So, when the apartment was given up, and Captain Elisha and his wards moved to the little house in Westchester County, Annie came with them. And her cooking, though not by any means equal to that at Delmonico’s, had not killed them yet. Mrs. Moriarty came once a week to do the laundry work. Caroline acted as a sort of inexperienced but willing supervising housekeeper.
The house itself had been procured through the kind interest of Sylvester. Keeping the apartment was, under the circumstances, out of the question, and Caroline hated it and was only too anxious to give it up. She had no suggestions to make. She would go anywhere, anywhere that her guardian deemed best; but might they not please go at once? She expected that he would suggest South Denboro, and she would have gone there without a complaint. To get away from the place where she had been so miserable was her sole wish. And trusting and believing in her uncle as she now did, realizing that he had been right always and had worked for her interest throughout, and having been shown the falseness and insincerity of the others whom she had once trusted implicitly, she clung to him with an appeal almost piteous. Her pride was, for the time, broken. She was humble and grateful. She surrendered to him unconditionally, and hoped only for his forgiveness and love.
The captain did not suggest South Denboro. He did, however, tell Sylvester that he believed a little place out of the city would be the better refuge for the present.
“Poor Caroline’s switched clear around,” he said to the lawyer, “and you can’t blame her much. She cal’lates New York’s nothin’ but a sham from stern to stern, manned by liars and swindlers and hypocrites and officered by thieves. ’Tain’t no use to tell her ’tain’t, though she might pretend to believe it, if I told her, for just now the poor girl thinks I’m Solomon and Saint Peter rolled into one. The way she agrees to whatever I say and the way she looks at me and sort of holds on to me, as if I was her only anchor in a gale, I declare it makes me feel meaner than poorhouse tea—and that’s made of blackberry leaves steeped in memories of better things, so I’ve heard say. Am I a low down scamp, playin’ a dirty mean trick on a couple of orphans? What do you think, Sylvester?”
“You know what I think, Captain Warren,” replied the lawyer. “You’re handling the whole matter better than any other man could handle it. No one else would have thought of it, to begin with; and the results so far prove that you’re right.”
“Yup. Maybe. I wish you was around to say that to me when I wake up nights and get to thinkin’. However, as I said, Caroline believes New York is like a sailors’ dance hall, a place for decent folks to steer clear of. And when the feller you’ve been engaged to is shown up as a sneak and your own dad as a crook—well, you can’t blame a green hand for holdin’ prejudice against the town that raised ’em. She’ll get over it; but just now I cal’late some little flat, or, better still, a little home out where the back yards ain’t made of concrete, would be a first-class port for us to make for. Don’t know of such a place at a reasonable rent, do you?”
“I might find one. And you may be right; your niece might like it better, though it will be somewhat of a change. But how about your nephew? He has no objection to the metropolis, I should judge. What will he say?”
“Nothin’, I guess—unless he says it to himself. Steve’s goin’ back to New Haven with things on his mind. He and I had a mornin’ service, and I was the parson. He listened, because when you ain’t got a cent except what the society allows you, it ain’t good orthodoxy to dodge the charity sermon. Steve’ll behave, and what he don’t like he’ll lump. If he starts to open his mouth his ear’ll ache, I cal’late. I talked turkey to that young man. Ye-es,” with a slight smile, “I’m sort of afraid I lost patience with Stevie.”
When Caroline first saw the little house, with its shingled sides, the dead vines over the porch, and the dry stalks of last year’s flowers in the yard, her heart sank. With the wind blowing and the bare branches of the old apple tree scraping the roof and whining dolefully, it looked bleak and forsaken. It was so different, so unhomelike, and so, to her eyes, small and poverty-stricken. She made believe that she liked it, exclaimed over the view—which, on the particular day, was desolate enough—and declared the Dutch front door was “old-fashioned and dear.” But Captain Elisha, watching her closely, knew that she was only waiting to be alone to give way to wretchedness and tears. He understood, had expected that she would feel thus, but he was disappointed, nevertheless. However, after the front door was passed and they were inside the house, Caroline looked about her in delighted amazement. The living room was small, but bright and warm and cheery. On its walls, hiding the rather vivid paper, were hung some of the best of Rodgers Warren’s pictures—the Corot, the codfisher, and others. The furniture and rugs were those which had been in the library of the apartment, those she had been familiar with all her life. The books, many of them, were there, also. And the dining room, except for size, looked like home. So did the bedrooms; and, in the kitchen, Annie grinned a welcome.
“But how could you?” asked Caroline. “How could you keep all these things, Uncle Elisha? I thought, of course, they must all be sold. I cried when they took them away that day when we were leaving to go to the hotel. I was sure I should never see them again. And here they all are! How could you do it?”