PHIL INTERVIEWS HIS GRANDMOTHER.
After leaving Mr. Beresford Phil concluded, before going home, to call
on his grandmother and ask if she had ever heard of a granddaughter in
France. The house of grandma Ferguson, as she was now universally
called, was the same low, old-fashioned brown building under the poplar
trees where she had sold gingerbread and beer in the days when Paul
Rossiter and Fred Hetherton came wooing her two daughters, Mary and
Margaret. In her youth grandma Ferguson had been a tall, slender,
well-formed girl, with a face which always won a second glance from
every one who saw it. In fact, it was her pretty face which attracted
honest John Ferguson when he was looking for some one to be a mother to
his little girl. Margaret Martin was her real name, but everybody called
her Peggy, and everybody liked her, she was so thoroughly kind-hearted
and good-natured, and ready to sacrifice herself in every and any cause.
But her family was against her. Her father was coarse and low, and a
drunkard, and her brothers were coarser and lower still, and the most
notorious fighters in town, while her mother was a shiftless, gossipy,
jealous woman, who would rather receive charity at any time than work,
and who always grumbled at the charity when given. But against Peggy’s
reputation not a whisper had ever been breathed. She was loud-talking,
boisterous, and ignorant, and a Martin but perfectly honest,
straightforward, and trusty, and from the day John Ferguson, the thrifty
stonemason took her to his home to look after his house and child her
fortune was made, for in less than six months she became his wife. As
Mrs. John Ferguson she was somewhat different from Peggy Martin, and
tried, not without success, to lower her voice and soften her manners;
but her frightful grammar remained unchanged, and her slang was noted
for its originality and force. But she was a good mother, and wife, and
neighbor, and after her father and mother died, and her fighting
brothers emigrated to California, she shook the Martin dust from her
skirts and mounted several rounds higher on the ladder of
respectability. But she did not get into society until some years after
the Rossiters were established in the great house on the Knoll. Her
faithful John was under the sod, and the beer sign gone from the window
of the low brown house where she lived in comfort and ease, with a
colored servant Axie, who was very serviceable to her indulgent
mistress, making her bread, and pies, and caps, and frequently
correcting her grammar, for Axie knew more of books than Mrs. Peggy.
To Mrs. Rossiter Grandma Ferguson was a care and sometimes a trouble: to
the young ladies, Ethel and Grace, she was an annoyance and a
mortification, both from her manners and her showy style of dress, while
to Phil, who did not care in the least how she talked or how she
dressed, she was a source of amusement, and he frequently spent hours in
her neat, quiet sitting-room, or out on the shaded back porch where he
found her on the evening of his return from Hetherton Place. With
increasing years Grandma Ferguson had lost the slight, willowy figure of
her girlhood, and had reached a size when she refused to be weighed. So
saucy Phil set her down at two hundred and fifty, and laughed at her
form, which he said he could not encircle with both his long arms. All
delicacy of feature and complexion had departed, and with her round red
face and three chins she might well have passed for some fat old English
or German dowager, especially when attired in her royal purple moire
antique, which she always called her _morey_ with a long heavy gold
chain around her neck, and her best lace cap with mountains of pink bows
upon it. Mrs. Ferguson was fond of dress, and as purple and pink were
her favorite colors, she sometimes presented a rather grotesque
appearance. But on the night when Phil sought her, she had laid aside
all superfluities and her silvery hair shone smooth and glossy in the
soft moonlight, while her plain calico wrapper looked cool and
comfortable and partially concealed her rotund form.
“For the massy’s sake,” she said, as Phil’s tall figure bent under the
door-way and came swiftly to her side, “what brung you here so late, and
why hain’t you come afore? I was round to your Aunt Lyddy Ann’s this
afternoon, and she told me you was to home, so I made a strawb’ry
short-cake for tea, hopin’ you’d happen in. There’s a piece cold in the
buttry now if you want it.”
Phil declined the short-cake, and sitting down by his grandmother told
her of Mr. Hetherton’s letter, and asked if she had ever heard of a
daughter.
Mrs. Ferguson was a good deal startled and surprised, or, as she
expressed it afterward to Reinette herself, “she was that beat that a
feller might have knocked her down with a straw.” That there was
somewhere in the world a child of her beautiful young daughter who died
so far away, was a great shock to her, and, for an instant, she stared
blankly at Phil, as if not quite comprehending him. Then she began:
“Fred Hetherton coming back after so many years, and bringin’ a darter
with him! My Maggie’s girl! That’s very strange, and makes me think of
what your gran’ther said afore he died. Seems as if he had second sight
or somethin’, which ain’t to be wondered at when you remember that he
was born with a vail over his face, and could allus tell things. He said
that, in some way, Maggie would come back to me, and she is comin’: but
it’s queer I never hearn of a baby when Maggie died. Still, it’s like
that sneak of a Fred Hetherton to keep it from us. We wasn’t good enough
to know there was a child. But, thank the Lord, there’s as much Ferguson
in her as Hetherton, and he can’t help that. I never could abide him,
even when he came skulkin’ after Maggie, and whistlin’ for her to come
out. At fust I was afraid he didn’t mean fair with her, and I told him
if he harmed a hair of her head I’d shoot him as I would a dog. There’s
fight, you know, in the Martins!”
And the old lady’s eyes blazed with all the fire of her two scape-grace
brothers, once the prize-fighters of the country.
“What were the particulars of the marriage and her death? I’ve heard, of
course, but did not pay much attention, as I knew nothing of Reinette,”
said Phil; and Mrs. Ferguson replied:
“’Twas a runaway match, for old Mr. Hetherton rode such a high hoss that
Fred was most afraid of his life, and so they run away—the more fools
they—and he took her to Europe, and that’s the last I ever seen of her,
or hearn of her either, as you may say. It’s true she writ sometimes,
but her letters was short, and not satisfyin’ at all—seemed as if she
was afraid to tell us she was lonesome for us at home, or wanted to see
us. She had a new blue silk gown, and cassimere shawl, and string of
pearls, and a waitin’-maid, and she said a good deal about them, but
nothin’ of Fred, after a spell, whether he was kind or not. He never
writ, nor took no more notice of us than if we was dogs, till there came
a letter from him sayin’ she had died suddenly at Rome and was buried in
the Protestant grave-yard. He was in Switzerland then, I believe,
skylarkin’ round, for he was always a great rambler, and we didn’t know
jestly where to direct letters; but your mother writ and writ to the old
place in Paris, and never got no answer, and at last she gin it up. When
old man Hetherton died, Fred had to write about business, but never a
word to us.”
“It’s very singular he did not tell you about the little girl,”
suggested Phil; and Mrs. Ferguson replied:
“No ’tain’t. He wouldn’t of let us know if there had been a hundred
babies. He’d be more likely to keep whist, for fear we’d lay some claim
to her, and we as good as he any day, if he wasn’t quite so rich. Why,
there never was a likelier gal than your mother, even when she closed
boots for a livin’; and there ain’t a grander lady now in the land than
she is.”
“I don’t know about the grand,” said Phil, “but I know there is not a
better woman in the world than my mother, or a handsomer either, when
she’s dressed in her velvet, and laces, and diamonds. I wish you could
see her once.”
“I wish to gracious I could,” returned Mrs. Ferguson. “Why don’t she
never put on her best clothes here and let us see ’em once, and not
allus wear them plain black silks, and browns, and grays?”
“Merrivale is hardly the place for velvets and diamonds,” said Phil.
“There is seldom any occasion for them, and mother does not think it
good taste to make a display.”
“No, I s’pose not,” grandma replied; “but mabby Rennet will take me with
her to Washington, or Saratoga, or the sea-side, and then I can see it
all. And they needn’t be ashamed of me nuther. There’s my purple
_morey_, and upon a pinch I can have another new silk. Rennet will find
her granny has clothes!”
Phil did not usually wince at anything his grandmother said, but now a
cold sweat broke out a over him as he thought of her at the sea-side
arrayed in her _purple morey_, which made her look fatter and coarser
than ever, with the bright pink ribbons or blue feather in her cap. What
would Reinette say to such a figure, and what would Reinette think of
her any way? He was accustomed to her; he knew all the good there was in
her; but Reinette, with her French ideas, was different, and he found
himself seeing with Reinette’s eyes and hearing with Reinette’s ears,
and blushing with shame for the good old lady, who went on talking about
her new granddaughter, whom she sometimes called _Rennet_, and sometimes
_Runnet_, but never by her right name.
At last Phil could bear it no longer, and said:
“Grandma, isn’t it just as easy to say Reinette as Rennet? Do you know
what a rennet is?”
“No, what is it?” she asked, and he replied:
“It is what farmers put in milk to make cheese curd.”
“Bless the boy!” and Mrs. Ferguson laughed till the tears rolled down
her fat cheeks. “Bless the boy, that’s _runnet_; as if I didn’t know
_runnet_—I, that lived with a farmer three summers, and made cheese
every day.”
“No matter; it is spelled _rennet_, and I do not believe my cousin would
care to be called that. We want to please her, you know,” said Phil, and
his grandmother replied:
“To be sure we do, and we must make quite a time when she fust lands
here. Your mother and the gals will come home, of course.”
“Perhaps so. I shall write them about it,” said Phil, and his
grandmother continued: “We must get up a percession to meet her, in your
father’s carriage, and a hired hack, and our best clothes. I’ll see
Lyddy Ann to-morrow about fixin’ me somethin’ to wear. Now I think on’t,
Lyddy Ann talks of sellin’ out her business—so she told me this
afternoon. Did you know it?”
“I knew some one had written her on the subject, but not that she had
decided to sell,” was Phil’s reply, and his grandmother said:
“She hain’t, exactly; but Anny’s puttin’ her up to it, thinkin’ she’ll
be thought more on if her mother is not a dressmaker, and that sign is
out of the winder. Silly critter! She gets that from the Rices, and they
was nothin’ extra—I know ’em root and branch. I tell you I’m as much
thought on as if I hadn’t sold gingerbread and beer; but Anny says I’m
only noticed on account of the Rossiters—that folks dassent slight Miss
Rossiter’s mother, and mabby that’s so.”
How dreadful her conversation was to Phil, who wondered if she had
always talked in this way, and if nothing could be done to tone her down
a little before Reinette came. Nothing, he finally decided, and then
proceeded to tell her what changes Mr. Beresford contemplated making at
Hetherton Place, and what Mr. Hetherton had written of his daughter’s
tastes with reference to cats, and asked if she could help him there.
“That’s the Martin blood in her,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “We are desput
fond of cats, but I can’t let her have old Blue, who has lived with me
this ten years, but there’s Speckle, with three as lovely Malta kittens
as you ever see. They torment me most to death killin’ chickens and
tearing up the flower-beds. Rennet can have them and welcome.”
It was _Rennet_ again, and Phil let it pass, feeling that to change an
old lady like his grandmother was as impossible as to change the order
of the seasons, and hoping his cousin would have sense enough to
overlook the grammar, and the slang, and prize her for the genuine good
there was in her. As it was now getting very late Phil at last said
good-night and walked toward home thinking constantly of Reinette,
wondering how he should like her, and wondering more how she would like
him.