II

Not only the lakeside people, but all of the city with claims to social

importance attended the funeral. Never had there been such an imposing

array of long faces and dark attire. Miss Webster being prostrated, the

companion did the honors. The dwellers on the lake occupied the post of

honor at the head of the room, just beyond the expensive casket. Their

faces were studies. After Miss Williams had exchanged a word with each,

Strowbridge stepped forward and bent to her ear.

"Oh, I say," he whispered, eagerly, "I have to tell some member of this

family how sorry I am for losing my temper and my manners the other day.

It was awfully fresh of me. Poor old boy! Do say that you forgive me."

A smile crept between her red lids.

"He had a good heart," she said. "He would have forgiven you." And then

the long and impressive ceremony began.

All the great company followed the dead autocrat to the cemetery,

regardless of the damaging skies. Miss Williams, as chief mourner, rode

in a hack, alone, directly behind the hearse. During the dreary ride she

labored conscientiously to stifle an unseemly hope. In the other

carriages conversation flowed freely, and no attempt was made to

discourage expectations.

Two evenings later, as the crowd of weary business men boarded the train

that met the boat from the great city across the bay, it was greeted as

usual by the cry of the local newsboys. This afternoon the youngsters

had a rare bait, and they offered it at the top of their shrill worn

voices:

"Will of Dr. Hiram Webster! Full account of Dr. Hiram Webster's

lastwillundtestermint."

A moment later the long rows of seats looked as if buried beneath an

electrified avalanche of newspapers. At the end of five minutes the

papers were fluttering on the floor amid the peanut-shells and

orange-skins of the earlier travellers. There was an impressive silence,

then an animated, terse, and shockingly expressive conversation. Only a

dozen or more sat with drawn faces and white lips. They were the

dwellers by the lake. Hiram Webster had left every cent of his large

fortune to his sister.

For two weeks Webster Lake did not call on the heiress. It was too sore.

At the end of that period philosophy and decency came to the rescue.

Moreover, cupidity: Miss Webster too must make a will, and before long.

They called. Miss Webster received them amiably. Her eyes were red, but

the visitors observed that her mourning was very rich; they had never

seen richer. They also remarked that she held her gray old head with a

loftiness that she must have acquired in the past two weeks; no one of

them had ever seen it before. She did not exactly patronize them; but

that she appreciated her four millions there could be no doubt.

Strowbridge glanced about in search of Miss Williams. She was not in the

room. He sauntered out to the garden and saw her coming from the dairy.

She wore a black alpaca frock and a dark apron. Her face was weary and

sad.

"Could any one look more hopeless!" he thought. "The selfish old

curmudgeon, not to leave her independent! How her face can light up! She

looks almost young."

For she had seen him and hastened down the path. As he asked after her

health and said that he had been looking for her, she smiled and flushed

a little. They sat down on the steps and chatted until approaching

voices warned them that both pleasure and duty were over. She found

herself admitting that she had been bitterly disappointed to learn that

she was still a dependant, still chained to the gloomy mansion by the

lake. Yes; she should like to travel, to go to places she had read of in

the doctor's library--to live. She flushed with shame later when she

reflected on her confidences--she who was so proudly reticent. And to a

stranger! But she had never met any one so sympathetic.

Many were the comments of the visitors as they drove away.

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Mrs. Holt; "I do believe Marian Webster will

become stuck-up in her old age."

"Four millions are a good excuse," said Mrs. Meeker, with a sigh.

"That dress did not cost a cent under three hundred dollars," remarked a

third, with energy. "And it was tried on four times, if it was once. She

is evidently open to consolation."

But Miss Webster had by no means ceased to furnish material for comment.

A month later Mrs. Meeker burst in on Mrs. Holt. "What do you think?"

she cried. "Old Miss Webster is refurnishing the house from top to

bottom. I ran in just now, and found everything topsy-turvy. Thompson's

men are there frescoing--frescoing! All the carpets have been taken up

and are not in sight. Miss Webster informed me that she would show us

what she could do, if she was seventy-odd, but that she didn't want any

one to call until everything was finished. Think of that house being

modernized--that old whited sepulchre!"

Mrs. Holt had dropped the carriage-blanket she was embroidering for her

daughter's baby. "Are you dreaming?" she gasped. "Hiram will haunt the

place!"

"Just you wait. Miss Webster hasn't waited all these years for nothing."

Nor had she. The sudden and stupendous change in her fortunes had routed

grief--made her dizzy with possibilities. She had no desire to travel,

but she had had a lifelong craving for luxury. She might not have many

more years to live, she reiterated to Miss Williams, but during those

years her wealth should buy her all that her soul had ever yearned for.

In due course the old exclusive families of the infant city received

large squares of pasteboard heavily bordered with black, intimating that

Miss Webster would be at home to her friends on Thursdays at four of the

clock. On the first Thursday thereafter the parlor of Webster Hall was

as crowded as on the day of the funeral. "But who would ever know the

old barrack?" as the visitors whispered. Costly lace hid the

window-panes, heavy pale-blue satin the ancient frames. The walls were

frescoed with pink angels rising from the tinting clouds of dawn. The

carpet was of light-blue velvet; the deep luxurious chairs and divans

and the portières were of blue satin. The wood-work was enamelled with

silver. Out in the wide hall Persian rugs lay on the inlaid floors,

tapestry cloth hid the walls. Carved furniture stood in the niches and

the alcoves. Through the open doors of the library the guests saw walls

upholstered with leather, low bookcases, busts of marble and bronze. An

old laboratory off the doctor's study had been transformed into a

dining-room, as expensive and conventional as the other rooms. There a

dainty luncheon was spread.

Miss Webster led the lakeside people up-stairs. The many spare bedrooms

had been handsomely furnished, each in a different color. When the

guests were finally permitted to enter Miss Webster's own virgin bower

their chins dropped helplessly. Only this saved them from laughing

outright.

The room was furnished as for a pampered beauty. The walls were covered

with pink silk shimmering under delicate lace. The white enamel bed and

dressing-table were bountifully draped with the same materials. Light

filtered through rustling pink. The white carpet was sprinkled with pink

roses. The trappings of the dressing-table were of crystal and gold. In

one corner stood a Psyche mirror. Two tall lamps were hooded with pink.

All saw the humor; none the pathos.

The doctor's room had been left untouched. Sentiment and the value of

the old mahogany had saved it. Miss Williams's room was also the same

little cell. She assisted to receive the guests in a new black silk

gown. Miss Webster was clad from head to foot in English crêpe, with

deep collar and girdle of dull jet.

That was a memorable day in the history of the city.

Thereafter Miss Webster gave an elaborate dinner-party every Sunday

evening at seven o'clock. No patient groans greeted her invitations.

Never did a lone woman receive such unflagging attentions.

At each dinner she wore a different gown. It was at the third that she

dazzled her guests with an immense pair of diamond earrings. At the

fourth they whispered that she had been having her nails manicured. At

the fifth it was painfully evident that she was laced. At the sixth they

stared and held their breath: Miss Webster was unmistakably painted. But

it was at the tenth dinner that they were speechless and stupid: Miss

Webster wore a blond wig.

"They can just talk all they like," said the lady to her companion that

last night, as she sat before her mirror regarding her aged charms. "I

have four millions, and I shall do as I please. It's the first time I

ever could, and I intend to enjoy every privilege that wealth and

independence can give. Whose business is it, anyway?" she demanded,

querulously.

"No one's. But it is a trifle ridiculous, and you must expect people to

talk."

"They'd better talk!" There was a sudden suggestion of her brother's

personality, never before apparent. "But why is it ridiculous, I should

like to know? Hasn't a woman the right to be young if she can? I loved

Hiram. I was a faithful and devoted sister; but he took my youth, and

now that he has given it back, as it were I'll make the most of it."

"You can't be young again."

"Perhaps not, in years; but I'll have all that belongs to youth."

"Not all. No man will love you."

Miss Webster brought her false teeth together with a snap. "Why not, I

should like to know? What difference do a few years make? Seventy is not

much, in any other calculation. Fancy if you had only seventy dollars

between you and starvation! Think of how many thousands of years old the

world is! I have now all that makes a woman attractive--wealth,

beautiful surroundings, scientific care. The steam is taking out my

wrinkles; I can see it."

She turned suddenly from the glass and flashed a look of resentment on

her companion.

"But I wish I had your thirty years' advantage. I do! I do! Then they'd

see."

The two women regarded each other in silence for a long moment. Love had

gone from the eyes and the hearts of both. Hate, unacknowledged as yet,

was growing. Miss Webster bitterly envied the wide gulf between old age

and her quarter-century companion and friend. Abigail bitterly envied

the older woman's power to invoke the resemblance and appurtenances of

youth, to indulge her lifelong yearnings.

When the companion went to her pillow that night she wept passionately.

"I will go," she said. "I'll be a servant; but I'll stay here no

longer."

The next morning she stood on the veranda and watched Miss Webster drive

away to market. The carriage and horses were unsurpassed in California.

The coachman and footman were in livery. The heiress was attired in

lustreless black silk elaborately trimmed with jet. A large hat covered

with plumes was kept in place above her painted face and red wig by a

heavily dotted veil--that crier of departed charms. She held a black

lace parasol in one carefully gloved hand. Her pretty foot was encased

in patent leather.

"The old fool!" murmured Abby. "Why, oh, why could it not have been

mine? I could make myself young without being ridiculous."

She let her duties go and sauntered down to the lake. Many painted boats

were anchored close to ornamental boat-houses. They seemed strangely out

of place beneath the sad old willows. The lawns were green with the

green of spring. Roses ran riot everywhere. The windows of the handsome

old-fashioned houses were open, and Abby was afforded glimpses of

fluttering white gowns, heard the tinkle of the mandolin, the cold

precise strains of the piano, the sudden uplifting of a youthful

soprano.

"After all, it only makes a little difference to them that they got

nothing," thought the companion, with a sigh.

A young man stepped from one of the long windows of the Holt mansion and

came down the lawn. Miss Williams recognized Strowbridge. She had not

seen him for several weeks; but he had had his part in her bitter

moments, and her heart beat at sight of him to-day.

"I too am a fool," she thought. "Even with her money my case would be

hopeless. I am nearly double his age."

He jumped into a boat and rowed down the lake. As he passed the Webster

grounds he looked up and saw Abby standing there.

"Hulloa!" he called, as if he were addressing a girl of sixteen. "How

are you, all these years? Jump in and take a row."

He made his landing, sprang to the shore and led her to the boat with

the air of one who was not in the habit of being refused. Abby had no

inclination to suppress him. She stepped lightly into the boat, and a

moment later was gliding down the lake, looking with admiring eyes on

the strong young figure in its sweater and white trousers. A

yachting-cap was pulled over his blue eyes. His face was bronzed. Abby

wondered if many young men were as handsome as he. As a matter of fact,

he was merely a fine specimen of young American manhood, whose charm lay

in his frank manner and kindness of heart.

"Like this?" he asked, smiling into her eyes.

"Yes, indeed. Hiram used to row us sometimes; but the boat lurched so

when he lost his temper that I was in constant fear of being tipped

over."

"Hiram must have been a terror to cats."

"A what?"

"Beg pardon! Of course you don't know much slang. Beastly habit."

He rowed up and down the lake many times, floating idly in the long

recesses where the willows met overhead. He talked constantly; told her

yarns of his college life; described boat-races and football matches in

which he had taken part. At first his only impulse was to amuse the

lonely old maid; but she proved such a delighted and sympathetic

listener that he forgot to pity her. An hour passed, and with it her

bitterness. She no longer felt that she must leave Webster Hall. But she

remembered her duties, and regretfully asked him to land her.

"Well, if I must," he said. "But I'm sorry, and we'll do it again some

day. I'm awfully obliged to you for coming."

"Obliged to me?--you?" she said, as he helped her to shore. "Oh, you

don't know--" And laughing lightly, she went rapidly up the path to the

house.

Miss Webster was standing on the veranda. Her brows were together in an

ugly scowl.

"Well!" she exclaimed. "So you go gallivanting about with boys in your

old age! Aren't you ashamed to make such an exhibition of yourself?"

Abby felt as if a hot palm had struck her face. Then a new spirit, born

of caressed vanity, asserted itself.

"Wouldn't you have done the same if you had been asked?" she demanded.

Miss Webster turned her back and went up to her room. She locked the

door and burst into tears. "I can't help it," she sobbed, helplessly.

"It's dreadful of me to hate Abby after all these years; but--those

terrible thirty! I'd give three of my millions to be where she is. I

used to think she was old, too. But she isn't. She's young! Young!--a

baby compared to me. I could more than be her mother. Oh, I must try as

a Christian woman to tear this feeling from my heart."

She wrote off a check and directed it to her pastor, then rang for the

trained nurse her physician had imported from New York, and ordered her

to steam and massage her face and rub her old body with spirits of wine

and unguents.

Strowbridge acquired the habit of dropping in on Miss Williams at all

hours. Sometimes he called at the dairy and sat on a corner of the table

while she superintended the butter-making. He liked her old-fashioned

music, and often persuaded her to play for him on the new grand piano in

the sky-blue parlor. He brought her many books by the latter-day

authors, all of them stories by men about men. He had a young contempt

for the literature of sentiment and sex. Even Miss Webster grew to like

him, partly because he ignored the possibility of her doing otherwise,

partly because his vital frank personality was irresistible. She even

invited him informally to dinner; and after a time he joked and guyed

her as if she were a school-girl, which pleased her mightily. Of Miss

Williams he was sincerely fond.

"You are so jolly companionable, don't you know," he would say to her.

"Most girls are bores; don't know enough to have anything to talk about,

and want to be flattered and flirted with all the time. But I feel as if

you were just another fellow, don't you know."

"Oh, I am used to the rôle of companion," she would reply.

With the first days of June he returned to Boston, and the sun turned

gray for one woman.

Life went its way in the old house. People became accustomed to the

spectacle of Miss Webster rejuvenated, and forgot to flatter. It may be

added that men forgot to propose, in spite of the four millions. Deeper

grew the gulf between the two women. Once in every week Abby vowed she

would leave, but habit was too strong. Once in every week Miss Webster

vowed she would turn the companion out, but dependence on the younger

woman had grown into the fibres of her old being.

Strowbridge returned the following summer. Almost immediately he called

on Miss Williams.

"I feel as if you were one of the oldest friends I have in the world,

don't you know," he said, as they sat together on the veranda. "And I've

brought you a little present--if you don't mind. I thought maybe you

wouldn't."

He took a small case from his pocket, touched a spring, and revealed a

tiny gold watch and fob. "You know," he had said to himself

apologetically as he bought it, "I can give it to her because she's so

much older than myself. It's not vulgar, like giving handsome presents

to girls. And then we are friends. I'm sure she won't mind, poor old

thing!" Nevertheless, he looked at her with some apprehension.

His misgivings proved to be vagaries of his imagination. Abby gazed at

the beautiful toy with radiant face. "For me!" she exclaimed--"that

lovely thing? And you really bought it for me?"

"Why, of course I did," he said, too relieved to note the significance

of her pleasure. "And you'll take it?"

"Indeed I'll take it." She laid it on her palm and looked at it with

rapture. She fastened the fob in a buttonhole of her blouse, but removed

it with a shake of the head. "I'll just keep it to look at, and only

wear it with my black silk. It's out of place on this rusty alpaca."

"What a close-fisted old girl the Circus must--"

"Oh, hush, hush! She might hear you." Abby rose hastily. "Let us walk in

the garden."

They sauntered between the now well-kept lawns and flower-beds and

entered a long avenue of fig-trees. The purple fruit hung abundantly

among the large green leaves. Miss Williams opened one of the figs and

showed Strowbridge the red luscious pith.

"You don't have these over there."

"We don't. Are they good to eat this way?"

She held one of the oval halves to his mouth.

"Eat!" she said.

And he did. Then he ate a dozen more that she broke for him.

"I feel like a greedy school-boy," he said. "But they are good, and no

mistake. You have introduced me to another pleasure. Now let us go and

take a pull."

All that afternoon there was no mirror to tell her that she was not the

girl who had come to Webster Hall a quarter of a century before. That

night she knelt long by her bed, pressing her hands about her face.

"I am a fool, I know," she thought, "but such things have been. If only

I had a little of her money."

The next day she went down to the lake, not admitting that she expected

him to take her out; it would be enough to see him. She saw him. He

rowed past with Elinor Holt, the most beautiful girl of the lakeside.

His gaze was fixed on the flushed face, the limpid eyes. He did not look

up.

Miss Williams walked back to the house with the odd feeling that she had

been smitten with paralysis and some unseen force was propelling her.

But she was immediately absorbed in the manifold duties of the

housekeeping. When leisure came reaction had preceded it.

"I am a fool," she thought. "Of course he must show Elinor Holt

attention. He is her father's guest. But he might have looked up."

That night she could not sleep. Suddenly she was lifted from her

thoughts by strange sounds that came to her from the hall without. She

opened the door cautiously. A white figure was flitting up and down,

wringing its hands, the gray hair bobbing about the jerking head.

"No use!" it moaned. "No use, no use, no use! I'm old, old, old!

Seventy-four, seventy-four, seventy-four! Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! oh, Lord!

Thy ways are past finding out. Amen!"

Abby closed her door hurriedly. She felt the tragedy out there was not

for mortal eyes to look upon. In a few moments she heard the steps pause

before her door. Hands beat lightly upon it.

"Give me back those thirty years!" whimpered the old voice. "They are

mine! You have stolen them from me!"

Abby's hair rose. "Is Marian going mad?" she thought.

But the next morning Miss Webster looked as usual when she appeared,

after her late breakfast in bed, bedecked for her drive to market. She

had modified her mourning, and wore a lavender cheviot, and the parasol

and hat were in harmony with all but herself.

"Poor old caricature!" thought Abby. "She makes me feel young."

A week later, when the maid entered Miss Webster's bedroom at the

accustomed morning hour, she found that the bed had not been occupied.

Nor was her mistress visible. The woman informed Miss Williams at once,

and together they searched the house. They found her in her brother's

room, in the old mahogany bed in which she too had been born. She was

dead. Her gray hair was smooth under her lace nightcap. Her hands were

folded, the nails glistening in the dusky room. Death had come

peacefully, as to her brother. What had taken her there to meet it was

the last mystery of her strange old soul.