West Lawn, and The rector of St. Mark's

by Mary Jane Holmes

Here there was a break in the diary, while Dora glanced in the mirror at a graceful little figure, with sloping shoulders and white neck, surmounted by a well shaped head with masses of reddish-brown hair, waving just enough to suggest an idea of the curls into which it might be easily coaxed; low forehead; piquant nose, with an undeniable curve which ill-natured people call a turn-up; bright, honest eyes of reddish-brown, like the hair; mouth which did not look as if it had ever said a disagreeable thing; rows of white, even teeth, with complexion remarkable for nothing except that it was natural, and just now a shade or two paler than usual, because its owner was weary with the months and years of care which had fallen on her youthful shoulders.

This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the tout ensemble a little approving nod, and pushing behind her ears the heavy braids of hair to see if the style were becoming, as somebody once had told her, she resumed her pen and diary, as follows:

“Where was I when vanity stopped me for an inspection of myself? Oh, I know; I had been writing things about being married, for which I ought to blush, and through which I put my pen, so— But there’s what I said of Margaret; I’ll let that stand, for she is peevish and cross, and it’s a relief to tell it somewhere. Poor Margaret! I cannot help pitying her when I look at her now, and remember what she used to be at the dear old home,—so beautiful, so petted, and admired. Ah me! that was twelve years ago, and I was a little girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on the lawn in the soft September sunlight, with papa looking on, so happy and so proud; and then the bonfires they kindled and the bells they rang at nightfall in honor of the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas! when next on a week day that bell was rung, it tolled for my dear lost father, who died with apoplexy, and left his affairs all in confusion, his property, which was reputed so great, all mortgaged, and I a little beggar. Shall I ever forget John Russell’s kindness when, hurrying home from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should be his daughter, and should live with him and Margaret at Beechwood, where we came eleven years ago this very June,—Margaret a splendid-looking woman, who would not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much more becoming; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen, who cried so much for the dear father gone, and the old homestead sold, that people said I looked and acted older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell. How glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie was born and Margaret left him so much with me, for in my love for him I forgot to mourn for father, and came to think of him as safe in heaven, where mother went when I was ten days old. Then those three delightful years at school, when I roomed with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I am going to-morrow, to visit. No matter if there were three babies here instead of one when I came home; and it was very wicked in me to feel annoyed, because I was so often expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in fact turn nurse myself to the wee little things. I cannot say that I was glad when Benny came, for with the advent of each child, Margaret grew more delicate, more helpless, and more,—I wonder if it is bad to say it,—more fault-finding with her husband, who, though the very best man in the world, is not like,—like,—well, say like Dr. West.”

Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that name, completely erasing it, after which it continued:

“I cannot tell why I should bring him up as a comparison, when I do not like him at all, even if the whole village of Beechwood is running mad about him,—I mean the old people, not the young, who sneer at him and call him stingy. If there’s anything I hate, it’s penuriousness, which holds so fast to a three-cent piece and hugs a battered sixpence. Don’t I remember our fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and how the girls, without the slightest reason for doing so, said to me, ‘Now, when Dr. West comes in, you take possession of him. You are just the one. He thinks more of you than of all of us together. You can sell him that dressing-gown and slippers. Ask fifteen at first, and if he demurs, fall to ten. They were both given, so we shall not lose. Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his present gown and slippers are looking, and how the ladies talk about it.’

“I did not believe he would come directly to my table, and, I think now, the crowd must have pushed him there, for come he did, looking so pleasant and kind, and speaking so gently when he said he hoped we should realize a large sum, and wished so much he could help us more. Of course, the gown and slippers were thrust upon his notice, so cheap, only fifteen dollars; and, of course, he declined, saying, sotto voce:

“‘I would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could, but I cannot afford it.’

“Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and finally to eight, but he held out firmly, notwithstanding that I told him how forlorn he looked in his old ones, patched and tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his face, but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend his things. It was surely my evil genius which prompted me to retort in a pert, contemptuous tone:

“‘Umph! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy old bachelors, who would quarrel about the pin money!’

“I shall never forget how white he grew, or how quickly his hand went into his pocket, as if in quest of his purse; but it was withdrawn without it, just as that detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along, smelling of cologne, and musk, and brandy. I knew, to a certainty, that he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded into asking him to become an example of generosity to Dr. West, and buy the gown and slippers. I’d take it as a personal favor, I said, putting into my hateful eyes as much flattery as I possibly could; and he bought them, paying fifteen dollars right before Dr. West, who said softly, sadly like: