AFTER A LAPSE OF TIME
It was three years after the Forces left Mondreer, and they had never
returned to it.
The farm was managed by Jesse Barnes, the capable overseer, and the
sales were arranged by Mr. Copp, the family agent, who remitted the
revenues of the estate in quarterly installments to Mr. Force.
The lady from the gold mines remained in the house, taking such
excellent care of the rooms and the furniture that she had gradually
settled down as a permanent inmate, in the character of a salaried
housekeeper.
“I’m a-getting too old to be bouncing round prospecting with the boys,
and so I reckon I had better sit down in this comfortable sitiwation for
the rest of my life,” she confided to Miss Bayard, one February morning,
when that descendant of the great duke honored her by coming to spend
the day at Mondreer.
“That’s just what I sez myself. When you knows you’re well enough off,
sez I, you’d better let well enough alone, sez I. And not take after
them unsettled people as are allus changing about from place to place,
doing no good,” assented Miss Bayard.
“It’s a habit dey gibs deirselves. ’Deed it is, ole mist’ess. Nuffin’ ’t
all but a habit dey gibs deirselves,” remarked Luce, who had just come
in with a waiter, on which was a plate of caraway-seed cake and a
decanter of blackberry cordial to refresh the visitor.
“Just like my neffy, Roland. He was restless enough after Le went to
sea, but after the Forces left the neighborhood and took Rosemary Hedge
with ’em, ropes nor chains wouldn’t hold that feller, but he must go off
to Baltimore to get a berth, as he called it. Thanks be to goodness, he
got in ’long of Capt. Grandiere as first mate; but Lord knows when I’ll
ever see him ag’in, for he is gone to the East Indies,” sighed Miss
Sibby. And then she stopped to nibble her seed cake and sip her
blackberry cordial.
“It’s a habit he gibs hisself, ole mist’ess. ’Deed it is. Nuffin’ ’t all
but a habit he gibs hisself, and you ought to try to break him of it,”
said Luce, as she set the waiter down on the table and left the room.
“Do you expect Abel Force ever to come home to his own house again?”
inquired Miss Sibby, between her sips and nibbles.
“Oh, yes, I reckon so, when the gals have finished their edication, but
not till then. You see they have a lovely house in Washington, according
to what Miss Grandiere and little Rosemary Hedge tells us, and the
children are at a fine school, so they live there all the year until the
three months summer vacation comes round, and then when Miss Grandiere
goes to Washington to fetch her little niece home to spend the holidays
here, why, then Mr. and Mrs. Force takes their three daughters and go
traveling. And this next summer they do talk about going to Europe, but
I don’t know that they will do it.”
“What I sez is that they ought to spend their summers at Mondreer. When
a family is blessed with the blessing of a good, healthy country home,
sez I, they ought to stay in it, and be thankful for it, sez I.”
Even while the two cronies spoke the door opened, and Jacob came in,
with a letter in his hand.
“There! That’s from the ole ’oman now. I know her handwriting across the
room. And now we shall hear some news,” said Mrs. Anglesea, with her
mouth full of cake.
And she took the letter from the negro’s hands, and opened it without
ceremony, and began to read it to herself, without apology.
“Is it anything confidential?” demanded Miss Sibby, who was full of
curiosity.
“No. I will read it all to you as soon as ever I have spelled it out
myself. I never was good at reading writing, particularly fine hand,
and, if I must say it, the ole ’oman do write the scrimble-scramblest
fine hand as ever I see,” said Mrs. Anglesea, peering at the letter, and
turning it this way and that, and almost upside down.
Presently she began to read, making comments between the words and
phrases of the letter.
“Well, it’s ‘Washington City, P Street, N. W., and February 8th.’ Why,
it’s been four days coming. Here you, Jake! When did you get this letter
out’n the post office?” She paused to call the negro messenger, who
stood, hat in hand, at the door.
“W’y, dis mornin’, in course, ole mist’ess,” replied the man.
“Don’t ‘ole mist’ess’ me, you scalawag! Are you sartain you didn’t get
it Saturday, and forget all about it, and leave it in your pocket until
to-day?”
“Hi, ole—young—mist’ess, how I gwine to forget w’en you always ax me?
No, ’deed. I took it out’n de pos’ office dis blessed mornin’, ole—young
mist’ess.”
“How dare you call me young mist’ess, you——”
“What mus’ I call you, den?” inquired the puzzled negro.
“Ma’am. Call me ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s better. Well, now the next time you go to the village, Jake, you
just tell that postmaster if he keeps back another letter of mine four
days, I’ll have him turned out. Do ye hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, now you may go about your business, and I will go on with my
letter.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The man left the room, and the housekeeper resumed her reading:
“‘MY DEAR MRS. ANGLESEA’: I wish she wouldn’t pile that name upon me
so! If she knowed how I hated it she wouldn’t. ‘I write to ask you to
have the house prepared for our reception on the eighth of June. You
will know what is necessary to be done, and you may draw on Mr. Copp
for the needful funds. He has instructions to honor your drafts.
“‘The girls expect to grad—grat—gral—gual——’
“Lord ’a’ mercy! what is this word? Can you make it out, Miss Sibby?”
inquired the reader, holding the letter under the nose of the visitor.
Miss Bayard, who had resumed her knitting after moderately partaking of
cake and cordial, dropped her work, adjusted her spectacles and
inspected the word.
“It’s graduate, ma’am. That means finish their edication, honorable.
Young Le Force graduated offen the Naval ’Cademy before he ever went to
sea as a midshipman, and my scamp, Roland Bayard, graduated offen the
Charlotte Hall ’Cademy before he ran away and went to sea as a common
sailor. I s’pose these girls is a-going to graduate offen the ‘cademy
where they are getting their edication, and I hope they will do
theirselves credit. When your parents do the best they can for you, sez
I, you ought to try to do the best you can for yourself, sez I, which is
the best return you can make them, sez I.”
“To do the best you can for them, I should think would be the first
thing to think about, and, likewise, best return to make them. But now
I’ll go on with my letter:
“‘The girls expect to graduate at the academic commencement, on the
first of June’—graduate at the commencement! I thought pupils
graduated at the end!—‘after which we expect to come down to Mondreer
for the summer, previous to going to Europe. I have much news of
importance to tell you, which concerns yourself as much as it affects
us; but it is of such a nature that it had best be reserved for the
present. Expecting to see you, I remain your friend,
ELFRIDA FORCE.’”
“So they are actually coming home at last,” said Miss Sibby.
“Yes, actially coming home at last,” assented the housekeeper. “But,
look here. What does she mean by that news as she has got to tell me
which concerns she and I both? I reckon it must be news of my rascal.
Lord! I wonder if it is? I wonder if he’s been hung or anything? I hope
to gracious he has! And then she wouldn’t mention it in a letter, but
wait until she could tell me all about it! It must be that, ole ’oman—my
rascal’s hung!”
“I reckon it is! When a man lives a bad life, sez I, he must expect to
die a bad death, sez I.”
“Well, I shan’t go in mourning for him, that’s certain, whether he’s
hung or drowned. But we shall hear all about it when the folks come
home. Lord! why, the place will be like another house, with all them
young gals in it!”
“I might ’a’ knowed somethin’ was up t’other Sunday, when I heard Miss
Grandiere tell Parson Peters, at All Faith Church, how she and Mrs.
Hedge were both going to Washington on the first of June. Of course, it
is to the commencement they’re going, to see Rosemary graduate along
with the others.”
“But to hear ’em call the end of a thing its commencement, takes me,”
said Mrs. Anglesea.
“So it do me. And if people don’t know what they’re a-talking about, sez
I, they’d better hold their tongues, sez I.”
“Young Mrs. Ingle will be mighty proud to have the old folks and the
gals back. Lord! how fond she was of them two little gals. To think of
her naming her two babies after them—the first Wynnette and the second
Elva. Let’s see; the first one must be two years old.”
“Wynnie is twenty-three months old, and Ellie is nine months; but they
are both sich smart, lively, sensible children that any one might think
as they was older than that. But I don’t hold with children being took
so much notice of, and stimmerlated in their intellects so much. Fair
an’ easy, sez I; slow and sure, sez I, goes a long way, sez I.”
So, talking about their neighbors, as usual, but not uncharitably, the
gossips passed the day. At sunset they had tea together; and then Gad
brought around the mule cart—the only equipage owned by the descendant
of the great duke—who put on her bonnet and shawl, bid good-by to her
crony, got into her seat and drove homeward.
“Well, the ole ’oman has give me long enough notice to get ready for
’em; but she knows there’s a good deal to be done, and country workmen
is slow, let alone the niggers, who is slowest of all,” ruminated Mrs.
Anglesea, who resolved to begin operations next day.