“What were the particulars of the marriage and her death? I’ve heard, of course, but did not pay much attention, as I knew nothing of Reinette,” said Phil; and Mrs. Ferguson replied:
“’Twas a runaway match, for old Mr. Hetherton rode such a high hoss that Fred was most afraid of his life, and so they run away—the more fools they—and he took her to Europe, and that’s the last I ever seen of her, or hearn of her either, as you may say. It’s true she writ sometimes, but her letters was short, and not satisfyin’ at all—seemed as if she was afraid to tell us she was lonesome for us at home, or wanted to see us. She had a new blue silk gown, and cassimere shawl, and string of pearls, and a waitin’-maid, and she said a good deal about them, but nothin’ of Fred, after a spell, whether he was kind or not. He never writ, nor took no more notice of us than if we was dogs, till there came a letter from him sayin’ she had died suddenly at Rome and was buried in the Protestant grave-yard. He was in Switzerland then, I believe, skylarkin’ round, for he was always a great rambler, and we didn’t know jestly where to direct letters; but your mother writ and writ to the old place in Paris, and never got no answer, and at last she gin it up. When old man Hetherton died, Fred had to write about business, but never a word to us.”
“It’s very singular he did not tell you about the little girl,” suggested Phil; and Mrs. Ferguson replied:
“No ’tain’t. He wouldn’t of let us know if there had been a hundred babies. He’d be more likely to keep whist, for fear we’d lay some claim to her, and we as good as he any day, if he wasn’t quite so rich. Why, there never was a likelier gal than your mother, even when she closed boots for a livin’; and there ain’t a grander lady now in the land than she is.”
“I don’t know about the grand,” said Phil, “but I know there is not a better woman in the world than my mother, or a handsomer either, when she’s dressed in her velvet, and laces, and diamonds. I wish you could see her once.”
“I wish to gracious I could,” returned Mrs. Ferguson. “Why don’t she never put on her best clothes here and let us see ’em once, and not allus wear them plain black silks, and browns, and grays?”
“Merrivale is hardly the place for velvets and diamonds,” said Phil. “There is seldom any occasion for them, and mother does not think it good taste to make a display.”
“No, I s’pose not,” grandma replied; “but mabby Rennet will take me with her to Washington, or Saratoga, or the sea-side, and then I can see it all. And they needn’t be ashamed of me nuther. There’s my purple morey, and upon a pinch I can have another new silk. Rennet will find her granny has clothes!”
Phil did not usually wince at anything his grandmother said, but now a cold sweat broke out a over him as he thought of her at the sea-side arrayed in her purple morey, which made her look fatter and coarser than ever, with the bright pink ribbons or blue feather in her cap. What would Reinette say to such a figure, and what would Reinette think of her any way? He was accustomed to her; he knew all the good there was in her; but Reinette, with her French ideas, was different, and he found himself seeing with Reinette’s eyes and hearing with Reinette’s ears, and blushing with shame for the good old lady, who went on talking about her new granddaughter, whom she sometimes called Rennet, and sometimes Runnet, but never by her right name.
At last Phil could bear it no longer, and said: