long and
uproariously that neither heard the continued rapping on the front door.
"Hi, some one is knocking on the front door. Do go and see who it is."
"O! let 'em knock, Anna; don't let's break up our party for strangers."
"Well, Hi, I'll have to go myself," and she laid down the corn-popper,
but the boy got up grumbling, lurched to the door and let in Lennox
Sanderson.
"'Tain't nobody at home, Mr. Sanderson," said Hi, inhospitably blocking
the way. Anna had crouched over the fire, as if to obliterate herself.
"Here, Hi, you take this and go out and hold my horse; he's mettlesome
as the deuce this cold weather. I want to get warm before I go to
Putnam's."
Hi put on his muffler, mits and cap--each with a favorite "swear word,"
such as "ding it," "dum it," "darn it." Nevertheless he wisely
concluded to take the half dollar from him and save it for the spring
crop of circuses.
Anna started to leave the room, but Sanderson's peremptory "Stay here,
I've got to talk to you," detained her.
They looked into each other's faces--these two, who but a few short
months ago had been all in all to each other--and the dead fire was not
colder than their looks.
"Well, Anna," he said sneeringly, "what's your game? You've been
hanging about here ever since I came to the neighborhood. How much do
you want to go away?"
"Nothing that you could give me, Lennox Sanderson. My only wish is
that I might be spared the sight of you."
"Don't beat around the bush, Anna; is it money, or what? You are not
foolish enough to try to compel me to marry you?"
"Nothing could be further from my mind. I did think once of compelling
you to right the wrong you have done me, but that is past. It is
buried in the grave with my child."
"Then the child is dead?" He came over to the fireplace where she
stood, but she drew away from him.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Lennox Sanderson. The love I felt
once is dead, and I have no feeling for you now but contempt."
"You need not rub it in like that, Anna. I was perfectly willing to do
the square thing by you always, but you flared up, went away, and
Heaven only knew what became of you. It's bad enough to have things
made unpleasant for me in Boston on your account without having you
queering my plans here."
"Boston--I never told anyone in Boston."
"No, but that row got into the papers about Langdon and the Tremonts
cut me."
"Hush," said Anna, as a spasm of pain crossed her face: "I never wish
you to refer to my past life again."
"Indeed, Anna, I am only too anxious to do the right thing by you, even
now. If you will go away, I will give you what you want, if you don't
intend to interfere between Kate and me."
"Are you sure that Kate is in earnest? You know that the Squire
intends her to marry Dave."
"I shall have no difficulty in preventing that if you don't interfere."
She did not answer. She was again considering the same old question
that she had thrashed out a thousand times--should she tell Kate? How
would she take it? Would the tragedy of her life be regarded as a
little wild-oat sowing on the part of Sanderson and her own eternal
disgrace?
The man was in no humor for her silence. He grasped her roughly by the
arm, and his voice was raised loud in angry protest. "Tell me--do you,
or do you not intend to interfere?"
In the excitement of the moment neither heard the outer door open, and
neither heard David enter. He stood in his quiet way, looking from one
to the other. Sanderson's angry question died away in some foolish
commonplace, but David had heard and Anna and Sanderson knew it.