Now old Barnes was neither dense nor unkind. She was merely spoiled. She had domineered over her fractious mistress since both of them were young and she really felt that she was of more authority in the house than its owner. She and Tipkins had entered service together, at the time of Mrs. Dalrymple’s early marriage, and like the storied “brook” they “had gone on forever.” Dozens, maybe hundreds, of other servants had “flowed” through the mansion and few had tarried long. None save these two original servitors willingly put up with the peculiarities of the Madam, and the old-time inconveniences of the establishment. She was quick to notice the down dropping of the girlish face and the gleam of tears beneath the long lashes, and said, consolingly:
“Of course, Miss, it’ll seem lonesome like and different at first. But you’ll get used to it, you know. A body can get used to anything in time. I suppose Californy’s a terrible hot place, now ain’t it? So it’s a good job you’ve come away from it before the summer. That old man of yours, he’s a queer stick, I judge. But polite, why he’s real polite. And old. That’s a fine thing, too. If he’d been young, Madam would have sent him about his business so fast ’twould have made him dizzy. But she likes everything old. Having old folks about her makes her forget her own age and fancy herself still a mere girl. Never remind my lady that she’s not as young as she used to be and you’ll get on—get on, fairly well, that is. Now, ready? Is that the kind of frock you generally wear?”
Barnes had comfortably rested in a rocker while Jessica washed and brushed at the great washstand, furnished with such expensive and badly nicked china, in one corner of the great chamber. The rocker had been overlooked, in the preparation of this room for a young girl’s use, and would have been removed had Madam remembered it. She herself disdained the use of such a chair and considered it totally unfit for well-bred people. Easy chairs of ancient and ample proportions—these were quite different; but until of late, since that accident which Barnes had mentioned, she had herself never occupied aught but the straight-backed ones, such as had been the correct thing in her childhood.
“Yes, most of my clothes are made like this. My mother does them. Isn’t it pretty? I’ve two more;” finished Jessica proudly, sweeping out the rather scant skirt to show its beauty.
“Two more! Is that all? And you one of the greatest heiresses in the land, my lady says!” cried Barnes, looking with infinite scorn upon the simple blue flannel dress which its wearer thought so fine. “Well! If that ain’t odd! Come. We’ll go down now, and I warn you again—mind the stairs!”
CHAPTER V.
BUSTER TAKES A CITY TRAIL.
No life could have been in greater contrast to that of Sobrante than this upon which the young Californian now entered. Her own first letter home may best describe it, written soon after her arrival in Washington Square, and while her impressions were still vivid.
“My Darlingest, Dearest Mother:
“We got here all safe and sound, after a nice journey. I was so homesick at first I thought I should die. Then Mr. Hale sent me to do something for a dear old Irish lady in the two sections ahead of ours. It was my section, too, afterwards when the sick mother and the Baby came. I found them in the tourist car—tourists can be real nice sometimes, mother dear—we’d made mistakes thinking they couldn’t be, there at home. But Mr. Hale says the world is full of all sorts of people and rude tourists and polite tourists are two of those sorts. Besides, our Cousin Margaret Dalrymple thinks it’s not being a tourist makes the difference. It’s ‘born in folks to be refined or coarse, and one can’t help nature.’ She thinks it’s ‘born in me,’ to be quite nice, but that’s no credit to me; she says I had the advantage to be a Waldron. Being a Waldron is, I guess, being everything ‘correct.’ I’m very glad we’re all Waldrons together, you and Cousin Margaret, and darling Ned, and I. It seems to be a great help in doing just what one ought to do.