BLENNERHASSETT.
When comparatively great events follow each other in quick succession, those of minor importance are liable to escape mention. It was for this reason, probably, that the second visit of Dr. Tillotson was not spoken of at the time of its occurrence. He examined Alice's eyes and declared that progress towards recovery was being made, slowly but surely. He left a bottle of new medicine, and advised Alice, as an aid to recovery, to take a long walk, or a ride, each pleasant day. This advice he repeated to Uncle Ike, who was waiting for him outside the front door, and to Quincy, who brought him from the station and took him back.
On the day fixed upon, Quincy drove over to Montrose, and accompanied by Squire Rundlett, went to the county town and presented Mrs. Putnam's will for probate. In due time the will was admitted, the executors' bonds were filed and approved, and Quincy, at the age of twenty-three, found himself one of the financial guardians of the young heiress, Mary Alice Pettengill, she being his junior by less than two years.
About ten days after Quincy's interview with his Aunt Ella, in which she had signified her intention of making him an allowance, he received a letter from a Boston banking firm, informing him that by direction of Mrs. Ella Chessman, the sum of five thousand dollars had been placed to his credit, and that a similar sum would be so placed on the first business day of January in each succeeding year. A blank card was enclosed for a copy of his signature, and the statement made that his drafts would be duly honored.
When Quincy and his aunt reached Eastborough Centre, after the trio of weddings, they found that they had a full hour to wait before the arrival of the next ingoing train.
This gave plenty of time for the reloading of the horses and carriage on the special car in which they had been brought from Boston and which had been side-tracked.
Quincy wished to accompany his aunt to Boston and escort her to her home, but she demurred. He insisted, but his aunt replied, "Don't go, please don't, Quincy; they will take me for your mother, and I really am not quite old enough for that."
This argument was unanswerable, and Quincy bade her a laughing good-by as the train sped on towards Boston, the special car in charge of the coachman and footman bringing up the rear.
Thus Aunt Ella's visit to Mason's Corner became an event of the past, but the memory of it remained green for a long time in the minds of those who had witnessed her arrival and departure.
Ellis Smith drove Quincy home to the Pettengill house. It was to be home no longer, for Hiram and Mandy were to have the room that Quincy had occupied so long. His trunk and other belongings he had packed up the night before, and at Quincy's request, Cobb's twins had taken them out to Jacob's Parlor, where he found them. He knew that Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins were to spend the afternoon with their daughter and son-in-law.
Quincy also knew that Uncle Ike and Alice were at Deacon Mason's, where Ezekiel and Huldy were to remain for the coming week.
For the first time since he had been at Mason's Corner, Quincy felt lonesome and deserted. He reflected on his way to Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house that these weddings were all very nice, to be sure, but they had deprived him of the society of many good friends, who were now united by stronger ties than those of simple, everyday friendship.
He did not care to go to the grocery store, for he felt that the Professor was entitled to all the credit that he was likely to get for his day's performance, and he did not wish to detract from it. So he went directly to his room, and for the first time felt out of sorts with Eastborough and its people.
He was not hungry for food, so he did not answer the call to supper, but sat in the dark and thought. He realized that he was hungry, yes, desperately hungry, for love—the love of one woman, Alice Pettengill. Why should he wait longer? Even if his father and mother objected his Aunt Ella was on his side, and her action had made him independent. He had felt himself so before, but now there was no doubt of it.
This determined young man then made up his mind he would declare his love at the first auspicious moment. Then he would go to his parents and learn their verdict on his proposed action. Thinking thus he went to bed, and in his dreams, ushers, and bridesmaids, and cut flowers, and potted plants, and miles of silken ribbon, and cream-colored horses, and carriages, and clergymen, and organists, and big pipe organs were revolving about him and Alice, as the planets revolve about the sun.
Once more Quincy's breakfast was on the stove being kept warm, and once more Mrs. Hawkins was waiting impatiently for him to come down.
Betsy Green and she were washing the breakfast dishes. How happy Eve must have been in Eden, where there was no china, no knives and forks, and no pots and kettles, and what an endless burden of commonplace drudgery she entailed upon her fair sisters when she fell from her high estate. Man's labor is uniformly productive, but woman's, alas! is still almost as uniformly simply preservative.
"Mr. Sawyer," said Mrs. Hawkins to Betsy Green, "is no doubt a very nice young man, but I shouldn't want him for a steady boarder, 'less he got up on time and eat his meals reg'lar."
"I s'pose he's all tired out," remarked Betsy. "He had a pretty hard day of it yesterday, you know, Mis' Hawkins."
"Wall, I s'pose I ought to be kinder easy on him on that account. I must say he managed things fust rate."
"How did the brides look?" asked Betsy.
Poor girl, she was one of the few who were not able to view the grand sight.
"I can think of no word to express my feelin's," replied Mrs. Hawkins after a pause, "but splendiferous! Huldy's dress was a white satin that would a stood alone. She had a overskirt of netted white silk cord, heavy enough to use for a hammock. You know she's neither light nor dark, kind of a between, but she looked mighty poorty all the same."
"Was Tilly James dressed in white, too?" inquired Betsy.
"No," answered Mrs. Hawkins. "She wore a very light pink silk, with a lace overskirt, and it just matched her black eyes and black hair fine, I can tell yer."
"Mandy must have looked pretty, with her light curly hair and blue eyes, and those rosy cheeks."
"Well," said Mrs. Hawkins reflectively, "I'm her mother, and a course I'm prejoodished, but I honestly think she was the best lookin' one of the three. Of course Hiram is no beauty, and I'm all out of patience when he tries to talk to me. But I know he'll make Mandy a good husband, and that's a tarnal sight better'n good looks."
"What color was Mandy's dress?" persisted Betsy.
"Lord a massy," cried Mrs. Hawkins, "I e'en a'most forgot to tell yer. Her dress was a very light blue silk, with a lace overskirt, 'bout the same as Tilly's. Mr. Sawyer gave her two hundred dollars to buy her things with, 'cause she's been so nice to him since he boarded at Pettengill's."
"Who was that stylish lookin' lady that came in a carriage with the four beautiful horses? I saw her outer the attic winder."
"She was a Mrs. Chessman," replied Mrs. Hawkins. I heern tell she's a widder'd aunt of Mr. Sawyer's, and she's as rich as Creazers."
"How rich is that?" inquired Betsey, with an astonished look.
"Creazers," replied Mrs. Hawkins, with an expression that savored of erudition, "was a man who was so all fired rich that he had to hire folks to spend his money for him."
At that moment a step was heard in the dining-room, and both Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy flew to wait upon the new-comer who proved to be Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer. As he took his seat at the table the Connecticut clock on the mantelpiece struck ten.
At eleven o'clock that same morning Mr. Sawyer knocked at the front door of Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's residence. How strange it seemed, how much more homelike it would have been to have entered by the back door and to have come through the kitchen and dining-room, as of old. But no! He was not a regular boarder now, only an occasional visitor.
The door was opened by young Mrs. Maxwell, and her usually rosy cheeks were ruddier than ever when she saw who the caller was.
"Is Miss Pettengill in?" Quincy politely inquired.
"She's in the parlor, sir; won't you walk in?" And she threw open the door of the room in which Alice sat by the fire.
"Do I disturb your dreams, Miss Pettengill?" asked Quincy, as he reached her side.
"I'm so glad you have come, Mr. Sawyer," said Alice, extending her hand. "I never was so lonesome in my life as I have been this morning. The house seems deserted. Uncle Ike ate too many good things yesterday, and says he is enjoying an attack of indigestion to-day. I had Swiss in here to keep me company, but he wouldn't stay and Mandy had to let him out."
"He came up to Mrs. Hawkins's," said Quincy, as he took his accustomed seat opposite Alice. "He walked down with me, but when he saw me safe on the front doorstep he disappeared around the corner."
"I didn't tell him to go after you," said Alice, laughing; "but I am very glad that you have come. I have a very important matter to consult you about. You know you are my business man now."
"I'm always at your service," replied Quincy. "I think I know what you wish to see me about."
"And what do you think it is?" asked Alice, shaking her head negatively.
"Well," said Quincy, "I saw Squire Rundlett the day before the weddings and he thought that you might possibly want some money. He had a thousand dollars in cash belonging to you, and I brought you half of it. If you will kindly sign this receipt," he continued, as he took a small parcel from his pocket, "you will relieve me of further responsibility for its safe keeping."
He moved the little writing table close to her chair, and dipping the pen in the ink he handed it to her, and indicated with his finger the place where she should sign. She wrote as well as ever, though she could see nothing that she penned.
"There are eight fifty-dollar bills, eight tens and four fives," he said, as he passed her the money.
"Which are the fifties?" she asked, as she handled the money nervously with her fingers.
"Here they are," said Quincy, and he separated them from the rest of the bills and placed them in her hands.
"Oh! thank you," said she. She counted out four of the bills and passed them to Quincy. "That settles my money debt to you, does it not?" she inquired; "but nothing can pay the debt of gratitude that I owe you for your many acts of kindness to me, Mr. Sawyer."
"I am fully repaid by that very kind speech of yours," replied Quincy. "But what was the important matter you wished to see me about? I don't think it was the money."
"It was not," said Alice. "I have little use for money just at present. I never had so much before at once in all my life. I shall have to learn to be an heiress."
"It's a lesson that is very easily learned," replied Quincy.
"What I wish to speak about," continued Alice, musingly, "is Mrs. Putnam's house. I could never live in it. I could never go into that room again;" and she shuddered.
"You can sell it," interposed Quincy.
"No," said Alice earnestly, "I am going to give it away. Father just made a living here, and Ezekiel can do no better, but with the Putnam farm, properly stocked, he can in time become a rich man, for he is a good farmer, and he loves his work. I wish," continued Alice, "to give 'Zekiel and Huldy the farm outright, then I would like to loan him enough money to buy live stock and machinery and whatever else he may need, so that he may begin his new life under the most favorable auspices."
"I think your proposed action a most commendable one," remarked Quincy. "I am sure you need anticipate no objections on the part of Squire Rundlett or myself. Our duties are limited to seeing that all the property that was willed to you is properly delivered. It gives us no right to interfere with your wishes or to question your motives. I will see Squire Rundlett at an early day and have the matter put into shape. Does Ezekiel know of this?"
"Not a word," said Alice; "I do not wish to speak to him about it until the matter is all settled and the papers are signed. He is high spirited, and at the first mention I know he would refuse my offer, especially if he thought 'twas only known to us two. But when he learns that the deed is done, and that the Squire and yourself are knowing to it, he will be more tractable."
"Speaking of the Putnam house, or more properly, I suppose, Pettengill house number two—"
"This will always be number one," interposed Alice.
"—reminds me," said Quincy, that my efforts to discover Lindy's whereabouts have so far proved unavailing. The advertisement that I put in for a month has run out and I have received no word."
"Do you think she went to New York, as she promised?" inquired Alice.
"I do not," replied Quincy. "I think she always had an idea that Mrs. Putnam had some letter or document in her possession relating to her parents. I think the poor girl lost hope when she learned that it was destroyed, and I imagine that she has intentionally hidden herself and does not wish to be found. I might, after long search, discover her bankers, but she has probably notified them to keep her address a secret. I do not like to confess," he continued, "to so abject a failure, but I really do not know what to do next."
"We must wait and hope," said Alice. Then looking up at Quincy with an arch smile upon her face, she added, "I will extend your time, Sir Knight. Your gallant efforts have so far been unsuccessful, but I shall pray that you may some day return victorious."
Quincy replied in the same tone of banter: "Knowing that you, fair lady, are ever thinking of me, and that my name is ever upon your fair lips in prayer, will spur me to renewed effort, for surely no cavalier ever had a more lovely mistress or a greater incentive to knightly action."
Although he spoke in a chaffing tone, there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his manner and pathos in his voice that made Alice start and flush visibly.
Fearing that he had gone too far he quickly changed the subject by asking abruptly, "Have you come to any decision about your book?"
"Yes," replied Alice, "and I am ashamed to say that your friend's suggestion and your warm endorsement of it have so increased my egotism and enlarged my appreciation of my own abilities that I am tempted to try it, especially now, as you inform me I am independent and can do as I please."
"Have you progressed so far as to fix upon a subject?" inquired Quincy.
"Yes, provisionally," replied Alice. "I have always been a great admirer of history, and particularly that of my own country. For the period from 1776, no, from 1607, to the present time I have become conversant with the thoughts and acts of our patriots and public men. One character has always been a mystery to me, and I wish to learn all I can about him."
"And he?" questioned Quincy.
"Is Aaron Burr," said Alice. "How I wish I could learn the truth about the loss of his daughter Theodosia; then the real reasons for his duel with Alexander Hamilton are not fully understood at the present day. Then again, I should enjoy writing about that fine old Irish gentleman and lover of science, Harman Blennerhassett, and his lovely wife, Margaret."
"Have you decided upon the title?" still further questioned Quincy.
"I have thought of two," she replied, "'Theodosia,' and 'Blennerhassett,' but I strongly incline to the latter."
"So do I," said Quincy, "but you will have to do much more reading, no doubt, before you commence writing. Historical novels are usually savagely attacked by the critics, presumably very often from political motives, and you would have to be very strong in your authorities."
"That is what troubles me," said Alice; "if I only could read—"
"But others can read to you and make such notes as you desire," remarked Quincy. "I should like nothing better than to help you in such a work, but I have been away from home so long that I feel it imperative to resume my business duties at an early day."
"I think you ought," said Alice. "I could not presume to trespass upon your kindness and good nature to such an extent. The idea of writing this book has grown very pleasing to me, but I can wait until—" She stopped speaking and placed both of her hands over her eyes. "I can wait," she repeated, "until my eyes are better."
"Will you allow me to make a suggestion, Miss Pettengill?"
Alice smiled and nodded. "You are my literary as well as my financial adviser," said she.
"It will no doubt appear quite an undertaking to you," continued Quincy, "but I shall be very glad to help you. My plan is to secure a lady who reads well and can write a good hand to assist you. Besides this, she must understand correcting proof sheets. I think Leopold could easily find such a person for you. Then, again, you know what Dr. Tillotson said about your taking exercise and fresh air. The second feature of my plan, and the most important in my mind, is to find some quiet place in the country, or at the beach, where you and your amanuensis can both work and play. I can buy for you such books as you need, and you can finish the work this summer."
Alice reflected. After a few moments' pause she said, "I like the plan and I thank you very much for speaking of it; but I prefer the beach. I love the plash and roar and boom of the water, and it will be a constant inspiration to me. How soon can I go?" she asked, with a look upon her face that a young child might have had in speaking to its father.
This was Alice Pettengill's great charm. She was honest and disingenuous, and was always ready to think that what others deemed it best for her to do was really so. Imitation may be the sincerest flattery, but appreciation of the advice and counsel of others, combined with gratitude for the friendly spirit that prompts it, makes and holds more friends.
Quincy looked at his watch.
"I can get the afternoon train, I think," said he. "I will see Leopold, and then run up and make Aunt Ella a call. She knows the New England coast from Eastport to Newport. Did she speak to you at the wedding?"
"Some lady with a very pleasant voice asked me if I were Miss Pettengill, while we were in the church," replied Alice. "I said yes, and then she told me that her name was Chessman, adding the information that she was your aunt, and that you could tell me all about her."
"I shall be happy to," said Quincy; "but I can assure you it would be much more enjoyable for you to hear it from herself. I hope you will have that pleasure some day." And again adopting a bantering tone, "I trust, fair lady, I shall not return this time from a bootless errand."
Alice listened again, as she had often done, until she heard the sound of departing wheels, and then she fell to wondering whether her future paths in life would continue to be marked out by this Sir Knight, who was ever at her beck and call, and whether it was her destiny to always tread the paths that he laid out for her.
Quincy was fortunate in finding Leopold at home.
"I'm glad you've come, Quincy," said he; "I was going to write you to-night."
"What's up?" inquired Quincy.
"Please pass me that package of papers on the corner of the table," answered Leopold, being loath to rise from his recumbent position on the lounge.
Quincy did as requested and took a seat beside Leopold.
"These," said Leopold, "are the proofs of the first writings of a to-be-famous American author. Glad she took a man's name, so I don't have to say authoress. Here," he continued, "are the proofs of the story, Was it Signed? Cooper wishes it read and returned immediately. Editors wish everything done immediately. They loaf on their end and expect the poor author to sit up all night and make up for their shortcomings. I'm a sort of editor myself, and I know what I'm talking about. This lot," he continued, "will appear in 'The Sunday Universe' a week from next Sunday. I had a copy made for Jameson to work from. Bruce Douglas owes me four-fifty for expenses, necessary but not authorized."
"I will see that you are reimbursed," said Quincy; "want it now?" and he made a motion to take out his pocketbook.
"No," replied Leopold, "I'm flush to-day; keep it till some time when I'm strapped. Last, and most important of all, here are the proofs of the story that is to appear in our monthly. Now, my advice to you is, Quincy, seek the fair author at once, correct these proofs and have them back to me within three days, or they'll go over and she'll be charged for keeping the type standing, besides having her pay hung up for another week."
"She won't mind that," said Quincy, with a laugh. "She's an heiress now, with real and personal property valued at fifty thousand dollars. But what am I to do?" asked he seriously. "I could read the manuscript, but we have no one at Eastborough who knows how to make those pothooks and scratches that you call 'corrections.'"
"Well, you two young aspirants for literary fame are in a box, are'nt you? I was thinking about that fifty thousand. Perhaps I'd better go home with you and get acquainted with the author," said Leopold with a laugh.
"Well," returned Quincy, "it would be very kind of you in our present emergency, but, strange as it may seem, I came to see you this afternoon about securing a literary assistant for Miss Pettengill. She has decided to write that book."
"Good girl!" cried Leopold, sitting bolt upright upon the lounge. "I mean, good boy, for it was, no doubt, your acknowledged powers of argument and gently persuasive ways that have secured this consummation of my desire. Let me think;" and he scratched his head vigorously. "I think I have it," said he, finally. "One of our girls down to the office worked so hard during our late splurge that the doctor told her she must rest this week. She rooms over on Myrtle Street. I happened to be late in getting out one day last week, and we walked together up as far as Chestnut Street. She lives nearly down to the end of Myrtle Street."
"No further explanation or extenuation is necessary," said Quincy. "Is she pretty?"
"You're right, she is," replied Leopold, "She's both pretty and smart. She has a beautiful voice and writes a hand that looks like copperplate. She's a first-class proof reader and a perfect walking dictionary on spelling, definitions, and dates. They treat her mighty shabby on pay, though. She's a woman, so they gave her six dollars a week. If she were a man they'd give her twenty, and think themselves lucky. I'll run over and see if she is at home. At what time could she go down with you to-morrow?" he asked.
"I'll come after her at nine o'clock. Tell her Miss Pettengill will give her eight dollars a week, with board and lodging free."
"All right," cried Leopold, "that's business. While I'm gone just see how pretty those stories look in cold type. I've been all through them myself just for practice."
Leopold dashed out of the room and Quincy took up the proofs of the story, Was It Signed? He became so absorbed in its perusal that Leopold pulled it out of his hand in order to attract his attention.
"It's all right," he said. "She's delighted at the idea of going. She thinks the change will do her good. She can't build up very fast in a little back room, up three flights."
"What's her name?" asked Quincy.
"Oh! I forgot," replied Leopold. "I'll write her name and address down for you. There it is," said he, as he passed it to Quincy. "Her first name is Rosa, and that's all right. She's of French-Canadian descent, and her last name is one of those jawbreakers that no American can pronounce. It sounded something like Avery, so she called herself at first Rosa Avery; then the two A's caused trouble, for everybody thought she said Rose Avery. Being a proof reader," continued Leopold, "she is very sensitive, so while the name Rosa satisfied her inmost soul, the name Rose jarred upon her sensibilities. Thus another change became necessary, and she is now known, and probably will continue to be known, as Miss Rosa Very, until she makes up her mind to change it again."
"I'm greatly obliged, Leopold," said Quincy, making the proofs into a flat parcel and putting them into his inside overcoat pocket.
"Don't mention it, old fellow," remarked Leopold. "You may be the means of supplying me with an assistant some day. If you should, don't fail to call my attention to it."
Aunt Ella was at dinner when Quincy arrived. She sent word up by Buttons for Quincy to come down to the dining-room at once. She was alone in the room when he entered.
"Just in time," said he, "and I'm hungry as a bear."
"That's a good boy; sit down and help me out," said his aunt. "These extravagant servants of mine cook ten times as much as I can possibly eat."
"I don't imagine it is wasted," replied Quincy.
"I think not," said Aunt Ella, with a laugh; "for, judging from the extra plentiful supply, they probably have a kitchen party in view for this evening. But what keeps you away from Eastborough over night?"
"I thought you couldn't eat and talk at the same time," remarked Quincy.
"I can't," she replied. "I'm through eating and I'm going to sit and listen to you. Go right ahead, the servants won't come in. I won't let them stand and look at me when I'm eating. If I want them I ring for them."
Quincy then briefly related the principal events that had taken place at Mason's Corner since the nineteenth, remarking, incidentally, that he had received no word from Lindy.
"Let her alone, and she'll come home when she gets ready," said Aunt Ella. "As to the best place for your young lady to go, I shall have to think a minute. Old Orchard is my favorite, but I'm afraid it would be too noisy for her there, the hotels are so close to the railroad track. I suppose your family, meaning your mother's, of course, will go to Nahant, as usual. Sarah would have society convulsions at Old Orchard. I should like to see her promenading down in front of the candy stores, shooting for cigars in the shooting gallery, or taking a ride down to Saco Pool on the narrow-gauge; excuse me for speaking so of your mother, Quincy, but I have been acquainted with her much longer than you have." She went on, "Newport is too stylish for comfort. Ah! I have it, Quincy. I was there three years ago, and I know what I'm talking about. Quaint place,—funny looking houses, with little promenades on top,—crooked streets that lead everywhere and nowhere,—very much like Boston,—full of curiosities,—hardy old mariners and peaceable old Quakers,—plenty of nice milk and eggs and fresh fish,—more fish than anything else,—every breeze is a sea breeze, and it is so delightfully quiet that the flies and mosquitoes imitate the inhabitants, and sleep all day and all night."
"Where is this modern Eden, this corner lot in Paradise?" asked Quincy; "it can't be part of the United States."
"Not exactly," replied Aunt Ella; it's off shore, I forget how many miles, but you can find it swimming around in the water just south of Cape Cod."
"Oh! you mean Nantucket," cried Quincy.
"That's the place," assented his aunt. "Now, Quincy, I'll tell you just what I want you to do, and I want you to promise to do it before I say another word."
"That's a woman's way," remarked Quincy, "of avoiding argument and preventing a free expression of opinion by interested parties; but I'll consent, only be merciful."
"What I'm going to ask you to do, Quincy Sawyer, is for your good, and you'll own up that I've been more than a mother to you before I get through."
"You always have been," said Quincy, seriously. "Of course, I love my mother in a way, but I'm never exactly comfortable when I'm with her. But when I'm with you, Aunt Ella, I'm always contented and feel perfectly at home."
"Bless you, my dear boy," she said. Then, rising, she went behind his chair, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead; then, pulling a chair close to him, she went on: "I haven't spoken to you of her, Quincy, because I have had no opportunity until now. I've fallen in love with her myself. I am a physiognomist as well as a phrenologist. Robert taught me the principles. She's almost divinely lovely. I say almost, for, of course, she'll be still lovelier when she goes to Heaven. Her well-shaped head indicates a strong, active, inventive mind, while her pure heart and clean soul are mirrored in her sweet face. She is a good foil for you, Quincy. You are almost dark enough for a Spaniard or an Italian, while she is Goethe's ideal Marguerite."
It was not necessary for Quincy to ask to whom she referred, nor to praise her powers of discernment. It was Aunt Ella's time for talking, and she was not inclined to brook any interference. So she went on.
"I want you to bring her here to me and have Rosa What-d'yer-call-her come with her. Here they can work and play until you get the nest ready for her down to Nantucket. You say she plays and sings. I love music passionately, but I can't play a note, even on a jew's-harp; but if she plays a wrong note I shall feel inclined to call her attention to it. When I used to go to the theatre with Robert, I delighted in telling him how badly some of the members of the orchestra were playing, but I repented of it. He got in the habit of going out between the acts to escape the music, he said, and I never could keep him in his seat after that."
Quincy laughed heartily at this. "I see no way of stopping this bad habit that gentlemen have of going out between the acts," said he, "unless you ladies combine, and insist on a higher grade of orchestral excellence."
"I have a large library," continued Aunt Ella, "and she may find many books in it that will be of use to her. Robert spent eighteen thousand dollars on it, and I've bought a couple of thousand dollars' worth more since his death. Now, what do you say, Quincy? You know I will do all in my power to make her comfortable and happy while she is here. If Maude runs up, and she's the only one that is likely to, I will tell her that I have friends here from England. I will keep her out of the way. Will you bring her?"
"If she will come, I will," Quincy replied.
"You will never repent it," said Aunt Ella. "Now let us go upstairs."
When they reached her room the cigars and cigarettes were again in requisition.
"I kept my promise the other day, Quincy," said she, "when the three girls were here. What a sweet, rosy-cheeked, healthy, happy trio they were! I wasn't more than twenty myself that day. I give you my solemn promise, Quincy, that I won't smoke a cigarette nor drink a glass of wine while Alice is here,—until after she goes to bed; and then I'll eat a clove and air the room out thoroughly before I let her in in the morning."
Quincy was up early next morning, and at ten minutes of nine reached the lodging house in Myrtle Street. He had taken a carriage, for he knew Miss Very would have her luggage, probably a trunk. His call at the door was answered by a sharp-eyed, hatchet-faced woman, whose face was red with excitement. To Quincy's inquiry if Miss Very was in, the woman replied, "that she was in and was likely to stay in."
"I trust she is not sick," said Quincy.
"No! she ain't sick," the woman replied, "what you mean by sick; but there's worse things than bein' sick, especially when a poor widder has a big house rent to pay and coal seven dollars and a half a ton."
A small trunk, neatly strapped, stood in the hallway. Glancing into the stuffy little parlor, he saw a woman, apparently young, with her veil down, seated on a sofa, with a large valise on the floor and a hand bag at her side.
Quincy divined the situation at once. Stepping into the hallway, he closed the parlor door, and, turning to the woman, said, "How much?"
"Three dollars," replied the woman, "and it's cheap enough for—"
"A miserable little dark stuffy side room, without any heat, up three flights, back," broke in Quincy, as he passed her the money.
The woman was breathless with astonishment and anger. Taking advantage of this, Quincy opened the parlor door, first beckoning to the coachman to come in and get the trunk.
"Miss Very, I presume?" said Quincy, as he advanced towards the young lady on the sofa.
She arose as he approached, and answered, "Yes, sir."
"Come with me, please," said he, grasping the valise. She hesitated; he understood why. "It's all right," he said, in a low tone. "I've settled with the landlady, and you can settle with me any time."
"Thank you, so much," spoke a sweet voice from underneath the veil, and the owner of it followed close behind him, and he handed her into the carriage. As Quincy pulled the carriage door to, that of the lodging house closed with a report like that of a pistol, and Mrs. Colby went down stairs and told the servant, who was scrubbing the kitchen floor, what had occurred, and added that she "had always had her suspicions of that Miss Very."
While Quincy was talking with Alice the day before, his dinner that Mrs. Hawkins had saved for him was being burned to a crisp in and on the stove. Mrs. Hawkins's attention was finally attracted to it, and, turning to Betsy, she said, "Law sakes, somethin' must be burnin'." Running to the stove, she soon discovered the cause. "Mercy on me!" she ejaculated. "I left that damper open, and his dinner's burnt to a cinder. Wall, I don't care; he may be a good lodger, an' all that, but he's a mighty poor boarder; and it's no satisfaction gittin' up things for him to eat, and then lettin' them go to waste, even if he does pay for it. Them's my sentiments, and I'll feel better now I've spit it out."
The good woman went to work to clean up her stove, while Betsy kept on with the seemingly endless dish washing. Mrs. Hawkins finished her work, and, going to the sink, began to wipe the accumulated pile of dishes.
"I s'pose everybody in town will go to church next Sunday," said Mrs. Hawkins, "to see them brides."
"Will they look any different than they did the other day?" Betsy innocently inquired.
"Well, I guess," remarked Mrs. Hawkins. "I saw Mandy yesterday and she told me all about her trip to the city. Mrs. Chessman went shoppin' with them, and the way she beat them shopkeepers down was a sight, Mandy says. It beats all how them rich folks can buy things so much cheaper than us poor people can. She took them all home to dinner, and Mandy says she lives in the most beautifulest house she ever saw. Then she went to the dressmakers with them, and she beat them down more'n five dollars on each gown. Then she took 'em to the millinery store, and she bought each one of them a great big handsome hat, with feathers and ribbons and flowers all over 'em. Nobody has seen 'em yet, but all three on 'em are going to wear 'em to church next Sunday, and won't there be a stir? Nobody'll look at the new orgin."
"I wish I could go," said Betsy.
Mrs. Hawkins rattled on: "Mandy says she took 'em all into a jewelry store, and bought each one on 'em a breast-pin, a pair of earrings, and a putty ring, to remember her by. Then she druv 'em down to the deepo in her carriage."
"I wish I could see them with all their fine things on," said Betsy, again.
"Well, you shall, Betsy," said good-hearted Mrs. Hawkins. "I'll make Jonas help me wash the dishes Sunday mornin', and you shall go to church."
Betsy's face was wreathed in smiles.
"You're so good to me, Mrs. Hawkins," she cried.
"Well," answered Mrs. Hawkins, "you've worked like a Trojan the last week, and you deserve it. I guess if I go up in the attic I can git a good look at them as they're walking home from church."
In her excitement the old lady dropped a cup and saucer on the floor, and both mistress and maid went down on their hands and knees to pick up the pieces.