SPILLED OUT AGAIN.
There were paragraphs in the papers; there were resolutions at
meetings of the Board of Trade, and of the Directors of the
Trimountain Bank; there was a funeral from the "late residence,"
largely attended; there were letters and calls of condolence; there
was making of crape and bombazine and silk into "mourning;" there
were friends and neighbors asking each other, after mention of the
sad suddenness, "how it would be;" "how much he had left;" "was
there a will?"
And there was a will; made three years before. One hundred thousand
dollars, outright, to Increase M. Argenter's beloved wife; also the
use of the homestead; fifty thousand dollars to his daughter Sylvia
on her reaching the age of twenty-five, or on her marriage; all else
to be Mrs. Argenter's for her life-time, reverting afterward to
Sylvia or her heirs.
There was just time for this to be ascertained and told of; just
time for Sylvie to be named as an heiress, and then all at once
something else came to light and was told of.
There was a mining speculation out in Colorado; there was Mr.
Argenter's signature for heavy security; there were memoranda of
good safe stocks that had stood in his name a little while ago, and
no certificates; there had been sales and sacrifices; going in
deeper and to more certain loss, because of risk and danger already
run.
Mr. Sherrett, senior, came home to dinner one day with news from
the street.
"I've been very sorry to hear this morning that Argenter left things
in a bad way, after all. There won't be much of anything
forthcoming. All swallowed up in mines and lands that have gone
under. That explains the sunstroke. Half the cases are mere worry
and drive. In the old, calm times it was scarcely heard of. Now, of
a hot summer's day in New York, a hundred or two men drop down. And
then they talk of unprecedented heat. It is the heat and the ferment
that have got into life."
"Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish," said the quiet
voice of Aunt Euphrasia. "How strange it is that men have never
interpreted yet!"
"Ah, well! I'm not sure about sins and judgments. I don't undertake
to blame," said Mr. Sherrett. "People are born into a whirl,
nowadays,--the mass of them. How can they help it?"
"I don't know. But we begin to see how true the words were, and in
what pity they must have been spoken," said Aunt Euphrasia.
"Tremendous physical forces have been grasped and set to work for
mere material ends. Spiritual uses and living haven't kept pace. And
so there is a terrible unbalance, and the tower falls upon men's
heads."
"Well, poor Argenter wasn't a sinner above all that dwelt in
Jerusalem. And now, there are his wife and daughter. I'm sorry for
them. They'll find it a hard time."
"I'm sorry, too," said Aunt Euphrasia, with heart-gentleness. She
could not help seeing the eternal laws; she read the world and the
Word with the inner illumining; but she was tender over all the poor
souls who were not to blame for the whirl of fever and falseness
they were born into; who could not or dared not fling themselves out
of it upon the simple, steadfast, everlasting verities, and--be
broken; upon whom, therefore, these must fall, and grind them to
powder.
"How will it be with them?" she asked.
"Do you mean there isn't anything left, sir? Nothing to carry out
the will?"
Rodney had dropped his spoon and left his soup untasted, since his
father first spoke: he had lifted up his eyes quickly, and listened
with his whole face, but he had kept silence until now.
Amy had looked up also; startled by the news, and waiting to hear
more. The young people were both too really interested, from their
intimate knowledge of the first misfortune, to reply with any common
"Is it possible?" to this.
"The will, I am afraid, is only a magnificent 'might have been,'"
said Mr. Sherrett. "There may be something secured; there ought to
be. Mrs. Argenter had a small property, I believe. Otherwise, as
such things turn out, I should suppose there would be less than
nothing."
"What will they do?" The question came from Aunt Euphrasia, again.
"Can't somebody help them? There is so much money in the world."
"Yes, Effie. And there is gold in the mines. And there are plenty of
kind affections in the world, too; but there's loneliness and broken
heartedness, for all that. The difficulty always is to bring things
together."
"I suppose that is just what _people_ were made for."
"It will be one more family of precisely that sort whom nobody can
help, directly, and who scarcely know how to help themselves. The
hardest kind of cases."
"It's an awful spill-out, this time," Rodney said to Amy, as she
followed him, after her usual fashion, to the piazza, when dinner
was over. "And no mistake!"
Rodney had brought a cigar with him, but he had forgotten his match,
and he stood crumbling the end of it, frowning his brows together in
a way they were not often used to.
"Will they have to go away?" asked Amy.
"Out of that house? Of course. They'll be just tipped out of
everything."
"How dreadful it will be for Sylvie!"
"She won't stand round lamenting. I've seen her tipped out before.
Amy, I'll tell you what; you ought to stick by. Maybe she won't
want you, at first; but you ought to do it. Father,"--as Mr.
Sherrett came out with his evening paper to his cane reclining
chair,--"you'll go and see Mrs. Argenter, shall you not?"
"Why, yes, if I could be of any service. But one wouldn't like to
intrude. There are executors to the will. I don't know that it is
quite my place."
"I don't believe there will be much intruding--of _your_ sort. And
the executors have got nothing to do now. Who are they?"
"Jobling and Cardwell, I believe. Men down town. Perhaps she might
like to see a neighbor. Yes, I think I will go. You can drive me
round, Rodney, some evening soon. Whom has she, of her own people, I
wonder?"
"Only her sister, Mrs. Lowndes, you know. The brother-in-law isn't
much, I imagine."
"Stephen A. Lowndes? No. Broken-down and out of the world. He
couldn't advise to any purpose. I fancy Argenter has been holding
_him_ up."
"I think they'll be very glad to see you, sir."
Rodney drove his father over the next night. Mr. Sherrett went in
alone. Rodney sat in the chaise outside.
Mr. Sherrett waited some minutes after he had sent up his card, and
then Sylvie came down to him, looking pale in her black dress, and
with the trouble really in her young eyes, over which the brows bent
with a strange heaviness.
"I could not persuade mother to come down," she said. "She does not
feel able to see anybody. But I wanted to thank you for coming, Mr.
Sherrett."
"I thought an old neighbor might venture to ask if he could be of
use. A lady needs some one to talk things over with. I know your
mother must have much to think of, and she cannot have been used to
business. I should not come for a mere call at such a time. I should
be glad to be of some service."
"Would you be kind enough to sit down a few minutes and talk with
me, Mr. Sherrett?"
There was a difference already between the Sylvie of to-day and the
Sylvie of a few weeks ago. It was no longer a question of little
nothings,--of how she should get people in and how she could get
them out,--of what she should do and say to seem "nice all through,"
like Amy Sherrett. Mr. Sherrett had not come for a "mere call," as
he said; and there was no mere "receiving." The llama lace and the
gray silk and the small _savoir faire_ could not help her now. Mrs.
Argenter was up-stairs in a black tamise wrapper with a large plain
black shawl folded about her, as she lay in the chill of a suddenly
cool August evening, on the sofa in her dressing-room, which for the
last week or two she had rarely left. All at once, Sylvie found that
she must think and speak both for her mother and herself.
Mrs. Argenter could run smoothly in one polished groove; she was
thrown out now, and to her the whole world was off its axis. Her
House that Jack built had tumbled down; she thought so, not
accepting this strange block that had come to be wrought in. She had
been counting little brick after little brick that she had watched
idly in the piling; now there was this great weight that she could
not deal with, laid upon her hands for bearing and for using; she
let it crush her down, not knowing that, fitting it bravely into her
life that was building, it might stand there the very threshold over
which she should pass into perfect shelter of content.
"Mother has been entirely bewildered by all this trouble," said
Sylvie, quietly, to Mr. Sherrett. "I don't think she really
understands. She has lived so long with things as they are, that she
cannot imagine them different. I think it is easier with me,
because, you know, I haven't been used to _anything_ such a _very_
long while."
Sylvie even smiled a tremulous little smile as she said this; and
Mr. Sherrett looked at her with one upon his own face that had as
much pitiful tenderness in it as could have shown through tears.
"You see we shall have to do something right off,--go somewhere; and
mother can't change the least thing. She can't spare Sabina, who has
heard of a good place, and must go soon at any rate, because nobody
else would know where things belonged or are put away, or fetch her
anything she wanted. And the very things, I suppose, don't belong to
us. How shall we break through and begin again?" Sylvie looked up
earnestly at Mr. Sherrett, asking this question. This was what she
really wanted to know.
"You will remove, I suppose?" said Mr. Sherrett "If you could hear
of a house,--if you could propose something definite,--if you and
Sabina could begin to pack up,--how would that be?"
He met her inquiry with primary, practical suggestions, just what
she needed, wasting no words. He saw it was the best service he
could do this little girl who had suddenly become the real head of
the household.
"I have thought, and thought," said Sylvie; "and after all, mother
must decide. Perhaps she wouldn't want to keep house. I don't know
whether we could. She spoke once about boarding. But boarding costs
a great deal, doesn't it?"
"To live as you would need to,--yes."
"I should hate to have to manage small, and change round, in
boarding. I know some people who live so. It would give me a very
mean feeling. It would be like trying to get a bite of everybody's
bread and butter. I'd rather have my own little loaf."
"You are a brave, true little woman," said Mr. Sherrett, warmly.
"All you want is to be set in the right direction, and see your way.
You'll be sure to go on."
"I _think_ I should. If mother can only be contented. I think I
should rather like it. I could _understand_ living better. There
would only be a little at a time. A great deal, and a great many
things, make it a puzzle."
"Have you any knowledge about the property?"
"Mr. Cardwell has been here two or three times. He says there are
twelve thousand dollars secured to mother by a note and mortgage on
this place. It was money of hers that was put into it. We shall have
the income of that; and there might be things, perhaps, that we
should have the right to sell, or keep to furnish with. Seven and a
half per cent, on twelve thousand dollars would be nine hundred
dollars a year. If we had to pay sixteen dollars a week to board, it
would take eight hundred and thirty-two; almost the whole of it. But
perhaps we could find a place for less; and our clothes would last a
good while, I suppose."
Sylvie went through her little calculation, just as she had made it
over and over before, all by herself; she did not stop to think that
she was doing the small sum now for the enlightenment of the great
Mr. Sherrett, who calculated in millions for himself and others,
every day.
"You would hardly be comfortable in a house which you could rent for
less than--say, four hundred dollars, and that would leave very
little for your living. Perhaps I should advise you to board."
"But we could _do_ things, maybe, if we lived by ourselves, amongst
other people in small houses. We can't be _two_ things, Mr.
Sherrett, rich and poor; and it seems to me that is what we should
be trying for, if we got into a boarding-house. We should have to be
idle and ashamed. I want to take right hold. I'd like to earn
something and make it do."
Sylvie's eyes really shone. The spirit that had worked in her as a
little child, to make her think it would be nice to be a "kitchen
girl, and have a few things in boxes, and Sundays out," threw a
charm of independence and enterprise and cosy thrift over her
changed position, and the chance it gave her. Mr. Sherrett wondered
at the child, and admired her very much.
"Could you teach something? Could you keep a little school?"
"I've thought about it. But a person must know ever to much,
nowadays, to keep even the least little school. They want
Kindergartens, and all the new plans, that I haven't learnt. And
it's just so about music. You must be scientific; and all I really
know is a few little songs. But I can _dance_ well, Mr. Sherrett. I
could teach that."
There was something pathetically amusing in this bringing to market
of her one exquisite accomplishment, learned for pleasure, and the
suggestion of it at this moment, as she sat in her strange black
dress, with the pale, worn look on her face, in the home so shadowed
by heavy trouble, and about to pass away from their possession.
"You will be sure to do something, I see," said Mr. Sherrett. "Yes,
I think you had better have a quiet little home. It will be a centre
to work from, and something to work for. You can easily furnish it
from this house. Whatever has to be done, you could certainly be
allowed such things as you might make a schedule of. Would you like
me to talk for you with Mr. Cardwell, and have something arranged?"
"O, if you would! Mother dreads the very sound of Mr. Cardwell's
name, and the thought of business. She cannot bear it now. But your
advice would be so different!"
Sylvie knew that it would go far with Mrs. Argenter that Mr. Howland
Sherrett, in the relation of neighbor and friend, should plan and
suggest for them, rather than Mr. Richard Cardwell, a stranger and
mere man of business, should come and tell them things that must be.
"I'm afraid you'll think I don't realize things, I've planned and
imagined so much," Sylvie began again, "but I couldn't help
thinking. It is all I have had to do. There's a little house in
Upper Dorbury that always seemed to me so pretty and pleasant; and
nobody lives there now. At least, it was all shut up the last time
I drove by. The house with the corner piazza and the green side
yard, and the dark red roof sloping down, just off the road in the
shady turn beside the bank that only leads to two other little
houses beyond. Do you know?"
Mr. Sherrett did know. They were three houses built by members of
the same family, some years ago, upon an old village homestead
property. Two of them had passed into other hands; one--this
one--remained in its original ownership, but had been rented of
late; since the war, in which the proprietor had made money, and
with it had bought a city residence in Chester Park.
"You see we must go where things will be convenient. We can't ride
round after them any more. And we could get a girl up there, as
other people do, for general housework. I'm afraid mother wouldn't
quite like being in the village, but of course there can't be
anything that she _would quite_ like, now. And we aren't really
separate people any longer; at least, we don't belong to the
separate kind of people, and I couldn't bear to be _lonesomely_
separate. It's good to belong to _some_ kind of people; isn't it?"
"I think it is very good to belong to _your_ kind, where-ever they
are, Miss Sylvie. Tell your mother I say she may be glad of her
daughter. I'll find out about the house for you, at any rate. And
I'll see Mr. Cardwell; and I'll call again. Good-night, my dear. God
bless you!"
And the grand Mr. Howland Sherrett pressed Sylvie Argenter's hand in
both of his, as a father might have pressed it, and went out with
the feeling of a warm rush from his heart toward his eyes.
"That's a girl like a--whatever there is that means the noblest
sort of woman, and I'm not sure it _is_ a queen!" he said to Rodney,
as he seated himself in the chaise, and took the reins from his
son's hands.
Mr. Sherrett was apt to say to Rodney, "You may drive me to this or
that place," but he was very apt, also, to do the driving himself,
after all; especially if he was somewhat preoccupied, and forgot, as
he did now.
The way Mr. Howland Sherrett inquired about the red-roofed house,
was this:
He went down to Mr. John Horner's store, in Opal Street, and asked
him what was the rent of it.
"Six hundred and fifty dollars."
"Rather high, isn't it, for the situation?"
"Not for the situation of the _land_, I guess," said Mr. Horner. "I'm
paying annexation taxes."
"What will you sell the property for as it stands?"
"Eighty-five hundred dollars."
"I'll give you eight thousand, Mr. Horner, in cash, upon condition
that you will not mention its having changed hands. I have some
friends whom I wish should live there," he added, lest some deep
speculating move should be surmised.
Mr. Horner thought for the space of thirty seconds, after the rapid,
Opal Street fashion, and said,--
"You may have it. When will you take the deed?"
"To-morrow morning, at eleven o'clock. Will that be convenient?"
"All right. Yes, sir."
And the next morning at eleven o'clock, the two gentlemen exchanged
papers; Mr. Horner received a check on the First National Bank for
eight thousand dollars, and Mr. Sherrett the title-deed to house and
land on North Centre Street, Dorbury, known as part of the John
Horner estate, and bordering so and so, and so on.
The same afternoon, Mr. Sherrett called at Mrs. Argenter's, and
told her of the quiet, pleasant, retired, yet central house and
garden in Upper Dorbury, which he found she could have on a lease of
two or three years, for a rent of three hundred and fifty dollars.
It was in the hands of a lawyer in the village, who would make out
the lease and receive the payments. He had inquired it out, and
would conclude the arrangements for her, if she desired.
"I don't know that I desire anything, Mr. Sherrett. I suppose I must
do what I can, since it seems I am not to be left in my own home
which I put my own money into. If it appears suitable to you, I have
no doubt it is right. I am very much obliged to you, I am sure.
Sylvie knows the house, and has an idea she likes it. She is
childish, and likes changing. She will have enough of it, I am
afraid."
She did not even care to go over and inspect the house. Sylvie was
glad of that, for she knew it could be made to seem more homelike,
if she and Sabina could get the parlor and her mother's rooms ready
before Mrs. Argenter saw it. During the removal, it was settled that
they should go and stay with Mrs. Lowndes, at River Point. This
practically resulted in Mrs. Argenter's remaining with her sister,
while Sylvie and Sabina spent their time, night as well as day,
often, between Argenter Place and the new house.
Rodney Sherrett rode through the village one day, when they were
busy there with their arrangements.
Sylvie stood on a high flight of steps in the bay-window, putting up
some white muslin curtains, with little frills on the edges. They
had been in a sleeping-room at Argenter Place. All the furniture of
the house had been appraised, and an allowance made of two thousand
dollars, to which amount Mrs. Argenter might reserve such articles
as she wished, at the valuation. So much, and two thousand dollars
in cash, were given her in exchange for her homestead and her right
of dower in the unincumbered portion of the estate, upon which was
one other smaller mortgage. No other real property appeared in the
list of assets. Mr. Argenter had, unfortunately, invested almost
wholly in bonds, stocks, and those last ruinous mining ventures. The
land out in Colorado was useless, and besides, being wild land, did
not come under the law of dower.
Mrs. Argenter thought it was all very strange, especially that a sum
of money,--eighteen hundred dollars, which was in her husband's
desk, the proceeds of some little mortgage that he had just
sold,--was not hers to keep. She came very near stealing it from the
estate, quietly appropriating it, without meaning to be dishonest;
regarding it as simply money in the house, which her husband "would
have given her, if she had wanted it, the very day before he died."
Possibly he might; but the day after he died, it was no longer his
nor hers.
To go back to Sylvie in the bay-window. Rodney rode by, then wheeled
about and came back as far as the stone sidewalk before the Bank
entrance. He jumped off, hitched Red Squirrel to one of the posts
that sentineled the curbstone, and passed quietly round into the
"shady turn."
The front door was open, and boxes stood in the passage; he walked
in as far as the parlor door; then he tapped with his riding-whip
against the frame of it. Sylvie started on her perch, and began to
come down.
"Don't stop. I couldn't help coming in, seeing you as I went by,"
said Rodney.
Sylvie sat down on one of the middle steps. She would rather keep
still than exhibit herself in any further movement. Rodney ought to
have known better than go in then; if indeed he did _not_ know
better than Sylvie herself did, how very pretty and graceful she
looked, all out of regular and ordinary gear.
She had taken off her hoops, for her climbing; her soft, long black
dress fell droopingly about her figure and rested in folds around
and below her feet as she sat upon the step-ladder; one thick braid
of her sunshiny hair had dropped from the fastening which had looped
it up to her head, and hung, raveling into threads of light, down
over her shoulder and into her lap; her cheeks were bright with
exercise; her eyes, that trouble and thought had sobered lately to
dove-gray, were deep, brilliant blue again. She was excited with her
work, and flushed now with the surprise of Rodney's coming in.
"How pretty you are going to look here," said Rodney, glancing
about.
The carpet Sylvie had chosen to keep for the parlor--for though Mrs.
Argenter had feebly discussed and ostensibly dictated the list as
Sylvie wrote it down, she had really given up all choosing to her
with a reiterated, helpless, "As you please," at every question that
came up--was a small figured Brussels of a soft, shadowy water-gray,
with a border in an arabesque pattern. This had been upon a guest
chamber; the winter carpet of the drawing-room was an Axminster, and
Sylvie's ideas did not base themselves on Axminsters now, even if
they might have done so with a two thousand dollar allowance. She
only hoped her mother would not feel as if there were no drawing
room at all, but the whole house had been put up-stairs.
The window draperies were as I have said; there was a large, plain
library table in the middle of the room, with books and baskets and
little easels with pictures, and paper weights and folders, and
other such like small articles of use and grace and cosy expression
lying about upon it, as if people had been there quite a while and
grown at home. There were bronze candelabra on the mantel and upon
brackets each side the bay window. Pictures were already
hung,--portraits, and gifts, not included in the schedule,--a few
nice engravings, and one glowing piece of color, by Mrs. Murray,
which Sylvie said was like a fire in the room.
"I am only afraid it is too fine," said she, replying to Rodney. "I
really want to be like our neighbors,--to _be_ a neighbor. We belong
here now. People should not drop out of the world, between the
ranks, when changes happen; they can't change out of humanity. Do
you know, Mr. Sherrett,--if it wasn't for the thought of my poor
father, and my mother not caring about anything any more,--I know I
should enjoy the chance of being a village girl?"
"You'll be a village girl, I imagine, as your parlor is a village
parlor. All in good faith, but wearing the rue with a difference."
"I don't mean to. I've been thinking,--_ever_ so much, and I've
found out a good many things. It's this not falling _on_ to anything
that keeps people in the misery of falling. I mean to come to land,
right here. I guess I preexisted as a barefoot maiden. There's a
kind of homeishness about it, that there never was in being elegant.
I wonder if I _have_ got anything in here that has no business?"
"Not a scrap. I've no doubt the blacksmith's wife's parlor is
finer. But you can't put the _character_ out."
"I mean to have plants, now; in this bay window. I guess I can, now
that we have no conservatory. Village people always have plants in
their windows, and mother won't want to see the street staring in."
"Have you brought some?"
"How could I? Those great oranges and daphnes? No: I shall have
little window plants and raise them."
"But meanwhile, won't the street be staring in?"
"Well, we can keep the blinds shut, for the warm weather."
"Amy will come and see you, when you are settled; Amy and Aunt
Euphrasia; you'll let them, won't you? You don't mean to be such a
violent village girl as to cut all your old friends?"
"Old friends?" Sylvie repeated, thoughtfully "Well, it does seem
almost old. But I didn't think I knew any of you _very_ well, only a
little while ago."
"Until the overturns," said Rodney. "It takes a shaking up, I
suppose, sometimes, to set things right. That's what the Shaker
people believe has got to be generally. Do you know, the
Scotch--Aunt Euphrasia is Scotch--have a way of using the word
'upset' to mean 'set up.' I think that is what you make it mean,
Miss Sylvie. I understand the philosophy of it now. I got my first
illustration when I tipped you out there at the baker's door."
"You tipped me out into one of the nicest places I ever was in. I've
no doubt it was a piece of the preparation. I mean to have Ray
Ingraham for my intimate friend."
Rodney Sherrett did not say anything immediately to this. He sat on
the low cricket upon which he had placed himself near the door,
turning his soft felt hat over and over between his hands. He was
not quite ready to perceive as yet, that the baker's daughter was
just the person for Sylvie Argenter's intimate friend; and he had a
dim suspicion, likewise, that there was something in the girl
constitution that prevented the being able to have more than one
intimate friend.
He repeated presently his assurance that Amy and Aunt Euphrasia
would come over to see them, and took himself off, saying that he
knew he must have been horribly in the way all the time.
The next morning, a light covered wagon, driven by Mr. Sherrett's
man, Rodgers, came up the Turn. There was nobody at the red-roofed
house so early, and he set down in the front porch what he took
carefully, one at a time, from the vehicle,--some two dozen lovely
greenhouse plants, newly potted from the choicest and most
flourishing growth of the season.
When Sylvie and Sabina came round from the ten o'clock street car,
they stumbled suddenly upon this beauty that incumbered the
entrance. To a branch of glossy green, luxuriant ivy was tied a
card,--
"RODNEY SHERRETT,
With friendly compliments."
Sylvie really sung at her work to-day, placing and replacing till
she had grouped the whole in her wire frames in the bay window so as
to show every leaf and spray in light and line aright.
"Why, it is prettier than it ever was at the old place; isn't it
Sabina? It's full and perfect; and that was always a great
barrenness of glass. The street can't stare in now. I think mother
will be able to forget that there is even a street at all."
"It's real nobby," said Sabina.
The room was all soft green and gray: green rep chairs and sofa,
green topped library table; green piano cover; green inside blinds;
a green velvet grape leaf border around the gray papered walls.
Sabina, though a very elegant housemaid, patronized and approved
cheerfully. She was satisfied with the new home. There had not been
a word of leaving since it was decided upon. She had her reasons.
Sabina was "promised to be married" next spring. Dignity in her
profession was not so much of an object meantime, nor even wages;
she had laid up money and secured her standing, living always in the
first families; she could afford to take it in a quiet way; "it
wouldn't be so bothering nor so dressy;" Sabina had a saving turn
with her best things, that spared both trouble and money. Besides,
her kitchen windows and the back door suited her; they looked across
a bit of unoccupied land to the back street where the cabinet-shop
buildings were. Sabina was going to marry into the veneering
profession.