MR. CONGREVE SURPRISES HIMSELF AND EVERYBODY ELSE.
When Mr. Congreve came back from his walk, which had been a very lengthy
one, for he was much unsettled in mind, he came very slowly, and began
an uneasy soliloquy as he neared the house.
"How I just hate to go back there, I do; seven women,--God bless my
soul! and I'll wager my best hat they're all crying like water-spouts,
and haven't made my bed yet. I won't sit down in a room that isn't
cleaned up, and bless my soul,--where's my snuff box? I'd sit out doors,
sooner than be in the room where they're all sniffling, with the
curtains pulled down, as if Robert's going into eternal bliss, was a
thing to turn yourself into a wailing dungeon over;" and, ending his
mutterings with a revengeful snap of the gate, he stamped fiercely up
the walk, scattering the gravel right and left, and scaring a stray cat
almost into fits, by the way he swung his cane at her. Something in the
looks of the house when he glanced up, brought him to a sudden stand
still. The blinds were all open, with the sun shining warmly on the
glass, one window was thrown up, and through it came the merry whistle
of a bird, giving forth a musical defiance to the coming of winter, and
when Mr. Congreve rather slowly opened the front door, there met him a
warm, cheery odor, and,--yes, actually; some one laughed upstairs! In
the sitting-room a jolly fire leaped and shone in the shining grate, the
piano stood open, the room was full of sunshine, and under Mr. Dering's
large portrait, was a bracket, and there on it, a graceful little vase
filled with pansys and a tea-rose, from Jean's little window garden in
the dining-room.
Mr. Congreve gave a surprised and emphatic "humph," and tramped away to
his own room, which was in apple-pie order, then tramped back, without
having seen any one but Huldah flying around on the back porch.
Presently Jean came through the hall, and seeing him sitting there and
frowning at the fire, as though trying to study out some new and
astonishing puzzle, she stopped at the stairs to call,--"Mr. Congreve is
here, mama."
"Humph! _Mr. Congreve_, if I ever, if I ever," exclaimed that gentleman,
with some energy, and whirling about in his seat.
"Come here, Jeanie; here's your candy."
It really was quite astonishing how his voice could change when he spoke
to her, and how his face brightened when she came in without hesitation
and received the package with a pleased,--"Thank you, sir."
"Well, I declare,--quite right, to be sure; but don't you know who I am,
and what my name is?"
"Yes, sir, you're my papa's uncle, and your name is Mr. Congreve,"
answered Jean, just a little startled at being lifted on to his knee,
and having his arm around her.
"So I am, to be sure; quite true; but if I'm your papa's uncle, I'm your
great-uncle, and there isn't such an immense amount of difference; don't
you suppose you had better call me Uncle Ridley, as he did?"
"Why, I don't know, perhaps I had. I'll ask mama," answered Jean in
earnest simplicity.
"Well, you do that, and tell her if she's not busy, I'd like to talk
with her awhile. Do you remember what I said to you this morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'm going to talk to her about it now."
Jean slipped down in a hurry, and departed with her big bundle of candy,
looking both pleased and frightened.
Mrs. Dering came down in a moment, and not having entirely given up his
imaginary widow, Mr. Congreve looked up in some trepidation to see if
she was crying. But no; her face, though pale and sad, was perfectly
tranquil, and her dress was cozy, comfortable brown.
After a few remarks about his walk, and the attractions of Canfield,
conversation sank into an uneasy pause, and for some unknown reason, Mr.
Congreve grew as red as a lobster. He had expected when he came that all
he would have to do would be to fill out a check for several thousand,
assure the demonstrative widow that she should never want, graciously
allow the children to call him Uncle Ridley, submit to be kissed at
coming and going, then get out of the way, and confine his further
acquaintance with them to the medium of occasional checks and a few
letters, when,--well, did you ever!--here he sat, blushing like the
most bashful lover in Christendom, and couldn't get up his courage to
offer the widow help of any kind; had actually requested the youngest
child to kiss, and call him Uncle Ridley, and was now entertaining an
idea, which, had it been broached to him before leaving home, would have
aroused his fiercest ridicule and amaze.
"You know, perhaps," he began, with a preparatory and strengthening
sniff of snuff, "that I heard from Robert, some days ago?"
"Yes, sir, but I did not know it until last night."
"Humph!" he remembered his first greeting, and looked at her sharply.
"Perhaps you did not know until then, just how his affairs stood?"
"No, sir, I did not. Our daughter Olive was her father's book-keeper and
confidante; she knew all; but with his ever thoughtful consideration, he
hoped to settle his business difficulty without worrying me, and I did
not know until after I left you last night, how deep had been his
trouble."
"Olive,--hum, ha!" said Mr. Congreve, nodding decidedly, and really
looking pleased. "She's the one that said she hated me last night; good!
I'll wager my hat she saw my letter; I like her spunk; she's a thorough
Congreve. Your oldest, I suppose?"
"Oh no, she's quite a child in years, not yet sixteen."
"God bless my soul! you don't say so; only fifteen, and a book-keeper,
and shares her father's troubles, and flies like a tiger into a man's
face who don't do to suit her!--hum!
"I should like to see her again. I should, indeed."
Mrs. Dering could not restrain a smile at the utter amazement depicted
in his face. He looked like a man who was undergoing a constant
shower-bath, and didn't know what to make of it.
"I am very sorry," she said. "It grieves me that Olive has an
exceedingly peculiar and unforgiving disposition. She was devoted to her
father, and you are quite correct in your supposition that she saw your
letter."
"And consequently don't want to see any more of me," said Mr. Congreve,
with a quick nod, and as Mrs. Dering made no denial, he got up, and
seizing his cane, began to walk up and down the room, and Mrs. Dering
watching his face, saw therein a struggle of some kind. In truth, he was
turning over in his mind a confession, which his obstinate pride
struggled against, but which a new, strange feeling, that told him he
did not want this family's contempt and hatred, claimed and conquered.
He stopped in his restless walk, and faced her suddenly.
"I have been angry with my nephew for years, you know that, and you know
my nature," he said sharply, all the more so to hide his feelings. "When
I wrote that letter I meant every word of it, and as many more of the
same kind, but some womanish weakness afterwards possessed me, and on
the day that I heard of his death, I had a letter written to him,
containing the check for six thousand."
Knowing him, as she did, Mrs. Dering well understood the feelings
attendant upon this confession, and her face softened wonderfully as she
said:
"I most regret, Mr. Congreve, that Robert did not live to know that you
repented the cruel words that so grieved him. You know how proud and
sensitive he was, and what a struggle it must have been to ask help of
you. Your kindness, though too late, we all appreciate sincerely."
"Too late? The time is not out."
"But I shall let the store go. I have no sons, and I cannot have the
care of it on my mind."
"Humph! May I ask what you intend to do?"
"Certainly. I have some money, four thousand in the bank, which will
only be taken out in great necessity. As soon as possible, myself and
children will begin to work. I am quite sure that I can secure a
situation in the seminary three miles out of town, perhaps one also for
Beatrice, my oldest daughter, and I hope before long to find something
for the others."
Mr. Congreve opened his lips to speak, but was amazed beyond all
comprehension, to find that he had no voice, he tried it again, then
again, then broke abruptly into a hurried walk up and down the room, and
flourished his scarlet handkerchief furiously.
"It was very kind of you to undertake such a long tiresome journey for
our sakes, Mr. Congreve," said Mrs. Dering, beginning to feel a strange
sympathy for the old gentleman who could not hide how deeply he was
moved.
"Not half what I ought to do," sputtered the inconsistent old man. "I
always want to help where I see it is so worthy. I am proud indeed, to
see,--where's my snuff-box--that Robert's wife and daughters are so
worthy of him; I--I--will you allow me to settle four thousand per annum
on you and your children?"
"Oh, no; thank you so gratefully; but I could not, so long as we are
well; we can work and live quite comfortably, but if I am ever in
trouble, if sickness drains our savings low, I will come to you gladly,
and Robert will be so pleased."
It was no use to try and hide a sniff, so Mr. Congreve made a savage
thrust at his eyes and wiped them both, blew his nose long and
earnestly, coughed several times without any apparent necessity, and
then subsided into a chair.
"I suppose you are right, Elizabeth Dering, and I like you better for
it, though,--God bless my soul!--to think of you and the little girls
working for bread and butter, while I count my hundreds of thousands and
lay up in ease and laziness. Why, it makes me feel as I never supposed I
could feel over any sorrow or privation that might come to Daniel
Lathrop's daughter. But you're not like your father, no, you're not, and
I'm glad of it, and if I had it to do over again, I would not banish
Robert for marrying you."
If Mrs. Dering felt any resentment at the thrust against her father, she
gave no evidence of it, but only thought with a quiet joy, mingled with
a little longing, "If Robert was only here to hear him say it."
"I want to make another offer to you," said Mr. Congreve, tapping his
stick lightly on the floor, and keeping his eyes averted, "and before I
make it, I want to ask that you do not decide too quick. Take all the
time you want, and whatever your decision will be, it will affect my
happiness quite as much as it does yours."
He stopped there, and looked at her closely, as though contemplating a
possible refusal; then went on interrogatively:
"You are going to work at something that will take all of your time,
and, perhaps, keep you away from home; your daughters are going to work,
such of them as are able, but, from my observation, there are three of
them who can do nothing in a business line. Two of them, the twins, are
strong and healthy and can look after themselves, but the third, Jean,
what will you do with her?"
"You have touched the point that constitutes my greatest worry and
perplexity," answered Mrs. Dering, quite unconscious of the thoughts in
his mind. "Jean is so delicate and frail that she requires constant
attention; she is a child, and must be amused, and because of her
affliction she can never be unattended. I have always taught her, and
being fond of her books, she is much farther advanced than most children
of her age, and I regret beyond all expression that she will have to
fall behind now, she----"
"No, she won't," cried Mr. Congreve, who had been growing more excited
as the speech progressed, and who now jumped out of his chair with every
indication of breaking into a jig. "I assure you she won't, only let me
have her; she shall have the best governess and attendant that money can
bring. Every luxury and comfort that can be thought of, every wish
gratified as soon as expressed and I--I--"
He was obliged to stop to get his breath, and grow a little more quiet,
for Mrs. Dering was leaning back in her chair, quite white with amaze
and contending emotions; so Mr. Congreve settled abruptly into a chair
and smoothed his voice and manner down several degrees.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he continued. "I know it is sudden and,
indeed, I am quite as astonished as you are; I am, indeed; but the
moment I looked at the child last night, there was something in her face
and manner, that reminded me so strongly of my own little Mabel, that my
heart, old and dried up as it is, went right out to her. You know,
Elizabeth Dering, how I loved my child. She would have been a woman now
had she lived, but the Lord saw fit to take her, and--and--I--where's my
snuff-box?--I suppose, of course, 'twas best; but here's your little
one, yours and Robert's, afflicted like my little Mabel, and I am able
to do everything by her that the sick and afflicted need. She shall
travel, have the best of medical attention, and if the dear good Lord
sees fit, perhaps she may be cured."
His fierce gray eyes were completely softened and full of tears, and the
way that scarlet handkerchief flew about would have puzzled the closest
watcher, but Mrs. Dering saw nothing, heard nothing but his last
words:--"perhaps she may be cured." Almost unconsciously she stood up
and held out her hands.
"Oh, Mr. Congreve, do you mean it, indeed?"
"God bless my soul! mean it? Yes, I do, indeed. I do, with all my heart.
I'll feel like there was something for me to live longer for, and it
will put new, strong life into my dried-up old being, to see a child's
sunny face around my quiet home and to know that it is for her good that
I live. Ha! mean it? Yes, my dear madam; I should rather say I did mean
it."
It really seemed as though Mrs. Dering could not speak for the many
emotions that oppressed her, but after one or two glances at her face,
which caused the old gentleman to scout at the idea of her refusing, he
exclaimed with a fatherly benignity which sat oddly on his crusty
abruptness:
"There, there, dear child, go right off up stairs and think about it.
I'll just take a snooze right here by the fire, and then after awhile
we'll talk again. I don't think the little girl will object. I said a
few words to her this morning, and the idea pleased her, I am quite
sure."
So Mrs. Dering retired after a few inarticulate words of thanks or joy,
and after taking a tremendous tiff of snuff with such haste that it
nearly strangled him, Mr. Congreve settled into a comfortable, dreamy
state, where a face, long since gone from his home, looked out at him
from the fire with a smile, and then beside it came another, sweet and
patient, with soft eyes, and the two seemed to know each other, and as
they smiled, the one that was now an angel faded slowly and left the
other there looking at him with beseeching eyes.
There was the greatest commotion up stairs when Mrs. Dering told the
assembled girls of Mr. Congreve's proposition. Jean instantly hid her
face and began to cry, and influenced by this, the girls instantly
pounced upon Mr. Congreve, and declared it should not be.
"Why do you cry, dearie?" asked Mrs. Dering.
"I don't know," answered Jean, somewhat bewildered, as she looked around
on the indignant faces. "Because it seems so queer, I guess. I always
thought I would be crooked, and have to go on a crutch, and Uncle
Ridley,--he asked me to call him that,--says, perhaps, all the doctors
can cure me, and--and it seems so good that I don't know how to be glad
enough, so I just cry, you see."
Everybody "saw," figuratively speaking, for actual sight was quite
impossible with the quick sympathetic tears that sprang to every one's
eyes. Opinions flew about like papers in the wind, and Mrs. Dering could
not make herself heard in the babel of tongues.
"Wait, girls, listen a moment," she exclaimed at last, and the
commotion quieted, somewhat, to hear what she had to say.
"You know," she began, drawing Jean to her side, "I have been telling
you this morning how very differently we would have to live, now; it
will take all of us, working hard, to keep home comfortable, for the
expenses of a family of such size are very heavy. Since realizing this,
I have prayed long and earnestly to know what was best to do about
Jeanie, for if I can secure the position at the seminary, I can only
come home twice a week, and in the meantime, I could not bear the worry
of her being here alone with you girls, even though I know you would be
faithful and careful of the trust. Now comes Mr. Congreve's offer, with
the promise that she shall have every attention, care and luxury, and
better than all, that she shall see eminent and skillful physicians,
whom we could never afford. I feel as though it was God's answer to my
prayer, and that it is wicked to hesitate a moment, however much we all
love our little girl, and hate to have her go so far away."
"But, oh, mama," cried Jean, with a sob of ecstatic joy and excitement,
"just to think of my being straight and well, like Kittie and the rest!
I would feel like I never could thank God and Uncle Ridley enough. Oh, I
_may_ go, mayn't I?"
"Yes, darling, you shall go."
So briefly was it settled.
Everybody was in raptures excepting Olive. She frowned severely, and
looked bitterly pained, but she said nothing until the rest had left the
room, then she came to Mrs. Dering's side. "Oh, mama, are you really
going to let her go?"
"Yes, dear."
"How can you? Such a cruel, selfish, unfeeling--"
"Hush, Olive."
Olive did so instantly, and stood with her hands folded and eyes down,
the very picture of bitter defiant distrust, and Mrs. Dering saw in an
instant that any thing she might say in Mr. Congreve's behalf, would be
wasted words, as Olive was fully prepared to misconstrue anything that
the old gentleman might say or do. Nevertheless, she laid her hands on
those tightly folded ones, and said gently: "Olive dear, we must be
charitable and forgiving. Remember, Mr. Congreve is old and very
peculiar; he always was, and one's peculiarities increase as they grow
older. You heard what I said about him this morning, and you see he must
be kind at heart, to have taken such a long journey, just for our
sakes."
Olive made no answer, and her mother sighed a little.
"In regard to the estrangement between him and papa, I think he went to
extremes, as hot passionate tempered people are apt to do; and yet, he
is not wholly at fault, for I grieve very much to say, that in the
quarrel between my father and Mr. Congreve, father was much to blame;
he did very wrong, and it was quite natural for Mr. Congreve to feel a
violent hatred for all his family, and to object to his nephew marrying
into it. That Mr. Congreve has many times repented his harsh treatment,
I know to a certainty; but he is proud, as well as hasty, and pride in
an old man is harder to battle with than in a young one. In speaking of
papa a few minutes ago down stairs, he could not restrain the tears. He
says he wrote that letter, and meant it, but that on the day he heard of
papa's death, he had another letter, and the required check ready to
send to him."
"I don't believe it!" interrupted Olive passionately. "If he did, he
wrote it after he heard, just so as to tell you so."
"Oh, my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dering, sadly, "how your hasty,
distrustful spirit grieves me. You cannot conceive of the misery it will
cause you, when you are brought to face the world, where there is so
much to distrust, and so much that must be overlooked and blindly
believed in. Can't you allow for others, some of the pride, the wilful
temper and bitter hastiness that you know so well what it is to battle
against, when I tell you that the greatest point of difference between
your own and your great-uncle's disposition, is, that he is as hasty one
way as you are the other; can't you be more charitable to him?"
"Oh, mama! _I_, like _him_?" cried Olive.
"Yes, dear, except that when you are once angry or hurt, you nurse your
pride, and repel every advance towards a reconciliation. Mr. Congreve is
more generous; if he really sees he is wrong, he is as impulsive to mend
as he was passionate to break. He is bitter and distrustful from a long
and often sad and disappointed struggle with the world; you are bitter
and distrustful--for what, my dear child, I never could imagine, for we
all love you most tenderly, and in this grief and trouble which God has
sent for some good reason, you have been an inexpressible comfort to us
all."
Olive withdrew her hand from her mother's clasp, and hurried away
without a word. Mrs. Dering thought she was hurt, perhaps angry, and
sighed deeply; but Olive had gone to hide her tears, and resolve to do
differently, but all her resolves were made without asking for higher
strength and help.