"EDWARD LAVENDAR."
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT
I
When William Rives and Lydia Sampson quarrelled and broke their engagement, Old Chester said that they were lucky to fall out two weeks before their wedding-day instead of two weeks after it. Of course, Old Chester said many other things: it said it had always known they could never get along. William, who had very little money, was careful and thrifty, as every young man ought to be; Lydia, who was fairly well off, was lavish and no housekeeper. "What could you expect?" demanded Old Chester. Old Chester never knew exactly what the trouble between them had been, for they kept their own counsel; but it had its suspicions: it had something to do with William's father's will. By some legal quibble the Orphan's Court awarded to William a piece of property which everybody knew old Mr. Rives supposed he had left to his daughter Amanda. Lydia thought (at least Old Chester thought she thought) that William would, as a matter of course, at once turn the field over to his sister. But William did no such thing. And, after all, why should he? The field was his; the law allowed it, the Court awarded it. Why should he present a field to Amanda? Old Chester said this thoughtfully, looking at William with a sort of respectful regret. Very likely Lydia's regret was not respectful. Lydia was always so outspoken. However, it was all surmise. About the time that Amanda did not get the field the engagement was broken—and you can put two and two together if you like. As for Old Chester, it said that it pitied poor, dear Lydia; and it was no wonder William left town after the rupture, because, naturally, he would be ashamed to show his face. But then it also said it pitied poor, dear William, and it should think Lydia would be ashamed to show her face; for, of course, her obstinacy made the trouble—and a young female ought not to be obstinate, ought not, in fact, to have opinions on such matters. Legal affairs, said Old Chester, should be left to the gentlemen. In fact, Old Chester said every possible thing for and against them both; but gradually, as years passed, conflicting opinions settled down to the "poor Lydia" belief.
This was, probably, for two reasons: first, because William had never seen fit to come back to Old Chester, and that, quite apart from his conduct to his lady-love, was a reason for distrust; and, secondly, Lydia had, somehow, become Old Chester's one really poor person—that is, in a genteel walk of life. After the crumbling of the Sampson fortune, Old Chester had to plan for Lydia, and take care of her, and give her its "plain sewing"; so, naturally, William was reprobated. Besides, she may have quarrelled and broken her engagement two weeks before her wedding, but all these years afterwards she had been faithful to the memory of Love! Old Chester knew this, for the simple reason that Miss Lydia, during all these years, had kept in her sitting-room a picture of William Rives, adorned with a sprig of box; furthermore, it knew (Heaven knows how!) that she kissed this slender, tight-waisted picture every night before she went to bed. Of course, Old Chester softened! Lydia may have broken her engagement and all that, but she kept his picture, and she kissed it every night. "But he ought to be ashamed of himself," said Old Chester—"that is, if he is alive." Then it added, reflectively, that he must be dead, for he had never returned to Old Chester. Yet as time went on people forgot even to disapprove of William; they had enough to do to take care of poor Lydia, "for she is certainly very poor—and very peculiar," said Old Chester, sighing.
"Peculiar!" said Martha King; "I call it something worse than peculiar to spend money that ought to go towards rent on a present for Rachel King's Anna. She gave that child a picture-book. I'm sure I can't afford to go round giving children picture-books. I told her so flatly and frankly. And then it was so trying, because, right on top of my scolding, she gave me a present—a cup all painted with roses, and marked 'Friendship's Gift,' in gilt. I didn't want it; I could have shaken her," Mrs. King ended, helplessly.
It was not only Martha whose patience was tried by Miss Lydia; the experience was common to all Old Chester. Even Dr. Lavendar had felt the human impulse to shake her. When he had, very delicately, asked "as an old friend, the privilege of assisting her," it was exasperating to have a lamp-shade made of six porcelain intaglios set in a tin frame come to him the next day, with the "respectful compliments of L.S." But somehow, when, beaming at him from under her shabby bonnet, Miss Lydia had asked him if he liked that preposterous shade, he could not speak his mind,—at least to her. He spoke it mildly to Mrs. Barkley. "We must restrain her; she brought me $2 for Zenanna Missions yesterday."
"What did you do?" Mrs. Barkley said, sympathetically.
"I made her take it back. I pointed out that her first duty was to her landlord."