A STIR AT MILLBANK.
The letter was from Roger, and in her eagerness to hear from him,
Magdalen forgot the stranger who had asked so many questions.
Roger was in Dresden, and very well; but his letter did not relate so
much to himself and his journeyings as to matters at home. Frank, who
had visited Millbank in April, had written to Roger a not very
satisfactory account of Hester’s management of Magdalen.
“The girl is growing up a perfect Hottentot, with no more manners or
style than Dame Floyd herself; and it seems a pity, when she is so
bright and capable and handsome, and might with proper training make a
splendid woman. But what can you expect of her, brought up by that
superannuated Hester, who keeps her in the most outlandish clothes I
ever saw, and lets her go barefoot half the time, till her feet are
spreading so, that after a little they will be as flat and broad as a
mackerel. Besides that, I saw her trying to milk, which you know will
spoil her hands sooner than anything else in creation. My advice is that
you send her to school, say here to New Haven, if you like. Mrs. Dana’s
is a splendid school for young ladies. I would write at once to Mrs.
Floyd if I were you. And, Roger, for thunder’s sake, tell her to let
Mrs. Johnson or her daughter see to Maggie’s wardrobe. She would be the
laughing-stock of the town if she were to come here rigged out _à la
Floyd_.”
This and much more Frank had written to Roger, who, in a milder form,
wrote it back to Hester, telling her that Magdalen must go away, and
suggesting New Haven as a proper place where to send her.
Hester was a very little indignant when she read this letter, which,
without directly charging her with neglect, still implied that in some
things concerning Magdalen she had been remiss, and to Bessie, the
housemaid, she was freeing her mind pretty thoroughly when Magdalen came
in and began to question her eagerly with regard to Roger, and to ask if
the letter was for her.
“No,” Hester replied, “but it’s about you. I’m too old-fashioned to
fetch you up any longer, and you’ve got to be sent away. The district
school ain’t good enough, and you are to go to New Haven and learn
manners, and not go barefoot, nor milk, and put your feet and hands out
of shape. Haven’t I told you forty times, Magdalen Lennox, to put on
your shoes?”
“Yes, fifty,” Magdalen replied, in that peculiar winning way which she
had of conciliating Hester when in one of her querulous moods. “What is
it about my hands and feet, let me see?”
And coming close to Hester, she laid one hand soothingly on the old
woman’s shoulder, and with the other took Roger’s letter, which she read
through from beginning to end; then, with a passionate exclamation, she
threw it from her, saying:
“It is Frank who put Mr. Roger up to this. I won’t go away from Millbank
to horrid old New Haven, where the girls sit, and walk, and act just so,
with their elbows in and their toes out. I hate New Haven, I hate Frank,
I hate everybody but you.”
Magdalen’s eyes were flashing, and her hand deepened its grasp on
Hester, who cast upon the young girl a look which told how full of love
her old heart was for the child whom she had cared for and watched over
since the night she first came to Millbank. No one could live with
Magdalen and not love her. Generous, outspoken, and wholly truthful,
warm-hearted and playful as a kitten, she had wound herself around every
fibre of Hester’s heart, until the woman hardly knew which was dearer to
her,—Magdalen or Roger. She would miss the former most. Millbank would
be very lonely without those busy little bare feet of which Roger
disapproved, and that blithe, merry voice which filled the house with
melody, and it was partly a dread of the loneliness which Magdalen’s
absence would leave which prompted Hester to such an outburst as had
followed the reading of Roger’s letter; and when Magdalen took up the
theme, vehemently declaring she would never go to New Haven, Hester felt
a thrill of joy and pride in the girl who preferred her to New Haven and
its stylish young ladies.
Her soberer second thoughts, however, were that Roger’s wishes would
have to be considered, and Magdalen be obliged to yield. But Magdalen
thought differently and persisted in saying she would never go to New
Haven, and subject herself to the criticisms of that _Alice Grey_, about
whom Frank had talked so much on his last visit to Millbank.
He had only stayed a day or two, and Magdalen had thought him changed,
and, as she fancied, not for the better. He had always teased her about
her grandmotherly garb, but his teasings this time were more like
earnest criticisms, and he was never tired of holding up _Alice Grey_ as
a model for all young girls to imitate. She was very pretty, he said,
with soft blue eyes and rich brown hair, which was almost a chestnut,
and she had such graceful, lady-like manners, that all the college boys
were more in love with her,—a little maiden of fourteen,—than with the
older young ladies in Miss Dana’s school.
Heretofore, when Frank had visited Millbank, Magdalen had been all in
all, and she resented his frequent allusion to one whom he seemed to
consider so superior to herself, and felt relieved when he went back to
his Alice, with her chestnut hair, and her soft blue eyes, and wax-like
complexion.
Magdalen hated her own dark skin for a little after that, and taught by
Bessie, tried what frequent washings in buttermilk would do for it; but
Hester’s nose, which had a most remarkable knack for detecting smells
even where none existed, soon ferreted out the hidden jar containing
Magdalen’s cosmetic, and, all hopes of a complexion like Alice Grey’s
were swept away with the buttermilk which the remorseless Hester threw
into the pig-pen as its most fitting place. After a while the fever
subsided, and Alice Grey ceased to trouble Magdalen until she was
brought to mind by Roger’s letter.
That she would not go to New Haven, Magdalen was resolved. If Roger
wanted her to try some other school she would, she said, but New Haven
was not to be considered for a moment; and so Hester wrote to Roger an
account of the manner with which his proposition had been received, and
asked him to suggest some other school for his ward.
In her excitement Magdalen had entirely forgotten the stranger in the
graveyard, nor was he recalled to her mind until the next day, when,
with Hester Floyd, she walked demurely to the little church where she
was in the habit of worshipping. It was a beautiful morning, and the air
was laden with the sweet perfume of the clover blossoms and the new-mown
hay, and Magdalen looked unusually bright and pretty in her light French
calico and little white sack, which the village dressmaker had made, and
which bore a more modern stamp than was usual to Hester’s handiwork. Her
shoes and stockings were all right this time, and her hands were encased
in a pair of cotton gloves, which, though a deal too large, were
nevertheless gloves, and kept her hands from tanning. And Magdalen, with
her prayer-book and sprig of caraway, felt very nice as she went up the
aisle to Squire Irving’s pew, where, in imitation of Hester she dropped
on her knees and said her few words of prayer, while her thoughts were
running upon the gentleman in front, the stranger of the graveyard, who
turned his head as she came in with a half nod of recognition.
He seemed very devout as the services proceeded, and never had Magdalen
heard any one respond so loud in the Psalter, or seen any one bow so low
in the Creed as he did; while in the chants and psalms he almost drowned
the choir itself, as his head went up and back as if it were following
his spirit, which, judging from his manner, was borne almost to Pisgah’s
top.
“He must be an awful pious man. I shouldn’t wonder if he was a minister,
and should preach this evening,” Magdalen thought as she watched him,
and, awed somewhat by his presence, she let her peppermint lozenges stay
in her pocket, and only nibbled a little at the sprig of caraway when
sure he would not see her.
She did not know that he had noticed her at all after the first glance
of recognition, until the last chant, when her clear, sweet voice joined
in the singing, making him pause a moment to listen, while a look of
pleased surprise came into his face as he turned toward her.
He had not seen Hester distinctly, for she was behind him; but Hester
saw him and pronounced him some “starched-up city buck,” and thought his
coat too short for so old a man, and his neck too big and red.
“Jest the chap she shouldn’t want to have much to do with,” was her
mental comment, and his loud “Good Lord, deliver us” sounded to the
shrewd old woman like mockery, for she did not believe he felt it a bit.
Hester did not like the stranger’s appearance, but she wondered who he
was, and when church was out, and she was walking down the street with
her niece who kept the public house, she spoke of him, and learned that
he was stopping at the Montauk, as the little hotel was named. He came
about noon the previous day, Martha said; had called for their best
room, and drank wine with his dinner, and smoked a sight of cigars, and
had a brandy sling sent up to him in the evening. She did not remember
his name, and she guessed he must have a great deal of money from his
appearance. He was going to New York in the night train, and that was
all she knew. Hester made no special remark, and as they just then
reached the cross-roads where their paths diverged, she bade her niece
good-day, and walked on towards Millbank.
Meantime, Magdalen was reciting her Sunday-school lesson, and finishing
her caraway and lozenges, and telling her companions that she was going
away to school by and by, as Mr. Roger wrote she must. The school
question did not seem as formidable to-day as yesterday. Miss Nellie
Johnson, who represented the first young lady in town, had been to
Charlestown Seminary, and so had Mr. Fullerton’s daughters and Lilian
Marsh, who was an orphan and an heiress. On the whole, Magdalen had come
to think it would set her up a little to go away, and she talked quite
complacently about it, and said she guessed it would be to Charlestown,
where Miss Johnson had been graduated; but she made no mention of New
Haven or Alice Grey, though the latter was in her mind when she sang the
closing hymn, and went out of the church into the beautiful sunshine.
The day was so fine, and the air so clear, that Magdalen thought to
prolong her walk by going round by the graveyard, as she sometimes did
on a Sunday. The quiet, shaded spot where Squire Irving was buried just
suited her Sunday moods, and she would far rather lie there on the
grass, than sit in the kitchen at Millbank, and recite her catechism to
Hester or read a sermon to Aleck, whose eyes were growing dim.
It would seem that another than herself liked the shadow of the
evergreens and the seclusion of Squire Irving’s lot, for as Magdalen
drew near the gate, she saw the figure of a man reclining upon the
grass, while a feathery ring which curled up among the branches of the
trees denoted that he was smoking. Magdalen did not think it just the
thing to smoke there among the graves, and the stranger fell a little in
her estimation, for it was the stranger, and he arose at once, and bade
Magdalen good afternoon, and called her _Miss Rogers_, as if he thought
that was her name.
“I find this place cooler than my hot room at the Montauk,” he said: and
then he spoke of having seen her at church, and asked who had taught her
to sing.
“Mr. Roger,” she replied. “He used to sing with me before he went away.
He has a splendid voice, and is a splendid scholar, too.”
And then, as that reminded her of New Haven and Alice Grey, she
continued: “We heard from Mr. Roger yesterday, and he said I was to go
to school in New Haven, but I don’t want to go there a bit.”
“Why not?” the stranger asked; and Magdalen replied:
“Oh, because I don’t. Frank is there, and he told me so much about a
Miss Alice Grey, and wants me to be like her; and I can’t, and I don’t
want to know her, for she would laugh at me, and I should be sure to
hate her.”
“Hate Alice! Impossible!” dropped involuntarily from the stranger’s
lips, and turning upon him her bright eyes, Magdalen said:
“Do you know Frank’s Alice Grey?”
“I know one Alice Grey, but whether it is Frank’s Alice, I cannot tell.
I should devoutly hope not,” was the stranger’s answer; and Magdalen
noticed that there was a disturbed look on his face, and that he forgot
to resume his cigar, which lay awhile smouldering in the grass, and
finally went out.
He did not seem disposed to talk much after that, and Magdalen kept very
quiet, wondering who he was, until her attention was suddenly diverted
into another channel by noticing, for the first time, the absence of the
bouquet which she had brought the day before and left upon the grave.
“Somebody has stole my flowers! I’ll bet it’s Jim Bartlett. He’s always
doing something bad,” she exclaimed, and she searched among the grass
for the missing bouquet.
The stranger helped her hunt, and not finding it, said he presumed some
one had taken it,—that _Jim_ was a bad boy to steal, and Magdalen must
talk to him and teach him the eighth commandment. Anxious to confront
and accuse the thieving Jim, Magdalen left the graveyard, and was soon
engaged in a hot battle with the boy, who denied all knowledge of the
flowers, declaring he had not been in the yard for a week, and throwing
tufts of grass and gravel stones after her as she finally left him and
walked away, wondering, if Jim did not take the flowers, who did. She
never dreamed of suspecting the stranger, or guessed that when he left
Belvidere there was in one corner of his satchel the veritable bouquet
which she had arranged in memory of poor Jessie, or that the sight of
those faded flowers had touched a tender chord in his heart, and made
him for several days kinder and gentler to a poor, worn, weary invalid,
whom nothing in all the world had power to quiet or soothe.