“With a little management,” she said, “no one need to know that we have worked for a living—we have only left the city because we prefer the country,” and old Peggy, who still served in the capacity of servant, was charged repeatedly “never to say a word concerning their former position in society.”
In short, Adelaide intended to create quite a sensation in Oakland, and she commenced by assuming a most haughty and consequential manner toward both Mr. Howland and his sister.
“She had come as ma’s delegate,” she said, to rent the white house on the hill, which they had heard was vacant. Possibly if they liked the country, they should eventually purchase, but it was doubtful—people who have always lived a city life were seldom contented elsewhere. Still, she should try to be happy, though of course she should miss the advantages which a larger place afforded.
All this and much more she said to Mr. Howland, who, hardly knowing whether she were renting a house of him or he were renting one of her, managed at last to say:
“Your mother is a widow, I presume?”
Instantly the dark eyes sought the floor, and Adelaide’s voice was very low in its tone as she answered:
“I lost my father nearly a year since.”
“I wonder she don’t dress in mourning, but that’s a way some folks have,” Miss Elinor thought, while her brother proceeded to say that Mrs. Huntington could have the white house on the hill, after which Adelaide arose to go, casually asking if the right or left hand street would bring her to the hotel, where she was obliged to spend the night, as no train, after that hour, went up to Springfield.
For a moment Mr. Howland waited, thinking his sister would invite the stranger to stop with them, but this Miss Elinor had no idea of doing; she did not fancy the young lady’s airs, and she simply answered:
“The right hand street—you can’t mistake it;” frowning slightly when her brother said: