SPOKES FROM THE HUB
Four days after New Year's began a week of shut-in weather, the kind
of days which drive one nearly frantic, or make one perfectly happy,
according to the state of mind in which they find one. The Wyndhams,
"squared" once more, with Phyllis back and their home life resumed with
nothing to mar it, were in precisely the perfect contentment which
hails with rapture weather shutting out the outside world and drawing
closer together the inside one. The snow fell steadily for three days,
intermittently for four more; the walking was as bad as it could be,
and the city lay muffled in stillness that was hypnotic in effect, and
helped keep people within doors who had not obligations to force them
out.
Jessamy, Phyllis, and Barbara reveled in the pleasure of donning old
gowns every morning and settling down to the achievement of odd tasks
without fear of interruption, and also in the chance to get talked up
to date after half a year of absence on Phyllis's part. There was
an old chair which had outlived its covering, though in a melancholy
state of finish, which had been condemned to the tender mercies of
the refuse gatherer by all but Bab. She, fired with economical zeal,
had long declared that she would enamel it in black, re-cover it, and
have practically a new chair at the trifling expense of a can of paint
and three quarters of a yard of worsted and linen tapestry. This was
precisely the time for which she had waited, when an old sheet could be
spread on the parlor rug, and the chair allowed plenty of time to dry,
with no danger of callers to be shocked by the sight and sickened by
the odor of paint; so during this "spell of weather," as Violet called
it, she began the transformation of the chair.
Jessamy had a dress to turn, which she too had been waiting to begin
until such time as threads on the floor would not matter; and Phyllis
brought out all the piece-boxes into the parlor to set them in order in
the midst of the general festive disorder.
Jessamy could never be seriously disheveled, but she had put on her
oldest gown to do her ripping, and Phyllis was "neat, but not gaudy,"
Tom said, in a faded pink shirt-waist and a skirt decidedly worse for
wear; for boxes were dusty, and sorting scraps hard on skirt fronts. Of
course Tom was not deterred by weather or bad walking from dropping in
daily to keep his eye on his future family and his particular property
in it. Bab said that the worst of being engaged to a young doctor was
that, having office hours and few patients, he was obliged to be out
at certain times for appearances' sake, and had nowhere else to go
except to see his betrothed, which gave her very little security of
time to herself. But it was quite apparent to every one that Babbie did
not object to an arrangement which allowed Tom to drop in daily at four
to join them in their afternoon tea--which was usually chocolate.
"It really is too cozy and heavenly to be real!" cried Phyllis,
suddenly, looking up from a shabby bit of ribbon she was turning every
way in the gray light to determine whether it was to be discarded or
retained. "It's the blessedest sort of thing to be busy, and a trifle
shabby, and all shut in, with the world shut out."
"A good deal shabby, I should say," remarked Jessamy. "Not that it
matters. It does seem like 'Myself and my wife; my son John and his
wife; us four, and no more,' doesn't it?"
"I could purr like Trucie, and I know just how he feels when he cuddles
down under the blanket on cold nights," said Phyllis. "Cats are the
only things that can express the kind of contentment these days give
me."
"I might purr if it weren't for this horrid chair," groaned Barbara. "I
wish I'd never touched the thing! Girls, that paint isn't one minute
more dry than it was the night before last!"
Bab was a sight to behold. A long muslin gown, far past its usefulness
and beauty, hung over her loosely, betraying through certain rents the
fact that she wore a black skirt under it. Black enamel paint stood
out in bold relief in great blotches on its faded groundwork, black
paint decorated the knuckles and finger-tips of her grimy little hands.
One finger was bound up where she had hammered it black and blue; for,
her patience exhausted waiting for the paint to dry, she had attempted
to cover the chair while it was yet wet. Her hair would have qualified
her for Bloomingdale, for Bab had the sort of hair which comes down
when its owner goes into any work in earnest, and she had stuck in the
hair-pins, hit or miss fashion--chiefly miss--and black paint adorned
her forehead where her knuckles had brushed it. But worst of all was
the expression of rage and despair gradually transforming her face. The
chair was undeniably a failure, and Bab did not like to fail.
"It's a shame, Babette. I wouldn't bother with the old thing another
minute," said Jessamy, sympathetically. "I don't see why that paint
doesn't dry, or even stick to the chair; but it doesn't, so I wouldn't
get any more tired over it. It must be poor paint."
"It is fast enough anywhere but on the chair," said Barbara, surveying
her painted hands, and not grateful for Jessamy's advice. "It dries on
me, and sticks wherever it lights."
"Give it up, Bab; don't spoil this beautiful, closed-in day with
anything that worries," said Phyllis. "Oh, catch Truchi-ki, Jessamy;
if he rubs against that enamel paint, he and I will both have an awful
time getting it off his fur! Isn't it nice that you've learned how to
turn and make over your dresses, Jessamy! It is such an economy!"
"Jessamy won't admit, even to herself, that she does it to economize,"
laughed Bab, the wrinkles smoothing out of her forehead as she sat back
on the sheet covering the floor and clasped her knees with her hands.
"She pretends she makes over her dresses because she likes to, and
regards the dress when it is done as such a bit of elegance that she
hypnotizes others into thinking it is elegant. If you notice, Phyl,
Jessamy never does admit that we are scrabbling along; and that is the
reason she appears so much more high-bred than you and I do. We rather
more than merely admit that we consider a turned dress less desirable
than a new one. But Jessamy ignores, even to herself, the fact that the
goods have another side, and her dresses look cloth-of-goldy because
she expects no less of them. We pretend to outsiders, but Jessamy
pretends consistently, even to herself, and that's why it is so much
better pretense."
"Pretense! Oh, Bab!" cried Jessamy, reproachfully; and at that instant
the bell rang.
"It's the milkman with his bill," said Jessamy, easily. "I know his
ring; besides, he is due to-day; Violet has the money ready."
It was the milkman; but as Violet, having paid him, was about to
close the door, two tall figures bounded up the stairs, and a breezy
masculine voice cried: "One moment, please. Is Miss Phyllis Wyndham at
home?"
"Y-es, sah," stammered Violet, with an apprehensive glance over her
shoulder at the disordered parlor, where Bab was sitting on the floor,
horror-stricken at the question, and Phyllis was wildly scooping up an
armful of bits from the sofa in a frantic effort to flee. But flight
was impossible, for the only exit from the small parlor was into the
hall, directly opposite the door which Violet was inhospitably holding
partly closed.
"Please give her these cards," continued the voice, and two young men
entered with the serene unconsciousness of their age and sex.
"How are you, Miss Phyllis!" cried one of the arrivals, catching
sight of the object of his search in his line of vision, and utterly
oblivious to the situation.
In spite of her chagrin, Phyllis was quite honest in the cry of
pleasure with which she recognized him. "Alan Armstrong!" she
exclaimed, "and Mr. Campbell! Well, I am glad, though you have caught
us in a plight. Girls, these are my Boston friends. Miss Wyndham, Miss
Barbara Wyndham--Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Campbell."
Jessamy arose with the grace of the princess they called her. It really
did not matter whether Jessamy was in rags or velvets while she wore
her beautiful manner.
"You can't imagine how glad we are to see those who made dear Phyllis
happy while she was away from home," Jessamy said with simple
graciousness. "It is so good of you to come all the way up-town in this
bad weather! We felt sure no one would be kind enough to come to see
us to-day, so we got out all sorts of disagreeable work; but you won't
mind disorder, I'm sure."
"We can't see it," said Alan, thinking privately Jessamy was the
loveliest girl he had ever seen, and that it was quite true that no one
would waste a glance on a room when she was in it.
"If I had known you were coming I would have painted my face more
artfully," said Bab, really very much embarrassed as she thought with
horror of the muslin wrapper covering her gown, her fly-away hair, and
her bedaubed hands and face.
"I should think it likely Alan or David Campbell could tell you why
your chair won't dry, Babbie," said Phyllis, trying to help her out.
"My cousin has been trying to repair this rocker, and she has hammered
her finger sore covering it, and the paint sticks to everything but the
wood; why is that?"
"I can't explain the hammering," said Alan, "but I suspect the trouble
with the chair is that the wood was oily when you painted it. There is
always a deposit of oil from hands on chair-arms. If you had washed it
in an alkali before you began, it would have been all right."
"Perhaps I would better try your prescription on myself," said Barbara.
"Though I am afraid nothing but a turpentine bath will do for me.
It is too late to help the chair, isn't it? If you will forget you
met me in this guise, I'll come back in a few moments and let you be
introduced to Phyllis's respectable cousin Barbara."
"It is too late to do anything with the chair, I'm afraid, but we don't
want to forget we have met you," said Alan, rising to open the door
for Bab with such politeness that she said afterward he "made her feel
as neat and nice as if he had been a paint-eraser."
"Call Violet to take away the chair; tell her to send it down to the
janitor, and fold up this sheet on the floor, Bab," said Jessamy. "I
always did suspect the women's corners in papers that tell one how to
make toilet-tables and chairs out of old barrels or packing-cases. Bab
has spent three days struggling with this chair, only to throw it away
at last."
"One of the New York papers had a burlesque Household Department once,"
said Alan, as he closed the door behind Bab, and turned to help Phyllis
tie up her boxes. "Among other things, it told the gentle reader never
to throw away her cold buckwheat cakes--that they made a lovely dado
glued at irregular intervals on blue denim, or, used in the same way,
were most artistic as a portière border. I always think of it when I
read these crazy directions for making furniture out of coal-hods and
things. Look here; why do you all put away your work, Miss Phyllis?
You'll make Heather and me feel ourselves nuisances."
"We were only doing these things for want of better interests," said
Phyllis. "I'd like to show you my little home looking respectable. I've
told you so much of how it came to be. Do you still call David Heather?
That was Rick's name for him. And you need not call me _Miss_ Phyllis
here, any more than in Boston. We are all going to be informal friends."
"There's Tom!" exclaimed Jessamy, as the bell rang twice, and twice
again, with a short pause between, and sprang to open the door for the
doctor.
"How is everything to-day, Jessamy? Where's Bab? What is
this--company?" added Tom, lowering his voice, but to a no less audible
key.
"Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Campbell--Dr. Leighton," said Jessamy, ushering Tom
into the room; "Phyllis's Boston friends, you know, Tom. And Nixie,"
she added, as the little dog followed, shaking off the snow.
"Glad to see you," said Tom, with cordial hand-grasps to each. "Here's
my little lady," he added, turning joyfully to meet Bab transformed
into her pretty self, though black paint still surmounted her knuckles.
Jessamy took the opportunity to slip out for like improvements, and
Tom cried: "Guess what's happened, Bab! I was called in for croup to
the millionaire baby on the corner, and delighted the family by my
skill; relieved the choking heir at once--that's not a pun; I didn't
mean choking air! Only think! And there are five millionaire offspring
in the family, not one of whom has had a single childish disease; the
mother told me so! Suppose I should get that practice!"
"Hope you will, I'm sure. Phyllis told us about you, and your other
prospects," said Alan, glancing at Barbara, who was gazing proudly at
Tom.
"The door-bell again!" cried Phyllis, as it rang. "That's Ruth's
ring." And she opened the door to their friend.
"Such walking, Phyl! But I had to come. I have sat over my embroidery
without a breath of air for five days, and I was nearly wild. Is it a
party?" added Ruth, stopping suddenly as she caught a glimpse of the
parlor.
"It is rather a good imitation of one for such weather," laughed
Phyllis. "My friends from Boston, who, I told you, were to be in New
York this winter, are come, and Tom is here; that is all. Here are
Jessamy and auntie. I'm going to make myself presentable now; you go in
with them."
"Your friends have consented to stay to tea, Phyllis; and Ruth will
stay all night," said Mrs. Wyndham, as Phyllis came back, looking sweet
and fresh in her gray crepon. "We are going to have a real stormy-night
good time, though I've no idea of what we shall find for supper."
"Supper does not matter," said David Campbell, crossing to Phyllis's
side. "I have been waiting to show you a bit of pebble my sister sent
over to me. I asked her if she would let me have it for you. It came
from the bank of Loch Leven."
"Oh, that was ever so kind of you!" cried Phyllis, gratefully, really
pleased with the thought for her the lame lad showed. "I always loved
poor Mary Stuart; I hope you don't think her bad?"
"Bad!" echoed David, with the emphasis of a Scotsman. "Her conduct
may have been somewhat erroneous, but she was brought up in an evil
court, and was but a young bit lassie when she came to her own, and too
beautiful to be left to wicked counselors. But bad! She was never that,
you know."
"I am sure she wasn't, for I always was too sorry for her not to judge
her partially; I shall prize this little stone, thinking her weary feet
may have trodden it," said Phyllis.
"That's not, so to say, possible," said honest Davy; "for most like the
pebbles that were on the surface three hun'er years ago are buried now.
It's juist a memento, no mair."
"Ah, well; it will do no harm to dream about it," said Phyllis. "I
shall want you to tell me all your plans after supper. Now we must all
go to work. Alan, you are to make the coffee as you did on the yacht."
"I had an aunt," Ruth was saying to Alan at that moment, and Alan did
not hear Phyllis as she spoke--"I had an aunt who married an Armstrong.
That is, she was my mother's sister-in-law; her husband was Fordyce
Armstrong, and he lived in Boston."
"He was my father's cousin," said Alan, surprised. "Isn't that odd!
Your aunt-in-law married my second cousin. What relation are we then,
Miss Wells? Phyllis, your friend and I are relations of some sort;
come, unsnarl us. Oh, never mind, though; we are cousins too; that's
a nice, elastic relationship, anyway."
Mrs. Wyndham brought out the chafing-dish, and Jessamy took it in
charge. Jessamy was getting more and more into the way of slipping into
vacancies and smoothing out possible complications in the tiny home.
Bab was very occupied being engaged, and Phyllis was throwing herself
increasingly into her hopes and work.
The supper was a success. It was settled that no one should get
anything from outside; but Welsh rabbit in the chafing-dish, toast,
cold meat, coffee, Bab's fresh cake, preserves, the result of Jessamy's
proud first effort in that very feminine, old-time accomplishment of
"putting up" fruit--going out of fashion since women's exchanges and
fancy groceries make canned goods so easily purchasable--all these
things, brought forth from the little pantry, made a supper fit for a
king, breaking up even David's silence into merriment.
When the feast was over, and the young people once more back in the
little parlor, leaving Mrs. Wyndham with Violet to straighten matters
in the kitchen, the bell rang again, stopping Barbara's accompaniment
to a college song which they were all getting ready to sing.
"Isn't it funny how people keep coming when we felt so sure of a
solitary day?" said Phyllis, as she went unceremoniously to open
the door herself. It was Robert Lane whom she ushered in with more
constraint of manner than she had shown the other visitors. Only
Jessamy felt well acquainted with the young lawyer.
Robert contrived to get Jessamy to himself for a brief but apparently
earnest conversation under the cover of the singing; and the little
party broke up early, after a few songs had been sung by what Tom
called "the invested choir."
Barbara bore off Ruth to share her bed. Jessamy called back Phyllis,
who was following them, stopping herself to turn off the gas. "Phyl,"
she said, "do you know why Mr. Lane came here to-night?"
"Apparently to see you," returned Phyllis. "He hardly noticed any one
else."
"Yes; but it was to tell me something particular," said Jessamy, with
the suspicion of a blush in the dim light. "He thinks--oh, Phyl, he
really thinks that the information he has in regard to Mr. Abbott's
actions two years ago is going to get us back some of our money; and he
says Mr. Hurd thinks so too. Isn't it fine?"
"Oh, Jessamy, wouldn't I be thankful! But not for my own sake," added
Phyllis, hastily. "Mr. Lane seems to be very nice, Amy."
"So are both your friends very nice, Phyllis," returned Jessamy,
turning out the gas, as she spoke, so Phyllis could not see her face.