II
The Reuben Crabtree family mansion at San Rafael was a large house with three floors and as many ceilings. It also had a cellar, four walls, a roof, numerous bay-windows, a kitchen and a sink. It was fully furnished with chairs, tables, beds, bureaus, carpets, wallpapers, stationary washstands and daughters. It was surrounded, as well as inhabited, by wallflowers, also by syringas, fuchsias and fences.
Reuben’s daughter, May Brewer, lived in the house and was responsible for its upkeep, also, in part, for the daughters. Mrs. Brewer had a high bosom and many fine costumes, descriptions of which may be found in Godey’s Lady’s Book and Harper’s Bazaar of appropriate dates.
The chief occupation of the Brewer household was husband hunting. Just what the girls would do with their husbands after they were caught, they did not know, having been brought up very carefully.
“Tina,” said Vicky, who wore a figured lavender foulard, pleated and flounced over a small bustle, its skirts sweeping the ground, its tight sleeve ending below the elbow and above the wrist, the other sleeve doing the same, “do you think Vernon Yelland will marry you?”
“Well,” answered Tina, who wore a girlish white muslin and no bustle, her broad uncorseted waist merely indicated by a sash of satin ribbon, “I’ve looked at the family tree and find that he has to marry Grace Fairchild first, but that she will die in 1894 and then he marries me.”
“What a long time to wait,” said Esme, in a pleated pink challis gown, trimmed with blue cashmere, cut on the bias, hemstitched with broad bands of guipure lace, with flounces of dimity and old rose brocade.
“Yes,” said Tina, “but it’s a cinch at that, compared with your chance or Vicky’s.”
“A what, my dear?” asked her mother, who wore a costume of purple cloth, ornamented with festoons of flowered satine en brochette, from which hung elegant tabs of peau de soie, garnished with paillettes of crimson plush and organdie, the panniers cut en train and looped over the bustle with ropes of blue sarsenet, pleated with rosemary chenille. “Do not let Mamma hear you use that naughty word again. Say—‘I’m sorry, Mamma.’”
Lou, the fourth daughter, clad in scarlet tapestry, trimmed with jet chignons and basques of green corduroy, interrupted the conversation.
“Sh-h-h! there’s someone coming up the drive.”
“A man?” they cried in unison.
“I think so.”
“To your stations, girls!” said their mother. “Whose turn is it to-day?”
“Vicky’s,” said Esme reluctantly.
Vicky seized the lasso which hung ready to hand and, clambering through the window, stretched herself prone upon the porch roof, over the front steps. Her mother, holding the end of the rope, braced herself against the window sill for a strong pull at the proper moment.
The others scurried down the back-stairs and circled the house. Two of them took up positions in the shrubbery bordering the drive, Esme with a shot-gun, Lou with a pitchfork, to prevent the evasion of their prey. Tina reached the gate unseen, closed it, locked it and chained to it the man-eating watch-dog.
There was a moment of tense excitement, then Esme’s voice calling, “Sold again, Vicky. It’s only Papa.”
Mr. Brewer approached the house. His face was simply dressed in a full beard, à la Russe, garnished with sidewhiskers of the same.
“Anybody married since I left this morning?” he asked hopefully. There was no response. A look of deep melancholy overspread his features, his shoulders sagged visibly, the wrinkles in his bombazine coat showed plainly his desperation.