ELIZA'S INVITATION
For the first time since she had been left alone, Eliza drank her tea
that night without tears; and no lump in her throat prevented her
swallowing the egg she had boiled.
She held Mrs. Ballard's watch in her hand a minute before getting into
bed; and looked long at its gold face, and listened to its loud and
busy ticking.
"Forgive me, Mrs. Ballard," she thought; and association added, "as we
forgive our debtors!"
"No, I can't!" she muttered fiercely. "I can't! What's the use o'
pretendin'!"
Muffling the watch in its slipper, she turned out the gas and got into
bed. Composing herself to sleep more peacefully than she had been
able to do for many a night, her last thought was of Mrs. Ballard's
heir; and a sense of comfort stole over her in the very fact of his
existence. Again she seemed to feel the sympathetic pressure of his
kind hand.
"He thinks she may be paintin' still," she reflected. "She's got colors
to work with that's most blindin', they're so gorgeous, if we can judge
anything by the sunsets at the island. Why not think so! It's just as
reasonable as playin' harps, for all I can see."
Ever since her dear one's passing, Eliza had felt too crushed and too
wicked to pray; and being unable to say the whole of her Lord's Prayer,
her New England conscience would not allow her to say any of it; but
to-night a sense of hope and gratitude lightened the darkness, and a
new gentleness crept over her countenance as it relaxed its lines in
slumber.
She wakened next morning without the load of despair on her heart; and
slowly realized what had changed her outlook. She even smiled at the
cat, who had leaped up on the foot of her bed. He understood that he
might come no nearer.
"Every single mornin', Pluto, I've been dreadin' that the day had come
I'd got to show her pictures to him. Well, that's over."
"Meow!" remarked Pluto, commenting on the selfishness of beings who
overslept.
"Yes, I know what you want." Eliza turned her head wearily on the
pillow. "'Weak as a cat'! I don't think much o' that expression. I
notice you're strong enough to get everything you want. Oh, dear, I
wonder if I'll ever feel like myself again!"
The cat jumped to the floor, and coming to the head of the bed sat down
and regarded the haggard face reproachfully.
"You're just as handsome as a picture, Pluto," mused Eliza aloud. "I
don't know as it's ever made you any worse 'n common cats."
This optimistic change of heart lightened the atmosphere of the
cheerless kitchen that morning; and Eliza drew up the shade, which let
the sun slant in past a neighboring roof for a short half-hour.
A beam struck the kittens frisking above the kitchen table, and they
seemed to spring from the shadowy gloom of their corner, flinging their
little paws about with the infantine glee which had first captivated
their owner.
"Oh, yes, you can dance, still," she murmured, addressing them
reproachfully; but she left the shade up.
It was nearly noon when her doorbell rang again. Eliza hastened to the
glass. She had on her black alpaca to-day. Sweeping-cap and apron
were remanded to their corner, and she made certain that her hair was
smooth, then went to the speaking-tube.
"Yes?" she said, and listened for the possible voice of yesterday; but
a woman's tones put the question:--
"Is this Mrs. Ballard's apartment?"
"Yes," replied Eliza briefly.
"Is this Eliza Brewster?" again asked the sweet voice.
"It is," came the non-committal admission.
"May I come up, Eliza? It's Mrs. Wright."
"Mrs. who?"
"Mrs. Wright. Don't you remember my spending the day with Mrs. Ballard
last spring, just before I went to Brewster's Island?"
"Oh, Mrs. Wright!" exclaimed Eliza in a different tone. "Excuse me for
keepin' you waitin'. Come right up."
Well Eliza recalled the enjoyment of her dear one in that visit of an
old friend, rarely seen. Mrs. Ballard's social pleasures were so few,
this day gleamed as a bright spot in memory; and, not content with
opening wide the door, Eliza went out to the head of the stairs to
receive the mounting figure.
"_She_ stood here the last time," she said brokenly, as the visitor
reached her and held out both hands to receive Eliza's.
The newcomer's silver-white hair made an aureole about the face that
looked with kindly eyes into the other's dim ones.
"I was just thinking of that as I saw you waiting," she said. "It was a
shock to me to learn that Mrs. Ballard had left us. Was it very sudden,
Eliza?"
The latter could not trust herself to speak. She nodded and ushered
Mrs. Wright into the living-room, where they both sat down, the
visitor's heart touched by the mourner's altered countenance, and the
evident struggle she was making not to give way. Her compassion showed
in her gentle face and Eliza made a brave effort to smile.
"I know I'm a sight, Mrs. Wright," she faltered. "I've never been any
hand to cry, but I've nearly washed the eyes out o' my head the past
week. I don't expect anybody to know what I've lost." Her lips twitched
and she bit them hard.
"I can very well imagine," returned the other, "for Mrs. Ballard spoke
so warmly of you to me, and told me how many years your fortunes had
been cast together. She said you were the mainspring of the house."
"Thank you, Mrs. Wright," said Eliza humbly. "Yes, I saw that she ate
and slept right. Her interests were where I couldn't follow 'cause I
didn't know enough; but she was the mainspring o' my life. It's broken,
broken. I haven't got the energy to lift a finger, nor a thing to live
for. Honestly, Mrs. Wright," added Eliza in a burst of despair, "if 't
wa'n't for the commonness of a Brewster bein' found so disrespectable
as dead in a New York flat, and strange folks layin' their hands on me,
I wouldn't 'a' lived through some o' the nights I've had since she went
away. I'd lay there and try to think o' one single person it'd make any
difference to, and there ain't one."
"My dear," returned Mrs. Wright, regarding the haggard face, "how about
your relatives on the island?"
Eliza shook her head. "The only folks o' mine that are left are
'-in-laws,' or else cousins I've scarcely heard from for twenty-five
years. They haven't troubled themselves about me, and if I'd 'a' walked
out that way, they'd only 'a' said I'd ought to be ashamed o' myself."
"And so you ought," said Mrs. Wright with her gentle smile.
"Well, I didn't anyway," said Eliza wearily. "Did you stay at the
island all summer?"
"Yes, and I'm still there. May I take off my coat, Eliza?"
The hostess started up with sudden recollection.
"I hope you'll excuse me, Mrs. Wright; if I ever had any manners
they're gone."
Slipping off the coat, and relinquishing it into Eliza's hands, the
visitor went on talking. "My husband gave up business a couple of years
ago. Perhaps Mrs. Ballard has told you that he was never a successful
business man." Mrs. Wright stifled a sigh under a bright smile. "Nobody
can be well and idle long, you know, so the next thing he began to be
ailing, the dear man, and he thought the sea would do him good; and, my
dear Eliza, it has done him so much good that we have become islanders."
"You don't mean you're going to stay there?"
The visitor nodded the silvery aureole of her hair.
"That is what I mean. Mr. Wright went fishing all summer and he thinks
he has found his niche in life. He has not been so well and happy in
years."
"You'll stay all winter?" asked Eliza incredulously.
"Yes," the visitor smiled again, "and all the winters, so far as I
know. Mr. Wright is perfectly content."
"How about you?" asked Eliza briefly. She had gone back to her chair
and frowned unconsciously into the peaceful face regarding her.
"Oh!" Mrs. Wright raised her eyebrows and gave her head a slight shake.
"'In my father's house are many mansions!' I like to feel that it is
all His house, even now, and that wherever I may live He is there, so
why should I be lonely?"
Listening to these words, it seemed to Eliza as if some lamp, kept
burning on the altar of this woman's soul, sent its steady light into
the peaceful eyes regarding her.
"It's a good thing you can get comfort that way," she responded, rather
awkwardly. "I know it must 'a' been a struggle to consent to it--any
one used to a big city like Boston. What does your niece say to it?"
"Violet was with me a while. I am visiting her here now."
"She teaches, don't she?--the languages, or something?" inquired Eliza
vaguely.
"No, gymnastic dancing and other branches of physical culture. She
works hard, and no place ever rested her like the island, she thought.
Do you remember Jane Foster?"
The corners of Eliza's mouth drew down in a smiling grimace of
recollection.
"Do I remember Jennie Foster!" she said. "We grew up together."
"Well, she keeps a boarding-house in Portland now in winters and comes
to the old home, summers. We boarded with her, and now, instead of
closing up the place, she has rented it to me."
Eliza shook her head. "Pretty high up," she commented. "Some o' those
February gales will pretty near shave you off the hill."
"A good many husky generations have been brought up and gone forth into
the world out of that house," said Mrs. Wright cheerfully. "There are
some trees, you know. Do you remember the apple orchard?"
"Huh!" commented Eliza. "I know how the scrawny little things look when
they're bare! A lot o' shelter they'll be."
Mrs. Wright dropped her head a little to one side and her kind grey
eyes rested on Eliza's grief-scarred face. "I'm glad I came to see
you," she said irrelevantly.
"I'm a kind of a Job's comforter, I'm afraid. When I've thought of
anything the past fortnight I've thought about Brewster's Island,--a
sort of a counter-irritant, I guess."
"No, no, we can't have that. You mustn't call the Blessed Isle by such
a name."
"Perhaps it won't be such a Blessed Isle after you've spent a winter
there," remarked Eliza drily.
Mrs. Wright smiled. "I know it was your native place, and I hoped you
might have pleasant associations with it."
Eliza sighed wearily. "Yes, if I could be twelve years old again, and
go coastin' and skatin', and when it was dark tumble into bed under
the eaves with a hot bag o' sand to keep the sheets from freezin' me,
I should like it, I s'pose. I used to; but nobody on that snow-covered
hill cares whether I'm alive or dead, and that cruel black ocean that
swallowed up my father one night, and killed my mother, _that_ roarin'
around the island in the freezin' gale is the only thing I can see and
hear when I think of the winter."
"Then you have been thinking of going back to the island?"
"Well, it's either that or goin' into somebody's kitchen,
here." Eliza's mouth twitched grimly. "Mrs. Fabian offered me a
recommendation."
"Oh, yes. The Fabians were very kind to Violet this summer."
"You don't say so! I'm glad they can be kind to somebody."
The bitterness of Eliza's tone impressed her visitor. "Mrs. Ballard was
Mrs. Fabian's aunt, I believe," she ventured.
"I believe so, too," said Eliza, "but nothing she ever did proved it."
Mrs. Wright veered away from dangerous ground. "I have been thinking of
you a great deal since I learned of Mrs. Ballard's going, and I wanted
at least to see you before I went back." There was a little pause,
then she added: "It occurred to me that you might be going home to the
island--"
"I haven't any home there," interrupted Eliza stoically.
"--and I was going to ask you, in that case, if you wouldn't eat your
Thanksgiving dinner with me."
Eliza looked at her visitor, startled.
"Think of me," she said slowly, "eatin' a Thanksgivin'
dinner--anywhere."
Mrs. Wright felt a pang at her heart under the desolation of the voice.
It seemed the voice of the forlorn room in which they sat. She rose
to hide the look in her eyes, and moving to the mantel took up the
sketches that stood there.
"Are these interesting things Mrs. Ballard's work?" she asked.
Eliza was clutching the meagre arms of her chair until her knuckles
whitened. How fate was softening toward her! The thought that this
friend of her lost one would have her own hearth on the dreaded island
warmed the winter prospect. A link with Mrs. Ballard. A friend with
whom she might talk of her. The rift made yesterday in her submerging
clouds widened.
"Mrs. Wright," she said, unheeding the visitor's question, "you're
religious, I know, 'cause you quoted the Bible, and 'cause you take
cheerfully bein' buried in a snowdrift on Brewster's Island instead
of havin' the things you're accustomed to. So I want you to know
before you invite me to have Thanksgivin' dinner with you that I'm
the wickedest woman in New York. I haven't said a prayer since Mrs.
Ballard died. I hate Mrs. Fabian for her neglect of her, and I did hate
the young man Mrs. Ballard left her little bit o' money to."
Mrs. Wright, holding the sketch of Mary Sidney, turned and looked at
the speaker.
"Hated him 'cause he was an artist, and I didn't believe he'd
appreciate her work, but just spend her savings careless. That's
his mother you've got in your hand, and that's him, layin' on the
mantelpiece torn across the middle."
Eliza's aspect as she talked was wild. Mrs. Wright picked up the torn
pieces and fitted them together. In fancy she saw Eliza rending the
card. She felt that she understood all; the heart-break, the starvation
fare of tea, tears, and misery, and the blank future.
"His name's Philip Sidney, and his mother was Mrs. Ballard's niece and
namesake. Yesterday he came. He was altogether different from what I
expected. He took a load off o' my mind and heart. I don't begrudge him
anything."
"You're sorry, then, that you tore this handsome picture."
"Oh, I didn't--'cause Mrs. Ballard set such store by it. I only
turned it to the wall. 'Twas he tore it. He said it was too pretty
or something. He does look different. The picture's kind o' dreamin'
lookin' and he's so awake he--well, he sparkles."
Mrs. Wright smiled at the haggard speaker.
"I'm so glad you like him. Has he come to New York to study?"
"Yes; he had to be a mining engineer when he wanted to paint. So now
he's goin' to study with Mrs. Ballard's money."
"Why--I remember," said Mrs. Wright, thoughtfully regarding the
sketches. "Mrs. Ballard told me about him in the spring." She looked up
again at her hostess. "You've been through a great deal, Eliza," she
said, "and you've tried to go alone."
"I had to go alone," returned Eliza fiercely; "but I can be honest if I
am lonely and I won't sit down at your table without your knowin' that
I'm a sinner. Don't talk religion to me either," she added, "'cause I
ain't the kind it would do any good to."
Mrs. Wright came back to her chair and her eyes were thoughtful.
"I have a better idea still," she said. "For how long have you this
apartment?"
"One week more."
"Oh, only a week. Then, supposing you come and live with me this
winter."
Eliza leaned back in her chair, speechless. The grey wall of the
future slowly dissolved. The possibility of friendship--of a home--was
actually unnerving in its contrast to all she had steeled herself to
endure.
"Come and help me, Eliza," went on the gentle voice. "Show me how to
meet an island winter. I believe between us we can make a cosy sort of
season of it."
"Cosy!" echoed Eliza's dry lips.
"Yes. There by the gnarled little apple trees, handicapped by winter
winds, and the forlorn little chicken-house that stands near the
orchard. Do you remember that?"
"Yes," answered Eliza mechanically. "'T wa'n't always a chicken-house.
Polly Ann Foster built it 'cause she quarrelled with her son and
wouldn't live with him. I was a little girl and we were all scared of
her. When she died they began using it for the hens."
"Well, it's empty and forlorn now. Miss Foster can't keep chickens and
go back to Portland every fall. That's our only near neighbor, you
remember."
"I remember. Why should you be such an angel to me?" burst forth Eliza.
"Is that being an angel? Why, I'm so glad. You know I might be a little
bit lonely at the island. Mr. Wright is pretty sleepy in the evening
and the house rambles. We'll shut up part of it, Eliza, won't we?"
"Oh, Mrs. Wright!" exclaimed the lonely woman, every trace of her
fierceness gone. "What a godsend you're givin' me."
"Then it's settled; and Violet will be so glad. She isn't quite pleased
with our plan for the winter."