twins clinging frantically to the fence through which they were poking
grass and leaves, “the young need young company, and it can do no harm
for them to prattle with the fence between, and though the people yonder
are no better than gypsies, their lingo goes for naught, for Albert and
Victoria can only make out English words.
“Do they understand? Most surely do they, Mrs. Evan; they know their
names, and come crawling up quick when they see me fixing their bread
and milk, bless their hearts!”
Yet I could not be deceived; Martha’s tones were those of duty oft
rehearsed rather than affection. I’ve seen her, days gone by, cuddle and
kiss my babies until the rose in her Sunday cap threatened to drop its
petals with trembling; but if she ever kissed the twins, it must have
been always in private.
Conversation languished these days, and while I was endeavouring to
manufacture some, both twins began to scream, while Albert, letting go
the fence, rolled into the grass, purple in the face and evidently
choking.
Hurrying over, I seized Victoria, while Martha picked up the choking
brother, running her finger inside his mouth to dislodge whatever he had
tried to swallow.
Victoria was clutching part of a Frankfort sausage which she licked
eagerly between her sobs, and, as far as we could learn from the enemy
across the fence, who had contributed the dainty, Albert had snatched a
piece of it, and by sucking, biting, and bolting, made way with it at
the risk of strangling. Surely _he_ would be sick, and I coaxed father
to go up after supper in case he was needed. On his return he reported
that the boy was sleeping normally, curled up _under his bed_, Martha
confessing that it was well-nigh impossible to keep either child _in_ a
bed unless pinned down by blankets, which are rather unseasonable.
It certainly would be interesting from a psychological standpoint to
know the origin of these waifs, and how and where they have slept, that
they should show preferences so decidedly.
_The 22d._ It has been a very uncomfortable week at the chicken farm, I
take it. The heat has been of the quality that makes breathing like
inhaling the steam of a wash-boiler.
The twins are presumably teething, and Timothy, I find, mostly comes to
our house for a quiet supper with niece Effie and our sympathetic cook,
who was overheard condoling with him upon the discomfort the twins and
Martha’s whim had brought upon those who were of the age to be
grandparents, with their family housework, so to speak, done.
_The 24th._ Effie informs me that Aunt Martha has stopped baking bread,
and takes it in from the baker. Timothy, accustomed to whittling wedges
from his wife’s durable cottage loaves, supplementing the same with
either butter or cheese, did not realize the flimsy quality of the
substitute until his knife slipped through the compressible sponge and
yesterday gashed his finger deeply.
_The 26th._ Martha sent down this morning to ask father if there is any
_safe_ kind of soothing syrup that she could give the twins to make them
sleep at night. I went up early in the evening to see if they had fever,
and take father’s answer, which was to the effect that all such drugs
are pernicious, and that all teething children are fretful in the month
of August. They had no fever, but were healthy and normally cross and
uncomfortable. So was Martha.
Finally quiet fell upon the two small beds, and Martha came out upon the
porch and sank heavily into the rocker. The glow of Timothy’s pipe was
missing from the corner where it had blinked and winked in pleasant
weather for so many years. The hounds, having been banished from their
lounging place because they might hurt the twins, foregathered with
Timothy in the open doorway of the carriage house, in plain sight,
through a gap in the trees. Presently Effie joined her uncle, and then
the cook appeared, carrying something in a pitcher, doubtless a
delectable mixture of iced lemonade and ginger-ale. A garden bench was
pressed into service, and soon the cook’s concertina chirped out “Comin’
thro’ the Rye,” and Timothy’s cracked laugh could be heard above it.
Martha sat bolt upright for a moment (it seems to me that it is very
irritating to her that all opposition has ceased concerning her venture,
excitement died away, and that we all treat the matter as nothing
unusual); then she suddenly relaxed, saying irrelevantly, “Bairns were
easier raised when I was a gell, Mrs. Evan, else my sister Bell, the
mother of eleven living and three not complete, wouldn’t be now turning
sixty-three and mistress of the Blue Bell out Cheltenham way.
“Of course, some do give more trouble than others; likewise Timothy’s
niece, Jane Fergus, Effie’s sister, has only six, and yet is always
droopy. Timothy’s wanting to send her money presents constant to help
along, but its naught but bad management, say I. She couldn’t manage
three, so what sense of six?”
“Perhaps she dreads race suicide as you do,” I said, and was sorry the
minute after, poor Martha looked so weary, and the concertina had ceased
to chirp and had swung into “John Anderson,” which either by chance or
diabolic intent on the part of the cook, changed in turn into “Home,
Sweet Home.”
_The 28th._ To-day I invited Martha to take a drive, as she wished to
buy the twins a carriage; at the same time I sent Effie up to tend them.
I don’t know what there is about those children, but strong and healthy
as they are, they do not seem young, but like the changelings in fairy
stories. There is usually something attractive about youngsters, and
I’ve seen even the most adorable little darkies, but to this rule Albert
and Victoria are certainly exceptions.
As we neared Bridgeton I said, for the sake of breaking the silence,
“Will you buy a go-cart or a little coach? The go-cart is cool for this
season, but of course the coach will be more useful this winter.”
“This winter? Some of us may be gone before winter, Mrs. Evan, and no
disrespect intended.”
“Why, Martha, are you feeling ill?” I cried, declining to be included in
the gloomy prediction.
“I’m not to say well, Mrs. Evan.”
“Where is it and what? Rheumatism?”
“Not so friendly as rheumatism, Mrs. Evan; it’s fulness and emptiness in
spots, the one being in the chest and the other of the head. My mother
had it in the other way, the head full, and died of a stroke.”
“If you feel ill, we will leave Bridgeton and shopping alone and go for
a sniff of the sea,” I said, turning shoreward; “the old toy cart of the
boys will serve for the present;” and Martha made no sign of protest.
_August 30._ Yesterday, Martha’s sense of the duties of citizenship had
a chance to exhibit itself and hear all the praise that her heart could
desire. Dressed in her best, and the twins wearing new white dresses and
white hats with a pink and blue bow respectively, she took them to the
Sunday-school picnic given by Effie’s church, over which a minister of
the Severely Protestant type presided. Timothy did _not_ go, be it said!
If Martha had plotted and planned a sensation, her success could not
have been greater, and for a few hours her spirit soared. Albert and
Victoria were handed from one to another, and fortunately did not cry,
but treated the matter as something to which they were quite accustomed.
(Effie told me with horror, that in their rounds they were fed
everything, from candy to lemonade and pickles, and I believe her.)
To cap the climax, the Severely Protestant made a little speech,
praising “our sister Saunders’ sense of duty in the preservation of two
such interesting members of the English-speaking race, so often too
lightly crowded out by foreign hordes; we, who through selfishness
sometimes take the children nature forces upon us unwillingly, should
bow before one who, exempt by age, volunteers in the cause of
patriotism.” Scattering applause!
_August 31._ Again it is the unexpected that happens! This afternoon, as
father and I were chatting in the cool depths of the Garden House
concerning the adoption papers about which the town clerk was to call on
the morrow, noise of a hubbub was borne on the breeze from the vicinity
of the chicken farm.
As we listened, sounds separated themselves, children screaming and the
piercing voice of a woman shouting being the chief.
“Something is the matter at Martha’s,” I cried, running through the side
gate, father quickly following. Forced to go more slowly up the steep
bank, I took in at a glance the group gathered by the porch before I
reached them. A short, thick-set woman with dark hair and a flat face
was screaming and wringing her hands and embracing the twins
alternately. A yellow-haired man with vivid colouring and a pronounced,
drooping beak was gesticulating and waving his hands in the air. Mr.
Potowski from next door was also gesticulating and trying to explain
something to Timothy Saunders, who had him by the collar and was shaking
his fist within a thread of his nose, also beaked and drooping. Mrs.
Potowski was endeavouring to loosen Timothy’s hold, her entire family
jabbering in chorus from the other side of the fence. While on the stoop
itself, apron over her head, shaken both with sobbing and the jerky
motion of the patent rocking-chair, sat Martha.
Father’s face was stern, indeed, when he reached them.
“Stop this noise instantly, every one of you!” he commanded. “I’ll not
have such disgraceful doings on my property.”
The vociferous men and women began to cringe and protest.
“Now, Timothy, tell me what all this means as briefly as you can.”
“Weel, Dochtor, as I make it out, those two came pushin’ in, and claimed
Albert and Victoria for their bairns. They’ve lately come from overseas,
a month since, they claim, and being held sick in the ship’s hospital,
sent on the bairns to his brother, being Potowski there, for safe
keeping, but whoever undertook to find _him_ left them at the wrang
hoose! To-day the man and woman got freedom, and comin’ on and not
findin’ their bairns, took on like crazy ones, till Potowski here pieced
twa and twa together and fetched them o’er here!”
“What does he say?” asked father of me, as Potowski began to bow to the
ground and gabble in broken yet understandable English.
“He says that if the good grandmother there would like to keep the
children, he does not doubt his sister would let her, if she would give
money to bring over two more of the six that remain in Poland!” I
stammered, my breath fairly leaving me as I realized that Albert and
Victoria, with the English complexions and Guelph noses, who were
developing either the speech of York or Lancaster, were in reality
little Polish Jews! doubtless set within the Saunders’ window to save
the Potowskis a month’s care of them.
At the same moment the truth flashed through father’s brain.
“Get out, every one of you, before I get the constable to arrest you for
fraud!” he shouted in tones wholly new to him; recovering himself and
turning on the Potowskis, “I could make you pay this kind woman here for
a month’s board for the youngsters, together with several other things,”
he added threateningly, as they did not seem any too willing to go.
“I’d not like to go that far,” whispered Timothy, pulling at father’s
coat sleeve; “the bairns hae served their uses, and earned their keep,
I’m thinkin’.”
But at threat of the law the women, the most aggressive of the quartet,
seized the children and scuttled out of the yard like so many rabbits,
fearing lest Martha should remove the new frocks they wore, the men
slinking along close to heel.
Then Timothy released a long breath like escaping steam and said that he
must go to the milking, adding, “An’, Dochtor, will you see if you can
do aught for the woman? She’s sadly fashed by all this business.”
As he passed Martha, Timothy tried to pull the apron from her face, but
she held it only the tighter, whispering, “If ever again ye wish to send
a money gift to Jennie Fergus, I’m more than willing, the poor young
woman.”
“Martha,” said father, when everything was still once more, “I wish that
you would go to bed and take a good sleep, and I will send Effie up to
set the house straight.”
“I couldn’t sleep the week gone,” she sobbed, yet trying to control
herself; “my head’s that empty it reels when I lay me down, and now
thinking of the disrespect I’ve put upon our Queen, lays double weight
on my chest, and no disrespect was intended.”
“Never mind; go and lie down and tell Timothy to come to me for some
medicine before he has supper,” said father, the end of his nose
twitching queerly, as it does when he is much amused and doesn’t wish to
show it. Martha obeyed.
“Take everything belonging to those children and stow it in the barn
loft; straighten up the house, make your aunt a good cup of tea, but
don’t talk to her,” he cautioned Effie.
* * * * *
“And what physic is it, Dochtor?” queried cautious Sandy, as father
counted eight small white tablets into one paper, and a tablespoonful of
white crystals into another, writing the directions on each.
“It’s calomel, two grains in quarters, Timothy, and the other is
Rochelle salts; it is a cure for several kinds of distemper, and we
two’ll not forget to give it to Martha every year towards the last part
of July!”
Then a twinkle that had been struggling in the corner of Timothy’s
least-open eye broke loose and turned into an unmistakable wink.
“Timothy,” said father, trying to look stern, “did you suspect the trick
that was being played on Martha?”
“I didna suspicion—I _kenned_; Potowski bought a bag o’ biscuit like
them the bairns had, the night before at the village store! But Dochtor,
_mon_, ye’ll never breathe the thought,” he cried, clutching father’s
hand like a vice in his alarm. “The woman’s too much to me to risk she’d
turn against me, though it’s not best she knows it.”
“Timothy, you sly old sinner,” replied father, closing on the gnarled
hand, “I will consider both these bits of information as professional
secrets!”
The grip was returned, and looking first in father’s face, then towards
his home, where quiet now reigned, and above which hung a slip of a
moon, August’s gift to September, he said solemnly, “Dochtor, if the
gude Lord had na been a mon, what _wad_ hae become o’ the warld!”
-----
[1] Victoria.
IX
GROUNDSEL-TREE
=SEPTEMBER=—THE MOON OF FALLING LEAVES
The summer that old Madam Hale died had been followed by a swift autumn.
Frost trod so closely upon the heels of the last thunder shower that the
samphire glowed red in the marshes, while there was yet aftermath of
clover in the uplands, and shy groundsel-tree garnished her plain summer
garb with white feathers, before blue gentian had opened her fringed
lids wide enough to show the colour of her eyes.
Unusual as the season was, it received scant attention from people of
Westover Heights, so absorbed were they in the question of “What will
become of John Hale?”
The Hales belonged to one of the old county families, and, in fact, a
decided type, known as the Hale nose, a cross between Roman and
aquiline, might be traced the length and breadth of the state and well
across its western border, while a corresponding mental strength had
marked both the men and women; Judge Hale, Madam Hale’s husband, having
been both a judge and a national legislator. But, like many another
American family, prominent in the last century, the line direct had
dwindled to John Hale, the only living child of the judge, and John, in
his fifty-eighth year, was only now beginning his life as an independent
being.
To any one born and bred outside of a certain circle and unacquainted
with the intricate weave of the social fabric of certain conservative
New England towns, such a condition is inconceivable. No one would have
denied the possibility of such a happening more decidedly than John Hale
himself when he graduated from college with distinct literary honours,
and set out upon a year of travel, before taking a congenial position
offered him by his alma mater.
It was during this year of absolute freedom that John Hale formed the
only decided opinions that he ever seemed destined to be allowed, the
most conclusive of these being that Jane Mostyn was the only woman with
whom he could imagine wishing to spend his life.
Miss Mostyn was likewise making a sort of post-graduate tour, but not
alone, for her father, a fussy, rather than nervous, invalid, was her
companion. His invalidism was of the intermittent type that appeared
when his daughter’s plans in any way crossed his own, but was otherwise
held in abeyance; and most people readily conceded that he was a
charming man, for he could discuss many topics without affectation, and
without posing as a pedant, was extremely well read. His regarding his
daughter as an absolute possession who should exist for his happiness
alone was his chief eccentricity.
One of the strangest things about the acquaintance of the young people
was that it began in Venice, when they had been born and brought up
practically in the same New England township. The reasons that had
militated against their previously having more than a passing glimpse of
one another were the aggressively different political affiliations of
the fathers, while Madam Hale knew that the Judge had been refused in
early life by the girl who afterward became Jane Mostyn’s mother, and so
strange was her form of tribal fealty that she regarded this refusal as
not only a slight to her husband, but as a species of criticism upon her
own choice, though she did not marry the Judge until ten years after.
Mrs. Mostyn had died when Jane was about twenty, and at the time when
John Hale met her, she was in every possible way trying to draw her
father’s mind from his loss.
Usually if Mr. Mostyn stayed indoors, Jane did likewise, but one fateful
morning the sea shimmered too alluringly under their window, and being
attracted by the singing of a gondolier, she determined to brave
conventions and go out, only to find the particular gondola was already
occupied, and by a man. Hesitating, but only for a moment, for Jane
Mostyn seldom hesitated, and usually compassed her ends (not connected
with her father) by cheerfully assuming that there would be no
opposition, she said to the man, who was looking at her with an
expression half reminiscent, half questioning, and taking it for granted
that he was either English or an American: “I do not speak Italian;
would you kindly direct your man to return here to the hotel for me when
you are through with him? I’ve taken a fancy both to his craft and to
his voice;” at the same time writing her name in vigorous characters on
one of the cards of the hotel, she held it towards him. A glance at the
card, and the puzzled expression turned to one of pleased recognition.
John Hale had not spoken to Miss Mostyn more than twice since she tucked
up her hair, lengthened her skirts, and went to boarding-school, yet
suddenly to talk with her at close range, as she stood there with glints
of red setting off her deep blue gown and clear olive skin, seemed the
most desirable occupation in the world. Motioning the man to push close
to the landing, Hale sprang out of the gondola, and hat in one hand, the
other holding the card, he said, “Do you chance to remember Johnny Hale
at whom you used to jeer because his mother would not let him coast down
the hill that crossed the railroad track at Westover Village?”
Miss Mostyn coloured as red as the cap that topped her black hair, and
then extended both hands, the gesture brought about wholly by the
impulse to be at once on friendly terms with a home face in a strange
land, no matter how slight the previous footing.
“Why not come out at once and enjoy the morning freshness? One can never
tell what sort of an afternoon may follow,” Hale said eagerly.
“There is only one obstacle, this country requires a chaperon; where
shall we get her? My father is out of the running to-day. Does your
mother chance to be with you? No? Can you suggest any compatriot who may
be staying at your hotel? We are the only Americans at ours.”
“No,—yes,” corrected Hale, while a mischievous smile flitted over his
usually serious face, “Mrs. Atwood from Westover is here, travelling
with an assorted party. I presume that she knows us both, and the poor
soul is so homesick that she will hail the opportunity as a perfect
godsend.”
“What, the wife of ‘B. Atwood, Leading Grocer, We strive to please and
suit the taste of each customer’? Of course she will do as a chaperon,
but, considered as ballast, I am afraid we shall require an extra
gondolier.”
Hale laughed. “She has fallen away, as she expresses it; the change
having been wrought by rushed travel, indigestion, and several inadvised
cures of mineral waters. Here she comes now in that brown gondola with
blue curtains, and holding on for dear life as if she were with an
overloaded picnic party and some one was rocking the boat.”
Immediately recognizing the young people, Mrs. Atwood landed after
several frantic efforts, during which her Baedecker fell into the water
and floated off, looking like a fishing bobber of eccentric design.
“Let it go, Mr. Hale, let it go,” she panted, as he tried to follow and
rescue the book, “I’ll be a good deal better off without it; I can
remember what the courier tells us, but when I come to pick out the
places and match his stories to them, I get a headache over the nose,
such as I used to have when pa wanted me to go to high school, and I got
as far as algebra, and then balked flat. Go out with you? Certainly, if
you won’t be gone too long. Our party starts on at two; not but what I’d
much rather stay here in peace until they come back. Why don’t I? Why, I
should miss at least a half a dozen baggage labels for my suit case. I’m
collecting them for daughter Ida. We couldn’t both leave Mr. Atwood the
same season, so I’m making the trip, and Ida’s to have the suit case,
and I don’t know but what she’s got the best of the bargain.”
Thus, under cover of harmless prattle that did away with the necessity
of other conversation, they pushed off, and when, presently, in a lull,
the gondolier took up his song again, gesture and sympathetic play of
expression and eyes filled the place of words between Miss Mostyn and
John Hale, so that in a single morning, under the spell of peace and
subtle, mutual appreciation, a friendship began and was cemented more
securely than would have been possible during months of conventional
intercourse.
From thenceforward until the end of the vacation year, while their paths
could not be made to run absolutely parallel, they were at least
continually crossing. Though totally unlike in temperament, each seemed
able to develop the best qualities in the other. Miss Mostyn, quick and
decisive in all things, lacked the very creative mental faculties that
she was able to foster in John Hale, while in his company certain rather
sharp edges in the young woman were smoothed away, and she became all
that was charming and womanly. So vital was her influence that it began
to be reflected almost at once in his work. The random sketches of
travel were dropped for serious work, and before his return he was
spoken of as a new man, who not only had something to say, something
vital to add to the comedy of humanity, but, moreover, did it well.
That the two were virtually engaged was a matter of course, and as there
were no financial reasons to make a delay necessary, Hale urged with
masculine directness, as her father was with her, that they be married
without fuss and feathers prior to their return.
To this Jane Mostyn would not consent, though at first she hesitated.
There were reasons why the home-coming would be trying enough to her
father; she could not leave him until he had at least in a measure
readjusted his life.
Surely, as it proved, there was plenty of time for everything but
marrying, for that magic hour of possibility passed out of the youth of
Jane Mostyn and Hale at almost the moment that they set foot on their
native soil. Before long, reasons for delay began to be entered on
Hale’s side of the ledger, springing from a too narrow idea of filial
devotion. Within a month of his return, just as he had entered upon his
new work, his father died, with only a few hours’ warning.