wind, as we stood facing each other. "I was afraid you were ill."
Aunt Nancy looked almost pained at such a suspicion.
"My, no," she disavowed, hastily; "but there's them that is," she
conceded. "I've been to see--let me see--thirty of 'em to-day--men an'
women both. Poor Mr. Jackson's about the worst. I never SEE such a sick
man. I got this cracked ice for him," she added, looking down at the
glass she was clasping to her bosom with her free hand. "I'd 'a' looked
in on you," she added, kindly, "if I hadn't been so busy, but I heard
you wa'n't neither of you sick."
I explained with some effort that I felt comfortable as long as I lay
still, but that as soon as I was on my feet, the motion--We parted
hurriedly.
On the morning of the sixth day Jessica turned over in her berth,
removed from her spine a fork which had seemingly been there all the
week, regarded it with strong disfavor, and announced briefly that she
was going above. We went. The decks were still wet, and the
steamer-chairs were securely lashed in place. The sky was gray and
lowering, but the sea had sulkily subsided, showing its continued
resentment of the whole experience only in the upheaval of an
occasional wave which broke over the ship-rail and perished at our
feet. As the hours passed, pale wraiths appeared at the companionways,
supported one another feebly to the nearest chairs, sank into them, and
veiled their faces from one another's gaze. They seemed the ghosts of
the happy men and women who had come on board the Columbia six long
days ago. Languidly as the hours passed they revived and confided to
one another the simple record of the voyage. No, they had not been ill.
It was, indeed, singular how few of them had been disturbed by the
voyage, though they had all noticed that it was rough. But they had
been injured by being knocked about or thrown from their berths, or
they had been caring for friends or relatives who were ill. Several of
them paused at my side on their way to and from their cabins to indulge
in these artless confidences. It remained, however, for Aunt Nancy to
make the most interesting of all.
She came along the deck about five in the afternoon and dropped with
serene satisfaction into the empty steamer-chair at my right. She was
fully dressed in the inevitable black, even to her wide bonnet. With a
sigh of pleasure she folded her mittened hands and began to talk.
"It's been real interestin'," she said. "I must say I'm 'most sorry to
have it over. I want to go to Europe again in two years; I ain't really
enjoyed this trip very much; but when I come again I think I'll like it
better, now that I know it. But of course at my age one can't really be
sure one can come again."
She sank into silence for a moment, looking down at the mittened hands
in her lap. Then her face brightened, and she turned to me again with
her old, alert eagerness of expression.
"I dunno why I shouldn't come, though," she added, cheerfully. "I'm
real well. Before I left home I was some worried. I didn't seem to be
as strong as I used to be. That's why I come--to build up my health an'
git strong. Lots of folks has wondered why I come, I guess, an' that
was it, though I ain't told no one till now. I guess I did improve,
too, for the stewardess told me with her own lips only this mornin'
that she thought I was a healthy woman. But of course," she added, with
lowly humility, "I can't do what I did when I was young."
I was speechless. The Columbia paused on the top of a wave, hesitated a
moment, and sailed unsteadily onward. With eyes filled with a solemn
content, Aunt Nancy gazed out over the cold, wet sea.
IX
THE HENRY SMITHS' HONEYMOON
When Jacob West suggested to Henry Smith that the latter's honeymoon
should be spent in New York, Mr. Smith's ruddy countenance paled at the
audacity of the words, and Miss Maria Tuttle, his fiancee, gasped
audibly for breath. Unconsciously they clasped hands, as if better to
meet together the rude shock of the moment; and seated side by side on
the rustic bench which adorned the small veranda of the Tuttle
homestead, they gazed helplessly at the speaker. Slowly and with the
stiffness of age Jacob sat down on the steps below them and looked up
at their startled faces with a twinkle in his dim old eyes. His
enjoyment of the moment was intense.
"Why not?" he demanded, cajolingly and argumentatively. "Ain't yeh old
enough t' have a good time? Ain't yeh waited long enough? Ain't
yeh"--he turned directly to Maria--"bin nursin' yer poor mother fer six
years past an' wearin' yerself out, an' ain't yeh bin sewin' day an'
night fer three months, ever sence she died, t' git ready t' marry
Henry?" He drew a long breath of gratification over the respectful
silence which greeted these adroit points, and went on with hortatory
sympathy. "Yeh bin a good daughter, Maria. They ain't no better in
Clayton Centre. Yeh deserve th' best they is. Now be good t' yerself
an' Henry. Let him take yeh to New York an' give yeh a good time on the
weddin' tower."
Miss Tuttle blushed faintly. She was forty-five, and looked ten years
older. She was a tired, worn out, faded little woman, drained of her
youth and vitality by the hourly exactions of the fault-finding invalid
mother whom she had so recently laid away in the church-yard with
unselfish filial tears. But there was something attractive in the sweet
patience of her thin face, and the look in her brown eyes as she turned
them on her faithful middle-aged lover was one of the trump cards her
sex has played since Eve first used it as she accompanied Adam to the
gate out of paradise. In her embarrassment she laughed a little,
consciously.
"Mebbe Henry don't want to go," she began. "He ain't said nothing about
New York."
Henry whirled abruptly till he faced her on the rustic seat.
"Go! You bet I want to go!" he ejaculated, with fervor. "Don't I
just--you bet I do. Say, Maria"--he fumbled nervously with the thin
hand he still held in his own--"say, let's go."
Jacob West cackled delightedly. "That's the talk!" he cried, his thin,
high tones taking on a shriller note in his excitement. "You jest do
it, Henry! You make her! Neither of yeh'll be sorry, I swan!"
They sat silent, reflecting, and the old fellow rose slowly and
painfully, instinctive delicacy telling him that, having done his part,
it behooved him to leave them alone to solve for themselves the
question he had raised. It was hard to go, but he went, chuckling
reminiscently as he recalled the excited look on their faces and
pictured the lively debate which would follow his departure.
It was a warm October evening, and the little village lay silent under
the early stars. A light wind sang a droning lullaby in the grove of
pines back of the Tuttle home, and a few belated birds twittered
sleepily in near-by trees. Unconsciously Maria voiced the subtle charm
of the hour when she spoke.
"I dunno, Henry," she said, lingeringly--"I dunno's I feel to go. Seems
like we ought to be content to stay right here, where it's so quiet an'
restful."
Her eyes roamed lovingly down the garden paths, lingering on trees and
shrubs planted by Tuttle hands now a part of earth themselves. "I'm so
glad you're comin' here," she sighed, happily. "I don't b'lieve you
know yet how glad I am, Henry--not t' leave the old place."
He waived the discussion of this side interest, already settled between
them.
"It'll be jest as nice when we come back from New York," he argued,
logically, "an' jest as quiet."
The feminine intellect beside him took another tack on the sea of
uncertainty with which old Jacob had surrounded it.
"Mebbe we can't afford it," she hazarded. "Prices is very high in New
York, Henry. Joseph Hadley's daughter went there four years ago with
her aunt, and she told me with her own lips they had to pay a dollar a
day for their room at the hotel, without no meals. The hotel man wanted
seventy-five cents apiece for dinner, so they paid it once a day an'
the rest of the time they went into lunch-rooms an' had milk an'
crackers. But with one dollar for the room, and another dollar 'n' a
half for dinner, an' the crackers an' milk besides, they spent 'most
twenty dollars the very first week. They had to come right straight
home, 'n' they'd meant to stay two weeks."
Henry Smith's strong jaw set rather obstinately.
"I guess we won't have to come home till we git ready," he remarked,
easily, "an' I guess we'll git our three meals a day, too. I don't see
myself eatin' no milk an' crackers, nor you, neither. I guess I 'ain't
bin savin' all these years, with a good carpenter business, without
gittin' somethin' ahead. Say, 'Ria"--it was he who blushed now, his
round face close to hers--"yeh can have anything yeh want. I'm that
glad t' git yeh at last, I'd spend all I have!"
Her thin hand responded for an instant to the pressure of his and then
coyly withdrew itself. She had few words at any time and none in
moments of emotion, but he knew her and was satisfied.
"You've bin so good, Henry," she said, at last; "you've bin awful
patient all these years. Fur's I'm concerned, I'd as lief stay here's
anywhere, but if you want to go t' New York, I--I--want to do what yeh
say."
"Then we'll go," he said, quietly; and the great question was settled.
When Mr. and Mrs. Henry Smith arrived in New York on the evening of
their wedding-day, it is doubtful which of them was the more dazed and
frightened by the bustle and confusion at the Grand Central station.
Maria had at least the support of her husband's nearness to sustain
her, and the comparative peace of mind of the one who, though facing
untoward conditions, is without personal responsibility; but Henry
experienced, in addition to his self-distrust, a sickening fear of
failure in her presence. He was conscious of two dominant thoughts.
Whatever happened, he must take care of his wife and spurn the advances
of agreeable strangers. Also he and she must be transported by hack to
the hotel they had chosen, without parting with the savings of years
for the ride. He had heard of the extortions of cabmen. He bargained
fiercely with a too-zealous independent who had already grasped his
hand-bag and was leading the way to his cab, past the more inexpensive
cabs supplied by the railroad company.
"You don't git one cent more'n two dollars for taking us, I can tell
you that," announced Henry Smith, firmly but breathlessly, as he
climbed clumsily into the cab after his wife. The hotel was in the
fifties, and the cabman had intended to charge a dollar for the ride.
He promptly protested against Mr. Smith's offer, however, inquiring
anxiously if the gentleman wished an honest cabman's family to go
supperless to bed. It appeared that the gentleman was indifferent to
the fate of the cabman's family.
"You'll do it for two dollars or you'll let us git out," was his final
word. As one overcome by superior force, the cabman yielded, climbed
sulkily to his perch, and, bestowing a large, comprehensive wink upon
the by-standers, started for the hotel his fare had indicated. Mr.
Smith's spirits rose. Obviously, in this triumph he had demonstrated
his fitness to cope with all the other grinding monopolies of New York.
He smiled proudly at his wife as they drove toward Broadway, and his
confidence grew as he discovered that he recognized the Times Building
at the first glance and could also recognize the Hotel Astor by its
resemblance to the picture of it in the Clayton Centre Weekly. At one
point in their progress up-town the cab was caught in a crush of
vehicles and Mrs. Henry Smith was privileged, for the first time in her
life, to listen to the untrammelled conversation of New York cabmen on
an occasion when they set their moral shoulders against congested
traffic, knowing that it helps THEM, at all events. She shuddered and
clung to Henry's arm. It was all too plain that they were in the vortex
of godlessness, but even as the realization of this was borne to her on
the winged speech of the driver, Mrs. Smith was conscious of an inward
thrill. It was awful, but it was life--not life as lived in Clayton
Centre, but certainly a life that already gained in excitement and
interest from that fact. Unconsciously craning her thin neck farther
out of the cab window, she drank in with a fearful joy the roar and
excitement of Broadway, the shouts of drivers, the clang of
trolley-cars. Her faded eyes gleamed as she saw the brilliant lights of
the great thoroughfare whose illuminated signs met her glance at every
turn.
Arrived at the hotel, the cabman accepted the two dollars, dumped the
bride's trunk on the sidewalk, and drove off with an alacrity designed
to prevent any further discussion of rates. Mr. Smith surrendered his
hand-bag to the bell-boy who was reaching out impatient hands for it,
grasped his wife's arm, and, following his small guide, walked firmly
into the presence of the hotel clerk. It was a trying moment for him as
he dragged that aloof personality down to his level, but details were
arranged with surprising ease, barring so strange a lack of sympathy.
As soon as he had expressed his few and simple wishes he found himself
and his wife being guided to a lift, and with wonderful simplicity put
in possession of a comfortable room on the third floor. Here the shades
were drawn down, a pitcher of ice-water was hospitably placed on the
stand, and a cheery fire was started on the small hearth. Over this
last extravagance the bride faintly demurred, but Henry silenced her
with his simple grandeur of insistence. It was a cool November evening,
and he had noticed that she shivered in her thin wrap as they drove
up-town.
"I jest intend makin' yeh comfortable," he announced, masterfully.
It was something of an ordeal to go down to dinner half an hour later,
but they met it bravely, walking stiffly into the crowded dining-room,
and looking to neither the right nor the left as they followed the
headwaiter to their places. The discovery that they had exclusive
possession of a small table was a matter of joyful surprise to them
both, on which they freely commented. The daintiness of the linen, the
gleam of silver, the perfection of the service, and the soft glow of
candles under silk shades, filled their simple country souls with awe.
It suggested unconjectured expense with a tang of wickedness as well.
Off in an alcove, screened by palms, an orchestra played with
considerate softness. Mr. Smith smiled a large, expansive smile and
leaned back in his chair. The moment was perfect. His apprehensions
were over for the time. Maria was with him, she was his, and he was
giving her all this. Could an Astor or a Vanderbilt offer more to the
woman of his heart? Henry Smith looked at the plush and gilding about
him, and read his answer.
He experienced a rude awakening. A silent waiter stood beside him,
offering for his inspection an elaborate menu. The letters danced
before his eyes as Henry looked at them. What did they mean, anyhow,
and how did one pick out what one wanted, he wondered. Or, perchance,
was one expected gracefully to consume everything? His momentary
self-sufficiency died on the instant, and sickening fears of making a
mistake before Maria's eyes again overcame him. A great longing filled
him to appear to advantage, to do the thing properly, whatever it was.
On a sudden inspiration he leaned toward the waiter.
"Say," he said, confidentially, "you jest bring us two good
dinners--the best of everything you've got--and I'll make it all right
with yeh." He surveyed the waiter's face anxiously as he spoke, his own
clearing as it remained quietly respectful.
"Very well, sir; certainly, sir," said the servant, promptly. "Oysters
first, sir, I suppose, and a little green-turtle soup; a bit of fish,
perhaps--we've some very nice sole in to-day, sir; a bird--the
partridge and grouse are excellent, sir; a salad, and an ice. Any wine,
sir? No, sir? Yes, sir." He was gone, and Mr. Smith wiped his
perspiring brow. Maria was gazing at him with simple love and trust.
"I declare, Henry," she murmured, "you do it all just 's if you'd be'n
doin' it every day of your life. Where'd you learn?"
Mr. Smith made a vague gesture repudiating the charge, but his face
shone and he sat straighter in his chair. He dared not boast, for he
knew there were crucial moments coming, but so far there had been no
catastrophes and his courage grew with each achievement. When Maria
looked doubtfully at her oysters, and, joyfully recognizing them,
wondered audibly why they were not made into a stew instead of being
presented in this semi-nude condition, he was able, after a piercing
glance at near-by tables, to set her right with easy authority.
"They eat 'em this way in New York," he said, swallowing one himself
and endeavoring, with indifferent success, to look as if he liked it.
Maria followed his example, rather gingerly and not as one who ventures
on a new joy. Her interest remained equally vague when the soup and
fish successively appeared. When the partridge was served, however,
with bread sauce and French pease and currant jelly, the gratifying
experience of finally "having something really on the plate" moved her
to alert appreciation, and she proceeded to eat her dinner with an
expression of artless and whole-souled relief. She was able to point
out to Henry, as a bit of prandial small-talk, that the orchestra was
playing "Nancy Brown"--a classic ditty whose notes had reached even
Clayton Centre. It was at this stimulating point of the dinner, also,
that she felt privileged for the first time to remove her gloves,
glance at the other tables and the clothes of the women, and talk
freely to her husband. Hitherto she had "conversed" under pressure.
The waiter, offering her a second helping of jelly, saw, shining in her
hair, several grains of rice. The discovery exhilarated but did not
surprise him. His mien was one of fatherly interest five minutes later
as he presented a small bottle for Mr. Smith's inspection.
"Champagne, sir," he murmured. "Not too dry for the lady's taste, sir.
Thought you'd like a glass--special occasion, sir--"
His eloquence died away under the startled look in the bride's eyes,
but the groom met his happy suggestion with warm approval.
"Jest the thing," he said, heartily. "It'll do you good, Maria. Doctors
give it when people ain't well, so you can take it 'thout any fear. 'N'
I guess you're feelin' pretty well, ain't you?" he grinned, broadly,
over this flash of humor.
He motioned to the waiter to fill her glass, and that worthy did so and
retired behind her to give his courteous attention to the effect.
They drank their champagne, and a faint color came to Maria's pale
cheeks. It was really a nice place, this hotel, she decided, and the
furnishing of this room was such as palaces might cope with in vain.
She had heard of their glories; now she could guess what those glories
were. The voices of other guests chatting around her mingled with the
music; Clayton Centre seemed very remote. At last she was seeing life.
She felt no embarrassment as they left the table. They strolled slowly
down the dining-room and out into the palm-lined corridor on whose
plush chairs handsome men and beautifully dressed women sat and chatted
with surprising volubility and ease. Intrepidly the newcomers seated
themselves side by side where they could listen to the music and watch
the strange beings in this strange world. They were out of it all, and
even in the exhilaration of the moment they knew it; but their
aloofness from others added to the charm of the evening by drawing them
closer together. They gloried in the joint occupation of their little
island of happiness. For a long time they sat there, for Maria could
not be torn away. The music, the costumes and beauty of the women, the
delicate perfumes, the frequent ringing of bells, the hurrying back and
forth of bell-boys and hotel servants, were indescribably fascinating
to her.
The next morning Mr. Smith, sternly recalling himself to the material
side of life, had a brief but pregnant chat with the clerk. He and his
wife wished to stay a few days at the hotel, he intimated, but it would
be advisable, before making their plans, to go somewhat into the
question of expense. How much, for instance, was their dinner last
night. He had signed a check, but his memory was hazy as to the amount.
His brain reeled when the clerk, having looked it up, gave him the
figures--$10.85.
"Good Lord!" gasped Mr. Henry Smith. "I guess we'd better go back
to-day ef it's goin' to be THAT much!"
He was too limp mentally to follow for a time the clerks remarks, but
light gradually broke upon him. He could henceforth take table d'hote
meals, paying sixty cents each for breakfast and luncheon for himself
and his wife, and one dollar each for their dinner. That would be only
four dollars and forty cents a day for all meals--and would make the
hotel bills much less than if one ordered by card, unless one
was--er--familiar with the prices. It was much less trouble, too. Mr.
Smith grasped the point and expansively shook the clerk's hand. His
relief was so great that he urged that youth to have a cigar, and the
youth in return volunteered information as to points of interest to
strangers in New York.
"Better do the town to-day," he suggested. "Just go round and get a
general view--Broadway, Fifth Avenue, the shops, and all that. Then
to-night you'd better go to the play. I think you'd enjoy 'The White
Cat' as much as anything."
Armed with definite information as to the most direct route to
Broadway, Mr. Smith sought his bride. He found her in the corridor,
watching the people come and go, her thin face flushed and animated.
"Oh, Henry," she cried, eagerly, "I declare I'm having the most
interestin' time! Those folks over there--you know, the ones that has
the room next to ours--ain't spoke to each other sence breakfast. Do
you think they've quarrelled, the poor dears?"
He gave but perfunctory attention to "the poor dears," his duties as
prospective cicerone filling his thoughts. Maria's face fell as he
outlined their plans for the day.
"Well, if you feel to go, Henry," she said, doubtfully, "but it's SO
interestin' here. I feel 's if I knew all these folks. I wish we could
stay here this mornin', anyhow, 'n' not git out in those dreadful
crowded streets jest yet."
He sat down beside her with a promptness which evoked a startled shriek
from an absorbed young person reading near them.
"Then we'll stay right here," he announced, kindly. "We're here, 'Ria,
to do jest what you want, an' we're goin' to do it."
She gave him an adoring look, and under its radiance Mr. Smith promptly
forgot the small claims of Broadway. Siberia with Maria in it would
have blossomed like the rose for Henry Smith, and the wide, cheerful
corridors of the Berkeley were far removed from Siberia's atmosphere.
Side by side and blissfully happy, they whiled the morning hours away.
After luncheon Henry again tentatively touched on sight-seeing.
"'Tain't far," he said. He consulted the slip of directions the clerk
had given him, and went on expansively, "We take the cross-town line at
Fifty-ninth Street, transfer to a Broadway car--"
Maria shivered. "My, Henry," she quavered, "that sounds dreadful mixed.
I'm afraid we'll get lost."
Henry's own soul was full of dark forebodings, and he inwardly welcomed
the respite her words gave him.
"Well, then, don't let's go," he said, easily, "till to-morrow, anyhow.
We got plenty o' time. We'll stay here, an' to-night we'll go to see a
play."