ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD.
Edith was very sweet and beautiful in her white cambric dress when she
descended to the breakfast-room next morning, and took her seat at the
table. Miss Rossiter was not present. She had not slept at all for
thinking of poor Emily, she said, and was suffering from the combined
effects of brandy and morphine and headache, and had her coffee in her
room, and felt as if she was resenting something, she hardly knew what,
and that if ever there was a martyr she was one now.
The young ladies, however, were all present, and looking very bright and
cheerful as they bade Edith good-morning. Alice’s hair had gone down a
story or two, and was arranged as nearly as possible like Mrs.
Schuyler’s. Indeed, Miss Alice had risen a full hour earlier than her
usual custom in order to try her talent for hair-dressing, and had
succeeded so well that Godfrey, for whom the sacrifice was made, called
her a nice little puss after all, and tolerably good-looking, too. And
Alice felt complimented and thought Godfrey very handsome, and buttered
his cakes for him and seemed altogether like a woman of twenty-five, who
had been engaged for years.
“Well, girls, what are you going to do to pass the time between this and
dinner?” Godfrey asked, as he rose from the table.
“I must go and see about the sewing I gave to Rogers, and you can go too
and see your beauty if you like,” Alice said, and with a comical look
Godfrey repeated:
“Rogers,—Rogers? Who is he?”
“Why, your tenant,—the woman who lives in your cottage. She is doing
some work for me,” Alice replied, and Godfrey rejoined:
“Oh, _oui, je vous comprends_. It’s the height of good breeding to call
your inferiors by their last names; so then, _Creighton_, let’s go and
see _Rogers_!” and with a tremendous shake of his pants, Godfrey took
his soft hat and bamboo cane from the hall rack, and started with Alice
for the cottage.
It was Saturday, and as there was no school, Gertie was working in the
garden with a big sun-hat tied under her chin, her hair falling down her
back, her cheeks very red and her hands very much soiled with dirt. It
was a bother to wear gloves, she thought, and she was tugging away at a
tuft of pinks when she heard the gate, and looking up saw Alice and
Godfrey coming up the walk. Quickly dropping her pinks she went forward
to meet them, her eyes shining like stars as she said to Godfrey:
“Oh, Mr. Godfrey, I am so glad to see you. I did not know you had come.
Excuse me from shaking hands. I can’t, you see;” and she held up her
little soiled hands which looked white and pretty even with the dirt
upon them.
“Upon my word, I never saw such assurance. Why, she acts as if she was
fully his equal,” Alice thought, as with great dignity she asked:
“Is your mother in? I came to see her about the work I sent her last
night.”
Mrs. Rogers was in, and while Miss Creighton gave her minute directions
as to the precise number and size of the tucks and ruffles and puffs,
Gertie entertained Godfrey outside by telling him all about herself
since coming to Hampstead. She was going to school to Miss Armstrong,
whom she liked so much, and she was studying French, and had caught up
with the class already, and Miss Armstrong said her accent was very
pure.
“You see I took lessons six months in London of a native, and that makes
a difference,” she said; “and, oh, Mr. Godfrey, do you know where we can
rent a piano, I want one so much so as to commence my music. You know I
am to be a teacher like Miss Armstrong, and take care of auntie when she
is old.”
Godfrey promised to make inquiries for a piano, and then suddenly
recollecting himself, exclaimed:
“Why, there is that old one of mother’s at home, a rattle-trap of a
thing, which all the Rossiters must have thrummed since the flood. You
can have that if it will answer.”
Gertie did not think it would. She had no fancy for a “rattle-trap which
all the dead Rossiters had thrummed;” she preferred an instrument which
sounded decently, and she said so, and added:
“But we’ve nowhere to put one yet. Oh, Mr. Godfrey, what made anybody
send that tall bedstead and bureau down here, where they won’t stand up
in any of our sleeping-rooms? We had to put the bureau in the parlor,
and the bedstead is still in the woodshed. I wish somebody would take it
away. I think it is awful, so clumsy, and I fell over it this morning
and hurt my foot.”
Godfrey laughed aloud, not at Gertie, but at what Miss Rossiter would
say could she hear this little plebeian denounce that bedstead as awful
and clumsy, and wish it away even from the woodshed! Miss Rossiter had
been greatly wounded on account of that bedstead; Miss Rossiter had
cried because it was sent to the cottage; she had expressed a wish to
have it for her own, and her wish should be gratified.
“It was absurd to send that tall furniture to these low rooms,” Godfrey
said, “and I’ll see that it is taken away; to-day, perhaps. Did it hurt
your foot very much?”
“Oh no, not much; it was this one,” and Gertie stuck up her little foot,
which even in the half-worn boot looked so small and pretty that Godfrey
felt a desire to squeeze it in his hand.
But Miss Creighton was coming out, and he straightened himself up and
nibbled quite unconcernedly at the end of his cane, while Alice gave a
few last directions with regard to her plain sewing.
“Good-by, Gertie,” Godfrey said. “I’ll send for the bedstead and inquire
about the piano, and I have not used a single slang word this morning,
have I? I shall be a perfect gentleman very soon, and then——” he kissed
his hand to her, and looking back Alice saw a hot flush on the face of
the child, who knew as well as Godfrey to what he alluded.
“What do you mean by being so familiar with such people?” Alice asked.
“It cannot do them any good. On the contrary, it is a positive harm.
Why, Rogers is so airy now I can hardly talk with her.”
“Allie, if you want me to like you, don’t be a fool,” Godfrey said,
sharply. “I don’t wonder the woman was what you call _airy_, which means
that she stood for her rights. I heard you call her ‘Rogers’ to her
face. Now that is simply absurd for Americans. In England it is more
common and means nothing; but here, where there is no aristocracy of
blood, and the son of the hod-carrier may rise to be President, it is
ridiculous, and savors wonderfully of snobbishness and parvenuism. If
this woman has a handle to her name, give it to her, and not call her
‘Rogers.’ It is low, and not a bit ladylike, and you, as Alice
Creighton, can certainly afford to be a lady without taking the trouble
to impress others with your rank.”
Godfrey was very much in earnest, and Alice was crying, and so the walk
home was a most uncomfortable one, until they reached the entrance to
the grounds, where Godfrey stopped, and putting his hand playfully on
his companion’s shoulder, said:
“Come, Allie, don’t let’s quarrel. You are a nice little thing and I
like you first-rate, and want you to be a lady everywhere, and have a
kind, courteous word for everybody; Mrs. Schuyler has, and she——”
“Mrs. Schuyler, indeed! As if I am to take her for a pattern, and she a
governess!” Alice said hotly, as she walked rapidly on toward the house.
“Whe-w!” Godfrey whistled after her as he followed leisurely, wondering
why girls need to make such confounded fools of themselves, and half
wishing he had held his tongue and not tried to lecture Alice.
As he drew near the house he saw John, the coachman, bringing up the
pony phaeton, and asked who was going out.
“Miss Rossiter is going up to the Ridge House after lunch, and wants to
drive herself,” said John, and Godfrey thought within himself:
“That’s just the thing, and gives me a chance to surprise her. Won’t it
be a capital joke?”
Entering the house he went in quest of his aunt, who was dressed and
feeling much better.
“Mrs. Barton has asked me to come over there some day, and I believe
I’ll go this afternoon. Home does not seem like home now,” she said,
with a sigh, which Godfrey knew had reference to the graceful figure
walking on the terrace in front of the window, and so did not respond at
once.
When he did speak, he said:
“By the way, auntie, were you really in earnest about that bedstead?”
“What bedstead?” Miss Rossiter asked quickly, and then recollecting
herself, she added: “Certainly I was. It hurt me cruelly to see it leave
the house when Emily thought so much of it. But then I must get
accustomed to things of that kind, I suppose. New lords, new laws, and
new things.”
Her manner was the manner of one who has been wounded and thwarted at
every point, and Godfrey was strengthened in his resolve, and within
half an hour after she had driven away in her pony phaeton he had
interviewed both Mrs. Tiffe and Perry, and was riding with John in the
long democratic wagon down the road toward the cottage. Mrs. Rogers and
Gertie were both in the garden this time, but when Godfrey explained his
errand, the former, who was glad to be rid of the cumbrous piece of
furniture, went in with John, while Godfrey remained outside with
Gertie.
“You must be very fond of gardening,” he said, and Gertie replied:
“Yes, I am; I like it ever so much. Have you seen _the grave_ since you
came home?”
“Grave! Whose grave?” Godfrey asked, and she replied:
“Mr. Lyle’s, the man who saved your life. Miss Armstrong told me all
about it, and I felt so glad you were not killed, and so sorry for him
and the young girl who liked him. She used to live here in this very
house, and Miss Armstrong promised her, when she went away, to keep the
grave up nice till she came back, and for a while she did, but the girl
didn’t come, and Miss Armstrong got to forgetting it, you know, and when
she told me about it, it was just awful with weeds and tangled grass.
But it looks like a flower-bed now. I thought maybe you would be glad.”
Her bright, eager eyes were fixed upon him for his approval, which he
gave unqualifiedly.
“He was glad, and to-morrow, after dinner, he would go and see it,” he
said; and then as his services were needed for the heavy bureau, he
lifted his hat to Gertie, and walked away.
* * * * *
“For pity’s sake, what are you doing?” Julia asked of Godfrey, when,
after her nap and toilet, she came from her room and found the rear of
the hall blockaded with furniture, and mattress, and bed-clothes, and
Godfrey, very red in the face as he assisted Mrs. Tiffe, who was also
anxious and excited.
“Cooking some ‘potted sprats’ I guess, though I’m not quite sure,” was
Godfrey’s reply; and when Julia, who was not very conversant with Mrs.
Opie, demanded what he meant, he explained that as Aunt Christine was so
grieved about the things sent to the cottage, and expressed herself as
so desirous to have them back, especially the bedstead, he had decided
to give her a pleasant surprise on her return that night from the Ridge.
“Won’t she be delighted though!” And Godfrey’s face was very expressive
as he tugged away at the heavy furniture. “There, she is sure to like
that,” he said, when at last his work was finished, and the old
fashioned, massive bedstead stood in the place the lighter one of oak
had occupied, while the bureau was pushed into a corner as the only
available spot.
“I am glad you are so well satisfied,” Julia said; “but I doubt if you
get any thanks for your trouble. Auntie will never sleep a night on that
bedstead; she is the biggest coward in the world.”
“Then I’ll take it down Monday. Anyway, she cannot say I have not tried
to please her,” was Godfrey’s reply, as he walked away, whistling
cheerily, and wondering why women were so queer, and always went back on
a fellow when he was doing his best.
Meantime Alice had had her pet out in a good cry, which made her nose
very red, and did not add at all to the beauty of her face when she came
down to dinner, gracious and smiling, and ready to forgive Godfrey, if
he wished to be forgiven. But he gave no sign that he did, though he was
very polite to her, and peeled her orange, and gave her his bunch of
Malaga grapes, because he knew she had a weakness for them, and asked
her slyly how she had burned her nose so badly, and suggested a very
_small_ poultice of flaxseed when she went to bed at night! And Alice
laughed, and thought him altogether charming and delightful.
“I mean to show him that I am improving in what he calls snobbishness,”
she thought, and after dinner was over, she said to him in her most
insinuating voice:
“Godfrey, I want to see _Mrs._ Rogers again. I’ve changed my mind about
the tucks. I heard you say you were going to the village, and would you
mind walking round that way for me when you come home?”
“Certainly not. I am pleased to go to _Mrs._ Rogers’ at any time,” he
answered, with an emphasis on the Mrs., which showed that he had taken
note of the change.
“Pleased to go there at any time! I do believe it, and I wonder if he
can be so much interested in that child,” Alice thought, as she walked
slowly toward the cottage.
She was not jealous. Gertie was too young and too obscure for that; but
she was annoyed with Godfrey’s evident admiration for the “yellow-haired
girl.” And still, if she would please him as she really wished to do,
she must be interested, too, and after she was through with Mrs. Rogers
she went out to Gertie, and, wishing to say something to her, asked
abruptly if she had ever been confirmed? Alice always felt more
seriously inclined on Saturday afternoons than on any other week day. It
was near to Sunday, and became one who taught in the Mission school, and
gave all sorts of good advice to sundry forlorn, ragged little wretches,
among whom Godfrey Schuyler and Schuyler Godfrey and Alice Creighton
Vandeusenhisen figured conspicuously. Alice would never have taught in
the regular Sunday-school, where she was liable to come in contact with
persons who might lay claim to her notice socially. She preferred the
Mission school, where she was looked upon as something far above the
common order of mortals, and here she was very zealous, and very devout,
and very good, and sometimes took Alice Creighton Vandeusenhisen in her
lap, and let Tommie Trotter stroke her silk dress with his dirty hands,
and once she actually kissed a little girl who brought her a bouquet. To
these children, and such as these, she and the Misses Schuyler, who
taught there also, were kind of divinities, as was proven by an incident
which occurred just before the arrival of Edith at the Hill. There was a
new rector at St. Luke’s,—a young man fresh from old Trinity in New
York,—and he went one Sunday to catechise the little ones at the
Mission.
“Now boys,” he said to the row of eager faces confronting him so
eagerly, “speak up loud and tell me who made the world?”
Instantly Tommie Trotter, with the three Vandeusenhisens, screamed
lustily:
“Miss Alice Creighton, sir!” and were answered from a rival crowd:
“Miss Julia Schuyler, sir!” while one faint little voice brought up the
rear with:
“I tell you, Tom Trotter, she didn’t. ’Twas Miss Emma, sir!”
After that Alice and Julia esteemed themselves as saints, and were more
zealous than ever to gather in any stray lambs which had no particular
fold. Hence the reason for Alice’s attack on Gertie, whom she startled
with the question:
“Have you ever been confirmed?”
Gertie had not, and did not particularly care to be just yet, she said;
and Alice was as much shocked and surprised as if the child had been
convicted of a crime.
“Not wish to be confirmed and be good! How shocking!” she exclaimed.
And Gertie replied:
“I did not say I did not wish to be good, for I do; but I don’t want to
be confirmed until I am older and understand it better.”
“Who is your teacher in Sunday-school?” Alice asked next, with a good
deal of severity.
“I don’t go to Sunday-school. I get my lesson at home, and recite it
with the Collect and the Commandments to Auntie,” Gertie said, while
Miss Creighton grew more and more amazed.
“Not go to Sunday-school! I did not suppose there was any one in this
town so heathenish as that! Child, you must go, and, if you do not care
to join the school at church, come to the Mission to-morrow at four
o’clock. You will find me there, and the Misses Schuyler and several
other ladies. Will you come?”
Gertie hesitated a moment, and then asked:
“Has Mr. Godfrey a class?”
“Mr. Godfrey a class! Certainly not. Can’t you go unless he is there?”
Alice said, sharply, conscious of a sudden feeling, which, had Gertie
been her equal, would have been jealousy.
Ere Gertie could reply, there was the sound of a low chuckle in the
direction of the street, and, looking round, Alice saw Godfrey leaning
over the gate with a most comical expression on his face.
He had heard nearly all the conversation, and said to Alice:
“Beating up recruits for the Mission school, are you, Alice? Don’t you
go there, Gertie. You are too big and too good-looking, and the room
smells awful. She got me down there once, and made me hear a class, and
the little imps swapped jack-knives, and fought each other, and called
me ‘old Schuyler’ behind my back, and wondered what business I had
trying to teach the Commandments. No, Gertie, go to the other school if
you must go somewhere, and I suppose you must, or lose caste with this
young lady. Why, she’s as zealous as the Pope himself with regard to her
church and her school. But come, Allie, it is time to go.”
And, opening the gate, he held it, while with a barely civil nod to
Gertie, Miss Creighton passed out into the street, and, taking Godfrey’s
offered arm, walked away, leaving Gertie to look after her and wonder if
Mr. Godfrey liked her and meant to marry her some day, and if it was
wrong not to be confirmed when she was only twelve years old, and
heathenish not to go to Sunday-school when she did not wish to, and
could say her lesson at home.
* * * * *
Miss Rossiter had spent a very pleasant afternoon with her friend Mrs.
Barton, at the Ridge House, and enjoyed herself famously in talking of
the bride, whom she never could like, she said, even though she must
confess that her personal appearance was in her favor.
“That was all a hoax about her being lame and old. Godfrey wrote it to
tease us,” she said. “She cannot be more than thirty-five, and really
has some claim to good looks, while her manners are not bad. But she is
an adventuress,—a poor governess, and nothing more; and she has taken
dear Emily’s place, and everything must give way to her, and our
pleasant home is broken up forever. And Miss Rossiter cried a little as
she told of the furniture, which had been sent from the house as not
good enough for “my lady,” when I would have liked it so much for the
memories clustering about it,—the very bed poor Emily died on, and I saw
her, too!”
Miss Rossiter sobbed aloud, while Mrs. Barton tried to comfort her, and
said it was hard, and that, if it would be any comfort to her dear
friend, she would not call upon the intruder, or let her daughter
Rosamond call either.
That would be some consolation, for Mrs. Grey Barton, of the Ridge
House, was a sort of queen in the neighborhood since Lady Emily died,
and a slight from her was sure to be felt; so Miss Rossiter allowed
herself to be comforted, and, after dinner, drove herself home in the
soft, autumnal twilight.
Edith was standing on the piazza when she came up the steps, and asked
if she had spent a pleasant day.
“Yes, it is always pleasant at the Ridge. Mrs. Barton is considered the
first lady in the town,” Miss Rossiter replied, as she swept proudly up
the stairs, feeling that by enlightening Edith with regard to Mrs.
Barton’s standing she was preparing her to feel the slight about to be
offered her.
It was not light enough in her room for her to see anything distinctly
when she entered it, and she laid aside her hat and shawl and turned up
the gas before she observed the change. Then she started and looked
again, and rubbed her eyes, and wondered if she were threatened with
softening of the brain, as she had sometimes feared, and saw things
which existed only in her imagination. No, there was no fancy here. The
airy, graceful bedstead of oak and black walnut, which she had left
there that morning, was gone, and in its place loomed the huge,
old-fashioned thing, on which she would not sleep for the world. For a
moment she stood, wondering what she should do.
“Hallo, auntie, what’s the matter? Don’t you like it? You are white as a
sheet,” came cheerily from Godfrey, who was sauntering down the hall
“You see I thought I’d surprise you, and I worked like a beaver to get
it set up. It’s all right, I hope.”
“Yes, Godfrey, yes,” Miss Rossiter gasped. “It was kind in you,
but—but——”
“But what, auntie? It is not a _potted sprat_, I hope. You told me that
story, you know, and illustrated it, too, when I didn’t want to go to
school, and said I was sick, and you made me lie in bed all day and take
those nasty squills. Don’t you really want it in there?”
“No, Godfrey. I thought I did, but I guess I don’t. I’m silly, and
nervous, and all unstrung with trouble, and I can see my poor sister so
plain. You know she died on it. I should not sleep a wink, and I—I—oh,
Godfrey,—oh, Godfrey,—take it away, do, please, there is a good boy!”
She was crying a little and trembling a great deal, and as Godfrey never
could resist tears, he promised readily, and passing his arm playfully
around her waist, drew her into the room, and said:
“All right, let’s go at it now. You ring the bell and I’ll pull it to
pieces.”
It did not take long to undo the work of the morning, and the obnoxious
bedstead, which nobody seemed to want, was soon stored away in the
attic, while, with the help of a little morphine and an electric shock
heavier than usual, Miss Rossiter slept tolerably well that night, and
dreamed of eating all the “potted sprats” served up in Mrs. Opie’s
“white lies.”