A VISIT TO MRS. SHERMAN'S ROOM--DADDY AND HIS NEW
SPOUSE--OMINOUS SIGNS.
Before opening another letter, let us pay a flying visit to the
Sherman family, and also to Daddy and his spouse.
The former are to be found in their old quarters at Pendleton, the
latter installed in the brown house at Chimney Rock.
It is near midnight, rather an unseasonable hour to intrude upon our
friends, but no matter; at the house we shall first enter; regular
habits do not prevail.
We will now imagine ourselves in the broad hall, on the second floor
of the finest hotel in Pendleton.
Open softly the door at your right. There the eldest Mrs. Sherman lies
sleeping. Her grey hair is parted smoothly under her white frilled
cap, her hands are folded resignedly upon her breast, and the angel of
her dreams has imprinted upon her features the chastened smile so
often seen upon the face of age.
We would fain prolong her slumbers, for, alas, we cannot stay the
swiftly drifting cloud, that is coming to darken her waking hours: the
silver lining of which she will not see, until, a spirit winged for
glory, she soars above it.
A confusion of sounds from below reaches us. Footsteps are upon the
stairs, uncertain, shuffling, as if grouping in darkness. Low,
persuasive voices are heard, a sharp retort follows. "No, Clara is
fiendish when I have been drinking, I will not meet her."
A woman has just brushed past us. She stands at the head of the
stairs, pale and determined.
"Bring him not here," she hisses between her closed teeth, to the men
who are assisting her husband to mount. "Take him to your own
homes--listen to his ravings. Bear his insults; blows if need be.
Perform the most disagreeable services for him. Yes, even imperil your
lives in his service, you who are his disinterested friends. You, who
have enjoyed your bacchanalian revels with him, take the consequences.
Bring him not to me. I despise, I hate the man who cannot control his
appetite--I tell you away with him!" she shrieked, as his friends
continued to urge him upward.
"Clara." A hand is laid gently on her arm. Her mother-in-law stands
trembling beside her; the noise has awakened her, and she has come out
in her night dress. "I will take Edward to my room and quiet him; he
shall not disturb you, my daughter."
"I am not your daughter. I will no longer be his wife. I will leave
the house this moment never to return. He has disgraced me long
enough. I will not bear it. I will not be the wife of a drunkard. I
have told him so times without number. You may soothe him if you
like--pet him--give him peppermint--I will not live with a man who
cannot control his appetite."
Tears and entreaties, are of no avail; the determination of the
high-spirited wife remains unaltered, and she has gone forth to her
father's house, leaving her mother-in-law not quite alone with the
invalid, for Louise and the doctor have been summoned.
Meanwhile, how thrives Daddy?
We shall see by the morning sun. It has just risen, and so has Daddy.
He peeps out and the sun peeps in, blinding his old eyes and cheering
his old heart. He and Recta are happy now. Hear him whistle like a boy
as he dresses. Recta helps him put his rheumatic arm into his coat
sleeve, and he kisses Recta.
Both leave the room, and as they pass a door standing ajar, push it
open; Here is little Fanny Green standing with bare feet before the
open window, brushing out her flaxen hair.
"O, Daddy," she exclaims, "a bird flew in here awhile ago, a real live
bird flew right in at the window, and throbbed his wings so hard
against the glass that he woke me. Why, before I could catch him, he
flew out. Do you think it would have been wicked to have caught him,
Daddy?"
"Laws, no, Fanny. 'Tween you and me, the Honey would have ketched him
in a second. She was uncommon spry when she was a leetle gal."
"O, Daddy, may--"
"You musn't hinder me now; I must go fur tu milk the cows."
"O, well, you won't feed the chickens 'till I come, will you, Daddy?
I'll dress, O, ever so quick, and say a very little prayer, and come
right out. I want to feed the speckled hen and the little yellow
chicks; please Daddy don't forget me, will you?"
Recta looks very much disturbed as they pass on together. "That
bird," she mutters very mysteriously, "it's a very bad sign."
"What's a bad sign, Recta?"
"Why, don't you know, Phillip, when a bird comes into the house it's a
sure sign of death in the family? I have never known it to fail. There
was Squire Billings died in less than a year after a bird flew in at
the winder. Sally told me they was a watching for some one to die and
it turned out to be the Squire."
"'Tween you and me, Recta, that was singular; now I think on't I've
noticed lately that Fanny has looked ruther pimpin. We must not cross
her in nuthin. I shan't tech the chicken feed 'til she comes; 'tween
you and me, hadn't we better write to the Honey?"
"May be she don't believe in signs, some don't," said Recta,
reflectively.
"'Tween you and me, we might tell her about Squire Billings."
"That wouldn't make any difference, Phillip, you can't convince some
people. We may as well not write until Fanny is really taken sick. I
wonder if she had ever had the measles: Neighbor Wycoff is awful sick
with them."
"'Tween you and me, I guess we had better write," persists Daddy,
struck with a new terror.
There is a sudden hush, and Fanny trips in bright as a May morning.