He was taking out his card for the servant girl, when the door opened and he was confronted by Mrs. Pledger herself, a tall and portly woman of sixty-five, her lips shut tightly together and a look as if she scented a peddler or an agent, both her abominations. But Alex.’s face and manner disarmed her. He was neither an agent nor a peddler, and her lips relaxed a little of their tightness, and in response to his interrogatory, “Mrs. Pledger?” she replied:
“Yes, I am Mrs. Pledger; walk in and take a chair.”
He walked in and took a chair in what he was sure was the best room, and at which he looked curiously, contrasting it with the grand rooms at home, where one article of furniture must have cost nearly as much as every article here would sell for. And yet there was an air of comfort about it, with its cushioned easy-chairs, its wide sofa, its footstools and rugs, made by hand he was sure, and the centre-table, with some books and a vase, with a few roses filling the room with perfume. Somebody liked flowers. Probably the girl and not Mrs. Pledger, whose personal appearance did not bear much relation to hot-house roses, and who was habited in a dark calico with a wide apron, suggestive of the kitchen, from which she had come in answer to Alex.’s summons. She was the most indulgent of mistresses, and her maid of all work went and came about as she pleased. On this particular occasion she had gone to see her cousin off by steamer, and Mrs. Pledger, in the basement, was preparing their twelve o’clock dinner when Alex.’s ring called her upstairs.
“Did you want to see me or Joel?” she asked, as Alex. sat wondering what he was to say and why he was there.
It seemed such a flimsy reason, but he must say something, and he began:
“You will do as well as your husband, and I really think I ought to apologize for intruding upon you, an entire stranger, who may not be the one I want at all.”
“Suppose you tell me what you do want, and not beat around the bush. We can get at it better,” Mrs. Pledger said, her lips beginning to tighten.
Alex. braced up at once and began:
“I want to know if you ever knew my great-uncle Amos Marsh? I’ve had a letter from him, and he’s dead.”
“Dead! How you talk! Amos Marsh dead! That beats me! When did he die, and what ailed him?” Mrs. Pledger exclaimed.