A PECULIAR INVITATION.
It would be difficult to tell which was the most startled. Amy stepped
back from the unresponsive object of her affectionate impulse and
blushed furiously. She feared that he would think her bold and silly,
yet she had only meant to be kind, to comfort him because she pitied
him. Now, she was painfully conscious that Marshall was standing near,
coolly observant, with a cynical smile upon his thin lips. It was a
curious fact, which Amy instantly recognized, that this master of whom
so many people stood in awe should himself stand in awe of his own
valet.
"Ahem--shall I remove the bath, sir? Has the young person finished?"
Amy had not been accustomed to hearing herself spoken of as a "person,"
and the word angered her. This restored her self-possession. She looked
up, laughing.
"I don't know how I came to do that, cousin Archibald. I hope you'll
forgive me."
"Oh, I'll forgive you. I don't know how you did it, either. Well, man,
why are you standing there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I tell you
she has finished. You can take away the things."
"Very well; it is time for your nap, sir."
The worm turned. "What if I don't take one to-day? What will happen?"
"I don't know, sir, except that you will probably be ill. The doctor's
orders are, when you have an attack--"
"Hang you and the doctor and the attacks, all together! You can leave
the room, can't you? When I want you, I'll ring."
Because he was too astonished to do otherwise, Marshall obeyed. He was a
privileged person. His master did not often cross his will. There being
no other apparent heirs, Marshall had, in his own imagination,
constituted himself Mr. Wingate's heir. Why not? A lifelong service, an
untiring devotion to whims of all sorts, a continual attention to the
"creature comforts" which were so greatly a part of Archibald's
life--these merited a rich reward. Marshall intended to receive this
reward, should he be lucky enough to outlive his employer. He felt that
he would fill the position of owner of Fairacres with dignity and
profit. He did not like this new interest Mr. Wingate was taking, by
fits and starts, in the deposed family who were his relatives
and--enemies. In Marshall's opinion the breech between these kinsfolk
ought not to be healed. Amy's presence in the house was a disastrous
portent. She must be gotten out of it as soon as possible, and in such
a way that she would not care to come again. But how?
The servant revolved this question, as he carried away the bath, and so
profoundly that he failed to notice where he was going and stepped down
a forgotten stair so unexpectedly that he fell and drenched himself with
the water from the tub.
"Plague on her! Now, I'm in for it!" Which meant that before he could
remove the damage to his attire Amy would probably have gained whatever
she came to seek. He did not believe that anybody would visit his master
without having "an axe to grind," for he judged all men by himself.
However, having tasted the sweets of rebellion against this iron rule of
Marshall, Mr. Wingate determined to enjoy it further.
"He's a meddling old fool. He's a good servant, too. There isn't another
man in the world would put up with my tempers as he does. Never a word
in return, and as smooth as silk."
Amy laughed. "He looks to me as if he had had his hair licked by
kittens. It's so slick and flat. Do you have to mind him always?"
"Mind him? _I_--mind my _servant_, eh?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course--"
Mr. Wingate's face was scarlet. The weakness which he had hardly
acknowledged to himself had been instantly discovered by this
bright-eyed girl. It wasn't a pleasant thing to have so observant a
person about. He had something to say to her, however, and he would do
it at once and get rid of her. All his newly aroused affection died in
his resentment against her judgment.
"I want to go to the studio. There is something there I don't mean to
keep, and don't wish to destroy, without consulting some of you."
Amy followed him quietly out of the house toward the building where her
father had spent so many hours, and which she held in strictest
veneration. Did it not still enclose the "great picture" which even she
had never seen, and which had been kept screened from the sight of all?
So she still expected to find the white curtain undisturbed; and as she
entered the studio, paused--amazed. The canvas covered the end of the
apartment; but after one hasty glance Amy shielded her eyes in a
distress that was almost terror.
"Hmm. It _is_ very realistic, isn't it? The thing is horrible. I don't
wonder that Cuthbert's wits got scattered, working on it. It would drive
me crazy in a week, and I'm a hard, matter-of-fact man. I kept it,
because by right I might have kept everything that was here. I supposed
I was getting something worth while. But this! I don't want it. I
couldn't sell it. I hate to destroy it. What's to be done?"
"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!"
"So do I. I see it sometimes in the night and then I can't sleep. I
mean I imagine I see it, for I never come here after dark. It's a
wonderful picture, sure enough. A horrible one."
The canvas fascinated Amy. It depicted a great fire. It was ugly in
extreme. The big, bare building was in flames, everywhere. The windows
seemed numberless, and at almost every window a face; on these faces all
the gamut of fright, appeal, and unutterable despair. They were
human--_living_. The girl felt impelled to run and snatch them from
their doom; also the impulse to hide her eyes, that she might not see.
Mr. Wingate had taken a chair before the painting, and was looking at it
critically.
"I tell you that's a marvellous thing, and it's as dreadful as masterly.
There's only one way I can see by which a man could get any money out of
it: that's by cutting out the separate faces and selling them singly. A
body might endure to see one such countenance in his collection, but not
more; or, it might be destroyed altogether. It explains why Cuthbert
never recovered from the shock of the accident he was in. He never lost
sight of it. He must have begun this while it was fresh in his brain,
and he did his utmost to keep it fresh. Poor Salome, she had a hard
life."
"She had a happy life. She loved my father. He loved her. Whatever he
did was right, just right in her eyes. You needn't pity her. But, oh, if
she were only here to consult! Why did you show it to me? Why did I
have to see it?"
"Because it couldn't be helped. The thing _is_; it exists. Now what is
to be done with it?"
"I--will ask my father."
"I don't know that that is wise. It might bring about a return of his
malady, and I'm told he is improving in all respects."
"I must do it; it is his. There is no other way."
"What if it makes him worse again?"
Poor Amy! All her Christmas cheer had died from her heart. She felt that
it would be almost wicked to remind her father of this, his "life work,"
of which she had not heard him speak since he left Fairacres. Yet it was
his. He had given years to its completion, so far as it had neared that
point.
Mr. Wingate regarded her keenly. "Well?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know what to say. Have you nothing to propose?"
"Only what I did. To cut it up and sell the faces as so many small
canvases. That would partially repay me for the things he still owes
for--the paints and so on. But I detest the thing so I hate to spread
the misery of it."
"Repay you? Do you mean that you believe you have a right--you _own_
that picture?"
"Certainly."
"Why, it is the labor of--it means many years out of my poor father's
life. Can such a thing be 'owned' by anybody except him?"
"Yes, of course. Hark you. You go home and tell him what I offer. I will
take the picture off his hands and allow him--hmm--maybe two hundred
dollars; or, he can take it and owe me that much more. In any case I
want to get rid of it. I won't have it left here much longer. I shall
have other uses for this room, maybe. Anyway, I mean to get that off the
place."
Amy moved slowly toward the door. She did not know how to reply, and she
felt her cousin was a very hard, unjust man. Yet she agreed with him
that the picture was enough to make a person wish it out of sight, even
out of existence.
At the doorway he arrested her steps, by laying his hand upon her
shoulder.
"Help me down; I'm afraid of stairs. And there's another thing--that
donkey."
"Oh, yes; I had forgotten Balaam. May I ride him home? Will you have him
brought around for me?"
"Eh? What? Not so fast--not quite so fast! No, I don't mean the stairs.
I can manage this pace for them. I mean the donkey. It came here of its
own accord. It gave me an idea. If your brother wants to sell him--By
the way, how do you expect to pay the rent?"
Amy stopped short, halfway down the stairs, and so suddenly that Mr.
Wingate remonstrated.
"If you'd give warning of these spasmodic actions of yours, it would be
more comfortable for those depending on you. There, please move along."
"The rent? I had not thought. Didn't my mother attend to that?"
"For the first quarter year, she did. To whom must I look now?"
Unmindful, since this new distressing question had been raised, how much
she inconvenienced him, Amy sat plump down and leaned her head against
the hand-rail.
It always appeared to aid her reflective powers if she could rest her
troubled head against something material.
"I'll try to think. I earn two dollars and a half a week."
"Oh, my foot hurts again. Let's get into a decent room and talk it over
there. I hate draughty halls and unwarmed rooms. There's a fire in the
little side parlor off the dining room. That's my own private den. I
want to get there and lie down. That rabbit pie I had for lunch doesn't
agree with me, I'm afraid. Do you like rabbit pie?"
"No, indeed; I wouldn't eat one for anything."
"Why not?"
"I should fancy the pretty creatures looking at me with their soft eyes.
They're the gentlest animals in the world."
"The most destructive, you mean."
She did not contest. Besides, she was now in great haste to leave
Fairacres and regain the shelter of her own home. Strange, she
reflected, how quickly she had ceased to think of this house, her
birthplace, as a home; since all that went to make it such had gone
elsewhere.
"About that rent money. If Hallam is able to keep at work we may
together earn five dollars a week. That would be twenty dollars a month.
The rent is ten. We will be able to pay it, I think."
"Do you imagine you will be able to live upon the remainder? Upon two
and a half dollars a week, four grown persons?"
"If we have no more, we shall have to do so, shan't we?"
"Excuse me; but what would you eat? I saw no sign of scrimping and
pinching that day I first came here--to stay."
"Oh, then Cleena was determined you should say no blame of her
housekeeping. She gave you all in one meal. We've often laughed over it
since."
"Humph! But this two and a half per week, what would it buy?"
"Meal and milk. Sometimes oat meal, sometimes corn. Once and again an
egg or something for father. Oh, we'd manage."
"Hmm, hmm; you'd rather live on that than run in debt? You younger
Kayes, who are all I seem to take account of now--Salome is gone."
"We will run in no debt we cannot pay, unless we are ill and it is
impossible to help. Hal and I settled that long ago. So far we have
managed, and now he is working too, I feel as rich as--rich."
"Exactly. Amy, if this old house were yours, what would you do with it?"
The answer was prompt and decided.
"Make it into a Home for Mill Girls."
"Whew! What in the world! Fairacres? The proudest old mansion in the
country, or in this part of it! Are you beside yourself?"
"I should be with delight, if I could make that dream a reality."
"I gave you credit for more sense. But, business--that donkey. How much
did Mr. Metcalf intend to pay for it?"
"I suppose the same as he did for Pepita. Seventy-five dollars--burro,
harness, and all."
"At ten dollars a month, that would take you along well into next
summer. Tell Hallam that I will keep the animal and allow him eight
months' rent for it. That's giving you a half month, you see. Will you?"
"Yes, I'll tell him," answered she, with a catch in her voice. "Only I
had hoped to take him home with me. It would have made such a delightful
Christmas for us all. You don't know how much we love those pretty
creatures."
"Pretty! Opinions differ."
"And would it be quite right to make any such arrangements, after having
asked the superintendent to buy it, and he agreeing? Wouldn't he be the
one to say something about it?"
"Amy, you're incorrigible. You're a radical. A thing is either
absolutely right or it is absolutely wrong--according to your standard.
You'll be in trouble as long as you live, for you'll find nobody else
with such antiquated notions as yours. There are a great many things
that are expedient."
"I hate expedient things. I like just the easy, simple 'no' and 'yes'
that was my darling mother's rule. I'm glad I'm at least a birthright
Friend."
Mr. Wingate was silent. He seemed to drop into a profound reverie, and
the girl hesitated to disturb him, eager as she now was to be away.
Finally, as she had made up her mind to speak, he did so himself.
"Amy, do you ever use the plain speech now?"
"Sometimes--between ourselves. For mother's sake we can never let it
die."
"Will thee use it to me now and then? It was the habit of my boyhood.
Salome was my oldest friend. We've played together in this very room,
again and again. She was my good angel. Until--No matter. You are her
child. Not like her at all in face or manner. She was always gentle,
and shrank from giving pain. Truthful and puritanical as she was in her
ideas, she had the tact, the knowledge to say things without hurting
those whom she corrected. She corrected me often and often, when we were
young, but she hurt me--never. Now, you--heigho!"
"Now, I hurt--thee. Of course. I speak first and think afterward. But
does thee know, cousin Archibald, thee is the very queerest man I ever
met?"
"Have you--has thee--known many?"
"Very few. Thee is so good on one side and so--so--not nice on the
other. Like a half-ripened pear. But I am sorry for thee. I wish I could
do thee good. Do I speak it as thee wishes?"
"Indeed, yes. It is music, even though the words are unflattering
enough. Well, I'll not keep thee longer. And I don't ask you to call
attention to this whim of mine by saying 'thee' in public," he remarked,
himself falling back into the habit of their intercourse.
"No; if I say 'thee,' it is to be always, whenever I remember--like a
bond to remind me I must be kind to thee for my mother's sake. If she
did thee good, I must try to do thee good too."
"In what way?"
Amy reflected. The first, most obvious way, would be by cheering his
solitude. Yet she hesitated. The thing which had come into her mind
involved the desires of others also. She had no right, until she
consulted them, to commit herself. Yet she disliked to leave this lonely
old fellow, without trying to make him glad.
She sat down again in the chair from which she had risen and regarded
him critically.
"Oh, cousin Archibald, if thee were only a little bit different!"
"Thee, too!" he laughed--actually laughed; and the action seemed to
clear his features like a sunburst.
"Oh, of course. Well, it's this way. To-morrow's Christmas, isn't it?"
"So I've heard."
"And somebody--Teamster John--has sent Cleena 'the furnishing of a good
dinner,' she told me. I don't know when we may have another such a meal,
one that thee would think fit to eat. I'd like to ask thee to come and
share it with us, instead of staying here alone, all grumpy with the
gout. But it isn't my dinner, thee sees, and I'm going home to tell my
people everything. About the picture and the donkey and all. If, after
that, they agree with me that it would be nice to ask thee to spend the
holiday with us, I'll bring thee word. If I do, will thee come?"
Mr. Wingate leaned back in his easy-chair and hugged his gouty foot for
so long and so silently that Amy grew impatient and rose.
"Anyway, I must go home. I've been here ever so much later than I meant
to stay. Good-by."
"Wait! How impetuous you--thee is. Well, I've received a great many
invitations to dine, from the banquets of bank presidents down to the
boiled dinners of my own workmen, but I doubt if I ever received one so
honest and so honestly expressed."
"Will thee come, if thee is asked?"
"Yes; I'll come--_if I'm asked_. Don't thee bother to walk all the way
back again, though. If by nine o'clock to-night I have heard nothing to
the contrary, I shall understand that I am expected to dine with my
tenants at 'Spite House.' At what hour, please?"
"On Christmas, dinner is usually at three o'clock. And, if thee pleases,
it is no longer 'Spite' but 'Charity House.' My mother changed all that.
Thee must not dishonor her wishes if thee loves her."
A wonderful, an almost beautiful change passed over the old man's face.
"Amy, thee speaks as if she were here still."
"She is to me. She always will be. Good-by."
She was gone, and the house seemed bigger and emptier after she had left
it. But Archibald Wingate would not have had anybody know with what
almost childish anxiety he waited the striking of the clock, as the hour
of nine drew near. He had been judged a hard and bitter man. He was very
human, after all. The small brown hand of his young cousin was pointing
a new, strange way, wherein he might happily walk, and in secret he
blessed her for it. But he was a man who liked his own will and to
follow his own road still; though he might do his utmost to bend that
road in the direction she had elected. Meanwhile, he would have his
supper sent in and sitting at ease before his own hearth-blaze review
many plans.
So he did, and after the supper a comfortable nap, from which he roused
with a start, fancying the old clock in the hall was striking the hour.
"Eh? What? Is it nine already? That timepiece must be fast."
"It's only me, sir, Marshall, with a bucket of coals. And, if you
please, there's a young person outside insists upon seeing you, sir. Am
I to bid him go away until morning?"
In his disappointment the master's face really paled. Marshall noticed
it and wondered, but he knew enough, sometimes, to hold his tongue. This
seemed to him to be one of the times, and he therefore made no comment,
nor even inquired for the master's health.
"No, don't send anybody away. I fancy that was never the custom at
Fairacres, on Christmas Eve, be the visitor who he might. We'll not
disturb the old ways, more than we can help. After all--Bid the
messenger come in."