Under the stimulating pressure of recent experiences Margaret had taken
up her music again, with great ardor and determination. Mr. Gaston had
encouraged her to believe that she might yet make a good performer,
and had managed to instil into her some of his own spirit of thinking
it worth while to achieve the best attainable, even though great
proficiency might be out of reach. There was so little time during
the day when she could count upon remaining in undisturbed possession
of the piano that, for some time before leaving Washington, she had
been in the habit of rising earlier and practising for an hour before
breakfast, and she was resolved that her visit to Baltimore should
not interfere with this routine. Indeed, she would have felt its
interruption to be a serious moral retrogression, and so, with Mrs.
Guion’s sanction, she kept up her morning labors, and when the family
met at breakfast every day, she had already accomplished her allotted
period of practising. Alan used to laugh at her about it, and tell
her she was becoming Yankeeized. He was apt to be late for breakfast
himself, and Mrs. Guion took a great deal of trouble in having things
kept hot for him, and would arrange little delicacies for him, much as
if he had been an invalid lady, as Margaret more than once remarked
with a certain degree of impatience. It quite irritated her to see
how his sister pampered and indulged him and how carelessly, and as a
matter of course, he accepted it all.
The Guions had only recently come to Baltimore from the South. Their
old home had been very near to Margaret’s, and she had consequently
seen much more of Mrs. Guion, of late years, than of Alan. The
children, of whom there were three, ranging from two to seven years
of age, were cherished acquaintances of Margaret’s, and hailed her
arrival with a hearty enthusiasm, that she responded to with much
cordiality. Ethel, the eldest, had been taught by her mother, long ago,
to call Miss Trevennon “Auntie Margaret,” and Amy and Decourcy had, of
course, adopted the title. They were charming children, rather delicate
in health, and watched and guarded with such care by their anxious
mother, that they had the air of frail exotics. Mr. Guion had died when
Decourcy was a baby, and it was because Alan had decided to settle in
Baltimore for the practise of his profession, the law, that Mrs. Guion
had moved her little family there. She was enthusiastically attached to
her only brother, and never wearied of discoursing upon his perfections
and displaying the numberless useful and ornamental presents that he
lavished upon her children and herself.
“Wasn’t it good of Alan to insist upon our coming to Baltimore, that
he might make his home with us?” said Mrs. Guion, talking to her
young cousin, the day after the latter’s arrival. “So many young men
would have thought it a nuisance to be hampered by a woman and three
children; but he insisted on our coming.”
“I can hardly see how he could regard you in the light of a nuisance,”
said Margaret, smiling; “your chief object in life seems to be to humor
his whims and caprices. He could certainly not secure such comfort as
you administer to him, in any bachelor-quarters on earth.”
This view of the case had never occurred to Mrs. Guion, and she
rejected it almost indignantly, and argued long to convince her cousin
that she was, in all respects, the favored one; but without much
success.
It was by a mere accident that Margaret discovered, a day or two after
her arrival, that Alan’s sleeping-apartment, situated just above the
front drawing-room, had been exchanged for one on the other side of the
hall. In an instant it flashed upon her that her morning performance on
the piano had been the cause of it. To be quite certain, however, she
went to Mrs. Guion and asked her directly if it was not so.
“How did you find it out?” said Mrs. Guion; “you were not to know
anything about it. The other room is quite as convenient for Alan. He
says he likes it just as well, and he wouldn’t for the world have you
know that he moved on that account. But, you know, he never could bear
noise. Even the children understand that they must be quiet when he is
here.”
“Is he an invalid, in any way?” asked Margaret.
“Oh, dear no! but he always had that objection to noise, and I think he
is more set in his ways now than ever. I tell him he ought to marry.”
“If he values his personal ease so much, it might be a mistake to
imperil it by matrimony,” said Margaret, with a touch of contempt in
her voice not discernible to her unsuspecting cousin.
“Affluence and idleness have made him luxurious,” said Margaret to
herself, reflectively, when Mrs. Guion had left her alone. “I suppose
those two things are apt to go together. And yet Cousin Eugenia says
Mr. Gaston has always been well off, and certainly the veriest pauper
could not work harder! And still----”
The sentence ended in a little sigh. There was no denying the fact that
Louis Gaston’s descent from the pedestal upon which she had mentally
placed him, had been a great blow.
Miss Trevennon’s time passed very agreeably in Baltimore. Mrs. Guion,
as yet, had only a small circle of friends, but most of these called
upon her cousin, and several invitations resulted from these visits.
As to Alan, the number of invitations he received was quite amusing.
He had been twice to the club, and had delivered only one or two of
his various letters, and made only one or two visits, when the cards
of invitation began to pour in. He happened to have a few desirable
acquaintances in Baltimore, his appearance was distinguished, and
he was known to be rich, and these three facts, taken together,
sufficiently account for the degree of popularity of which he found
himself possessed.
One thing that rather surprised Margaret was the readiness with which
her cousin would throw aside other engagements in order to drive her
out, or take her to the theatre, or contribute, in any way, to her
enjoyment. He even stayed at home one whole rainy evening, when Mrs.
Guion was engaged up-stairs with one of the children, who was unwell,
in order, as he distinctly avowed, to have a long talk with her.
When Miss Trevennon and Mr. Decourcy found themselves alone in the
drawing-room, the latter threw himself, at full length, upon a low
lounge, drawn up before the fire, and, fixing his eyes enjoyingly
on Margaret, as she sat opposite, he drew a long breath of restful
satisfaction, saying:
“Now this is real enjoyment. You don’t know it, perhaps, but it is
just what I have longed for. Amy has really done this room charmingly,
and has contrived to get precisely the atmosphere I like in it. The
confusion of sweet and pungent odors from those plants yonder is just
faint enough to be agreeable; and, far above all, my fair cousin, with
her silken draperies and beautiful pose, puts a climax to my happiness.
You have a talent for attitude, my Marguerite--do you know it? You
always place yourself to advantage. I don’t know whether it is nature
or art, but it is equally admirable, in either case.”
Margaret, who sat in a deep chair with her arms laid along its padded
sides, and her hands lightly clasping the rounded ends, her long silk
gown falling away to the left, while her figure was slightly turned
toward her cousin at her right, fixed her eyes upon the points of her
little slippers, crossed before her, and remained profoundly still.
For a moment the young man looked at her in silence, and then he said:
“Why are you so quiet, dear Daisy?”
“I am unwilling to alter the pose that has won your approbation,” she
said demurely. “Don’t you think if I retained it long enough I might
‘be struck so,’ as the man in _Patience_ says?”
“I should be inclined to discourage that idea,” said Alan, “as I was
about to ask you to draw your seat a little nearer, and transfer your
hands from the chair’s arms to my head. You know I always liked you to
run your long fingers through and through my hair. Have you forgotten
how you used to do it? I can assure you I have not.”
As Margaret made no answer, he went on:
“You were quite a child when you used first to do it--a tall little
maid, even then, with such imperious ways! But you were always willing
to do anything for your big boy cousin, and he has never forgotten you.
All the time he was at college, and afterward, when he went abroad and
travelled about in many strange and distant places, he carried with him
always the image of that little maid, and when, at last, he turned
homeward, one of his pleasantest visions was that of meeting her again.”
Margaret had changed her position and turned more directly toward him;
she was looking straight into his eyes, with her direct and candid
gaze, which his own met rather dreamily. She did not speak in answer to
these fond assurances of his, but as she listened she smiled.
“And are you glad to hear that I have always had this _tendre_ for my
sweet cousin, which I somehow can’t get over, even yet?”
“Oh yes,” said Margaret, gently, “very glad,” and she looked at him
with a deep and searching gaze, which he could not quite understand.
“Come nearer, dear,” he said, “and take your old place at my head, and
try to twist my short locks into curls, as you used to do. You will
discover a secret known only to myself and the discreet fraternity
of barbers. Come and see!” and he extended a white hand, somewhat
languidly, to draw her toward him.
“I think not,” said Margaret, drawing herself upright, into an attitude
of buoyant self-possession. “You and the barbers may keep your secret,
for the present. I won’t intrude.”
“Ah, but I want you. Come!” he said urgently, still holding out the
delicate hand, on which a diamond sparkled.
But Margaret shook her head.
“Consider,” she said, with a little smile; “hadn’t I better stay where
I am and pose for you, ‘talking platitudes in stained-glass attitudes,’
than put myself there, out of sight, encroaching upon the barbers’
privileges in more ways than one? As there is only one of me, I think
you had better let me stay where I am. There ought to be five or
six--one at your Sereneness’ head, and another at your feet. Two with
jingling anklets and bangles, to dance in that space over yonder, and
two just back of them, to discourse sweet music on their ’citherns and
citoles’!”
Decourcy smiled at her banter, but he fancied he discerned in her voice
a faint ring of earnestness, tinctured with scorn, that disconcerted
him.
“What is the use of six,” he said, “when I have the sweet ministrations
of all, merged into one?--the little maid of long ago! Her comforting
offices are an old experience, and, without having seen her dance, I’m
willing to pit her against any pair of houris in the Orient; and as to
music, I prefer the piano to citherns and citoles.”
“Especially in the early morning hours,” said Margaret, slyly, “when
your Sereneness is enjoying your nap.”
“Who told you anything about that?” he said, starting, and turning
toward her abruptly.
“I guessed the truth and asked Amy, and she had to own it.”
“I don’t hear you in the least, where I am now. I hope you have not
given up your practising on my account. I am afraid you have!”
“On the contrary,” answered Margaret, “my effort is to make more noise,
and I constantly use the loud pedal. If my instrument had been as
movable as your apartment, I should have followed you across the hall.”
“Why do you talk to me like this, Daisy?”
“Because I think you ought to come down in time for breakfast, and not
give Amy the trouble of having things prepared afresh for you.”
“Amy likes it,” he said, smiling.
“It is very fortunate, if she does,” said Margaret; “but I fancy she
would do it all the same, whether she liked it or not. Amy never thinks
of herself.”
At this moment, Mrs. Guion entered, having at last soothed her little
patient to sleep. Her first act was to bring a light screen and put it
before her brother’s face, to shield it from the fire.
“Amy, why will you?” said Margaret. “You spoil Alan frightfully. He’s
badly in need of discipline.”
“I wish you would take me in hand,” he said, looking at her from behind
the screen with an eager expression, that disconcerted her.
Mrs. Guion’s entrance introduced new topics, and the _tête-à-tête_
between the cousins was not renewed.
The next morning being rainy, Margaret betook herself, after breakfast,
to the little up-stairs apartment which was the children’s general
play-room, and as the three little creatures gathered around her, she
drew Amy to her side and asked her to tell her what she thought of
Baltimore on serious consideration.
“I don’t like it one bit, Auntie Mard’ret,” said Amy. “I think it’s a
nasty, hateful, dirty place.”
“Why, Amy!” said Margaret, reproachfully, “I am shocked at your using
such words. Where did a sweet little girl like you ever hear such bad
words?”
“Oh, Auntie Mard’ret, I know a dreat deal worse words than that,” said
Amy, with her eyes opened very wide. “Why, if I was to tell you the
words I’m thinkin’ of, why you’d jump up and wun out of the woom.”
“Amy, I must insist upon your telling me,” said Margaret, feeling in
duty bound to restrain her amusement, and administer the rebuke. “What
words do you mean?”
“Oh, Auntie Mard’ret,” said Amy, solemnly, “they’s jes’ is bad is they
kin be--_awful_ words! I couldn’t never tell you.”
Margaret insisted that she must be told, and after much reluctance on
Amy’s part, and a demanded banishment of Ethel and Dee to the other end
of the room, she put her arms around her cousin’s neck, and whispered
in awe-struck, mysterious tones:
“I was thinkin’ of _devil_ and _beast_.”
Margaret caught the little creature in her arms and kissed her
repeatedly, in the midst of such a merry outburst of laughter as made
reproof impossible.
Amy, who seemed greatly relieved to have rid her conscience of this
burden, without any penance in consequence, ran off to play with the
other children, and Margaret had just cut the leaves of a new magazine
she had brought up with her and begun to look over the illustrations,
when she became aware of a commotion among the children at the other
end of the room and a confusion of excited voices. Presently little
Decourcy came running toward her in much perturbation, and said, with a
rising sob:
“Auntie Mard’rit, is I a bullabulloo? Amy says I’se a bullabulloo. Now,
is I?”
“No, Dee,” said Margaret, soothingly, “you are no such thing. Tell Amy
I say you are not.”
Dee ran back to the closet, on the floor of which Amy was seated
dressing her doll, and Margaret heard him say, triumphantly:
“Auntie Mard’rit says I’se not no bullabulloo.”
Amy, taking a pin out of her mouth to fasten the insufficient scrap
of ribbon which she had been straining around her daughter’s clumsy
waist, looked up into his face with great, serious eyes, and said
mysteriously:
“Yes, Dee, you _are_ a bullabulloo. Auntie Mard’rit don’t know it, and
you don’t know it; _but you are_.”
This idea was so hopelessly dreadful that poor little Dee could control
himself no longer. He dropped his apronful of blocks upon the floor,
and burst into a howl of despair.
Margaret flew to the rescue, and, lifting him in her arms, carried
him off to the window, muttering soothing denials of his remotest
connection with bullabulloos. When he was in some slight measure
comforted, Margaret called Amy to her and rebuked her sternly for
teasing her little brother. What was her amazement to see Amy, as soon
as she had finished, look up at her with the same serious gaze, and
say, gravely:
“Auntie Mard’rit, he _is_ a bullabulloo. You don’t know it, and Dee
don’t know it; but _he is_.”
At this poor Dee began to howl again, refusing to be comforted, until
it occurred to Margaret to suggest that if he was a bullabulloo Amy
must be one, too, as she was his sister. This idea, once mastered,
proved consoling, and Dee stopped crying. Margaret, to try to banish
the remembrance of his trouble, turned him around to the window and
called his attention to the children next door, who were running about
the back yard in the rain and apparently enjoying it immensely. Ethel
and Amy had joined them at the window, the latter standing on tip-toe
to look.
“That’s Jack and Cora,” she said, still grasping her doll with one
arm, while she held on to the window-ledge with the other. “Oh, Auntie
Mard’rit, they’re such awful bad children. They don’t mind their mamma
nor nuthin’. You jes’ ought to see how bad they are. I jes’ expeck
they’ll all grow up to be Yankees.”
Margaret burst into a peal of laughter.
“What makes you think they’ll grow up to be Yankees, Amy?” she said.
“Did anybody ever tell you so?”
“No, Auntie Mard’rit, but they’re so awful bad; and if they’re that bad
when they’re little, I bet they _will_ grow up to be Yankees.”
At this point Mrs. Guion entered, and Margaret related the story to her
with great zest.
“How _do_ you suppose they got hold of such an idea?” she said.
“I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Guion, “I’m sure they never got it from
me. Alan will insist that they did, as he considers me a most bigoted
rebel. But certainly I have never taught any such sentiment as that to
the children. They must simply have imbibed it with the air they have
breathed.”
“It’s an excellent story,” said Margaret, laughing over it still; “I
shall have no rest until I have told it to Mr. Gaston.”