THE SWEET-PEA LADIES
Nathalie, with girlish eagerness, hurried into the house, and was soon
telling her mother about her “adventure day,” as she called it, dwelling
at length upon her experiences at the Sweet Pea Tea-House, and, with
some show of resentment, on her encounter with their neighbor in the
little red house.
Mrs. Page became intensely interested in the Sweet-Pea ladies, as her
daughter designated them, but cautioned her against cherishing any
resentment at the rudeness of the little old lady in black, as,
naturally, she was offended that her overtures of friendliness had been
slighted by the city folks. She and Nathalie would go very shortly and
call upon her; she did not doubt but that her apologies would be
accepted, and that the unpleasant incident would be forgotten.
The next morning, while Nathalie was gathering some lettuce in the
garden near the barn, she met Sam, the tow-headed young farm-hand, who
looked after the place, and who, with his buxom young wife, lived in a
small white house a short distance down the road. He was a thick-set,
sturdy, young fellow, with a broad, good-natured face, from which
white-lashed, piglike blue eyes peered bashfully out above his shiny red
cheeks. When he met any of the city folks, as he called the inhabitants
of Seven Pillars, he would grin bashfully, and slowly drag off his old
straw hat in a greeting, growing very red from embarrassed shyness if
called upon to engage in conversation with any of them.
But Nathalie, who had had to depend upon Sam for a certain amount of
necessary knowledge in relation to the house and garden, had not only
grown to depend upon him in many ways, but had become quite friendly
with him. She had learned that he was a level-headed, well-meaning young
man and that his eyes could twinkle responsively, even if he was
somewhat slow of tongue.
As he began to show Nathalie how to select the heads with the soundest
hearts, she told him how she had been caught in the thunderstorm the
afternoon before and the kindness of the inmates of the Sweet Pea
Tea-House.
“Sure, Miss, they be nice ladies,” assented Sam. “I’ve knowed them this
long time. They were born in that old house, but when the old man
Whipple growed rich—some relative or t’other left him a pile o’
money—they went skylarking down to Boston—thought we country folks
weren’t smart enough fur them, I reckon. But when the old man’s luck
went agin him and he died, them gals come home to roost. I feel right
sorry for them, for the Lord knows they don’t have no stuffin’s to their
turkey these days. Too bad about the tea-house er goin’ to shucks, for
sure it use ter bring in er penny er two in the sellin’ o’ them posies.
“I see ole Jakes, with his old flivver a wheezin’ and blowin’ up these
ere hills, er takin’ them to the hotels er pile er times. By Gosh, that
Jakes sure is ole, fer he’s been er luggin’ round these parts with one
foot half-buried fer the last ten years. When he goes off the handle
what’ll become of the poor ole ladies—the folks hereabouts are er
guessin’. That deaf-and-dumb one—she makes me feel sort er lonesome.”
Sam suddenly confided, “with no gift of gab to er, and t’other one with
the rheumatics, sure they do be afflicted.”
Nathalie also told Sam about meeting their neighbor in the little red
house. But when she questioned him as to who she was, and if she lived
there all alone, his face became impassive and he grew evasive in his
answers. Surmising that he might possibly be a relative of hers—as she
had seen him working about the place, she said no more, but hurried into
the house, her mind intent on the Sweet-Pea ladies and their pathetic
little story, as told by Sam.
“What a misfortune,” she mused, “to be poor, an invalid, and with only a
deaf-and-dumb sister to depend upon. O dear! what terrible things people
have to suffer when they grow old. Well, I shall have to go this
afternoon and return that umbrella, and—yes, I just wish I could do
something to help them in some way, for Miss Whipple is a dear!”
But, as she hastened to her room to make her customary entry in her
diary, the two ladies were forgotten. This daily duty the girl found
quite irksome, especially when she had forgotten, and had to make her
entry at night when she was tired and wanted to tumble right into bed;
and then, too, she did not see how the everyday doings of _her_ life
could interest any one. And as for searching for the most valuable thing
in the house, this she had never found time to do. Possibly she had not
tried very hard to find time, as deep within her heart she considered
the whole thing sheer nonsense. And how was she going to judge the value
of the things in the house, anyway, she questioned rebelliously, for was
it not just an old curio shop filled with strange, odd junk, that her
aunt had brought from the other side?
But when she hinted this to her mother, she had been duly rebuked,
although Mrs. Page agreed with her daughter that it would be a difficult
task to determine the value of anything she might select. She said,
however, that she considered that Nathalie, as a courtesy to her aunt,
who was giving them such a delightful summer up in those beautiful
mountains, should do all that she could to comply with her request, even
if she thought it absurd.
“I doubt if the finding of this very mysterious valuable thing would
bring either money or property to any one,” continued the lady, “as I
understand that Aunt Mary left the bulk of her estate to some charitable
institution as long as no near relative or heir appeared. But she was,
as I have told you before, very queer in some ways, and probably took
this method of giving away some of her personal effects. It is not at
all likely, Nathalie, that you will be the lucky finder,”—there was a
smile in Mrs. Page’s eyes,—“but still you should make it a point to
search for it, no matter how you feel.”
“Oh I intended to hunt for the old thing, anyway,” returned Nathalie
excusingly, “but I have been a little slow, perhaps, because Cynthia has
been so obsessed with the idea, that I hate to be as silly. Jan says she
spends most of the day hunting in the attic and through the house when
we are down-stairs. She is wild to get into that mystery room, for she
thinks it is hidden there.
“But you should have seen her last night, mother,” giggled Nathalie. “I
was coming through the hall and suddenly saw a flash of light on the
stairs. And there was Cynthia, down on her knees, peering under the
stair-carpet and poking about with her flash-light. She seemed quite
annoyed when she saw that she was discovered, and, jumping up quickly,
scurried down the hall. Dear me! she is the queerest thing.”
“Well, let her look,” replied Mrs. Page kindly. “Perhaps her efforts
will be rewarded, for, as I understand, she is engaged to a Mr. Buddie,
and he is very poor, Janet says. I presume it would make them both very
happy if Cynthia came into a little money, or found something of value,
for perhaps they could be married.”
“But, mother, Janet hasn’t looked once. She hates this mystery prowl, as
she calls it, as much as I do,” emphasized Nathalie, “and I have hard
work making her write in her diary. She is busy writing a speech on
suffrage, which she expects to deliver this fall. Just imagine, mother,
Janet making a speech,” and Nathalie smiled at the thought.
Later in the day, dust-begrimed and with her hair all of a frowse,
Nathalie came trudging wearily up the staircase. She had been searching
for two hours in the library, a great dark room, lined with bookcases,
and whose wainscoted walls were hung with family portraits,—Nathalie
called them the Renwicks’ Honor Roll,—interspersed with medallions of
great authors and musicians, and valuable etchings.
The girl had laughed at Cynthia for prowling about, but as she threw
herself on her bed, tired and aching from stretching her arms and
climbing step-ladders, in order to peer behind the pictures and
cornices, she felt that she would never laugh at her again. For the more
she had searched, the more her interest had increased, and with it the
conclusion that her aunt, for contrariness, had _really hidden_
something of great value, in order to try the patience of the searchers,
in some eerie corner or nook.
But was Mrs. Renwick really dead? This was a question that assailed the
girl whenever she passed the mystery room, whose door loomed big and
dark, with its heavy crimson curtain, in the long hall. Somehow, she had
confessed to Janet, whenever she hurried by that door she had a strange
feeling, a feeling of nearness to some one,—the way one would feel, she
imagined, if they looked up suddenly and found some one watching them
with a strange, fixed stare.
Could it be that some one was hidden in that room? But she always
dismissed the thought with a half-laugh, as being very silly.
Nevertheless she always raced by that door, especially at night, when
the hall was wrapped in an uncanny gloominess from the dark shadows that
came from the big grandfather’s clock, the heavy, black-looking wardrobe
at one end, and other ponderous and carved pieces of mahogany resting
against the wall.
The following afternoon Nathalie set forth to return the umbrella to its
owners, laden with a basket of fruit, in appreciation of their kindness
to her. As she walked cheerily along, a sudden thought loomed big in her
mind; she had been thinking how she was going to live up to her
watchword, “Liberty and humanity—our best,” when it had occurred to her
that one way would be to offer to read to Miss Whipple every day. The
girl’s eyes glowed, and then she wavered. “Oh, no, I don’t see how I can
do _that_, for I have so much to do at home, and I do not want to miss
my walks.” Her face clouded as she silently struggled with herself,
divided with the desire to cheer her new friend, and yet not to have to
forego her walks.
She found the invalid lying back in her chair, looking pale and wan, but
when Nathalie inquired if she was suffering, she hastily answered, “Oh,
no, I am just pure tired, for I have been trying to read my new
war-book, and it has made me ache all over.”
“Oh, Miss Whipple,” broke from the girl impulsively,—somehow she could
not be selfish,—“wouldn’t you like to have me come and read to you for
a little while each day?”
“Oh, you dear child, that is most kind of you,” the lady’s eyes
brightened. “Indeed, I should be delighted, but it would be selfish to
keep you indoors on these beautiful mountain days.” A little sigh ended
the sentence.
“But you would not be keeping me in,” insisted her companion, “for I
should just love to read to you, and I know I shall find plenty of time
to walk somewhere every day.” And then, as an added plea to her request,
she told of her mornings with Nita Van Vorst, and how their taking turns
at reading to one another had been a source of great instruction to them
both.
In a short time Nathalie was happily reading to her friend, who listened
with keen enjoyment. After a time, fearing the girl would tire, they
stopped for a little chat, and it was during one of these chats that
Nathalie told of meeting their queer neighbor who lived in the red
house, and how rudely she had been repulsed by the old lady, when she
had tried to atone for her reception of the day before.
“A little old woman in a black bonnet, with a basket?” repeated Miss
Whipple in a puzzled tone. “Why, that is strange, for I didn’t know that
any one lived in that little red house. Some years past Mrs. Renwick
allowed a poor old woman to live there rent free, but she died a few
years ago. I shall have to ask Jakes about it, for he knows every man,
woman, or child who lives on these mountains.”
During one of these pauses Mona came in, and her sister, noting the
wistful look in the patient brown eyes, surmised that she, too, would
like to enjoy Nathalie’s youth and charm. And so, in a few moments, the
girl was out in the sweet-pea garden, delighting Mona with her
enthusiastic interest in the delicately tinted flowers that grew in
tall, long lines on each side of the house.
Here, too, she met Jakes, an old white-haired man, bent almost double
with age. He made up for her companion’s enforced silence, by showing
the many different varieties of these exquisite flowers, which, on their
rough stems, with their tendril-bearing leaves, peeped coyly at her, in
almost every tint of their varying colors.
But the girl glanced up with quick surprise, when she heard the old man,
in his quavering, broken voice, softly repeat:
“Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight;
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.”
As the old man saw Nathalie glance up at him in ill-concealed
astonishment at his aptness in repeating the poetic quotation, he smiled
and said, “Ah, Miss, I have planted, transplanted, trained, tended, and
watched these sweet posies for many a long year as carefully as a
mother-hen tends her tiny chicks. But it was my dear lady, herself, who
taught me that verse, and sure I have never forgotten it, although I do
not know the name of the poet-man who wrote it.”
Nathalie, with her hand in Mona’s, who seemed to love to hold it, was
now led by her into the little shed, where she was soon busily employed
in helping her tie the sweet peas into bunches, to be delivered the next
morning to the hotels by Jakes.
From the making of bouquets she wandered into the tea-room, where Mona
had hurried, on seeing a couple of young ladies come in, who wanted to
buy some post-cards. While they were selecting them the deaf-and-dumb
woman hastened into the kitchen for her tea-tray. Nathalie, meanwhile,
waited by the little glass case in one corner of the room, carelessly
studying the mountain-views that lined it, and where boxes of maple
sugar, pine pillows, and various knick-knacks that Miss Whipple said she
had made before her hands had become so helpless, lay scattered about
for sale.
As she turned restlessly away from the case, her glance fell on the two
girls, who stood examining the cards on the wall near, and she half
smiled at their grotesqueness, as she called their modish style of
apparel. For the girls, fair samples of the average fashionable summer
girls, wore their hair plastered down on the sides of their faces in
deep scallops, while their cheeks were carmine-tinted, and their noses
whitewashed with powder. With their long, thin necks rising in kangaroo
fashion from their turn-over, low-necked collars, and with their
short-waisted belts and narrow skirts, high above their high-heeled,
white boots, they reminded Nathalie of some funny French dolls that she
had seen once in a museum in New York.
She was wondering why so many girls of the present day thought it
improved them to make themselves so ungainly and painted-looking, when
one of the girls suddenly turned her face to her. A sudden exclamation,
and she had stepped towards Nathalie, who was now staring at her in
puzzled recognition.
“I declare, if it isn’t Nathalie Page. Why, don’t you remember me?” she
shrilled excitedly. “I’m Nelda Sackett. You remember we used to be
deskmates at Madame Chemidlin’s?”
“Why, Nelda, how do you do? Yes, I remember you now,” smiled Nathalie
cordially. “How stupid of me not to have recognized you before. But dear
me, you have changed!” And then, fearing that the girl might detect her
lack of admiration for her modish appearance, she hastily added, “Oh,
you have grown to be quite a young lady.”
“Young lady! Well, I should say that I was,” flashed the girl in a
slightly aggrieved tone. “Why, I’m eighteen, and Justine,—you remember
Justine Guertin,—she is nineteen.”
By this time Justine had joined them, and after greeting Nathalie with
condescending graciousness, the three girls were soon chatting about
their school-days and former friends. The girls were both very curious
as to their old schoolmate’s life in her new home. Nathalie determined
to hold her own and not be cowed by their ultra-fashionableness, and,
despite the jarring realization of the fact that they knew of her
changed circumstances since her father’s death, bravely told about her
new life in their little home on Main Street, in the old-fashioned Long
Island town. She not only dwelt with persistent minuteness on the many
details of her more humble life, but told of her connection with the
Girl Pioneers, the pleasure it had brought her, the fineness of its aims
and purposes, and the wholesomeness of a life lived in the open, with
its knowledge of bird and tree lore, and the many new avenues of
knowledge it opened to a girl.
This sort of thing, however, did not seem to appeal to these New York
girls, and they stared somewhat coldly, although a bit curiously, at
Nathalie during her recital, and then abruptly changed the subject by
telling of their own gay life in the city. Oh, and what a time they were
having at the Sunset Hill House, playing golf and tennis, and dancing in
the evening with gay college boys and other young men.
By this time Mona had returned, and, as Nathalie saw her trying to wheel
a small tea-table into the room with both hands full, she hastily flew
to her aid. And later, when she returned for some needed articles in the
kitchen, the young girl arranged the teacups and saucers on the tray
before the girls, as they had asked that they might be served with a cup
of tea à la Russe.
The girls continued to chatter in a desultory fashion for awhile,
although Nathalie, whose intuitions were keen, sensed that they had
grown a little less cordial in their manner towards her. Presently,
finishing their tea and paying for it, they nodded Nathalie a careless
good-by and hurried out, somewhat to the girl’s surprise, who had
naturally supposed that they would invite her to come and see them at
the hotel, or express a desire to visit her at her home.
With reddened cheeks and a disappointed expression in her eyes Nathalie
watched them as they crossed the road to the flagged walk opposite. It
was true, she was lonely up there in her new surroundings, with no
special friend to run in and chat with, as she had been accustomed to do
with her friend Helen. She wanted young company, and the meeting with
her former schoolmates had revived old memories and worn-out longings.
Although she did not approve of their style of dress, or their airy
manners, still they were something that belonged to her former life in
New York, and she would have enjoyed having a chat with them once in a
while for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne.”
With the quick thought that they were not worth a pang of regret, for
they had shown that they had become very snobbish, she turned away, and
aimlessly wandered over to an old piano that stood on one side of the
room. As if to ease the hurt feeling that still jarred her
sensitiveness, she sat down and carelessly ran her fingers over the old
yellow keys. A sudden call from the invalid in the adjoining room,—the
door stood open,—for Nathalie to play something, brought the girl to
herself with a sudden start.
“Oh, I do not know anything to play,” she weakly pleaded, “for I am no
musician.” Nathalie spoke the truth, for she not only had no special
talent for music, but the little accomplishment that she had acquired in
that line had been sadly neglected since she had taken up housework.
But as the invalid’s plea was insistent, and the girl did not want to be
disagreeable, she again swept her hands over the keyboard, this time
unconsciously falling into one of Chopin’s waltzes, something that she
supposed she had forgotten. From this she wandered into a few rag-time
airs, and then came snatches of old-time melodies, until finally she was
playing a well-known reverie by a noted composer.
But suddenly realizing that she had heard nothing from the next room,
and fearing that she had wearied Miss Whipple, she hastily arose and
hurried to her side, to find her lying back in her chair with a strange
restful expression on her face, but with closed eye lids, through which
tears were slowly trickling.
“Oh, Miss Whipple, I should not have played so long,” exclaimed the girl
remorsefully. “Perhaps I have made you feel sad.”
“No, no, my child! Your playing has brightened me up.” The invalid sat
up quickly, as she shamefacedly wiped away the stray tears. “Indeed, my
dear, I pay you a compliment when I cry, for if the music did not go
right to my heart the tears would not have come. No, I would never
regret being an old shut-in if I could hear music once in a while. But
that was a lovely little thing you played last; it is one of my
favorites.”
“Oh, I must try to get Janet to come down and play for you,” cried
Nathalie with a relieved sigh, “for she is a _real_ musician, and plays
for us every evening as we sit on the veranda in the moonlight. But it
is getting late and I must go, for I have supper to get. When my boys
come, perhaps I shall have more time, for, you know, I am going to put
them through their paces and teach them to be helpful.”
After a hasty good-by, Nathalie was hurrying across the road, while
waving her hand to the sweet, patient face smiling at her from the
window. Some twenty minutes later she arrived at Seven Pillars, her eyes
happily aglow, as she told her mother of the readings to be, to help
lighten the burdens of her new friend, the shut-in.
Several days later Nathalie, with her mother, walked slowly down the
garden-path, with its border of oldtime hollyhocks and peonies and white
stones, to the gate-posts. A step or two, and they stood before the door
of the little red house, as the girl, with pleased eyes, cried, “Well,
mother, she’s in, for I saw her sitting at the window as we came up the
path, so we can get this ordeal over.”
But unfortunately she reckoned without her host, for although they
knocked and knocked, Nathalie even pounding on the door with her
parasol-handle, for she had planned to take a walk after the call, no
one came to the door. After a time she peered at the window, but some
one had drawn the shades down so that nothing was to be seen.
“Mother, she is _so angry_ she just won’t let us in,” cried the young
caller with flushed cheeks. “Oh, I think she must be a very disagreeable
old lady, and I do not think there is any use in trying to be nice to
her.”
Mrs. Page had evidently come to the same conclusion, so they slowly
turned and retraced their steps back to the house, and in a short space
she was seated on the veranda with her darning, as Nathalie started for
a walk. As she passed the red house, and caught sight of the
silver-haired old lady knitting at the window she quickly turned her
head away, determined to ignore her in the future. “And so this is the
end of our acquaintance with our next-door neighbor,” she mused
ruefully, as she passed on down the road. “Well, it certainly did not
prove very progressive. Of course I don’t really care,—she’s just an
old lady,—but still I do wish Cynthia Loretto had stayed up in her old
studio, and not made trouble for us by her unkind ways.”