It was almost two months later before the traditional bravery of my
family was really put to a supreme test, however. All that had gone
before--the terrible publicity which followed upon Peaches' elopement,
the escape with her husband to foreign shores and his official "pardon,"
the international complications which this involved and my own public
identification with the whole affair--was as nothing to face when
compared with the emotion which assailed me upon that late June day when
I stood alone upon the threshold of my father's house in Boston, and
rang the newly polished door bell.
True, I had lived much in the past six and one half years, and might
justly consider myself ripe in the experience gleaned therefrom. Without
doubt my worldly knowledge was far beyond that of my elder sister, and
yet nothing in my entire career caused me to experience such memories or
cost me such effort as did the ringing of that bell.
Not that there was anything in the least alarming about the aspect of
Chestnut Street itself. Quite to the contrary, its neat brick houses
with their scoured limestone steps and carefully trimmed window boxes
were peculiarly restful to the eye, to the spirit. The sheltering elm
trees were in their finest plumage of delicate green, the destroying
beetle being still at bay. The feather brick of the sidewalk was warmly
colorful and quaint, and a flock of grackles foraged noisily in the
gutter. It was indeed a street of peaceful beauty--unchanged after all
this stormy interlude of the great war and the first turbulent months of
reconstruction. All was as I had left it. Only I was changed.
And yet not so changed but that I felt the old childish fear of outraged
authority upon me as I found myself about to face my sister Euphemia.
The essence of her chaste personality seemed to rush out at me like a
cooling wind to chill the ardor of my greeting even before I made my
presence known--before I was even sure that she was at home.
For I had sent no word of my coming, wishing to take her unaware, and so
surprise her perchance into some expression of warmth. Of course her
ignoring of my letters and gifts was not exactly what might be called a
hopeful sign. And still, hope I did, the while I feared. But after all
she could do no more than turn me out, and it had been my duty to come.
At any rate she could not deny this, and so at length gathering my
forces in a mighty effort and determining to try to be strong in my
consciousness of right, and not allow her to get the better of me the
way she always used to in the old days, I finally rang the bell.
My heart pounded audibly as I did so, though I scarcely know just what I
expected would happen when the door opened. Goodness knows I had time
enough to calm down before it did--and during the wait I had ample
opportunity for observing the changes which had been made in the home of
my father.
It had been newly painted, for one thing, and the rotting column of the
porch which had so long distressed Euphemia had been replaced by a sound
one. Moreover, the stable was in repair, and, if I could credit my
senses, in use. The patch of lawn was neat and trim, and the glimpse
which I got of the garden betrayed the hand of a hired man--a
first-class hired man. In the parlor windows hung new lace curtains of a
most elegant design. Altogether the effect was at once prosperous and
dignified, and glad tears came into my eyes as I realized that this was
the fruit of my labors! For this, the substantial restoration of the
house which had been my dear father's pride and joy but undoubtedly
rather jerry-built in the beginning, had been restored to its pristine
glory by the labor of my--well, by my labor!
What a beautiful thought! How it exalted me! And dear Euphemia had a
comfortable and aristocratic though virginal old age to look forward to
here in a house which was henceforth to be her very own, secured in it
through my bounty. What an exquisite appreciation of the virtue of
generosity was mine at that moment! How glad I was that she wouldn't
have a single thing to say to me for which I would not have a mighty
tangible comeback!
And then just as I had reached this high peek of enthusiastic pleasure
in the rewarding power of good deeds--especially good deeds that cost
only a small portion of a handsome income--just at this point in my
reflections I heard a slow footstep making laggard response to my
ringing, and at once my heart sank into my walkrite shoes--for I would
not have dared appear in French heels--and my hands trembled in their
silk gloves. Was it Euphemia herself coming to admit the wanderer? Had
she grown so feeble in six and one half years that her step was slow and
halting? I feared to look as the door slowly opened. Yet look I must and
did.
It was an enormous colored woman.
"Yass, Ise coming," she was beginning, when suddenly she recognized me,
and her broad face lighted in a grin which extended from ear to ear.
"Lordy, if it ain't Miss Free!" she cried. "Ain't changed nothin'
a-tall! My lawsy--where you-all come from, Miss Free?"
"I'm just from the train," I replied, stepping gingerly into the hall.
"Surely you are not Galadia?"
"I sho' am!" she said. "You didn' spek I wuz gwine be a pickaninny no
mo', did you, Miss Free?"
Of course this was exactly what I had expected--a
pickaninny,--fourteen-year-old Galadia, short dress, long apron and all.
Indeed not to find her so was a distinct shock.
"I'm afraid I did," I admitted truthfully.
"Well, bless yo' heart, Ise got fo' pickaninnies of ma own!" she
exclaimed amazingly. "Three triplets and one single!"
"Galadia!" I exclaimed. "And you are still working here. Why didn't you
write me you had married!"
"Well, dat no-count nigger what Ah married wiv--he spen' so much time in
de jail Ah reckoned Ah couldn't afford to lose all dem handsome single
wages you done been sendin' me."
"I see!" I replied. "And now tell me--is my sister at home?"
"Ain't home yet!" she said. "Reckon you didn't tell her you was comin'?
No! Well, jes' yo' set in de parlor an I fotch you a nice cup tea!"
Despite my protest the good soul hustled off to attend to my imaginary
wants, and I stood looking about me dazedly. The change in the interior
of the house was even greater than the external alterations, and not
nearly so pleasing.
The quaint old wallpapers were gone, and in their place were cartridge
papers--new and drab. This was bad enough, but when I caught sight of
mission furniture in gray oak, and a player-piano encumbering our
erstwhile rosewood drawing-room, my blood turned cold with horror. It
was all new, all expensive, frightfully snappy, if I may borrow the
term, and too, too perfectly dreadful! If this had been done to my
mother's parlor what had become of the rest of the house? I trembled to
think! But before I had opportunity to explore further the noise of a
high-powered car stopping at the curb outside the door distracted my
attention.
Through the lace of the new curtains I could see a slim woman in some
sort of uniform, as she dismounted from the driver's seat. The car was
one of those low-hung, long-chassised affairs with tool box and tires on
the running board, solid wheels, no top and no windshield--a
tremendously sporty affair. The chauffeuress wore heavy dust goggles and
thick gloves, and over the smart uniform, the skirt of which did not
quite cover her knees, a linen duster was worn rakishly.
Whistling a little tune of the type popularly known as jazz she shut off
the motor and came up the front steps, letting herself in with a
latchkey. By this time I was fairly overcome with curiosity as to who
this young house guest of my sister's might be, and to my great delight
she came directly into the drawing-room. When she caught sight of me she
stopped dead in her tracks.
"Good Lord! Freedom Talbot!" she exclaimed. Then she removed the goggles
with one hand and held out the other like a frank boy.
"Glad to see you, old thing!" she said heartily.
It was Euphemia!
Somehow or other I tottered to a chair and sank into it, calling feebly
for "Water! Water!"
"Water! Stuff and nonsense!" said Euphemia. "A little brandy is what you
need! Here you are!"
She held something to my lips and gratefully, but expecting at any
moment to awaken from my dream, I drank.
"I carry it in my emergency kit," Euphemia was explaining. "Need it
sometimes in my work with the boys!"
"With the boys?" I asked feebly.
If she had forthwith produced, like Galadia, a set of triplets and a
single, I should not have been more astonished. In point of fact I was
not capable of further astonishment because she had already taken all
the astonishment I had.
"Oh! I forgot. You wouldn't know, of course!" she said briskly.
"Reconstruction work. I'm on the ambulance--take 'em out for a ride from
the hospital and all that. Well, how are you now? Better?"
"I'm as much better as I ever shall be after seeing you in the costume,
Euphemia!" I said severely. "I'm surprised at you, I really am!"
"You have nothing on me!" she retorted. "I'm as surprised at you as you
could possibly be at me. Look at the opportunities you have had--look at
the places you have been--the money you have earned--and then look at
the clothes you have on!"
"What is the matter with my clothes?" I gasped, outraged at her. But
laughingly Euphemia got to her feet and coming over to me lifted my
reticule.
"Same old bag!" she said. "Full of junk, I suppose! Same old
dress--actually the same one, I do believe! And that curled fringe.
Really, my dear, at your age they are ridiculous!"
"At my age!" I fairly squeaked with indignation.
"Yes--you are far too young for them!" she went on calmly. "As for those
gloves and those shoes! Really, Free, it's too much! I don't understand
it, really!"
This was more than human nature could endure. Either her brain had gone
or mine had. My clothes, of course, were in many ways a concession to
the feelings of the Euphemia I had left behind me. This new creature
with her carefully massaged old face, her upright figure, her perfect
hearing, was a stranger to me; but a rather splendid, competent
stranger, I was forced to admit.
"Euphy!" I cried in despair. "Will you not confide in me what has come
over you? What has effected this amazing transformation? You owe me some
explanation! I--I don't know what to think!"
She regarded me with a look that was suddenly more serious.
"I suppose it all does seem a bit queer to you," she conceded, throwing
herself into one of the hideous new chairs with a boyish abandon. "I've
got used to myself, you see, and I forget. I've been so frightfully busy
all through the war too. I suppose the war and being in the motor corps
rather waked me up a bit. The war and Uncle Joshua's money."
"Uncle Joshua!" I exclaimed. "I didn't know we had an Uncle Joshua!"
"Well, we had, and he left me all his fortune unconditionally, about two
weeks after you left home," said Euphemia. "I never wrote you,
because--well, your showing all that grit, going off your own bat and
all, made me frightfully jealous. Made me feel so useless. And I
determined I'd make something out of myself before I got too old. And,
old dear, with the masseuse I've got and the good time I'm having, I
expect to live to be a hundred. You see I went to a course of lectures
the first month you were away. On subconscious inhibitions and
suppressed desires, they were. I bought the ticket with the first of
Uncle Joshua's money. I found out at these lectures that all I had to do
to be a success was to be myself. I at once started in to be
myself--and--here I am!"
"And I slaved like a--a prisoner!" I sniffed, "and sent you money to
squander in this--this outrageous life you are leading!"
"There is nothing in the least outrageous about my life!" she snapped
with some of her old-time asperity. "It's far less outrageous than my
old, selfish, self-centered life was. Anybody but an old-fashioned woman
like yourself would see that. And as for your money, every cent of it
has been spent upon the maintenance of a motor-ambulance corps--in
France, during the war, and here in Boston in reconstruction since!"
"It must be admitted that I find the news very gratifying," I said after
a short silence. "I am sorry I was so short. But I am upset--fearfully
upset. I suppose--indeed I believe that you are living as you think
right. From my standpoint I think it most unwomanly. However, I want to
be friends. I wish to make this visit a success. I have some other
shoes, Euphemia, really I have--quite high-heeled ones. And I only keep
to my curls because Mr. Pegg, my husband, admires them!"
That fixed her! I noted with satisfaction the look of blank amazement
which spread over her face.
"Yes, my dear!" I said. "Your masculine ways may be all very well for
you. But they will never catch you a husband. For my part, nothing could
appear sweeter than to go gradually down life's sunset path hand-in-hand
with a beloved partner as I am doing--and the fact that the five-carat
stone on the left one is a real diamond does not make me any the less
happy!" Here I withdrew my despised silk gloves and displayed the
beautiful solitaire which Mr. Markheim had given to Peaches and which my
dear husband had taken off the banker's hands at cost.
"And we are going to live in golden California," I went on. "Of course
the East is all very well once in a while for a change, but for living
give me the West. You ought to see California, Euphemia. No rain, no
snow, no bad roads, no labor troubles and no high cost of living! And
the delight of all the flowers you want--such blossoms--blossoms as you
have never even dreamed of, all with hardly any cultivation! Such
beaches, Euphemia! Such lovely houses! We never have to heat them in the
winter, except occasionally, you know."
"Perhaps I'll motor out some day!" murmured Euphemia, plainly awed.
"Oh, do!" I cried. "Gasoline is only nineteen cents in California. We
grow our own, you know!"
"Must be pretty nice!" said my sister, now almost thoroughly cowed. I've
noticed that is usually the effect it has upon the listener when they
get me started about the Coast.
"Oh, you'd love it!" I went on enthusiastically. "You know you
Easterners never see the real California fruit. It's so much larger and
finer than that which you get. Of course there is only about enough of
it for home consumption, so we eat it ourselves. We couldn't supply the
demand it would create. The California farmer, my dear, is the only
farmer in the world who consumes his own best products. And the life is
so varied--boating, swimming, fishing, hunting, tennis, tobogganing at
Truckee in the winter! Everything!"
"And so you are going to live on a ranch and become a
regular--er--vegetable!" exclaimed Euphemia, apparently unable to think
of anything more contemptuous.
"Well, Mr. Pegg says I am pretty wild stock," I admitted, blushing, "but
he hopes that by cultivating me he can tame me. And I'm sure I hope he
will!"