Some lives go purling along like a simple stream that encounters nothing much larger than pebbles in its course, others wind in and out, tumble over rocks, widen and narrow, and take in every variety. She had been a mill hand, pretty, graceful, modest. After having been a widower two years and married to a woman older than himself, a bustling, busy worker who lived mostly in her kitchen, Mr. Carr, the mill owner, married this pretty girl, installed her in the big, gloomy mansion, and made her the envy of the small town where many of the families were related to him. He had some peculiar views in this marriage. He meant to rule, not to be ruled; he hoped there would be children to heir every dollar of his estate. He succeeded in the first, but in the twelve years there were no children. She was miserable and lonely; there were times when she would have preferred the old mill life. Her only solace came to be reading. There was a fine library, histories, travels, and old English novels, and it really was a liberal education.
Then Mr. Carr died suddenly, having made a will that tied up everything just as far as the law allowed. She was to live in the house, a brother and a cousin were to run the mill on a salary that was made dependent on the profits. A shrewd lawyer discovered flaws, and it was broken. The heirs paid her very well to step out of it all and have no litigation. She was extremely glad. She took her money and went to New York, and for three years had a really enjoyable time.
She was thirty-seven when she married David Westbury, who was thirty-five. She set herself back five years and no one would have questioned. After several years of ill-luck, fortune had smiled on him and whatever he touched was a success. He bought up some valuable patents and exploited them, he formed stock companies, he had been sent abroad as an agent, he was shrewd, sharp, long-headed, and not especially tricky. Honesty paid in the long run. And now she had enjoyed seven happy, prosperous years. She had proved an admirable co-partner, she had a way of attracting men that he wanted to deal with and not lowering her dignity by any real overt act. Her flirtations never reached off-color. But of late she felt she had lost a little of her charm. She was not inclined to play the motherly to young men, nor to flatter old men. Those between went to the charming young girls.
"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry to go," Laverne exclaimed, when word was sent up that Mr. Chadsey was waiting for them. "I've had such a splendid time listening to you. It's been like travelling. And to see so many celebrated people and places, and queens."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hope you will come again. Oh, I like you very much," and she leaned over and kissed her, though she was not an effusive woman.
Jason Chadsey had been sorely bothered. A young fellow he had had high hopes of had proved recreant and gone off with considerable money. He had been straightening accounts, and trying to decide whether to set the officers on his track or let him go—to do the trick over again on some one else. So he only half listened, glad to have his darling gay and full of delight. He really did not notice when she said "Mrs. Westbury."
That lady had a talk with Dick the next morning. He thought she was "quite nice for an old girl," so far off does youth remove itself. Could she get a carriage and ask Miss Holmes and her young charge to go out with her?
"Why, I'll take you, ma'am, and be glad to. Oh, yes, we're such old friends. It's odd, but we may be called old settlers, really. A party of us came round the Horn just at the last of '51. She was such a little thing, the only child on board. And we all stayed and are settled just about here. Tell you what I'll do. We'll stop at school for her and take her home, and then go on."
"But, Miss Holmes"—hesitatingly—"she ought to have notice," smiling deprecatingly.
"Oh, that won't count. You just take my word, Laverne will be glad enough."