CALLS AND VISITING
Mrs. Jones had risen earlier than usual that Monday morning, and felt
not a little elated when she saw her long line of snowy linen swinging
in the wind before that of her neighbor, whom she excused on the score
of Richard's wife. But when twelve o'clock, and even one o'clock struck,
and still the back yard gave no sign, she began to wonder "if any of
'em could be sick"; and never was flag of truce watched for more
anxiously than she watched for something which should tell that it was
all well at Sister Markham's.
The sign appeared at last, and with her fears quieted, Mrs. Jones
pursued the even tenor of her way until everything was done and her
little kitchen was as shining as soap and sand and scrubbing brush could
make it. Perhaps it was washing the patchwork quilt which Abigail had
pieced that brought the deceased so strongly to Mrs. Jones' mind, and
made her so curious to see Abigail's successor. Whatever it was, Mrs.
Jones was very anxious for a sight of Ethelyn; and when her work was
done she donned her alpaca dress, and tying on her black silk apron,
announced her intention of "running into Mrs. Markham's just a minute.
Would Melinda like to go along?"
Melinda had been once to no purpose, and she had inwardly resolved to
wait a while before calling again; but she felt that she would rather be
with her mother at her first interview with Ethelyn, for she knew she
could cover up some defects by her glibber and more correct manner of
conversing. So she signified her assent, but did not wear her best
bonnet as she had on Saturday night. This was only a run in, she said,
never dreaming that, "for fear of what might happen if she was urged to
stay to tea," her mother had deposited in her capacious pocket the
shirt-sleeve of unbleached cotton she was making for Tim.
And so about four o'clock the twain started for the house of Mrs.
Markham, who saw them coming and welcomed them warmly. She was always
glad to see Mrs. Jones, and she was doubly glad to-day, for it seemed to
her that some trouble had come upon her which made neighborly sympathy
and neighborly intercourse more desirable than ever. Added to this,
there was in her heart an unconfessed pride in Ethelyn and a desire to
show her off. "Miss Jones was not going to stir home a step till after
supper," she said, as that lady demurred at laying off her bonnet. "She
had got to stay and see Richard; besides that, they were going to have
waffles and honey, with warm gingerbread."
Nobody who had once tested them, could withstand Mrs. Markham's waffles
and gingerbread. Mrs. Jones certainly could not; and when Eunice went up
for Ethelyn, that worthy woman was rocking back and forth in a low
rocking-chair, her brass thimble on her finger and Tim's shirt-sleeve in
progress of making; while Melinda, in her pretty brown merino and white
collar, with her black hair shining like satin, sat in another
rocking-chair, working at the bit of tatting she chanced to have in her
pocket. Ethelyn did not care to go down; it was like stepping into
another sphere leaving her own society for that of the Joneses; but
there was no alternative, and with a yawn she started up and began
smoothing her hair.
"This wrapper is well enough," she said, more to herself, than Eunice,
who was still standing by the door looking at her.
Eunice did not think the wrapper well enough. It was pretty, she knew,
but not as pretty as the dresses she had seen hanging in Ethelyn's
closet when she arranged the room that morning; so she said,
hesitatingly: "I wish you wouldn't wear that down. You were so handsome
yesterday in the black gown, with them red earrings and pin, and your
hair brushed up, so."
Ethelyn liked to look well, even here in Olney, and so the wrapper was
laid aside, the beautiful brown hair was wound in heavy coils about the
back of the head, and brushed back from her white forehead after a
fashion which made her look still younger and more girlish than she was.
A pretty plaid silk, with trimmings of blue, was chosen for to-day,
Eunice going nearly wild over the short jaunty basque, laced at the
sides and the back. Eunice had offered to stay and assist at her young
mistress' toilet, and as Ethelyn was not unaccustomed to the office of
waiting-maid, she accepted Eunice's offer, finding, to her surprise,
that the coarse red fingers, which that day had washed and starched her
linen, were not unhandy even among the paraphernalia of a Boston
lady's toilet.
"You do look beautiful," Eunice said, standing back to admire Ethelyn,
when at last she was dressed. "I have thought Melinda Jones handsome,
but she can't hold a candle to you, nor nobody else I ever seen, except
Miss Judge Miller, in Camden. She do act some like you, with her gown
dragglin' behind her half a yard."
Thus flattered and complimented, Ethelyn shook out her skirts, which
"draggled half a yard behind," and went downstairs to where Mrs. Jones
sat working on Timothy's shirt, and Melinda was crocheting, while Mrs.
Markham, senior, clean and neat, and stiff in her starched, purple
calico, sat putting a patch on a fearfully large hole in the knee of
Andy's pants. As Ethelyn swept into the room there fell a hush upon the
inmates, and Mrs. Jones was almost guilty of an exclamation of surprise.
She had expected something fine, she said--something different from the
Olney quality--but she was not prepared for anything as grand and
queenly as Ethelyn, when she sailed into the room, with her embroidered
handkerchief held so gracefully in her hands, and in response to Mrs.
Markham's introduction, bowed so very low, and slowly, too, her lips
scarcely moving at all, and her eyes bent on the ground. Mrs. Jones
actually ran the needle she was sewing with under her thumb in her
sudden start, while Melinda's crocheting dropped into her lap. She, too,
was surprised, though not as much as her mother. She, like Eunice, had
seen Mrs. Judge Miller, from New York, whose bridal trousseau was
imported from Paris, and whose wardrobe was the wonder of Camden. And
Ethelyn was very much like her, only younger and prettier.
"Very pretty," Melinda thought, while Mrs. Jones fell to comparing her,
mentally, with the deceased Abigail; wondering how Richard, if he had
ever loved the one, could have fancied the other, they were so unlike.
Of course, the mother's heart gave to Abigail the preference for all
that was good and womanly, and worthy of Richard Markham; but Ethelyn
bore off the palm for style, and beauty, too.
"Handsome as a doll, but awfully proud," Mrs. Jones decided, during the
interval in which she squeezed her wounded thumb, and got the needle
again in motion upon Timothy's shirt-sleeve.
Ethelyn was not greatly disappointed in Mrs. Jones and her daughter; the
mother especially was much like what she had imagined her to be, while
Melinda was rather prettier--rather more like the Chicopee girls than
she expected. There was a look on her face like Susie Granger, and the
kindly expression of her black eyes made Ethelyn excuse her for wearing
a magenta bow, while her cheeks were something the same hue. They were
very stiff at first, Mrs. Jones saying nothing at all, and Melinda only
venturing upon common-place inquiries--as to how Ethelyn bore her
journey, if she was ever in that part of the country before, and how she
thought she should like the West. This last question Ethelyn could not
answer directly.
"It was very different from New England," she said, "but she was
prepared for that, and hoped she should not get very homesick during the
few weeks which would elapse before she went to Washington."
At this point Mrs. Markham stopped her patching and looked inquiringly
at Ethelyn. It was the first she had heard about Ethelyn's going to
Washington; indeed, she had understood that Richard's wife was to keep
her company during the winter, a prospect which since Ethelyn's arrival
had not looked so pleasing to her as it did before. How in the world
they should get on together without Richard, she did not know, and if
she consulted merely her own comfort she would have bidden Ethelyn go.
But there were other things to be considered--there was the great
expense it would be for Richard to have his wife with him. Heretofore he
had saved a good share of his salary, but with Ethelyn it would be money
out of his pocket all the time; besides that, there were reasons why it
was not proper for Ethelyn to go; her best place was at home.
Thus reasoned Mrs. Markham, and when next her needle resumed its work on
Andy's patch, Ethelyn's fate with regard to Washington was decided, for
as thought the mother on that point, so eventually would think the son,
who deferred so much to her judgment. He came in after a little, looking
so well and handsome that Ethelyn felt proud of him, and had he then
laid his hand upon her shoulder, or put his arm around her waist, as he
sometimes did when they were alone, she would not have shaken it off, as
was her usual custom. Indeed, such is the perversity of human nature,
and so many contradictions are there in it, that Ethelyn rather wished
he would pay her some little attention. She could not forget Abigail,
with Abigail's mother and sister sitting there before her, and she
wanted them to see how fond her husband was of her, hoping thus to prove
how impossible it was that Abigail could ever have been to him what she
was. But Richard was shy in the presence of others, and would sooner
have put his arm around Melinda than around his wife, for fear he should
be thought silly. He was very proud of her, though, and felt a thrill of
satisfaction in seeing how superior, both in look and manner, she was to
Melinda Jones, whose buxom, healthy face grew almost coarse and homely
from comparison with Ethelyn's.
As Ethelyn's toilet had occupied some time, it was five when she made
her appearance in the parlor, consequently she had not long to wait ere
the announcement of supper broke up the tediousness she endured from
that first call, or visit. The waffles and the gingerbread were all they
had promised to be, and the supper passed off quietly, with the
exception of a mishap of poor, awkward Andy, who tipped his plate of hot
cakes and honey into his lap, and then in his sudden spring backward,
threw a part of the plate's contents upon Ethelyn's shining silk. This
was the direst calamity of all, and sent poor Andy from the table so
heart-broken and disconsolate that he did not return again, and Eunice
found him sitting on the wood-house steps, wiping away with his
coat-sleeve the great tears which rolled down his womanish face.
"Ethelyn never would like him again," he said, calling himself "a great
blundering fool, who never ought to eat at the same table with
civilized folks."
But when Ethelyn, who heard from Eunice of Andy's distress, went out to
see him, assuring him that but little damage had been done, that soft
water and magnesia would make the dress all right again, he brightened
up, and was ready to hold Mr. Harrington's horse when, after dark, that
gentleman drove over from Olney with his wife and sister to call on Mrs.
Richard. It would almost seem that Ethelyn held a reception that
evening, for more than the Harringtons knocked at the front door, and
were admitted by the smiling Eunice. It was rather early to call, the
Olneyites knew, but there on the prairie they were not hampered with
many of Mrs. Grundy's rules, and so curious to see the "Boston lady,"
several of the young people had agreed together between the Sunday
services to call at Mrs. Markham's the following night. They were
well-meaning, kind-hearted people, and would any one of them gone far
out of their way to serve either Richard or his young wife; but they
were not Eastern bred, and feeling somewhat awed by Ethelyn's cold,
frigid manner, they appeared shy and awkward--all except Will Parsons,
the young M.D. of Olney, who joked, and talked and laughed so loudly,
that even Richard wondered he had never before observed how noisy Dr.
Parsons was, while Andy, who was learning to read Ethelyn's face, tried
once or twice, by pulling the doctor's coat-skirts and giving him a
warning glance, to quiet him down a little. But the doctor took no
hints, and kept on with his fun, finding a splendid coadjutor in the
"terrible Tim Jones," who himself came over to call on Dick and
his woman.
Tim was rigged out in his best, with a bright red cravat tied around his
neck, and instead of his muddy boots with his pants tucked in the tops,
he wore coarse shoes tied with strings and flirted his yellow silk
handkerchief for the entire evening. It was dreadful to Ethelyn, for she
could see nothing agreeable in Richard's friends; indeed, their presence
was scarcely bearable, and the proud look on her face was so apparent
that the guests felt more or less ill at ease, while Richard was nearer
being angry with Ethelyn than he had ever been. Will Parsons and Tim
Jones seemed exceptions to the rest of the company, especially the
latter, who, if he noticed Ethelyn's evident contempt, was determined
to ignore it, and make himself excessively familiar.
As yet, the open piano had been untouched, no one having the courage to
ask Ethelyn to play; but Tim was fond of music, and unhesitatingly
seating himself upon the stool, thrust one hand in his pocket, and with
the other struck the keys at random, trying to make out a few bars of
"Hail, Columbia!" Then turning to Ethelyn he said, with a good-humored
nod, "Come, old lady, give us something good."
Ethelyn's eyes flashed fire, while others of the guests looked their
astonishment at Tim, who knew he had done something, but could not for
the life of him tell what.
"Old lady" was a favorite title with him. He called his mother so, and
Melinda, and Eunice Plympton, and Maria Moorehouse, whose eyes he
thought so bright, and whom he always saw home from meeting on Sunday
nights; and so it never occurred to him that this was his offense. But
Melinda knew, and her red cheeks burned scarlet as she tried to cover
her brother's blunder by modestly urging Ethelyn to favor them with
some music.
Of all the Western people whom she had seen, Ethelyn liked Melinda the
best. She had thought her rather familiar, and after the Olneyites came
in and put her more at her ease, she fancied her a little flippant and
forward; but, in all she did or said, there was so much genuine
sincerity and frankness, that Ethelyn could not dislike her as she had
thought she should dislike a sister of Abigail Jones and the terrible
Tim. She had not touched her piano since her arrival, for fear of the
homesickness which its familiar tones might awaken, and when she saw
Tim's big red hands fingering the keys, in her resentment at the
desecration she said to herself that she never would touch it again; but
when in a low aside Melinda added to her entreaties: "Please, Mrs.
Markham, don't mind Tim--he means well enough, and would not be rude for
the world, if he knew it," she began to give way, and it scarcely needed
Richard's imperative, "Ethelyn," to bring her to her feet. No one
offered to conduct her to the piano--not even Richard, who sat just
where he was; while Tim, in his haste to vacate the music stool,
precipitated it to the floor, and got his leather shoes entangled in
Ethelyn's skirts.
Tim, and Will Parsons, and Andy all hastened to pick up the stool,
knocking their heads together, and raising a laugh in which Ethelyn
could not join. Thoroughly disgusted and sick at heart, she felt much as
the Jewish maidens must have felt when required to give a song. Her harp
was indeed upon the willows hung, and her heart was turning sadly toward
her far-off Jerusalem as she sat down and tried to think what she should
play to suit her audience. Suddenly it occurred to her to suit herself
rather than her hearers, and her snowy fingers--from which flashed
Daisy's diamond and a superb emerald--swept the keys with a masterly
grace and skill. Ethelyn was perfectly at home at the piano, and dashing
off into a brilliant and difficult overture, she held her hearers for a
few minutes astonished both at her execution and the sounds she made. To
the most of them, however, the sounds were meaningless; their tastes had
not yet been cultivated up to Ethelyn's style. They wanted something
familiar--something they had heard before; and when the fine performance
was ended terrible Tim electrified her with the characteristic
exclamation: "That was mighty fine, no doubt, for them that understand
such; but, now, for land's sake, give us a tune."
Ethelyn was horror-stricken. She had cast her pearls before swine; and
with a haughty stare at the offending Timothy, she left the stool, and
walking back to her former seat, said:
"I leave the tunes to your sister, who, I believe, plays sometimes."
Somewhat crestfallen, but by no means browbeaten, Tim insisted that
Melinda should give them a jig; and, so, crimsoning with shame and
confusion, Melinda took the vacant stool and played her brother a
tune--a rollicking, galloping tune, which everybody knew, and which set
the feet to keeping time, and finally brought Tim and Andy to the floor
for a dance. But Melinda declined playing for a cotillion which her
brother proposed, and so the dancing arrangement came to naught,
greatly to the delight of Ethelyn, who could only keep back her tears by
looking up at the sweet face of Daisy smiling down upon her from the
wall. That was the only redeeming point in that whole assembly, she
thought. She would not even except Richard then, so intense was her
disappointment and so bitter her regret for the mistake she made when
she promised to go where her heart could never be.
It was nine o'clock when the company dispersed. Each of the ladies
cordially invited Ethelyn to call as soon as convenient, and Mrs.
Harrington, a lady of some cultivation, whose husband was the village
merchant, saying encouragingly to her, as she held her hand a moment,
"Our Western manners seem strange to you, I dare say; but we are a
well-meaning people, and you will get accustomed to us by and by."
She never should--no, never, thought Ethelyn, as she went up to her
room, tired and homesick, and disheartened with this, her first
introduction to the Olney people. It was a very cross wife that slept at
Richard's side that night, and the opinion expressed of the Olneyites
was anything but complimentary to the taste of one who had known them
all his life and liked them so well. But Richard was getting accustomed
to such things. Lectures did not move him now as they had at first, and
overcome with fatigue from his day's work and the evening's excitement,
he fell asleep, while Ethelyn was enlarging upon the merits of the
terrible Tim, who had addressed her as "old lady" and asked her to
"play a tune."