The next few days passed in a whirl of excitement for Drusilla. Dresses
were bought for her to fit, and she went into town with Daphne on
visits to the great dressmaker, who turned and studied Drusilla as gown
after gown was fitted to her slim, yet still erect old figure. But
finally they were all finished and great boxes came to the house. They
were opened by Jeanne and their treasures spread upon the chairs and
the bed to be admired and fingered lovingly by Drusilla, who took as
much joy in her new clothes as any girl with her first trousseau.
Except for the Bible and the life of John Calvin the contents of the
little trunk were lost, so far as Drusilla was concerned. She became
another being, as, clothed in soft-toned grays, her hair dressed by the
hand of expert Jeanne, she gradually lost her feeling of loneliness, of
being a person apart from her new life, and began to move with
confidence amongst the treasured beauties of her new home.
The pretty gowns gave her a feeling of respect for herself that she had
never experienced before, and for the first time in her life she felt
within herself a _power_. Her opinions were deferred to, her wishes
carried out immediately, and it seemed to her that all the world was
trying to give her happiness. It took her many days to feel that she
might ask for service instead of waiting upon herself; but she soon
learned that the many servants were there for her especial use, and
expected to be called upon to render any service that she required.
At first she was embarrassed when the housekeeper came to her in the
mornings for orders for the day, and she confided to Daphne that she
didn't know what to tell her. Daphne interviewed the housekeeper
privately and then said to Drusilla, "I have seen Mrs. Perrine and told
her that she doesn't need to come to you in the morning, as she
understands what is to be done. If there is anything special, you will
tell her, but you are not to be bothered with the details of the house
now. After a while, perhaps, you will care to attend to some of the
things, and tell her what you would like; but don't let it worry you
until you get used to it all. I told the chef, too, that he need not
send up the menu for the day, as he did to Mr. Doane."
Miss Thornton could not know how thankful Drusilla was for this last
order, as the consideration of the menu had been a great embarrassment
to her. It was written in French--a language quite unknown to
Drusilla--and although she could not read the names of the marvelous
creations of the cook, the food delighted her and the quiet, skilful
service was always a wonder. The mechanism of the great household
seemed to move with almost a machine's precision, and she felt that she
was in a world that revolved to the order of unseen hands.
She had been in her new home but a few days when a card was brought
her, and she read on it: _Thomas Carney, The New York Times_. She went
to the library, wondering what some strange man could want with her.
She found a very quick, alert young man, with twinkling blue eyes, who
rose to greet her. She gave him her hand and asked him to be seated. He
sat down, and then question after question was asked Drusilla. What
relation she was to Elias Doane? Had she ever known him? How she had
passed her life; the details of the life in the Doane home; how many
years she had been there? Her impressions of her new home; what she
intended doing with her million dollars; if she had any relatives to
whom she would leave her money? Was she interested in charities? Did
she believe in promiscuous giving, or would she help personally the
objects of her charity?
Poor Drusilla heard the flood of questions in amazement, and answered
them quite frankly; and the keen young newspaper man read much between
the answers that showed the loneliness of her life, her bewilderment in
her new surroundings, and he congratulated himself that he would have
an article for his Sunday paper that not only would be filled with
facts but also would have "heart interest."
When he rose to go he asked her if she had a photograph of herself.
She laughed.
"No, I ain't never had my pictur' took since I was a young girl and had
it on a tintype."
Nothing daunted, the young man asked for it; but she had to tell him
that she had lost it years ago; and then he asked if he might take her
photograph as she sat there in her high-backed chair. Drusilla was a
little awed by this very confident young man, so she sat still while he
took her photograph, and then when he was ready to depart, she
hesitatingly said:
"Young man, you have asked me a lot of questions. May I ask you one?"
He laughed.
"Certainly! As many as you want."
"Well, why have you asked me so many things?"
"I represent the New York _Times_, a newspaper, and we want to tell the
people all about you."
"About _me_? Why should they want to know about _me_?"
The man laughed again, pleasantly, and said:
"You know we like to know about our neighbors, and you are the newest
neighbor."
"But are you going to write all I said?"
"Well, nearly all; but, Miss Doane, if there is anything you don't want
written, I'll cut it."
Drusilla was embarrassed.
"Have I said anything that I shouldn't? If I had known you was from a
paper, I'd 'a' waited until Mr. Thornton come."
"I'm jolly glad you didn't. Little copy could have been squeezed from
that old lawyer. But don't you worry, Miss Doane. There won't be
anything that will hurt you. It's kind of you to see me. I have been
trying for several days to get in, but couldn't get past that butler of
yours. He sure is a wonder."
"Did the butler stop you?"
"Well, yes; he stood at the door like an armored cruiser. I wouldn't
have made it to-day if I hadn't waited until I saw him go out. I knew
the second man was at his home and only a maid in charge of you."
Drusilla was unhappy.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have seen you. It must have been Mr. Thornton's
orders, and he knows what is best for me."
She crossed over to the young man and looked rather pitifully up into
his face.
"You look like a nice young man," she said; "I like your eyes. You
won't say nothing that'll make Mr. Thornton unhappy?"
The reporter took the half-outstretched hand and smiled down into the
kindly, wrinkled face. When he spoke there was almost a touch of
tenderness in his voice.
"I don't care about making Mr. Thornton unhappy, Miss Doane, but I
wouldn't do anything to make _you_ unhappy for the world; and if you
ever want anything of the papers, here is my card. Just you send for me
and I'll do anything for you that I can."
And so ended Drusilla's first interview.
To her amazement the next Sunday there was spread before her the paper
with great headlines: MISS DRUSILLA DOANE, OUR NEWEST MILLIONAIRE.
There was the picture of the Doane home for old ladies; there were
pictures of the home at Brookvale taken from many angles, pictures of
the garden, the conservatories; and in the middle of the page there was
Drusilla herself, sitting in the high-backed chair. The article was
well written, filled with "heart interest." It told of her early
struggles, her years of work, and her later life in the charity home.
Evidently the young man had visited the village where she had lived and
talked with all who knew her; and Mrs. Smith's hand could plainly be
seen in the account of the life of the inmates of the institution over
which she had charge. Even poor old Barbara had been called upon to
tell about Drusilla, the many little acts of kindness which she had
done for the poor and lonely. As Drusilla read it she laughed and said,
"Well, I guess Barbara had her teeth in that day." The article ended
with the account of the million dollar bequest, and suggested that
quite likely the charities of New York would benefit by the newest
acquisition to the ranks of its millionaires, as Miss Doane was alone
in the world, and had no one on whom to lavish her enormous income or
to leave the money when she was called to the other world.
Drusilla did not know it, but this last addition of the facile
reporter's pen set many heads of institutions to thinking, and caused
many a person to wonder how they could gain the affections or the pity
of this old lady, and separate her from at least a part of her
new-found inheritance.
Drusilla passed many hours among the flowers in the conservatories,
where she won the heart of the gardener by the keen interest she took
in his work. He would walk around with her and tell her the names of
the plants strange to her, pointing out their beauties and their
peculiarities. He soon saw that the orchids and the rare blooms from
foreign lands did not appeal to her as did the old-fashioned flowers
she knew, and they made a little bargain that in the spring she should
have some beds of mignonette, phlox, verbenas, and moss rose. One
morning she watched him giving directions to one of the under-gardeners
for the potting of small plants for the spring.
"Mr. Donald," she said, "I wish I could plant somethin'. It's been
years since I dug around in the earth, and I want to plant somethin'
and see it grow."
"That's easy, ma'am," said Scotch Mr. Donald. "I'll fix a part of the
house here and you can plant what you want in it"; and after that many
mornings found Drusilla pottering happily around the conservatory with
a trowel, planting seeds or "slipping" plants as she called it. It gave
her something to do, and that was the one thing she needed. She missed
the active life, the "doing something." Everything was done for
her--she had no duties. She, who had passed her life in service for
others, here had only to mention a wish and it was immediately carried
out. She was not allowed even to look after her clothing. As soon as an
article was removed it was whisked out of the room and when returned
was brushed, mended, and ready for use again.
One afternoon Drusilla sat down by the window to mend a tear on the
bottom of her skirt. Jeanne, coming into the room, quickly took the
garment from her.
"Madame, she must not do that. _Quelle horreur!_ I will attend to it at
once."
Drusilla laughed.
"Can't I even patch my dress?" she said. "Jane, where are my stockin's?
I am sure there must be some darnin'."
Jeanne looked at her reproachfully.
"Madame does not wear darned stockings."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Drusilla. "Why shouldn't I wear darned
stockin's?"
"Yes, but it would not be _au fait_ for Madame to wear darned
stockings."
Drusilla became a little angry.
"How foolish you are, Jane! I've wore darned stockin's all my life. A
few darns don't hurt one way or another. What becomes of my stockin's?
I saw a hole in one the other day."
Jeanne looked a little embarrassed.
"Why--why--when they become not _convenable_ for Madame, I--I take
them."
"Oh," said shrewd Drusilla, looking at Jeanne over her glasses. "And I
presume you are the judge of when they become '_convenable_'--whatever
that means. But you'd better let me tell you when I think they're ready
to be passed on."
Drusilla sat back in the chair with folded hands for a few moments;
then she looked down at them as they lay idly in her lap.
"I don't see what I'm goin' to do with my hands. I've always had a
work-basket by my side whenever I set down, and now you just expect me
to set. Well, I'm tired of it; I want to _do_ something."
A few of the neighbors, headed by Mrs. Thornton, the typical New York
woman devoted to "society," made calls upon Drusilla; and when the
first caller's card was brought to Drusilla, she went into the
drawing-room and greeted the stylishly dressed lady who rose to meet
her, wondering why she had come. The lady sat down and talked to
Drusilla about the weather, asked how she liked Brookvale, spoke of the
opera season and of a new singer, asked her if she cared for
symphonies, which Drusilla thought at first was something to eat,
mentioned a ball that was being given at Sherry's that night for
charity; and then departed, leaving Drusilla still wondering why she
came. Evidently she told her friends of her visit, as many came, some
from curiosity and others from real kindliness and desire to be
friendly with their newest neighbor.
One day Daphne saw the cards.
"Oh," she said, "has Mrs. Druer called, and Mrs. Cairns, and Mrs.
Freeman. I am so glad. You must return the call."
"Is that a call? What did they come for? I been wondering about it ever
since they come."
"They are your neighbors."
"Oh, is that the way they are neighborly in the city? Set down and talk
about nothing for ten minutes and then go home. Well, I don't see as
it's very fillin'."
"They want to get acquainted."
"Well, why don't they stay a while and git acquainted? We jest git
started to talkin' when they go away. Where I lived when a neighbor
come to see you, they brought their sewin' and spent the afternoon. You
can't git acquainted settin' opposite each other and wonderin' what to
say. Why, they all look when they git ready to go, 'Well, I've done my
duty; thank goodness it's over!'"
Daphne laughed.
"You must go and return the calls."
"You mean that I must go to their houses and do what they done--set ten
minutes and ask them about the weather and the opera and symphonies? I
don't know nothin' about them things at all."
"You needn't ask them about the opera, but you must return their calls."
Drusilla shook her head.
"No, I won't do it."
"Oh, but you must."
"But I won't, Miss Thornton," said Drusilla obstinately. "I don't know
what to say."
"I'll go with you, Miss Doane."
"Well--" and Drusilla was a little pacified--"well, I'll go once and
see what it's like. I'll do anything once, but I won't promise to do it
much."
"Never mind; you must return the first calls. I'll come for you
to-morrow and we'll go. You have cards--I had them made for you; and
I'll bring my new cardcase. No, I'll get you the dearest bag I saw
downtown. Gray suede with a cardcase and mirror in it, and a pencil and
everything you need."
"What do I want a mirror in my hand satchel for?"
"Why to powder your nose if it gets shiny, Miss Doane. You're not up to
date. You must have a vanity box in your bag or you won't be in it at
all now."
Drusilla laughed.
"You ain't forgot how vain I was that first day when I peeked in all
the mirrors at the hotel. But now I can pass one without lookin' in, if
I ain't got a new dress on."
"Speaking of dresses, Miss Doane, put on that dark gray velvet that
Marcelle made you and the hat with the mauve. Oh, I wish it were cold,
so you could wear your new furs. But--well--they'll see them all after
a while. We mustn't astonish them _too_ much at first."
"Do I have to fix up so much?"
"But I want them to see how pretty you are."
Drusilla blushed like a girl.
"Pshaw, Miss Thornton, don't you know I'm past seventy years old? You
shouldn't say such things."
"Oh, but I mean it. Margaret Fairchild, who was here with her mother,
told the girls the other night at the dance that she couldn't keep her
eyes off of you, as you sat with the light on your hair, and your
pretty dress that was so half old-fashioned and half the latest style.
She said you looked as if you had just stepped out of a picture."
"It's my clothes, I guess."
"Yes, it's partly the clothes, and that's where Marcelle is clever. She
makes the clothes suit _you_, and doesn't try to make a fashionable
middle-aged woman out of you. She spoke of your hands too, said they
looked so--so--sort of feminine as they lay on the arms of the chair.
You are clever, Miss Doane, to always sit on one of those high-backed
chairs when callers come; it makes a lovely background."
"Does it? I hadn't thought of that. I generally set in the chair that's
nearest the door; and I like one with arms that I can take hold of,
'cause it makes me nervous to have the women stare at me, and sometimes
when there is such a long time between talks, I hold on to the arm
tight so's I won't show I'm nervous and wonderin' what to say to fill
in. But I didn't think any one noticed my hands." She looked down at
them rather sadly. "They've always worked hard and I guess they show
the marks."
"Oh, your hands are beautiful, Miss Doane. I can't ever believe you
have worked with them."
"Can't you? I never had my hands idle in my lap in all my life till I
come here. But--well, they ought to have something happen to 'em the
way Jane works with 'em. Whenever I let her she's fussin' with my hands
with little sticks and knives, until sometimes I'd like to box her
ears. How any one can spend so much time just settin' still and lettin'
some one fuss with their hands, I don't see. But I let her do it, as I
don't have much else to do here but just set still, and she'd better
fool with my hands than spend her time talkin' with William, which she
does enough as it is."
"Oh, is Jeanne flirting?"
"Now, I shouldn't say anything. But I can't help seein' things, even if
they do think I'm an old woman with my eyes half shut."
"I'll speak to Father about it."
"No, you won't, Miss Thornton. Leave her alone. It ain't much company
for a young girl like her just to wait on an old woman like me; and
William seems a nice young man. I like him, Miss Thornton, but I jest
can't bear the sight of James."
Daphne turned quickly.
"Has James been impertinent to you?"
Drusilla shook her head.
"No, not at all. I wish he would be impudent or _anything_ except jest
stand around and look grand. He don't approve of me, Miss
Thornton--even his back when he leaves the dining-room says he don't
approve of me. I never seen a back that can say so much as his'n."
"Well, if you don't like him I will speak to Father and he will get
another butler."
"No, don't do that. He don't do nothin' to lose his place for; and I'd
hate to have to git used to another back. He never says a word, but he
jest _looks_; but perhaps he'll git over it, or I'll git used to it, or
maybe when I git more used to things I'll talk to him and ask him if he
can't be a little more human, instead of lookin' like the chief mourner
at a funeral. It sometimes makes me feel that I'm dead and he's takin'
the last look."
Daphne laughed.
"Oh, that's his way. He's English, you know, and English servants are
trained to look like mummies."
"Well, he certainly had good trainin'. What time do we go callin'
to-morrow? I want to git it over."
"I'll come for you at four, and I'll tell them to have the small car
ready. Good-by. I'm going to a great big tea where I am to pour. I love
to give tea, although I always give the wrong person lemon."
The next day Jeanne, being told that Drusilla was going to call upon
the ladies of the neighborhood, took extra care in dressing her; and
when Daphne came, Drusilla was a very richly, exquisitely dressed old
lady waiting for her car. The bag delighted Drusilla and she examined
the fittings, and looked at the little vanity case with its tiny powder
puff and mirror. Daphne laughed as she saw her peep into the mirror.
"Oh, Miss Doane, you're just like us all. We can't pass a mirror
without a peep."
Drusilla said: "I wonder if we ever git too old not to want to see
ourselves. As long as I can have hats like this one, I won't. Ain't it
funny what clothes can do for you. Now with my velvet dress I ain't a
bit afraid to go in that big house, in the front door and set down in
the parlor, while if I had on my old black dress, I'd feel that I
belonged in the kitchen. Yet it's the same Drusilla Doane inside."
Drusilla made many calls that afternoon. At some of the places, being
told that the lady was not at home, a card was left.
"Pshaw now," she said to Daphne, "will I have to come again, now she
ain't at home?"
"No," said Daphne; "she'll find your cards and know you have called.
That's all you have to do."
"Well, that's one good thing"--and Drusilla was relieved to find that
the disagreeable duty was so quickly done. "If I'd a knowed that, I'd a
sent William to tell me when they was out and then I'd a come."
"Oh, but you'll like your neighbors when you know them. Here--Mrs.
Crane is at home, I know"--and Drusilla spent a most miserable half
hour sitting on the edge of a hard chair, wishing Daphne would rise as
a signal to leave. Tea was served by a maid, and Drusilla held the cup
awkwardly, while she ate the little wafer and infinitesimal sandwich
which was passed with it.
"Why didn't they have a table?" she asked when they were outside. "I
was in mortal fear that I'd spill the tea on my new dress--and I don't
eat well with my gloves on."
Two more calls of the same kind were made and as they were turning into
another gate, Drusilla leaned forward and said to the chauffeur:
"Joseph, go straight ahead." Then, turning to Daphne, Drusilla said:
"We're goin' for a ride now; we ain't goin' to spoil this lovely day
with no more calls."
Drusilla would not listen to Daphne's remonstrances, and the motor flew
along the beautiful drive overlooking the Hudson. Drusilla did not
speak for a time, simply enjoying the ride. Then she turned to the girl.
"Daphne, what does subsidize mean."
Daphne frowned for a moment.
"I wonder if I can tell. I know what it means but it is hard to say it.
It means to pay a certain sum of money to some one or some thing. For
instance, the ships that carry the mails for some governments are
subsidized; or if the government wants to aid some project, to enable
it to start, it subsidizes it--that is, gives it a certain sum per year
like a salary. Have I made myself clear? Father could tell you better
than I can."
"I guess I see what it is," Drusilla said.
"Why do you want to know?" queried Daphne.
"Well, I got a little mixed up in what it meant. I got a letter this
morning from some man--some poet I guess he is--who said that I should
leave my money to subsidize struggling poets, who had a great message
to give the world, but who had to work so hard making a livin' that
they didn't git no chance to give the message. I'm afraid I got kind of
mixed up--I could think of nothin' but etherize. I guess it was the
strugglin' that confused my mind, and I been wondering why I could
etherize a lot of struggling young poets. But now I understand."
"Well, of all the impertinence--"
"I don't know, Daphne; there's some truth in what he said. He said that
nations needed great thoughts as well as they needed great
inventions--them's his words not mine--and often rich men subsidized a
poor inventor or a poor scientist so's they could have time to make
their inventions and not have to worry over their daily bread; so why
shouldn't it be done for the poets who would then have time to give
great thoughts to the people, thoughts that would inspire them to noble
deeds and works. There's a lot of sense in what he says."
"But you would never _think_ of doing such a thing--"
"No, of course not; but I like to hear about it. And I been a studyin'
a lot about that young man,--I am sure he was young or he wouldn't have
had the courage to write me; it's only the young who have the courage
to _try_."
"I call it _nerve_," said Daphne scornfully; "plain _nerve_."
"Yes, perhaps it is. But I was thinkin' about this young man who has
got a feelin' inside of him that he could say somethin' that would make
the world better, and he tries, then he's got to go to an office or
somewhere and perhaps count rolls of cloth, or he may be a newspaper
man who has to write stories of murders and divorces and--and--things
like that, when beautiful things is just a chokin' him."
She was silent for a moment.
"It's an awful thing to be poor, Daphne--real poor. Yet--" she said
musingly, "even when you're real poor you can always find somethin' to
give. Like Mis' Sweet. Did I ever tell you about Mis' Sweet? She lived
in our village and she was mortal poor all her life. When her husband
lived he didn't do no more work than he had to and she had to git along
as best she could, and then when he died she lived with her son, who
was so mean and stingy that he made her go to bed at dark so's she
wouldn't burn kerosene. She was so poor that she never had cookies or
cakes to send her neighbors, and it kind o' cut her, because in the
country we was always sendin' some little thing we'd been bakin' to
each other, because that's about the only kind of presents country
women can make to each other, somethin' they make themselves.
"So Mis' Sweet felt kind o' bad that she couldn't make no return. But,
as I says, one ain't never too poor but that they kin give something.
Now Mis' Sweet and nothin' pretty in her house, and never saw much that
was beautiful, but she had beautiful thoughts inside, and she loved the
flowers and things that grew around her.
"Mis' Sweet made paper flowers trying to say the beautiful things she
felt inside, jest like that poet. She couldn't buy none of the pretty
crinkled papers that we see nowadays; she never saw none of those; but
she saved all the little pieces of tissue paper, and any scrap of silk,
and the neighbors saved 'em for her too, and they saved their broom
wire; and no one ever thought of throwin' away an old green window
shade--it was sent to Mis' Sweet for her leaves. She twisted the broom
wires with any piece of green paper that she could git hold of, and she
cut the papers into flowers, the white ones into daisies and the little
pieces of silk was colored with dyes that the neighbors give her that
they had left over, and she made roses and apple blossoms and begonias
and geraniums, and all the flowers that she knowed. If some were
peculiar and didn't look like much o' anything she called them jest
wild flowers. She made them all into bouquets. And there wasn't a new
baby born in the village but that the mother found by her bedside a
bouquet of Mis' Sweet's, and no bride went to the altar but she had a
little piece o' orange blossom on her that had been lovingly pinned on
by Mis' Sweet, and before the lid was closed over our dead--they had
slipped in their fingers a little flower from their old neighbor. And
do you think that we laughed at her stiff little bouquets? No! We all
loved 'em and we understood, 'cause with each leaf made out of our old
window shades and from each wire from our wore out brooms, there was a
little love mixed in with the coverin'."
She was silent for a few moments; then she added:
"And I think that this young poet will find a way to give something to
the world, if he really loves it and wants to give, same as Mis' Sweet
did."
They were returning home along the drive.
"We haven't made half the calls that we should," Daphne said. "We must
go another day."
Drusilla shook her head decisively.
"No; I won't make no more calls."
"Oh, but, Miss Doane, you _must_. You must return your calls."
"Oh, but I mustn't, and I won't," said Drusilla, shaking her head
obstinately. "I most froze at some of them places, and I won't risk it
again. I won't make calls. They can come to me, Miss Thornton, but I
won't go back."
"But they won't come to see you if you don't return the calls."
"Well, they can stay at home then--it ain't much loss on either side."
"But what will you do?"
"I'll send William to know when they are out, and he can leave my cards
jest as well as I can. I won't go into them rooms and drink tea out of
my lap and eat with my gloves on, and talk about things I don't know
nothin' about and don't care even if I did. I'm too old to begin such
foolishness."
"But what will I tell them when they ask why you don't return their
calls?"
"You can tell them anything you want to. I _won't_ go."
Daphne said mischievously: "I'll say you are a _very_ old lady, and
_feeble_, and cannot take the exertion of making calls."
Drusilla sat up very straight and a slight flush appeared on her cheeks.
"You'll say _no_ such thing, Daphne Thornton. You say the truth, that I
don't see no sense in it. Old indeed! I'm not so old; and as to being
feeble--"
Daphne snuggled her face against the arm near her.
"Oh, you are a dear, Miss Doane. I love to see you get angry. But _you_
say you are old!"
"That's different. I say it with my own meanin', and generally to pet
out of doin' somethin' I don't want to do. But I'm growin' younger each
minute. Perhaps"--she chuckled softly to herself--"it's my second
childhood."
They came to the door, and it was opened by James--stiff, correct,
funereal.
"No," almost groaned Drusilla; "there's James. Now I know I'm dead and
only waitin' for the buryin'."