that, and nothing else. And she didn't like it. She almost asked me to
go, and though I knew it was to get me out of the way, I had to do it.
I wish you could have met Mrs. Hale in Chicago. She is the nicest,
quaintest woman. You saw her happy family? Well, she's so kind-hearted
that when her horses are out at grass, she has a big sunbonnet made for
each one. You would laugh to see them prancing about with their bonnets
flapping. And she stops cab horses in the street to give them sugar.
But after all, it's better for you to be here--with the Trowbridges."
"Mr. Brett has been a saint to me," said I.
Sally smiled her three-cornered smile.
"I think from what you tell me of some of the things you've said to
him, and some of the things which have happened, that he _has_ been a
saint--more of a saint than you know."
"You mean I've tried his temper?" I asked anxiously.
"Not exactly his temper. But never mind. I'll talk to you about myself
now."
So she did. And it seems that this invalid widow, Mrs. Randal, whom
she's come to nurse, is the mother of the man she told me about in the
Park--the man who turned monk because he loved her, and thought she
didn't care.
"I come once or twice a year, even when she's well," said Sally, with
the soft voice and eyes which she has for this one subject of all in
the world. "It's the best of the few pleasures I have, to be with her
and--talk of him; of him when he was a little boy; of him when he was a
young man, happy in the thought of the future--not knowing what was to
come. I found this little place for her, years ago now. She wasn't
happy in Kentucky, for there were relatives there who were not
congenial, and used to say things--of her son's religion--which
distressed her. But she is old now, and very delicate. She knows I
would never forgive her if she didn't have her little maid telegraph
for me when she is suffering. I always come at once, and would, no
matter where I was. You see, I've no mother of my own; and she is _his_
mother; it's almost the same as if she were mine. But don't look so
sad, dear. I'm not sad. She's going to get well. We've been glancing
over old photographs of his this evening. She has quite forgiven me for
the past."
"I should think so!" I couldn't help exclaiming. "You were the one who
suffered most."
"Not more than his mother, child! But she's old, as I said, and thank
heaven I'm beginning to grow old, too. Each day is one less before we
meet--he and I. That's what I'm looking forward to now, and I'm not a
bit sad, so kiss me, and tell me just what you think of those dear
things, the Trowbridges."
Going home, Mr. Brett and I walked along the road until we'd passed the
cow meadow; then we took to the short cuts again. A lovely blue
darkness was just touched with the faint radiance of a new moon, as if
the lid of a box had snapped shut on the sun; and the moment the light
was gone, the fields lit up with thousands and thousands of tiny,
pulsing, flitting sparks.
"What _is_ it?" I asked, astonished.
"Fireflies," said he. "Did you never see any before?"
"Never. How wonderful. They are the most exquisite, magical little
things!"
"Then I'm glad you're seeing them for the first time with me," he said.
I stopped, and made him stop, to look at the enchanted rain of tiny
lights. We stood in a billowy meadow, with the pale gray-green of the
stacked oats dimly silvered by the baby moon, that was hurrying down
the west after the sun. The bundles of grain made pointed, gothic
arches, and through these, back and forth, in and out, threaded the
fireflies, like fairies with lanterns searching for lost members of
their band.
What a pity they never come to England to search!
When we got home the stars were pricking out in the sky, and Patty and
Ide were down by the gate, counting them. It seems, if you can count
seven stars for seven nights, then the first man who touches your hand
afterwards you're bound to marry. I counted my first seven, and I do
hope it won't rain for a week.
Although I had been so longing for tea, I hadn't been hungry, and had
scarcely eaten anything when we had it. Now, I was beginning to be
starved. We all sat on the verandah, and Mr. Trowbridge told us things
about astronomy, in which he seems as learned as in everything else.
By-and-by it was ten o'clock, and Mrs. Trowbridge asked if I weren't
tired, and wouldn't like to go to bed. Then I knew the worst. There
wasn't going to be any supper.
We all bade each other good-night.
"What time is breakfast?" I asked Mrs. Trowbridge, expecting something
abnormal in the way of earliness, but my eyes did open when she said
half-past six.
"You don't need to get up unless you want," she went on. "Patty or Ide
will carry you up something."
I wouldn't hear of that, though. I said I would prefer to do what
everybody else did, and I saw that this pleased Mr. Trowbridge, who had
perhaps feared I would show symptoms of the pampered aristocrat. But he
little knows what small pampering I get at home!
By-and-by I stood at my window, watching the fireflies and envying them
because they could get their own supper. Just then among the trees
there was a bigger, yellower light than their tiny lanterns. A faint
smell of good tobacco smoke came up.
"Lady Betty, is that you?" asked Mr. Brett's voice.
"Yes," I answered, pushing up the frame with the mosquito netting, and
leaning over the window sill.
"I've got something for you. Have you a box or basket you can let down
with string, if I toss a ball of it up to you?"
"There's a small waste-paper basket," I said, quite excited.
He tossed, and I caught--Stan taught me how, long ago. Then I made the
basket ready and sent it down.
"Now," he called after a minute. I hauled the basket up carefully.
"Good-night," said he. "There's a note in it, among other things. Now,
pull down your mosquito net, or you'll have trouble."
It was fun opening the basket. There were two chicken sandwiches in it,
in a napkin, a piece of jelly cake, a peach, and an ice-cold bottle of
milk.
The note was just a few lines scribbled with pencil on a sheet torn
from a memorandum book.
"I've been feeling wretchedly guilty about you," it began, "almost as
much of a brute as if you were some innocent, helpless creature I'd
killed, and buried under the leaves in the woods. No tea this
afternoon, and you an English girl! When they say 'tea' here they mean
the evening meal--the last one. I, like a beast, didn't notice that you
ate nothing; not that I wasn't thinking of you, for I was. I didn't
even have the sense to realise that you were being sent perishing to
bed. It was Patty who saw all, but was too shy to speak to you. This
humble offering is her thought. You shan't be starved after to-night.
There was a question of mine you didn't answer this afternoon. I've got
a grudge against that black and white steer."
I couldn't think what he meant at first. Then I remembered how he had
been asking my opinion about the love affairs of Mohunsleigh's
millionaire friend. I don't see, though, why he should care so much
what I think of them. It would be lots more interesting if he would ask
me questions about himself.
XVIII
ABOUT SOME COUNTRY FOLK, AND WALKER'S EMPORIUM
The day after I came to Valley Farm was one of the longest days of my
life. Not that it wasn't pleasant, for it was. But when you get up
before six, and finish breakfast at seven, it does give you a good many
hours to do what you like with.
I wasn't allowed to help Mrs. Trowbridge and the girls with their work;
Mr. Brett went off directly after breakfast with Mr. Trowbridge and the
two mysterious young men, to get in hay or do something useful and
farmy, so I sat in the maple grove with Vivace (who is a great
favourite in the household) and wrote down all my experiences since
Chicago. We had an enormous dinner at twelve, which made me feel very
odd, as I'm not used to it; but when we were called to "tea" I knew
better than I did yesterday what to expect.
Now, I've been a boarder at the Trowbridges' (I pay four dollars a
week, about as much, I suppose, as is spent on one person's food at
each meal at Mrs. Ess Kay's!) for eight days, and I'm perfectly happy.
I can't bear to think of the time coming when I must go home. It will
come, of course, for they will have to send for me whether they really
want me back or not, and then I will never see any of these dear people
again. Probably I shall never even see Mr. Brett. He says he must go
West again soon, that there are things which call him there. That will
be the end. I wish one didn't get to depend on other people so much. I
should like to be quite cold hearted, and not care for anyone; then it
wouldn't matter when you had to part. But there's no use in thinking
about horrid things just yet.
I've written home, of course. I wrote the day after I arrived. At
first, I felt I ought to cable; but if I did, they might send at once,
and on second thoughts I decided it wasn't necessary to go to the
expense. So I just wrote to Mother to say I couldn't stand it with Mrs.
Ess Kay on account of her brother, and I'd left suddenly to join Sally
Woodburn in the country, where I was boarding quite close to her. I
wrote to Mrs. Ess Kay, too, and said the same thing, asking her to
kindly send on my boxes. I didn't mention Mr. Brett, because she
wouldn't have remembered who he was, or if she did by any chance, she
would only disapprove of his daring to exist still, and perhaps write
or wire something rude.
She sent the boxes by what they call "express," but didn't answer my
letter, which rather astonished me, as I had thought she would scold,
and had dreaded it. But when I told Sally, she wasn't as much surprised
as I was. She knew already everything that happened after I ran away
from The Moorings, and told me all about it, which interested me a
great deal. Mrs. Ess Kay had written her some things, and Mrs. Pitchley
(whose maid is an intimate friend of Mrs. Ess Kay's Louise) had
supplied all the missing details.
It seems that the day after the Pink Ball Mrs. Ess Kay had one of her
headaches--and no wonder. Feeling very ill, she didn't take much
interest in me, and took it for granted when Louise said I wasn't out
of my room, that I wanted to sleep till luncheon.
Potter had been so furious that he thought to punish me for my sins by
sulking. Mrs. Ess Kay did not appear at luncheon, and Potter went out
somewhere. But when I didn't show myself, or even ring, the servants
began to think it odd, and spoke to Louise. She knocked at my door, and
when after rapping several times there was no answer, she opened it to
find the room empty, the bed smooth, my boxes packed, and all Mrs. Ess
Kay's presents to me spread out on a sofa.
By that time it was after two; and if only they had known, I was
leaving the Waldorf-Astoria to take the train for Chicago with Mr.
Brett.
Mrs. Ess Kay was so nervous with her headache and the reaction after
all her work in getting up the Great Affair, that when she was told I
was nowhere to be found, she had hysterics, and slapped Louise.
Potter was sent for to the Casino, and came home in a rage. They talked
things over, and made up their minds that I had either caught a ship
sailing for home, or else had gone to Chicago to join Sally. If it
hadn't been that they were afraid of a scandal coming out in some
horrid society paper, they would have applied to the police for help,
but as it was they didn't dare, and Potter said he could manage
everything himself.
A ship really had sailed that day, so as well as telegraphing to Sally,
Potter went to the offices, then to the docks, and made all sorts of
enquiries. From what he heard about some people who had engaged berths
at the last minute, he couldn't be quite sure I wasn't one of them,
having gone under an assumed name. To add to the trouble, no answer
came from Sally. Mrs. Hale, according to instructions, had opened the
telegram, and knowing something of the story from Sally, wasn't anxious
to relieve Mrs. Ess Kay's mind about me, in too much of a hurry.
Instead of having the message wired again, she enclosed it in an
envelope, and sent it on to Sally by post, so there was another delay;
and they knew nothing for certain until a letter from Sally and one
from me arrived at about the same time.
Sally's opinion was and is, that Mrs. Ess Kay has something up her
sleeve; that she won't write to me because she wants to show how hurt
and scandalised she is by my ungracious conduct, but that she has some
idea for getting even with me sooner or later. If she hadn't that to
keep her up, Sally thinks she couldn't have resisted answering my
letter with a tirade. Fortunately she can't claw me away from the
Trowbridges and make me marry Potter--even if he would have me now,
after all my badness--otherwise she would perhaps have tried to act at
once. And she can't have me put in prison on bread and water and
solitary confinement, as no doubt she would like to do. Still, I don't
feel quite easy in my mind about her silence, lest Sally may be right
about some disagreeable plan she's hatching. However, as long as Mr.
Brett is here, I feel as if he would contrive not to let anything very
dreadful happen to me.
I've found out everything about all the members of the family at Valley
Farm, now; and I've got acquainted with most of the neighbours. They
call them neighbours if they live anywhere within twelve or fifteen
miles, and a good many are related to each other, or connected by
marriage, while even those who are not have mostly known each other
ever since they were children; probably went to school together at a
funny little white-painted, wooden building on a hill, which is the
"district school." It must be rather fun to teach in it, because if
some American stories I've read since I came here are true to life, you
board first at one house and then another, giving good advice and
helping everyone; and all the young men in the country round about fall
in love with you. I thought, if Mother should be too angry with me for
refusing Potter Parker and running away, to let me come home again, I
might apply for such a situation; but it seems that nowadays you have
to know a great deal, and I should never be taken on, because,
unfortunately, I have to do the multiplication table on my fingers.
Mr. Trowbridge, although a farmer who works in his own fields, is an
"Honourable." I was surprised when I heard that, as I didn't suppose
people had titles in America. But he's a senator or something in his
own State, which is very important, so he is called Honourable
officially--and on letters, as one is at home if that's all one can
scrape up by way of a courtesy title.
The two young men who come in to eat with us, but are never seen about
the house at any other time, are "farm hands," though they are not
treated at all like servants, and Mr. Trowbridge lends them the newest
books and magazines (of which he has quantities) to read in the
evening.
One, whose name is Elisha, was in love with Patty, but she didn't care
for him, so he is very melancholy and won't talk at the table. But he
has cheered up a little lately, and has bought tall collars like Mr.
Brett's, instead of wearing turned-over ones which showed far down his
neck; and he has sent me flowers through Ide, several times. I tried to
thank him for the first ones, but he blushed so much that his forehead
got damp, and immediately afterwards he went away and hid for hours,
which kept him from his supper; so I thought it better to say nothing
about the next.
The other young man, Albert, is paying attention to Ide. Nobody knows
whether they are engaged yet, although they go to the apple orchard
regularly every evening and sit together in a boat swing which is
there, or if it rains they sit on the front porch, until quite late.
They don't seem to have much to say to each other, though, for one of
my windows is directly over that porch, but I never hear a sound--not
even a laugh. But it seems that in this part of the country it is the
thing for a girl and a young man to be left alone together as much as
possible while they are making up their minds whether or not they like
each other well enough to be engaged.
It is very strange about Patty and Ide. Though Patty is so quiet,
almost meek in her ways, and dresses so plainly, and is quite contented
to work in the hot kitchen, cooking and washing dishes, it turns out
that she is a very rich girl; or will be. She is an orphan, and her
grandfather, although a farmer, has more than a million dollars (which
sounds tremendous, but wouldn't be as impressive, I suppose, if one did
it in pounds); and when he dies, as he must before long, as he is very
old, Patty will have all his money.
Young people get on his nerves, so Patty lives with the Trowbridges,
who are friends of his, and helps Mrs. Trowbridge with her work. She is
so pretty and has such sweet ways that she might make a success
anywhere, and it struck me as a pity that she should perhaps marry some
young farmer in the neighbourhood, and never know any other life than
this. I remarked something of the sort to Mr. Brett when he told me
about Patty, and he looked suddenly miserable as if what I'd said had
hurt.
"I thought you felt you could be happy among such people as these," he
answered, rather irrelevantly.
Then I fancied that I understood a little, for he seems to think that
_he_ is like the men here, but he isn't a bit, oh, not the least bit in
the world, though he says he was brought up on a farm as a little boy,
before he ran away and went far out West, and that it's only an
"accident of fate" he isn't an Albert or an Elisha. As if he could ever
have been like one of them! I have never known a man as interesting as
he.
Ide really _is_ a sort of servant, but she would go away instantly if
anybody called her that; and she is so afraid someone may think she is
inferior to the others in the house because she is paid wages for her
work, that she does her hair elaborately, wears smarter dresses than
the rest, and puts herself rather forward with strangers so as to
impress them. She wouldn't even like to be called a "help," but says
that she "obliges" Mrs. Trowbridge, and she wouldn't stop long enough
to draw another breath if she were not treated better, if anything,
than Patty.
Even in the East, in very grand houses, I thought some of the servants
were rather offhand and queer, though they did consent to have their
meals in the servants' hall or somewhere, and not sit in the drawing
room. I suppose the reason why they are so different with us, and so
polite and well trained, is because at home they are willing to go on
being servants all their lives, whereas, in America, it's only a phase
in a person's career. You may be a parlour maid one year; the next you
may keep a hotel; and the next you may be a millionairess travelling in
Europe. There's nothing to prevent, if it's in you, and naturally you
always hope it is.
The Trowbridges' neighbours are almost as nice as they are. After I had
been here two or three days I was feeding the chickens with Mr.
Trowbridge after "tea," when a man and woman came up the avenue. They
were countrified looking and rather awkward, I thought at first glance,
which was the only one I took, as I at once left Mr. Trowbridge to talk
with the newcomers and went away. It wasn't Ide's time yet to sit with
Albert, so I found an apple, and sat and rocked in the boat swing with
a book I'd left there earlier in the afternoon. Presently, however,
down ran Patty to ask if I would mind coming back to the house, as Mr.
and Mrs. Engelhorn had come especially to see me.
"To see me?" I repeated. "What for?"
"Oh, I suppose they thought it would be polite to call," said Patty.
"They're such nice people. They have the farm with the low house
opposite this. Mrs. Engelhorn was a city girl. Her father is the best
jeweller in Arcona, and her brother has the biggest steam cleaning
establishment there. She's been beautifully educated, and he's very
intelligent. I guess you'll like them."
"Oh, I'll come, of course," I said. "I didn't dream they wanted to see
me." But I would much rather have stopped where I was and read the
book. Of course it's only prejudice, and the way one has been brought
up which makes one feel as if it were odd to meet tradespeople, and
it's nonsense, too; for as soon as they get horribly rich nobody seems
to mind nowadays, which shows how little sense there is in the idea.
Still, I did want to laugh, though I was ashamed of myself; but a
picture of Mother being called on formally by a steam cleaner would
come up before me.
Mr. and Mrs. Engelhorn had put on their best clothes, and they were
dears. I was as agreeable as I knew how to be, and after I had been
with them a little while, I felt that it was they who were superior.
They talked about the most interesting and learned things, just as Mr.
Trowbridge does, and in the same simple, modest way. We went into the
parlour, where Mrs. Engelhorn played as well as a professional, and
sang exquisitely, in a cultivated contralto voice. I could have cried
to see how work-worn her hands looked, as they flew so cleverly over
the keys of Mrs. Trowbridge's splendid Steinway Grand piano, which is
much finer and in better condition than ours at home. After they had
gone, Mr. Trowbridge told me that Mr. Engelhorn is the greatest
authority on geology in the State of Ohio, that he knows just as much
about botany, and is a fine Greek and Latin scholar, having picked up
all his knowledge himself without any University training. Americans
are wonderful!
Other people just as interesting in different ways have been, since,
and there was only one I didn't like. He came yesterday, and is a
dissenting parson, a Congregationalist, I think, though I don't know
what that means, or how it's different from a Methodist or a
Presbyterian. He and his wife arrived to noon dinner, and I had to be
civil because the Trowbridges respect them very much; but it was
difficult when the man said that England was the most immoral and
decaying country in the world, and his wife echoed him. He is a smug
old fellow with a fringe of grey fluff growing out all round under his
chin; and his upper lip, very long and shaved, is like the straight
cover you see on mantelpieces in country hotels.
I summoned courage to stand up for England, and the wife--a fat, sallow
creature with three chins and a dissenting-looking chignon--glared at
me as if she expected white bears to crawl out from under the table and
gobble me up.
"Why do you think England is such a wicked country?" I asked.
"Because, to mention only one reason [as if the others were too bad to
tell] your clergymen are put into their places by patronage, without
any regard to their qualifications as teachers of religion."
"At least they're gentlemen," I snapped.
"Superficially, they _may_ be," he admitted, as if to pry under the
surface would be worse than "scratching a Russian to find a Tartar."
"But they are Puppets and Sycophants."
Unluckily I don't know what a sycophant is exactly, so it would have
been dangerous to argue; and anyway, before I could get out another
word he had gone on again.
"Mrs. Panter and myself had a chance to go to Great Britain last year,"
he said. "Our congregation offered us the trip with Cook's tickets, for
ten weeks, to show their appreciation of my services. But after
reflection, we decided not to undertake the tour. I have no wish to see
England as it is to-day. Such illusions as are left to me I would
rather keep. It would depress me to visit a country which is going down
hill as Britain is, morally, financially and intellectually. Trade is
leaving her, and coming to us. We are getting her shipping, we are
taking away her steel and iron market for all the world, and she
deserves to have lost what she is losing; still, London must be a sad
sight to those who have eyes to see, and----"
"I don't think you'd find that grass has begun to grow in Bond Street
yet," said I. "And if you fancy that our finances are in such a bad
way, you had better read the Blue Book."
I did think this was smart of me, for I hardly know the Blue Book from
a Book of Beauty, but I've heard Stan say that you're obliged to
believe it, and that it proves England to be increasing every year in
prosperity. So I was glad I remembered to speak of it, and catching Mr.
Brett's eyes I saw such a twinkling smile in them that I hurried to
look away, or I should have laughed and spoiled everything.
There couldn't be a greater contrast between two men than between the
Reverend Jonas Panter and the great Whit Walker of the Emporium at
Hermann's Corners. We drove to Mr. Walker's after the Panters had gone,
as we all felt (though nobody put it precisely into words) that we
wanted some enlivening.