Kitabı oku: «Talbot's Angles», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XVII
AS WATER UNTO WINE

The time passed as gaily as Miss Ri meant it should: in receiving and returning calls, in a little sight-seeing, in shopping, lunching, dining, a moderate amount of theatre-going. There was a visit to the old low-roofed, grey-shingled market one Saturday evening, when the Goldsborough girls, with their governess, begged Miss Ri and Linda to join them in a frolic.

"We want to buy taffy," they said, "and see the funny people. Do go with us; it will be so jolly." The expedition was quite to Miss Ri's taste and, that Linda might have the experience, she urged the going. A merry time they all had of it, pushing their way from one end of the long market-house to the other, and then parading up and down outside, where the country people, with their wagons, exhibited their wares on tables improvised from a couple of barrels with boards laid across. A little of anything that might be salable was offered, from bunches of dried herbs to fat turkeys.

"It hasn't changed a particle since I was a little girl," declared Miss Ri. "My uncle used to take me to market with him before breakfast on summer mornings, and would buy me a glass of ice cream from that very stand," she designated one with a bee-hive on its sign. "I wonder how I could eat such a thing so early in the morning, though then I thought it a great treat. On Saturday evenings in winter he always brought home a parcel of taffy, which tasted exactly as this does which we have bought to-night. And my aunt, I can see her now with a colored boy walking behind her carrying a huge basket, while she had a tiny one in which to bring home special dainties."

"That custom isn't altogether done away with yet," Miss Carroll told her. "Some of the good old housekeepers still cling to their little baskets."

"And a good thing, too," asserted Miss Ri.

One afternoon, Grace brought her Major to call, and they found him to be a stout, elderly man, rather florid, a little consequential, but quite genial and polite, and evidently very proud of his young fiancée.

"He's not so bad," commented Miss Ri, "although he is not of our stripe. I was sure he could not be a West Point man, and he isn't. He served in the Spanish War for a short time, he told me. However, I don't doubt that it is going to be a perfectly satisfactory marriage. He likes flattery, and Grace is an adept in bestowing it."

Mrs. Matthews and her daughter, Margaret Edmondson, were among the very first to call and to offer an invitation to luncheon. "We shall not make a stranger of you any more than of Maria," said Mrs. Matthews, taking Linda's hands in hers. "I remember you so well as a little bit of a girl, of whom Berkley was always ready to make a playmate when you came to town. My first recollection of you is when I brought Berkie over at Miss Ri's request. You were no more than three and he was perhaps six or seven. You looked at him for a long time with those big blue eyes of yours, and then you said, 'Boy, take me to see the chickens.' You liked to peep through the fence at Miss Parthy's fowls, but were not allowed to go that far alone, you were such a little thing. From that day Berkie was always asking when Miss Ri's little girl was coming back, for you left that same evening."

Miss Ri looked at Linda. Her face was flushed and her eyes downcast.

"I shouldn't be surprised," put in Margaret, "if Berk were wishing now that Miss Ri's little girl would come back."

Linda withdrew her hand from Mrs. Matthews' clasp and turned from the gentle face, whose eyes were searching hers. "Oh, you are mistaken, Mrs. Edmondson," she said hurriedly. "Berk and I very seldom see one another; in fact, I have not laid eyes on him for weeks."

"He's working too hard," said Mrs. Matthews, turning to Miss Ri. "I thought he looked thin and careworn when he was last here. I wish you all would advise him not to overwork. He values your advice very highly, Maria."

"We all think he is working too hard," returned Miss Ri, "but if he listens to anyone, it will be his mother. I never knew a more devoted son."

"He is indeed," replied Mrs. Matthews. "Maria, I hate to have him in that comfortless hotel; he was always such a home boy."

"Come, Mother, come," broke in Mrs. Edmondson. "Miss Ri, if you get mother started on the subject of Berk, she will stand and talk all day. We shall expect you both on Thursday. Take the car to Cold Spring Lane and you will not have far to walk."

The callers departed and though Linda said little of them, Miss Ri noticed that she made no protest against the trip to the pretty suburb where they lived. She had not been so ready on other occasions.

Mrs. Edmondson, proud of her pretty new house, was ready to show off its conveniences and comforts, and to discourse upon the delights of living in a place which was not city and yet was accessible to all that one desired, for it was not half an hour by trolley to the center of the town. Her husband, a young business man, was making his way rapidly, Mrs. Matthews told Miss Ri with pride. "And he is a good son to me," she added, "so I shall never want for a home while I have three children. Margie insists that I shall never leave her; but, unless Berkley marries, I think I should make a home for him. I can't have him living in a hotel all his life." Then followed anecdotes of Berkley, of this act of self-denial, that evidence of devotion. "You know, Maria, that he is exactly like his father. The Doctor always thought of himself last."

"Mother, dear," interrupted Margaret, "they didn't come to hear Berk eulogized, but to see your pretty room. Come, Linda, let us leave them. Miss Ri is almost as bad as she is when it comes to Berk." She put her arm around Linda and drew her away, whispering, "Mother thinks I am jealous, but I am not a bit; I only don't want her to get the notion that she must leave me and go back to Sandbridge. After all Berk has done for us, I think he ought to have his chance to get ahead, and the very least I can do is to try to make mother happy here with me. Herbert agrees with me. I wish Berk had a home of his own, and then mother would be satisfied."

The two younger women went off to view other parts of the house, while their elders talked of those things nearest their hearts. They were old friends and had much in common. Margaret was a sweet womanly person, not a beauty, but fresh and fair and good to look upon, with the same honest grey eyes as her brother's, and the same sturdy frankness of manner. Linda thought her a trifle expansive, till she realized that herself was anything but a stranger, in spite of the fact that she had not met these two since she was a little girl.

"I am glad I wasn't brought up within hail of the monument," said Margaret as she exhibited her spick and span kitchen. "I should hate to be deprived of the privileges of my own kitchen, and I shouldn't like to believe I must live on certain streets or be a Pariah. There is too much of that feeling in this blessed old city, and I must say our Cavalier ancestors did give us pleasure-loving natures as an inheritance. Half the girls I know are pretty and sweet and amiable, but they never read anything but trash, think of nothing but wearing pretty clothes and of having a good time. However, I think they do make good wives and mothers when it comes to settling down. Someone said to me the other day, that Southern girls married only for love and that poverty came in at the door to mock them for being so silly as to think any marriage was better than none; that they didn't mind love flying out of the window half so much as they did going to their graves unmarried. There may be some truth in that, but I think they are generally pretty contented and are satisfied to take life as it comes."

Margaret was a great chatterer, and was delighted to get Linda to herself, to air her own views and to learn of Linda's. "Aren't you glad, Linda," she went on, "that you are making a place for yourself in the world? Berk has often said that you were quite different from most of the girls he knew, and that he wished we could be good friends. He says you can talk of other things than dress and gossip, and that you are quite domestic. Are you domestic?"

"Why" – Linda paused to consider – "yes, I think I am. I like to keep house. I did for my brother, you know; yet I like a good time and pretty clothes as much as anyone."

"Of course. So do I. But you care for other things, too. Berk thinks you are so wonderful to write so well, and to get along so successfully with your teaching."

Linda made a little grimace. "Berk is very kind to say so, but that is something for which I do not feel myself fitted and which I really do not enjoy."

"So much the more credit for doing it well. Linda, you must come to the Club while you are here. I know you would enjoy it. Mother and I both belong. There is another and more fashionable literary club, but we like ours much the best. The real workers are members of it, not the make-believes. It meets every Tuesday afternoon. We must arrange for you to go with us, and Miss Ri must come, too." Here the elder women entered, and Miss Ri reminded Linda that they were to go to a tea on their way home, so they departed, Linda and Margaret parting like old friends.

The tea was a quiet little affair which Linda had promised Miss Ri to attend, as it was at the house of one of the latter's particular friends, and here they lingered till dinner time. As they were going to their rooms a card was handed them. Miss Ri raised her lorgnette to read the name. "Mr. Jeffreys has been here," she exclaimed.

"The gen'l'man say he be back this evenin'," the elevator boy told them.

"Humph!" Miss Ri looked at Linda. "Were we going anywhere to-night?"

"No. You remember that we said we would be going all day and that we'd better stay in and rest."

"Then rest shall I, and you can see the young man. Now, no protests; I am not going down one step. I can trust you to go unchaperoned this once, I should think. I don't feel like talking to him. I have been talking all day."

Therefore Linda went down alone when the young man was announced, to find him sitting in a little alcove, waiting for her. He was in correct evening dress and looked well. Linda had never seen him so carefully attired and could but acknowledge that there was a certain elegance in the tall, dignified figure, and that he looked quite as distinguished as any man she had met. She, herself, was all in white, Miss Ri having persuaded her that such a dress was as appropriate as her frocks of black. She looked very charming, thought the young man, who rose to meet her, and his manner was slightly more genial than usual.

"It seems a very long time since I saw you, Miss Linda," he said.

"Only a week," returned Linda, seating herself on a low divan, her skirts making soft billows around her.

"You have enjoyed yourself and the time has passed very quickly, I presume."

"Very quickly. We have had a delightful week. And you?"

"There have been festivities in Sandbridge from which you were missed."

"And to which, probably, I should not have gone. No piece of news of any importance?"

"One which will interest you and which I came to tell you of."

He hesitated so long that Linda, to help him out, began, "And the news is – "

"About my claim." He hesitated, as if finding it very hard to go on.

"Oh, I think I can anticipate what you have to say," rejoined Linda easily. "My sister-in-law has told me that it is Talbot's Angles to which your papers refer. Is that true?"

"It is."

"And have you established your facts?" Linda asked the question steadily.

"Not perfectly; although the past week has given us some extra proof in the papers found at the house itself. Among them we found some receipts given by Cyrus Talbot to the tenant for rent. They read: 'Received from John Briggs one quarter's rent for Talbot's Angles,' so much, and are signed by Cyrus Talbot."

"By 'us' you mean Mr. Matthews and yourself?"

"Yes, it is through his efforts that we are able to get so much evidence as we have."

"I see." There was silence for a moment. Linda sat perfectly still and, except that she nervously played with a ring on her finger, appeared unmoved.

Mr. Jeffreys watched her for a moment, then he leaned forward. "Miss Linda," he began, "I know how you must feel, and it pains me beyond expression to bring you news that must be disappointing to you, but – " he halted in his precise speech, "but you need not lose your old home, if you will take the claimant with it."

Linda lifted startled eyes.

The young man went on: "I have thought the matter over and while I could not consider it expedient to live on the place, I would not sell it unless you wished, and would always, under any circumstances, reserve the house, that you might still consider it your home."

Linda laughed a little wildly. "It seems that is always the way of it. I am merely to consider it my home in every case."

He drew nearer and took her hand. "Then, will you accept it as I offer it? With myself? I would try to make you happy. I think if I had the stimulus of your companionship, I could succeed. We could make our home in Hartford, and you could return to Maryland when it pleased you each year. I have just received an offer from an insurance company. They wish to send me to England on business, and on my return they give me the promise of such a position as will insure me a future."

"It is in Hartford?"

"Yes; and it is a lovely city, you know."

"Where, as in Sandbridge, they are always ready to welcome strangers cordially? I think I have heard how very spontaneous they are up there, quite expansive and eager to make newcomers feel at home." She spoke with sarcastic emphasis.

"Of course, my friends would welcome you," returned Mr. Jeffreys a little stiffly. "Dear Miss Linda," he continued more fervently, "don't get the idea that there are no warm hearts in the North because you have heard of some cold ones. Once you know the people, none could be better friends. I would try to make you happy. Will you believe me when I say that you are the first woman I have ever wished to make my wife?"

"Yes, I believe you." She smiled a little.

"Please think it over. I would rather not have my answer now. I know there is much to bewilder you, and I would rather you did not give me an impulsive reply. I will not pursue the subject. I will come to-morrow. I would much rather wait."

"Thank you for your consideration," returned Linda. "I will think it over, Mr. Jeffreys. It is only right that I should. Must you go?"

"I think so. May I come to-morrow afternoon? At what hour?"

"About five. We have an engagement in the evening."

He arose, took her hand, pressed it gently and said earnestly, "I beg that you will remember that it would be my dearest wish to make you my wife under any circumstances."

"I will remember," returned Linda.

"Please give my regards to Miss Hill," continued Mr. Jeffreys, taking up his hat. "I owe her a debt of thanks for giving me this opportunity of seeing you alone." And he bowed himself out.

There were but few persons in the large drawing-room, and they had been quite sequestered in their little alcove. Linda returned to her seat, and lingered there, thinking, thinking. Presently she smiled and whispered to herself, "He never once said he loved, never once. 'As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine,'" she murmured musingly. So he would marry her and take her to his city, where there would be no Aunt Ri, no warm-hearted neighbors to welcome her with cordial emphasis, as there would be when she went back to Sandbridge. Nevermore the flat, level roads, the little salt rivers, the simple every-day intercourse of friend with friend, the easy-going unambitious way of living, the smiling content. Instead, the eager struggle for greater ostentation and luxury, which she saw even in the city where she now was; the cold, calculating stares from utter strangers, when she went among them, interest lacking, affection wanting. But on the other hand, she would come back to her old home every year, and it would be truly hers. But how hard it would be to go from it again! And after a while she would be coming less and less frequently. She would grow reticent and unapproachable. Repression would silently work the change in her. She would have the opportunity of pouring out her thoughts on paper, to be sure, but – so she would at home. "No, no, no," she cried; "I'd rather a thousand times teach my restless boys for the remainder of my life. I don't love him, and that is exactly what is wrong. Where he lives has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, Talbot's Angles. You were never mine, and you never will be now."

She went to her room, tip-toeing gently that Miss Ri might not hear her in the adjoining one. She slipped quietly into a chair near the window and gave herself up to her thoughts. She must not let Miss Ri think her caller had remained so short a time, and the dear woman must not be told of what had occurred. When she heard a stirring around in the next room, she knocked on the door, which was quickly opened to her.

"Well, child, has your young man gone?" came the query. "What did he have to say?"

"He told me the same thing Grace did about Talbot's Angles."

"He did? The wretch!.. Linda, why did we ever treat him so well? He doesn't deserve it."

"Why, Aunt Ri, he can't help being the great-grandson of Cyrus Talbot."

"He could help coming down here and stirring up all this fuss."

"He sent his regards to you."

"I don't want them. What else did he say?"

"It appears that they have some new evidence, found in the paper which Grace directed them to. Some old receipts which seem to establish the fact that Cyrus Talbot really did have the right to rent the place to a certain John Briggs. I don't know how these receipts came into the possession of our branch of the family, but probably Briggs gave them to our great-grandfather to keep safely. At all events, Berkley Matthews and Mr. Jeffreys have worked it all out."

"I don't see how Berkley could have the conscience. It is outrageous for him to be party to a scheme for defrauding an orphan girl."

"Oh, Aunt Ri, you mustn't say it is defrauding; it is just legal rights. We may have been defrauding them."

"We'll see whether it is so or not. Judge Goldsborough was so sure; but then I suppose all these things were not known to him. I wish we could hear from him and learn what he has discovered in the papers he holds."

"We shall, in good time. Meanwhile, what difference does it make? I am used to having the place belong to someone else, and I am growing content to spend my days in teaching. I shall even be glad to get back to my boys."

Miss Ri swung around sharply and took the girl's face between her hands. "Verlinda, Verlinda," she said, "I wish I could turn a search-light on that heart of yours?"

"Why, Aunt Ri?"

"Oh, because, because, a woman's reason." Then she put her arms around the girl and hugged her close to her ample night-dress. "You are a darling child. Teach as long as you like; it will be so much the better for me than seeing you go off to Hartford."

Linda felt the color rise to her face. "How do you know that opportunity will ever be afforded me?" she asked lightly.

"If it hasn't been, it will. How did that miserable usurper look?"

"Very handsome; in quite correct evening dress, which suited him perfectly. Aunt Ri, it would be a privilege to sit opposite such a fine-looking man three times a day for the rest of my life."

"It would, would it? and have to use a knife to dissect him before you could find out what he really felt about anything? And even then you wouldn't discover a thing in his veins but ice-water."

Linda laughed. "You can be the most vehement person for one who pretends to be so mild and serene. I notice that where those you love are concerned, you are anything but mild, bless your dear heart. Don't be scared, Aunt Ri; I'll never leave Sandbridge, never. I'll never leave the dear old Eastern Shore for anyone. No, indeed."

"Who is vehement now, Verlinda Talbot? I verily believe that man has proposed to you. I am convinced of it. Oh, my dear, maybe after all you ought to consider him, for that would settle it all. You could live in the old home and be happy ever after, only, Verlinda, Verlinda, what would become of Berk?"

Linda gave a little smothered cry and Miss Ri felt the slender figure quivering, though quite steadily came the words, "We can't take Berk into consideration, Aunt Ri; he is fighting with all his might for Mr. Jeffreys, and so far as I am concerned, he doesn't think of me at all – in any direction."

"I don't believe it," returned Miss Ri. "I admit he is an enigma, but I don't believe a word of his not thinking of you. I've talked to his mother," she added triumphantly.

After that not a word would she say on the subject, but sent Linda off to bed, and if the girl needed anything to fix her decision regarding Mr. Jeffreys, it is possible that Miss Ri's last words helped to the conclusion.