MRS. FABIAN'S VISIT
Eliza was not obliged to give up the apartment until the end of the
month. Hence her drifting from day to day, and Pluto's naps in the lap
of luxury.
All her energy and systematic habits were in a state of suspension. Her
clocks ran down. The watch in the tiny satin slipper beside her bed
alone ticked the minutes away, and when Eliza wound it her eyes were
too wet to see the time. Night fell and she went to bed. Morning dawned
and she arose. She drank tea, but it was too much trouble to eat.
One day the bell rang. At first she determined not to answer it. Then
second thought came to her. What was she waiting here for except to
answer the bell? Was her next duty not to introduce the usurper into
his kingdom--to give into his desecrating hands those objects,--easel,
palette, brushes, paints,--hallowed by her dear one's use? At the sound
of a knock she hastened to fling open the door. Mrs. Fabian, elegantly
gowned and furred, stood before her.
Eliza gazed at this apparition dumb.
"Why, Eliza Brewster," exclaimed the visitor with concern, "I scarcely
knew you." After the mutual gaze of astonishment the caller moved in
with her air of stately assurance, and Eliza followed her perforce into
the living-room. Here Mrs. Fabian swiftly examined the possibilities of
the scanty chairs, then seated herself in the largest.
"You have been ill, too, Eliza? You look like a ghost!"
The gaunt woman in the alpaca dress, so filled with resentment that she
begrudged her own tears because they informed this "relative" of her
grief, stood in silence with a beating heart.
"Sit down, you poor creature," went on Mrs. Fabian, unsuspecting hidden
fires.
They burned higher at the tone of patronage, but Eliza, weakened from
mourning and lack of food, felt her knees trembling and sank into the
nearest chair.
Mrs. Fabian, genuinely touched by the ravages she saw, broke the
silence that followed.
"I was greatly surprised and shocked to hear of Aunt Mary's sudden
going."
She began to feel uncomfortable under the set gaze of Eliza's swollen
eyes.
"I suppose you sent to my house at once, and found that Mr. Fabian and
I were in the far West."
"No, I didn't think of sending," returned Eliza.
"You should have done so. Surely there was no one nearer to Aunt Mary
than I."
"It was in the paper," said Eliza dully.
"Had I been here I should, of course, have taken charge of the funeral."
The pale eyes emitted a curious light.
"No, you wouldn't, Mrs. Fabian," was the quiet reply.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because the time for you to have done something for Mrs. Ballard was
while she was alive."
Eliza was too spent physically to speak other than softly, but her
words brought the amazed color to her visitor's face.
"You are presuming," Mrs. Fabian said, after a moment. "What do you
know about it? I suppose Aunt Mary did not think it worth while to
tell you all the things I did for her."
"No," agreed Eliza, "she never said a word about the times you came
with your automobile to take her riding; nor the picture exhibitions
you took her to see, or the way you had her to dinner Thanksgivin' time
and other times, or how you had her to spend part o' the summer with
you at the island, or--"
"Eliza Brewster, what does this mean!" Mrs. Fabian's eyes were dilated.
"Aunt Mary was not related to my husband or to his children. I never
expected him to marry my family."
Miss Brewster's gaze was fixed upon the speaker with pale scorn, but
the latter continued with what she endeavored to make a dignified
defence. "I always sent Aunt Mary a present at Christmas."
"Yes," interrupted Eliza. "Last season 'twas a paper-cutter. You gave
her cuts enough without that."
"And I called upon her at intervals," continued the visitor in a
heightened tone to drown the small voice.
"Intervals of a year," said Eliza.
Mrs. Fabian started to rise, but bethought herself, and sank back.
"You are impertinent," she said coldly. "A person in your position
cannot understand the duties of one in mine. There can be no discussion
between you and me." The speaker stirred in her chair and collected
herself. "I--and every one of Aunt Mary's relatives--appreciate your
faithful service to her, and thank you for it."
"Don't you dare!" ejaculated Eliza, with such sudden belligerency that
Mrs. Fabian started.
"You're almost crazed with fatigue and grief, poor creature," she said
at last. "I can see that you are scarcely responsible for what you say
to-day. You must take a long rest. Shall you go home to the island or
take another place in town? I can find you one."
Mrs. Fabian felt the superiority of her own self-control as she made
this kind offer; besides, in these troublous days with servants,
steady, reliable Eliza, with a sure touch in cookery, was not to be
despised. The visitor accompanied her offer with a soothing attempt at
a smile.
Eliza had relapsed into dullness. "I won't trouble you," she said.
"It would not be any trouble," was the magnanimous reply. "Just let me
know any time when you would like a reference, Eliza. It will give me
pleasure to reward your faithfulness."
Mrs. Fabian loved approval quite as much as she did admiration.
She would feel much more comfortable to win that of even this
uncompromising, cranky individual, so lined with the signs of
suffering. As Eliza Brewster was a native of the island where Mrs.
Fabian had resorted from the days of her girlhood, she had a very
slight but old acquaintance with this woman. As she glanced at the
thin hair, now fast turning grey, the sunken eyes and cheeks, and the
bony, roughened hands, she shuddered beneath her ermine-lined sables,
to remember that she and Eliza Brewster were about the same age. She
passed a white-gloved hand over the firm contour of her smooth cheek as
if to make sure of its firmness. "I believe it was I who recommended
you to Aunt Mary in the first place, long ago," she added.
"That's one o' your mistakes," said Eliza drily.
"On the contrary," returned Mrs. Fabian graciously. She was determined
to warm this forlorn specimen of New England frigidity into something
humanly companionable, else how was she going to attain the object of
her visit? She went on with such flattery of manner as she might have
employed toward a desirable débutante. "It has proved quite the best
thing that I ever did for Aunt Mary; securing her comfort and thereby
the peace of mind of all who belonged to her. Don't call it a mistake,
Eliza."
"However that may be," returned the other immovably, "'t wa'n't you
that did it. 'Twas your Cousin Mary."
"Oh--was it? Oh, indeed?" responded Mrs. Fabian, slipping back her furs
still further. Eliza Brewster's disagreeable manner was making her
nervous. "Yes, I believe Mrs. Sidney was with us on her wedding-trip
just at that time. Mr. Fabian and I have just returned from visiting
Mrs. Sidney out in her wild mountain home."
Eliza's eyes roved involuntarily to two blank sheets of board standing
on the mantelpiece; but she was silent.
"Do you know the contents of Aunt Mary's will, Eliza?" asked Mrs.
Fabian, after waiting vainly for an inquiry as to her cousin's
well-being.
"I do."
"What do you think of it?"
"That don't matter, does it?"
A streak of light illumined Mrs. Fabian's annoyance. Ah, that was
what was the matter with Eliza. After twenty-five years of faithful
service, she had expected to inherit her mistress's few hundreds. Full
explanation, this, of the present sullenness. The disappointment must,
indeed, have been bitter.
Mrs. Fabian felt an impulse of genuine sympathy. She knew the singular
loneliness of Eliza's situation; knew that she had no near kin, and the
transplanting from the island home had been complete. What an outlook
now, was Eliza Brewster's!
"Perhaps the will was as much of a surprise to you as it was to the
rest of us," Mrs. Fabian went on. "The Sidneys were amazed. They didn't
tell me just how much Aunt Mary left young Mr. Sidney. Do you know?"
"Yes," replied Eliza promptly.
And again Mrs. Fabian looked at her interrogatively. As well question
the Sphinx. She comprehended the stony closing of the thin lips. There
might be a combination which would make them open, but she did not
have it. She shrugged her fine-cloth shoulders. "Oh, well, it doesn't
matter. It must have been very little, anyway."
She sighed. She must get at her business, though she dreaded absurdly
to introduce it. "Well, Eliza, if you will take me to Aunt Mary's room,
I will go through her belongings. It is always the most painful duty
connected with a death, but it cannot be escaped."
Eliza stared at her, speechless.
"Aunt Mary had a few very nice things," went on Mrs. Fabian. She tried
to smile as at a loving memory. "The regulation treasures of a dear old
lady,--her diamond ring, a diamond brooch, and a camel's hair shawl--My
heavens!" cried the visitor, interrupting herself suddenly with a
shriek of terror. "Take it away! Take it away!"
She clung to the back of her chair; for Pluto, silent as a shadow, had
sprung upon the ends of her pelerine as they lay in her lap and was
daintily nosing the fur, while perilously grasping its richness, his
eyes glowing with excitement. Eliza rose, and sweeping him into one arm
resumed her seat.
"Oh, how that frightened me!" Mrs. Fabian panted and looked angrily at
the animal with the jetty coat and abbreviated tail, whose eyes, live
emeralds, expanded and contracted as they glowed still upon the coveted
fur.
If she expected an apology, none came. Eliza's pale face showed no
emotion. Endurance was written in every line.
"To be interrupted at such a critical moment!" Mrs. Fabian felt it was
unbearable.
"Let me see"--she began again with a little laugh. "Your pet knocked
everything out of my head, Eliza. Oh, yes, I was saying that I will
look over Aunt Mary's things now."
She rose as she spoke. Eliza kept her seat.
"You can't do that, Mrs. Fabian."
"I certainly shall, Eliza Brewster. What do you mean?"
"I mean that they're mine. She left 'em all to me."
The speaker struggled to control the trembling of her lips.
The visitor looked the limp black alpaca figure over, haughtily.
"Aunt Mary left you her diamond ring, her diamond brooch, and her
camel's hair shawl?" she asked sceptically.
"She left her diamond brooch to her namesake, Mrs. Sidney. I sent it to
her a week ago."
"Then, since you know Aunt Mary's wishes, what did she leave me? The
ring?"
"No, ma'am!"
"The shawl?"
"No, ma'am."
Mrs. Fabian's nostrils dilated.
"My aunt's poor trifles are nothing to me, of course, except for
sentiment's sake," she said haughtily.
Eliza bowed her bitter face over Pluto's fur.
"I am quite sure, however, that she did not pass away without some
mention of me,--her sister's child."
"She did, though, Mrs. Fabian. If it's a keepsake you want," added
Eliza drily, "you may have the paper-cutter. It's never been out o' the
box."
The visitor, still standing, eyed the other with compressed lips before
she spoke:--
"I have told you that I don't consider you responsible to-day. You are
half-crazed, and I'm sorry for you. Answer me this, however, and mind,
I shall verify your words by a visit to Mrs. Ballard's lawyer. Did my
aunt leave you, legally, all her personal possessions?"
"She did."
Mrs. Fabian maintained another space of silence, gazing at the seated
figure, whose gown looked rusty behind the polished lynx-black pressed
against it. There was no mistaking the truth in the pale, wretched eyes.
"Disappointed about the money, though, and taking out her ill temper on
me," thought the visitor.
To Eliza's increased heaviness of heart, the lady resumed her seat.
"Aunt Mary's death was sudden and unexpected and that explains her
not speaking of me," she said; "but I know it would please her that I
should use something that she had owned. I remember that shawl as being
a very good one. It came to her from some of her husband's people. I'll
buy that of you, Eliza."
"Will you?" returned the other, and Pluto emitted an indignant yowl and
tried to leap from the tightening hold.
"Don't you let him go, Eliza!" cried Mrs. Fabian in a panic. "He's
crazy about my fur. They always are.--Yes, the shawl is of no use to
you and the money will be. It is so fine, it would be wicked to cut it
into a wrap. I shall spread it on my grand piano."
Silence, while Eliza struggled still to control the trembling lips,
and Pluto twisted to escape her imprisoning arm.
"I'm willing to give you twenty-five dollars for that shawl."
Mrs. Fabian waited, and presently Eliza spoke:--
"It ain't enough," she said, against her impeding breath.
"Fifty, then. We all feel grateful to you."
"Mrs. Fabian," Eliza sat up in her chair as if galvanized and looked
her visitor in the eyes, while she spoke with unsteady solemnity, "the
price o' that shawl is one million dollars."
The visitor stared at the shabby figure with the grey, unkempt locks,
then shrugged her shoulders with a smile. "You'll come to your senses,
Eliza," she said. "Some day that fifty dollars will look very good to
you. I'll hold the offer open--"
"Likewise," added Eliza, breaking in upon her words with heightened
voice, but the same deliberation, "that is the price of each
handkerchief she left me, and each one of her little, wornout slippers,
and her--"
She could get no further. She choked. Mrs. Fabian rose; Pluto, with
another cry and a supreme writhe, tore himself from his iron prison.
The visitor shuddered, and looked at him fearfully, as his eager eyes
seemed to threaten her. She hastened precipitately toward the door.
Eliza, putting the utmost constraint upon herself, rose and ushered her
out.
Mrs. Fabian uttered a brief good-bye. Eliza was beyond speech.
While the visitor entered her waiting car, and sank with relief among
its cushions, the mourner stood, her back against the closed door, and
her eyes closed.
Restrained drops ran down her cheeks in well-worn ruts, and
occasionally a spasmodic sob shook the slight form.
Pluto came to her feet, his short tail stiffly outstretched and his
half-closed eyes lifted to the sightless face. In the long silence he
rubbed himself against her feet in token of forgiveness.