THE GUEST
Welcome he is in hut and hall,
To maids and matrons, men and all.
PRAED.
To the isolated family in the Wilderness Manor the sight of a stranger
was a rare event, and the entertainment of a guest an unprecedented one.
So Ronald Bruce’s frank acceptance of their cordial invitation to stay
to supper and spend the night threw every member of the household into a
flutter of excitement.
Susan Palmer, signing to Em. to keep her seat and entertain her visitor,
arose and withdrew into the house.
Ann Whitlock and old Monica got up and followed her.
And the three women stood together in the kitchen and held a council of
cookery as to what should be provided for so “distinguished” a guest.
“Now you jest leab it all to _me_, chillun, and ’range yourselbes
underneaf my orders for de night, and I jest tell yer all what, I’ll
jest ’vide sich a supper as will make dat young man thank his blessed
stars as he missed his dinner at home—which he must a-missed, yer know,
’cause all dem dere big bugs allers eats deir dinner ’bout de time we
all thinkin’ ’bout gwine to bed,” said Monica confidently.
“And you really think you can cook a supper that he will enjoy?”
anxiously inquired Susan.
“Hush, honey, what’s yer talkin’ ’bout? He mus’ be a dreat deal harder
to please dan his ole uncle was if I can’t. Wasn’t I cook to ole Marse
Capt’n Wyndeworth, at Green Point? And didn’t ole Marse Capt’n Bruce
come to dinner and supper dere two or t’ree times a week? And where
would you find two greater epitaphs dan dey was? G’way from here,
chillun, and let me get de supper,” exclaimed the old woman.
And truly, with the resources of the rich Wilderness Manor, with the aid
of the well filled smoke houses, poultryyards, dairies, gardens and
orchards, old Monica found materials worthy even of her culinary
science.
Then leaving the cook to get supper Susan Palmer and Ann Whitlock went
upstairs and prepared the largest and best bedchamber (usually reserved
for the use of the agent) for the accommodation of their guest.
Meanwhile the party gathered under the trees in front of the house,
conversing gayly together, enjoying the cool evening air.
John Palmer, who was as innocent and unconventional as a child in the
matter of asking questions, drew out the frank young officer to speak
freely of his own circumstances.
When Susan Palmer had finished her task in the house and rejoined the
circle under the trees, John was saying:
“And so the old gentleman wants you to resign your commission in the
navy and to spend your life with him, does he?”
“Yes. You see it is not from selfishness on his part, but from
affection. The terrible disaster through which he lost his only son at
sea has so wrought upon his mind that he dreads to trust any one he
loves to the career of a sailor,” the young man explained.
“Ay, ay,” said John, “‘sich is life.’ And you say that he promises, if
you will resign your commission in the navy and stay with him for the
short remainder of his life, he will leave you The Breezes and all his
other property at his death?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a loving for the sea?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, if I was you I wouldn’t give it up. Not for filthy lucre, I
wouldn’t! It is an honorable career, the navy, and some _must_ follow it
and risk their lives, and, if need be, lose their lives; for ‘sich _is_
life.’ Put it to the old gentleman that way. Tell him _he_ wouldn’t
a-done it when _he_ was a young man, and why then should he want you to?
Tell him you will spend all your leaves with him, and that you don’t
want his money; you want an honorable naval career. There, young
gentleman, tell him that.”
Ronald Bruce smiled at the simplicity and freedom with which honest John
Palmer gave advice involving the loss or gain of a large estate, but was
saved the trouble of replying by his wife Susan, who struck into the
conversation with:
“But law, John, the old gentleman’s _feelings_ ought to be considered
_some_. It ain’t _all_ a question of money, nor it ain’t all a question
of honor; but of kindness and of feelings.”
“We be talking of principles, my dear, not feelings. But there, what’s
the use of arguing? Men will be guided by principles and women by
feelings while the world stands, for ‘sich is life.’ And youth will be
guided by its own wayward will. This young gentleman will do as he
pleases, after all.”
Ronald Bruce laughed, but did not commit himself.
Em. was perfectly silent. And the deepening twilight threw her beautiful
face into such dark shadow that her lover could not see its expression.
John Palmer started another topic by speaking of the island and the
mysterious stranger who owned it.
“They say as she is as fair as an angel of light; but how can they tell
that, since nobody has ever seen her face unveiled?” said John.
“I know nothing about her,” replied the guest, “except what the gossip
of the country people tell me, which may not be true.”
They discoursed concerning the White Spirit until one of the boys came
out of the house and whispered to his mother that supper was on the
table.
Susan Palmer arose in good, old-fashioned, rustic style and invited her
guest to walk in and partake, adding, with polite hypocrisy, that she
hoped he would excuse the plainness of fare they had to set before him.
Young Bruce laughed as he replied that there was no doubt the viands
were excellent in themselves and much better than he deserved—and so,
with the custom of _his_ class, he offered his arm to Mrs. Palmer to
take her to supper.
Susan accepted it and marched in.
John looked on with an amused smile, and then gravely took Em.’s hand
and tucked it under his arm and followed into the spacious dining-room
of the old house, where his first words were an exclamation of honest
astonishment:
“OH, MY!”
It cannot be denied that the table and the supper were a triumph of
decorative art and culinary science—adorned with the choicest flowers of
the conservatory, and laden with the daintiest luxuries of the season.
But covers were laid for four only—for John, Susan, Em. and their guest.
“For,” said Aunt Monica, in consultation with Mrs. Whitlock, “you an’ de
chillun will ’joy yourselves a dreat deal more eatin’ of your fill ’long
of yourselves dan siftin’ down dere, ’shamed to eat as much as you want
’fore de quality.”
Ann Whitlock and the young people fully agreed with Aunt Monica’s view
of the case, for with them feeding was always the most serious business
of life, at which they wanted no disturbing or restraining influence;
and here indeed was a feast not to be slighted on account of any company
in the world, but to be discussed at liberty and enjoyed at leisure.
So the party of four sat down to an epicure’s supper and did it full
justice.
Young Bruce complimented Mrs. Palmer upon the excellence of her dishes,
whereupon poor Susan, with much pride, answered:
“Well, sir, it is not much to say to _you_; but our old Aunt Monica was
chief cook to old Captain Wyndeworth, who was one of the greatest
epitaphs in the country.”
Ronald’s dark mustache quivered for a moment with the humorous smile
that was hovering around his lips; but that smile vanished when he saw
the distressed face of poor Em., who sat directly opposite him.
John saw all and understood half, saying to himself:
“Now the old ’oman has put her foot in it somehow or other; but what
odds? ‘Sich is life.’”
Young Bruce had tact enough to change the subject and lead the
conversation into such channels of entertainment and amusement that the
face of Em. soon lost its look of care and pain, lighted up with
interest and beamed with pleasure.
And the little, half perceived cloud having vanished, the dainty supper
passed off very pleasantly.
When they rose from the table, John led the way to the front piazza,
saying:
“I couldn’t advise you to sit under the trees at this hour, sir. The
dews are heavy at this season.”
The young man took the offered seat from his host and sat down in the
summer night’s sweet gloom, holding the hand of Em., who, unseen, sat
near him and good-naturedly answering the child-like questions of honest
John, who wanted to know if he had ever been to Africa. If he could tell
anything about the slave trade on the coast of Guinea. If he had ever
been to the Mediterranean. If he knew much about the pirates of the
coast of Barbary. And were there really wreckers there who rescued
shipwrecked passengers from the deep only to carry them off inland and
sell them into slavery? Had he ever doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and
were there really chunks of solid gold to be found there as big as pigs
of lead? And diamonds large as lumps of coal? Had he ever doubled Cape
Horn? And was there truly a land of fire there, corresponding to the
land of ice in Iceland, say?
Young Ronald Bruce had been to sea in some capacity or other ever since
he was ten years old. So he had seen all these places, and was able to
answer all these questions, and many more, that were put to him during
the evening.
His patience was inexhaustible while he held the slender, delicate
little hand of Em. within his own.
But these honest people were early birds, and very soon Susan Palmer
suggested that their guest must be weary by this time and would perhaps
like to be shown to his room.
Upon this hint John arose, lighted a tallow candle and offered to
conduct Mr. Bruce to his chamber.
Young Ronald pressed the little hand that he held in the darkness and
arose, bade the two women good-night and followed his host into the
house.
John, flaring tallow candle in hand, led the way up a plain, wide
staircase to the second floor and to a large, old-fashioned back room,
with paneled walls and polished plank floor, with tall windows looking
full upon the precipice, and so near it that one leaning out might peel
a piece of moss from the rock.
The room was lighted by two “mould” candles in tall, silver-plated
candlesticks that stood upon the top of a high, antique chest of drawers
and on each side of a tall, oval mirror.
The woodwork of all the furniture in the room, of the high post,
canopied bedsteads, the antique chest of drawers, the ancient press, or
wardrobe, the old escritoire, or bookcase and writing desk combined, the
claw-footed sofa, the high-backed, hard “easy-chair,” and the
spider-legged chairs and tables were all of the oldest and darkest
mahogany.
The draperies of the room, the curtains at the windows and the bedstead,
the covers of the chairs and the sofa were all of English chintz, of
large pattern, and once of “loud” colors, but now toned down to a
general hue of faded flowers.
“I see you looking around on the room with curiosity, sir. Yes, it _is_
old-timey! I reckon if these here old sticks of furniture had a tongue
they could tell a tale—don’t you?” inquired John, as he placed his
candlestick upon the high mantel-shelf.
“Yes, doubtless,” mused Ronald Bruce.
“But this is nothing to the manor-house, sir, though they do say this is
older than that. But if you want to see a rale, gorgeous, old, ancient
palace you come some day and see the manor-house, sir. Why, for one
thing, there is a picture, large as life, of a court lady of the time of
King David or Queen Mary, or some king or queen, I don’t remember which;
but anyhow, it is hundreds of years ago, and the splendid colors are as
bright and fresh as if it was painted only yesterday. But I am keeping
you from sleep, sir; good-night,” said John, with a smile, as he took up
his light to retire.
“Good-night, and many thanks for all your kind attentions,” returned the
young man.
When John Palmer reached the family sitting-room he found all the
household gathered around the table as a common center, discussing the
merits of their guest.
“He is really one of the most gentlemanly young men I ever saw in my
life,” said Susan.
“Hi, honey, what yer talkin’ ’bout! Ain’t he one ob de Bruces? An’ dey
do tell me as the Bruces are ’cended from some r’yal fam’ly or other.
Not dat I know, but so I hab heerd,” said Aunt Monica.
“There was a great hero named Robert Bruce, who became king of Scotland
in the old, old times, but there were also a large tribe of Bruces. So
how can any one tell? But as for this young gentleman, it does not
matter in the least whether he is descended from a king or a carter, _he
is himself_; that is the best he could possibly be,” said Em. earnestly.
“He is an honest, straightforward young fellow enough; and you are
right, my girl; it don’t matter two straws _who_ he is descended from,”
added John.
“Well, chillun, as de heat and burden ob entertainin’ ob dis young
ge’man falls onto my ole shoulders, and I hab to get up in de mornin’ to
cook a fust-chop, out-an’-out breakfast for him, _I’m_ a-gwine to bed.
Tell yer all what, it’s desaustin’ to de system cookin’ for dese here
epitaphs!” said old Aunt Monica.
“Oh, Aunty!” exclaimed Em., as if she had received a stab, so keen was
the recollection of the error of the supper table—“Oh, Aunty, not
epi_taph_, you mean epi_cure_! Epitaphs are put on tombstones, and
epicures——”
“Are put _under_ them! So what odds? ‘Sich is life,’” said John.
“Yes, but I want her to remember this, father, dear. Aunt Monica, _will_
you remember that people who love delicate and dainty food are
epi_cures_ and not epi_taphs_?” pleaded Em.
“Yes, honey, I’ll try,” said old Monica, and she remembered the
emphasized syllables so well that thenceforth she put them together, and
when she had occasion to speak of a gourmand she called him a curataph.
John called the children around him for their evening prayers; and after
these had been offered up the simple, kindly people bade each other
good-night and retired to rest.