IN SEARCH OF REST
June brought all the young people home again. It brought, also, a great
deal of talk concerning plans for vacation. Bessie—Elizabeth—said they
must all go away.
From James Blaisdell this brought a sudden and vigorous remonstrance.
“Nonsense, you’ve just got home!” he exclaimed. “Hillerton’ll be a
vacation to you all right. Besides, I want my family together again. I
haven’t seen a thing of my children for six months.”
Elizabeth gave a silvery laugh. (Elizabeth had learned to give very
silvery laughs.) She shrugged her shoulders daintily and looked at her
rings.
“Hillerton? Ho! You wouldn’t really doom us to Hillerton all summer,
daddy.”
“What’s the matter with Hillerton?”
“What isn’t the matter with Hillerton?” laughed the daughter again.
“But I thought we—we would have lovely auto trips,” stammered her
mother apologetically. “Take them from here, you know, and stay
overnight at hotels around. I’ve always wanted to do that; and we can
now, dear.”
“Auto trips! Pooh!” shrugged Elizabeth. “Why, mumsey, we’re going to
the shore for July, and to the mountains for August. You and daddy and
I. And Fred’s going, too, only he’ll be at the Gaylord camp in the
Adirondacks, part of the time.”
“Is that true, Fred?” James Blaisdell’s eyes, fixed on his son, were
half wistful, half accusing.
Fred stirred restlessly.
“Well, I sort of had to, governor,” he apologized. “Honest, I did.
There are some things a man has to do! Gaylord asked me, and—Hang it
all, I don’t see why you have to look at me as if I were committing a
crime, dad!”
“You aren’t, dear, you aren’t,” fluttered Fred’s mother hurriedly;
“and I’m sure it’s lovely you’ve got the chance to go to the Gaylords’
camp. And it’s right, quite right, that we should travel this summer,
as Bessie—er—Elizabeth suggests. I never thought; but, of course, you
young people don’t want to be hived up in Hillerton all summer!”
“Bet your life we don’t, mater,” shrugged Fred, carefully avoiding his
father’s eyes, “after all that grind.”
“_Grind_, Fred?”
But Fred had turned away, and did not, apparently, hear his father’s
grieved question.
Mr. Smith learned all about the vacation plans a day or two later from
Benny.
“Yep, we’re all goin’ away for all summer,” he repeated, after he had
told the destination of most of the family. “I don’t think ma wants to,
much, but she’s goin’ on account of Bess. Besides, she says everybody
who is anybody always goes away on vacations, of course. So we’ve got
to. They’re goin’ to the beach first, and I’m goin’ to a boys’ camp up
in Vermont—Mellicent, she’s goin’ to a girls’ camp. Did you know that?”
Mr. Smith shook his head.
“Well, she is,” nodded Benny. “She tried to get Bess to go—Gussie
Pennock’s goin’. But Bess!—my you should see her nose go up in the air!
She said she wa’n’t goin’ where she had to wear great coarse shoes an’
horrid middy-blouses all day, an’ build fires an’ walk miles an’ eat
bugs an’ grasshoppers.”
“Is Miss Mellicent going to do all that?” smiled Mr. Smith.
“Bess says she is—I mean, _Elizabeth_. Did you know? We have to
call her that now, when we don’t forget it. I forget it, mostly. Have
you seen her since she came back?”
“No.”
“She’s swingin’ an awful lot of style—Bess is. She makes dad dress
up in his swallow-tail every night for dinner. An’ she makes him and
Fred an’ me stand up the minute she comes into the room, no matter
if there’s forty other chairs in sight; an’ we have to _stay_
standin’ till she sits down—an’ sometimes she stands up a-purpose, just
to keep _us_ standing. I know she does. She says a gentleman never
sits when a lady is standin’ up in his presence. An’ she’s lecturin’
us all the time on the way to eat an’ talk an’ act. Why, we can’t even
walk natural any longer. An’ she says the way Katy serves our meals is
a disgrace to any civilized family.”
“How does Katy like that?”
“Like it! She got mad an’ gave notice on the spot. An’ that made ma
’most have hysterics—she did have one of her headaches—’cause good
hired girls are awful scarce, she says. But Bess says, Pooh! we’ll get
some from the city next time that know their business, an’ we’re goin’
away all summer, anyway, an’ won’t ma please call them ‘maids,’ as she
ought to, an’ not that plebeian ‘hired girl.’ Bess loves that word.
Everything’s ‘plebeian’ with Bess now. Oh we’re havin’ great times at
our house since Bess—_elizabeth_—came!” grinned Benny, tossing his
cap in the air, and dancing down the walk much as he had danced the
first night Mr. Smith saw him a year before.
The James Blaisdells were hardly off to shore and camp when Miss Flora
started on her travels. Mr. Smith learned all about her plans, too, for
she came down one day to talk them over with Miss Maggie.
Miss Flora was looking very well in a soft gray and white summer silk.
Her forehead had lost its lines of care, and her eyes were no longer
peering for wrinkles. Miss Flora was actually almost pretty.
“How nice you look!” exclaimed Miss Maggie.
“Do I?” panted Miss Flora, as she fluttered up the steps and sank into
one of the porch chairs.
“Indeed, you do!” exclaimed Mr. Smith admiringly. Mr. Smith was putting
up a trellis for Miss Maggie’s new rosebush. He was working faithfully,
but not with the skill of accustomedness.
“I’m so glad you like it!” Miss Flora settled back into her chair and
smoothed out the ruffles across her lap. “It isn’t too gay, is it? You
know the six months are more than up now.”
“Not a bit!” exclaimed Mr. Smith.
“No, indeed!” cried Miss Maggie.
“I hoped it wasn’t,” sighed Miss Flora happily. “Well, I’m all packed
but my dresses.”
“Why, I thought you weren’t going till Monday,” said Miss Maggie.
“Oh, I’m not.”
“But—it’s only Friday now!”
Miss Flora laughed shamefacedly.
“Yes, I know. I suppose I am a little ahead of time. But you see,
I ain’t used to packing—not a big trunk, so—and I was so afraid I
wouldn’t get it done in time. I was going to put my dresses in; but
Mis’ Moore said they’d wrinkle awfully, if I did, and, of course, they
would, when you come to think of it. So I shan’t put those in till
Sunday night. I’m so glad Mis’ Moore’s going. It’ll be so nice to have
somebody along that I know.”
“Yes, indeed,” smiled Miss Maggie.
“And she knows everything—all about tickets and checking the baggage,
and all that. You know we’re only going to be personally conducted to
Niagara. After that we’re going to New York and stay two weeks at some
nice hotel. I want to see Grant’s Tomb and the Aquarium, and Mis’ Moore
wants to go to Coney Island. She says she’s always wanted to go to
Coney Island just as I have to Niagara.”
“I’m glad you can take her,” said Miss Maggie heartily.
“Yes, and she’s so pleased. You know, even if she has such a nice
family, and all, she hasn’t much money, and she’s been awful nice to me
lately. I used to think she didn’t like me, too. But I must have been
mistaken, of course. And ’twas so with Mis’ Benson and Mis’ Pennock,
too. But now they’ve invited me there and have come to see me, and are
_so_ interested in my trip and all. Why, I never knew I had so
many friends, Maggie. Truly I didn’t!”
Miss Maggie said nothing, but, there was an odd expression on her face.
Mr. Smith pounded a small nail home with an extra blow of his hammer.
“And they’re all so kind and interested about the money, too,” went on
Miss Flora, gently rocking to and fro. “Bert Benson sells stocks and
invests money for folks, you know, and Mis’ Benson said he’d got some
splendid-payin’ ones, and he’d let me have some, and—”
“Flo, you _didn’t_ take any of that Benson gold-mine stock!”
interrupted Miss Maggie sharply.
Mr. Smith’s hammer stopped, suspended in mid-air.
“No; oh, no! I asked Mr. Chalmers and he said better not. So I didn’t.”
Miss Maggie relaxed in her chair, and Mr. Smith’s hammer fell with a
gentle tap on the nail-head. “But I felt real bad about it—when Mis’
Benson had been so kind as to offer it, you know. It looked sort of—of
ungrateful, so.”
“Ungrateful!” Miss Maggie’s voice vibrated with indignant scorn.
“Flora, you won’t—you _won’t_ invest your money without asking Mr.
Chalmers’s advice first, will you?”
“But I tell you I didn’t,” retorted Miss Flora, with unusual sharpness,
for her. “But it was good stock, and it pays splendidly. Jane took
some. She took a lot.”
“Jane!—but I thought Frank wouldn’t let her.”
“Oh, Frank said all right, if she wanted to, she might. I suspect he
got tired of her teasing, and it did pay splendidly. Why, ’twill pay
twenty-five per cent, probably, this year, Mis’ Benson says. So Frank
give in. You see, he felt he’d got to pacify Jane some way, I s’pose,
she’s so cut up about his selling out.”
“Selling out!” exclaimed Miss Maggie.
“Oh, didn’t you know that? Well, then I _have_ got some news!”
Miss Flora gave the satisfied little wriggle with which a born
news-lover always prefaces her choicest bit of information. “Frank has
sold his grocery stores—both of ’em.”
“Why, I can’t believe it!” Miss Maggie fell back with a puzzled frown.
“_Sold_ them! Why, I should as soon think of his—his selling himself,”
cried Mr. Smith. “I thought they were inseparable.”
“Well, they ain’t—because he’s separated ’em.” Miss Flora was rocking a
little faster now.
“But why?” demanded Miss Maggie.
“He says he wants a rest. That he’s worked hard all his life, and it’s
time he took some comfort. He says he doesn’t take a minute of comfort
now ’cause Jane’s hounding him all the time to get more money, to get
more money. She’s crazy to see the interest mount up, you know—Jane
is. But he says he don’t want any more money. He wants to _spend_
money for a while. And he’s going to spend it. He’s going to retire
from business and enjoy himself.”
“Well,” ejaculated Mr. Smith, “this is a piece of news, indeed!”
“I should say it was,” cried Miss Maggie, still almost incredulous.
“How does Jane take it?”
“Oh, she’s turribly fussed up over it, as you’d know she would be. Such
a good chance wasted, she thinks, when he might be making all that
money earn more. You know Jane wants to turn everything into money now.
Honestly, Maggie, I don’t believe Jane can look at the moon nowadays
without wishing it was really gold, and she had it to put out to
interest!”
“Oh, Flora!” remonstrated Miss Maggie faintly.
“Well, it’s so,” maintained Miss Flora, “So ’tain’t any wonder, of
course, that she’s upset over this. That’s why Frank give in to her,
I think, and let her buy that Benson stock. Besides, he’s feeling
especially flush, because he’s got the cash the stores brought, too. So
he told her to go ahead.”
“I’m sorry about that stock,” frowned Miss Maggie.
“Oh, it’s perfectly safe. Mis’ Benson said ’twas,” comforted Miss
Flora. “You needn’t worry about that. And ’twill pay splendid.”
“When did this happen—the sale of the store, I mean?” asked Mr. Smith.
Mr. Smith was not even pretending to work now.
“Yesterday—the finish of it. I’m waiting to see Hattie. She’ll be
tickled to death. She’s _always_ hated it that Frank had a grocery
store, you know; and since the money’s come, and she’s been going with
the Gaylords and the Pennocks, and all that crowd, she’s felt worse
than ever. She was saying to me only last week how ashamed she was to
think that her friends might see her own brother-in-law any day wearing
horrid white coat, and selling molasses over the counter. My, but
Hattie’ll be tickled all right—or ‘Harriet,’ I suppose I should say,
but I never can remember it.”
“But what is Frank going to—to do with himself?” demanded Miss Maggie.
“Why, Flora, he’ll be lost without that grocery store!”
“Oh, he’s going to travel, first. He says he always wanted to, and he’s
got a chance now, and he’s going to. They’re going to the Yellowstone
Park and the Garden of the Gods and to California. And that’s another
thing that worries Jane—spending all that money for them just to ride
in the cars.”
“Is she going, too?” queried Mr. Smith.
“Oh, yes, she’s going, too. She says she’s got to go to keep Frank from
spending every cent he’s got,” laughed Miss Flora. “I was over there
last night, and they told me all about it.”
“When do they go?”
“Just as soon as they can get ready. Frank’s got to help Donovan, the
man that’s bought the store, a week till he gets the run of things, he
says. Then he’s going. You wait till you see him.” Miss Flora got to
her feet, and smoothed out the folds of her skirt. “He’s as tickled as
a boy with a new jack-knife. And I’m glad. Frank has been a turrible
hard worker all his life. I’m glad he’s going to take some comfort,
same as I am.”
When Miss Flora had gone, Miss Maggie turned to Mr. Smith with eyes
that still carried dazed unbelief.
“_Did_ Flora say that Frank Blaisdell had sold his grocery stores?”
“She certainly did! You seem surprised.”
“I’m more than surprised. I’m dumfounded.”
“Why? You don’t think, like Mrs. Jane, that he ought not to enjoy his
money, certainly?”
“Oh, no. He’s got money enough to retire, if he wants to, and he’s
certainly worked hard enough to earn a rest.”
“Then what is it?”
Miss Maggie laughed a little.
“I’m not sure I can explain. But, to me, it’s—just this: while he’s
got plenty to retire _upon_, he hasn’t got anything to—to retire
_to_.”
“And, pray, what do you mean by that?”
“Why, Mr. Smith, I’ve known that man from the time he was trading
jack-knives and marbles and selling paper boxes for five pins. I
remember the whipping he got, too, for filching sugar and coffee and
beans from the pantry and opening a grocery store in our barn. From
that time to this, that boy has always been trading _something_.
He’s been absolutely uninterested in anything else. I don’t believe
he’s read a book or a magazine since his school days, unless it had
something to do with business or groceries. He hasn’t a sign of a
fad—music, photography, collecting things—nothing. And he hates
society. Jane has to fairly drag him out anywhere. Now, what I want to
know is, what is the man going to do?”
“Oh, he’ll find something,” laughed Mr. Smith. “He’s going to travel,
first, anyhow.”
“Yes, he’s going to travel, first. And then—we’ll see,” smiled Miss
Maggie enigmatically, as Mr. Smith picked up his hammer again.
By the middle of July the Blaisdells were all gone from Hillerton
and there remained only their letters for Miss Maggie—and for Mr.
Smith. Miss Maggie was very generous with her letters. Perceiving Mr.
Smith’s genuine interest, she read him extracts from almost every
one that came. And the letters were always interesting—and usually
characteristic.
Benny wrote of swimming and tennis matches, and of “hikes” and the
“bully eats.” Hattie wrote of balls and gowns and the attention “dear
Elizabeth” was receiving from some really very nice families who were
said to be fabulously rich. Neither James nor Bessie wrote at all.
Fred, too, remained unheard from.
Mellicent wrote frequently—gay, breezy letters full to the brim of the
joy of living. She wrote of tennis, swimming, camp-fire stories, and
mountain trails: they were like Benny’s letters in petticoats, Miss
Maggie said.
Long and frequent epistles came from Miss Flora. Miss Flora was having
a beautiful time. Niagara was perfectly lovely—only what a terrible
noise it made! She was glad she did not have to stay and hear it
always. She liked New York, only that was noisy, too, though Mrs. Moore
did not seem to mind it. Mrs. Moore liked Coney Island, too, but Miss
Flora much preferred Grant’s Tomb, she said. It was so much more quiet
and ladylike. She thought some things at Coney Island were really not
nice at all, and she was surprised that Mrs. Moore should enjoy them so
much.
Between the lines it could be seen that in spite of all the good times,
Miss Flora was becoming just the least bit homesick. She wrote Miss
Maggie that it did seem queer to go everywhere, and not see a soul to
bow to. It gave her such a lonesome feeling—such a lot of faces, and
not one familiar one! She had tried to make the acquaintance of several
people—real nice people; she knew they were by the way they looked.
But they wouldn’t say hardly anything to her, nor answer her questions;
and they always got up and moved away very soon.
To be sure, there was one nice young man. He was lovely to them, Miss
Flora said. He spoke to them first, too. It was when they were down to
Coney Island. He helped them through the crowds, and told them about
lots of nice things they didn’t want to miss seeing. He walked with
them, too, quite awhile, showing them the sights. He was very kind—he
seemed so especially kind, after all those other cold-hearted people,
who didn’t care! That was the day she and Mrs. Moore both lost their
pocketbooks, and had such an awful time getting back to New York. It
was right after they had said good-bye to the nice young gentleman
that they discovered that they had lost them. They were so sorry that
they hadn’t found it out before, Miss Flora said, for he would have
helped them, she was sure. But though they looked everywhere for him,
they could not find him at all, and they had to appeal to strangers,
who took them right up to a policeman the first thing, which was very
embarrassing, Miss Flora said. Why, she and Mrs. Moore felt as if they
had been arrested, almost! Miss Maggie pursed her lips a little, when
she read this letter to Mr. Smith, but she made no comment.
From Jane, also, came several letters, and from Frank Blaisdell one
short scrawl.
Frank said he was having a bully time, but that he’d seen some of the
most shiftless-looking grocery stores that he ever set eyes on. He
asked if Maggie knew how trade was at his old store, and if Donovan was
keeping it up to the mark. He said that Jane was well, only she was
getting pretty tired because she _would_ try to see everything at
once, for fear she’d lose something, and not get her money’s worth, for
all the world just as she used to eat things to save them.
Jane wrote that she was having a very nice time, of course,—she
couldn’t help it, with all those lovely things to see; but she said
she never dreamed that just potatoes, meat, and vegetables could
cost so much anywhere as they did in hotels, and as for the prices
those dining-cars charged—it was robbery—sheer robbery! And why an
able-bodied man should be given ten cents every time he handed you your
own hat, she couldn’t understand.
At Hillerton, Mr. Smith passed a very quiet summer, but a very
contented one. He kept enough work ahead to amuse him, but never enough
to drive him. He took frequent day-trips to the surrounding towns, and
when possible he persuaded Miss Maggie to go with him. Miss Maggie
was wonderfully good company. As the summer advanced, however, he did
not see so much of her as he wanted to, for Father Duff’s increasing
infirmities made more and more demands on her time.
The Martin girls were still there. Annabelle was learning the
milliner’s trade, and Florence had taken a clerkship for afternoons
during the summer. They still helped about the work, and relieved Miss
Maggie whenever possible. They were sensible, jolly girls, and Mr.
Smith liked them very much.