WAITING FOR T’OTHER ONE.
The morning following the arrival of the Tracys was bright and beautiful
as summer mornings are apt to be after a heavy rain. There was no sign
of the storm which had swept so fiercely over the hills the previous
night except in the delicious coolness of the air, the muddy street and
the few pools of water still standing upon the walk. Craig, who was
never a very good sleeper, had heard every sound in the usually quiet
house. It had been nine o’clock before the Tracys had divested
themselves of their wet garments and were ready for their supper, which,
in spite of Mrs. Taylor’s protestations that every thing was spoiled,
they enjoyed immensely.
Helen was in high spirits and knew she was going to enjoy herself,
everything was so funny and clean. She had made friends with Mrs. Taylor
by praising her supper, and won Uncle Zacheus’ heart by looking into his
face with her beautiful eyes as she squeezed his hand and said, “My dear
good man, you don’t know how glad I am to be here.”
“He don’t know whether he’s on foot or on horseback, that girl has so
upset him,” Mrs. Taylor said, as she hurried from the salon to the
kitchen, and the kitchen to the salon, occasionally administering a
sharp reproof to Jeff, who was dodging round corners, and again
whispering to Sarah, the waitress, to keep her wits about her and be
sure and pass things to the left instead of the right.
Craig’s room was in the north hall, which communicated with the west at
right angles, but he could hear the clatter of feet on the stairs, the
sound of talking and laughter in the hall, the running of water in the
bathroom, until he began to wonder if they would empty the reservoir and
leave nothing for his morning bath. There were calls for Celine to open
a trunk, or bring a bag, or a wrap left below, and then at last the
final good-nights were said, the doors shut and quiet reigned in the
house.
“I can’t imagine why I am so restless when I have been in so many noisy
hotels and never minded them,” Craig thought as he stepped out of bed to
see what time it was.
“Only eleven, I thought it must be midnight,” he said, going to the
window and looking out into the night.
The rain was over, the stars were coming out, and the moon was scudding
between the few misty clouds still hovering in the sky. From below he
caught the odor of a cigar and heard a man’s tread on the piazza. It was
Mark walking up and down as if he, too, were restless and could not
sleep. The sight of him brought back the story heard from Uncle Zacheus
that morning, and while recalling its details Craig, who had gone back
to bed, fell asleep and dreamed that ’Tina came to him in her white
dress and blue ribbons, with the gold beads around her neck, which Mr.
Taylor had said she wore on the morning when she left home for the
prison. She had a sweet, innocent face for which many a man would peril
his life, Craig thought, as he awoke with a start to hear a robin
singing outside his window and to see a sunbeam on the wall above his
head. It was nearly six o’clock,—later than he usually slept,—for he was
an early riser. Dressing himself, he went to the dining-room and
breakfasted alone. Everything was quiet in the west wing and he saw no
signs of the Tracys, except a big Saratoga trunk in the hall waiting to
be taken upstairs, and a smart-looking maid, in white cap and apron,
carrying a tray from the kitchen with dishes upon it. “One of the ladies
breakfasts in her room,—Mrs. Tracy, probably,” he thought, as he
sauntered into the office and turned the leaves of the register, finding
the names: “Mrs. Freeman A. Tracy, New York city; Miss Helen A. Tracy,
New York city; Miss Alice Tracy, Rocky Point, Mass.”
The handwriting was very plain and Craig studied it for a moment, while
Uncle Zacheus, who was present and still under the spell of Helen’s eyes
and smiles, said to him, “Writes a good fist; plain as copper-plate, and
she’s a daisy, too, but not up to t’other one. Wait till you see her.”
“What do you mean?” Craig asked. “Which is ‘t’other one,’ and which is
the daisy?”
“Why, t’other one is—t’other one, and the daisy’s gone down to the river
with Jeff after pond lilies,” Uncle Zach replied.
“Gone to the river with Jeff?” Craig repeated, and Uncle Zach answered,
“Yes, sir. She was up with the sun. Wrote the names; hers is the last
one; and then went off with Jeff, holdin’ up her white skirts and
showin’ her trim boots and ankles just like what Dot’s was once when she
was slimmer.”
Craig did not ask any more about the daisy. He felt sure it was Alice,
the cousin, from Rocky Point, of which place he had never heard. He was
not as much interested in her as he was in the ‘t’other one,’ who
occupied more of his thoughts than he would like to confess. He
remembered his prejudice against her as a heartless coquette, and his
declining to call upon her when asked to do so in Saratoga. But she was
here in the same house with him and it was incumbent upon him as a
gentleman to treat her with some attention. She might not be as bad as
she was painted; at all events, he would like to see her, and he had
found himself taking more pains than usual with his toilet. He was
always faultlessly neat in his person and attire, especially in the
matter of collars and cuffs, and this morning he had tried and discarded
two or three pairs, and as many neckties, before he was satisfied that
his _tout-ensemble_ was all that could be expected in a country tavern.
He had looked for Jeff to give an extra polish to his shoes, but not
finding him, had put on a pair of tans, and felt himself quite _au fait_
and ready to cope with the young lady who, rumor said, had lured so many
men to her feet only to be refused. He had no intention of following
their example. He expected to amuse himself and be relieved from the
ennui which was beginning to affect him in the quiet place.
As he was leaving the office the maid came in to drop a postal in the
box. She was a trim little black-eyed French girl, who, in her bright
plaid dress, high-heeled slippers and red stockings, looked very pretty
and picturesque.
“Good mornin’, Miss—er—What is your name,” was Uncle Zacheus’
salutation.
“Celine, monsieur,” was the girl’s reply.
“Oh, yes; to be sure. Mooseer, I think you said. I didn’t quite catch
it. Uncommon name. Miss Mooseer, this is Mr. Craig Mason from Boston.
Mr. Mason, Miss Mooseer, I hope you’ll be good friends,” and Uncle
Zacheus waved his hand in a friendly way from one to the other.
Craig was too much of a gentleman to laugh, but there was a gleam of
merriment in his eyes as he bowed to the girl, and an answering gleam in
hers as she curtsied and said, “_Bon Jour, monsieur_,” and hurried away.
“What did she say?” Uncle Zacheus asked, and Craig replied, “She wished
me good morning, in French.”
“Oh, yes; wall, I don’t understand French very well. Pretty little
filly, but you or’to see t’other one,” was Uncle Zach’s response, as
Craig left the office, thinking, “I’ve been introduced to the maid, and
now I’d like to see her mistress.”
As he passed the door of the salon he heard the rattling of dishes and
murmur of voices, one very sweet and musical and full of laughter, the
other so low he could scarcely distinguish it. Going to the north piazza
he sat down in his accustomed chair to wait developments. “They will
certainly make the tour of the piazzas and come this way after
breakfast,” he thought, and by _they_ he had no reference to the one
Uncle Zacheus had called a daisy. She was scarcely in his mind at all.
He was waiting for t’other one.