I took him down Princess Street first, of course, and showed him the
bank and post-office and moving-picture places, and the court-house and
churches and stores, and specially the drug-store, which is a sort of
standing-up club for the men; and I told him whose were the offices;
and Whythe came out of his and spoke to him in a perfectly perfect way,
and said he hoped he would be permitted to show him some of the things
of interest in the neighborhood. And also he said if it was convenient
to us he would call in a car (Whythe hasn't even a Ford, but he has a
Twin-Six manner) in the morning and we would drive to Horseshoe Falls,
and from there go on to Spruce Mountain, where something historic
happened during the Revolution, I think; and only once when talking did
he look right in my eyes. His sent a message, and my heart flopped
around so it felt like a frog in a can of milk, and, I was so afraid
Father would hear, I told Whythe we would go with pleasure and were
much obliged, but we couldn't stop any longer, as there was a good deal
to see before dinner. He shook hands twice with Father, who, when he
was out of hearing, asked me how a young man could leave his business
in the morning and go riding. I told him business could always be left
in Twickenham Town, and he laughed and said he wished he lived in a
town of that sort. I wish he did.
We stopped just a minute to speak to Mr. Bugg, who sells vegetables and
eggs and things, and whose wife has just had twins again, and this time
has a milk-leg also, and Father shook hands with him and asked about
the babies, I thinking just in time to tell him to do it, and then we
had some soda-water at Mrs. Grump's. It is the most awful soda-water
in the world, Mrs. Grump's is, but it is wet and cold, and you can sit
down when drinking it, and while we sat she touched up the town and
Father nearly fell out of his chair at the way she did it. If Mrs.
Grump were for sale, I'd sell everything I own to get enough to buy
her, for the way she can put into words what she thinks of human beings
would make a graven image come to life. She never smiles herself.
After we got through with Princess Street we turned in by Colonel
Rixby's and then went down by the Baconses' and into The Court, whose
trees were planted by order of some lordly person, kin to the Aikens
who have been sitting under the shade of their greatness ever since,
and then we strolled by the Eppes house, for I wanted Father to see it.
It is the stateliest old place in town and its garden of old-fashioned
flowers makes one think the twentieth century is a mistake and ought
never to have been, but ordinarily I pass it quickly, as I don't care
for its owners. The house has perfect lines and the dearest little
panes of glass in its deep, wide windows; and inside it has big
fireplaces and beautifully carved woodwork and wonderful old furniture
and fearful old portraits, and I certainly wanted Father to see
everything in it, but I didn't expect him to do it, for the House of
Eppes doesn't admire me any more than I admire it--and then the
unexpected happened.
As we reached the gate we saw the whole bunch sitting in the wide, cool
hall--Sister reading aloud, Sister Edwina making tatting, and Miss Lily
Lou peeling a peach for Mother from a basket on the table beside her,
and I was going to pass by and just bow to Mother as pleasantly and
politely as I could (she was the only one who saw us), when to my
surprise she got up and ordered me to stop by a wave of her hand. I
stopped. She does not approve of me. She thinks it very indelicate in
me to accept the attentions of one whose engagement had so recently
been broken, and, while she will never recover from stupefaction that
Elizabeth should disagree with her son, she attributed that action on
Elizabeth's part to lack of sense and does not hesitate to say so, just
as she has not hesitated to say things about me that were not as
Christian as they might have been. She knew, however, what was
expected of Twickenham Town and that personal feelings were to be paid
no attention to where politeness was concerned, and with a sort of
scepter movement she beckoned to me and commanded us to come in. We
went.
It is a queer thing how nice disagreeable people can be when they want
to, and that morning the entire Eppes family (even Sister Edwina, who's
the limit) were so polite and pleasant that Father never would have
imagined how cocky and sniffy they usually are. I behaved as well as
they did, and when we came away I couldn't remember a thing I had said
that I shouldn't. We didn't stay but half an hour. I wouldn't have
held out a whole hour, and neither would they, and so, after we had
seen all the beautiful old things downstairs and been introduced to all
the painted ancestors, I got away quick, for Miss Anna was showing
signs I didn't think were safe. They don't know that they worship
idols of wood and glass and silver and china, and images in old gilt
frames, but they do, and the steel trust hasn't money enough to buy
them. It's a pity they won't sell a few and put the money in some new
clothes, for those they wear are a sight to behold. As we were
leaving, Mother Eppes invited us to take dinner with her on Sunday in a
way that was more a command than an invitation and we accepted in a
manner to match, though inside I was raging to think we'd have to go.
And then I remembered it would be a regular thriller to be eating at
the table with Whythe and his family and my family, and I hoped I'd
remember to call him Mr. Eppes, as down here they do that up to the day
of the marriage, the first name being thought too familiar until after
the ceremony, and even then in public. Grace Marvin, who is engaged to
Richard Clarke, calls him Dick, but that is because she isn't
ancestral; just accepted, Mrs. Grump says, and she knows, being
familiar with the history of everybody in town.
They were perfect days, the four Father spent in Twickenham Town, and
he was made over when he went away. Every morning Mr. Willie Prince
sent him up a mint julep that started the day so cheerfully he was
happy through its every minute; and Major Roke, who makes the best ones
in town, would come for him at twelve o'clock and take him to his
house, and Mr. Letcher always managed to get hold of him about six in
the afternoon, and at bedtime some one else would send one in. And
poor Father, who never drinks anything at home, it not being good for
him, was in an awful state of mind at first, and then he decided he
would rather die than hurt the feelings of the senders and he'd take
the chance on his health. He took.
I'm a fighting disbeliever in whisky, and if I had any say I'd say it
couldn't be made except for sickness, but you couldn't get certain
Twickenham-Towners to believe it is a dangerous thing, and to take a
little something for the stomach's sake is a recommendation in the
Bible they approve of and obey. It doesn't seem to kill people here or
some would have been a long time dead, but there are one or two it is a
pity it hasn't killed. It does much worse than kill; it ruins. I hope
next time Father will say the doctor doesn't permit him to touch
anything. I didn't tell him so, of course, and I am afraid he will
manage not to see the doctor before he leaves; but, anyhow, the morning
and night juleps can be thrown out of the window after a sip to get the
smell on if he wants to throw. I wouldn't take a bet that he will
want, but I'm hoping.
I didn't see much of Whythe while Father was here--that is, by himself.
He was awfully nice to Father and he liked him very much (Father liked
Whythe, I mean), but he couldn't understand why he didn't get more of a
move on and make business for himself. I told him in Twickenham Town
people waited for business to come to them, and everybody knew Whythe
was a lawyer, and if they needed his services they would let him know,
and if they didn't there was no use waiting around, which was why he
was out of his office so much of the time. And then Father asked me
when I had heard from Billy and when he was coming home; and, thankful
to change the subject, I told him all I knew and got out the cards and
showed them to him.
We had so many things to talk about--Mother and the girls and the home
people and things, and the people he had met in Twickenham Town--that
he hadn't talked about Billy, and when I showed him the cards he said
Billy must have mighty little to do but write them, as there were
fifty-six and he hadn't been gone but five weeks. He seemed to think
that right many, so I didn't say anything much about his letters, which
are long and once a week, but told him Billy would sail on September
16th, and get back before I did--that is, if I stayed until the 27th.
He said I could if I wanted to, and that he would come down for the
last week and take me back with him, and I was so happy I swirled him
around in my arms and danced a dance I made up as I went along, and
both Billy and Whythe Eppes were out of his mind when he stopped for
breath. And that night he went away. Also that night I almost cried
my eyes out for sorrow at his going and for gladness that he was my
Father. I wonder if all girls love their fathers as I love mine!