 | CHAPTER XIII. Dollars and cents |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done; for thou hast more
of the wild-goose in one of thy wits, than I have in my whole five.
Shakspeare.
“PERHAPS you remember, Kate,” said Stephanie one
morning, “that very wise and sententious remark
that your father made the other day about the properties
of man?”
“`The chief properties of man are contemplation and
sociableness'? that was only a quotation from More, I
think he said.”
“Only!—well, since Mr. Howard quoted it, I suppose I
may venture to refer to it. It struck me as particularly
wise,—for I have been thinking that man, and of course
woman, was made up of only one. Now don't you suppose
that standing too much upon one foot may have a
tendency to weaken the other?”
“Do you think of trying contemplation?” said Kate,
without looking up from her book,—“yes, I should think
it quite probable.”
“I wish to goodness you might fall into somebody's
hands who would give you an overdose of contemplation
for once!” said Stephanie.
“Overdoses never kill,” said Kate smiling,—“I should
come out a hermit.”
“My dear, you are that already—only you don't know
it,—the life you lead here at present by no means savours
of dissipation.”
“I doubt if my life would, anywhere,” said Kate.
“Might savour of it, you know—just a soupçon,—as
people put a grain of sugar in gruel.”
“I never do,” said Kate,—“a grain of salt is to my
liking; and no one ever found that in dissipation.”
“I declare,” said Stephanie, “if you will not attend to
my words, I will pelt you with quotations.”
“Where from?”
“Don't know, in the least—but you will as soon as I
tell them to you. How do you like this. `The eagle
flies alone, it is only the sheep that like company.' Are
you going to make an eagle of yourself? one of the `select
few'? for I'm sure my quotation should be in the plural—
eagles do occasionally like company.”
“You are altogether too profound for my light reading,”
said Kate, shutting her book. “What is all this about? I
thought you had been turning pirouettes on both feet, all
your life.”
“It is all about my going to pay Mrs. Eustace a visit.”
“What put such a thing into your head?”
“This letter of request that I would come; and my mind
being an easy one to make up, I shall spend all my energies
upon my trunk, and depart to-morrow morning with your
father.”
To say was to do, and she went.
We were particularly quiet after that, for Mr. Howard
began to be a good deal away,—property elsewhere
demanded his attention, and Glen Luna had to wait its
turn. Yet even this repeated absence had a bright side—
the coming back; and then, besides the pleasure of seeing
him and hearing of the people and things he had seen,
there was always some interest about my father's trunk.
The Moon shops were but so-so, and those at Wiamee still
worse; so we always sent elsewhere when we could; and
Mr. Howard brought home things in every variety. The
long journey or the trunk gave them a peculiar charm.
Never were there such spools of cotton—never were the
various little articles of family use so well appreciated;
and often there came too a surprise,—a new book, a work-box,
or a gold pen.
Whenever Mr. Howard staid at home for a few days,
the improvements went on in double quick time; for as
Ezra Barrington remarked, “he made the men fly round
like shell peas.” We thought some of the improvements,
fine branches because by and by the tree would be the
handsomer. Indeed we always took that promise with
a doubt, and other innovations that were confessedly for
use met with still less favour. A wall must cut us off in
that direction because the cattle got into the garden; and
this road must be changed from its pretty winding curves
to a direct line, because a short cut to the barn seemed
desirable. But whenever I went that way, I quitted the
new gravel for the old crooks, which the grass was lending
a hand to obliterate, and followed them pertinaciously.
Everybody laughed at me for it, but my feet were discontented
else.
One day when we were roaming the fields, and admiring
the white promise of wild strawberries, we came to a little
hollow that had last year been very liberal. The march of
improvement had set its foot even there. Ezra Barrington
with cart and oxen was dumping gravel into the very hollow;
and the amount of white blossoms that tried to shake
their heads clear at the outskirts of the heap, gave a fair
indication of the fruitless efforts that lay beneath its centre.
My father stood complacently looking on.
“Why papa!” exclaimed Kate—“you are filling up my
beautiful strawberry patch!”
“Must be filled up, my dear,—don't you see it is just in
the course of this road?”
“But why can't the road go round it?” said I.
“That would hardly do,—it would be inconvenient, and
wouldn't look well besides.”
“I think it would look better than this.”
“Ge' 'long!” said Mr. Barrington, in a very audible
aside to his team. “Come about! haw!—You want it
right straight across, Squire?—maybe another load'll fill it
up sufficient if you don't mind it's being a bit wavy. Otherways
it'll take three.”
“Straight across!” said my father—“there's gravel
enough. I don't care if it takes a dozen.”
“There aren't strawberries enough,” said Kate.—“Papa
it is rather too bad!”
“Nonsense!” said my father, “we shall have berries in
much more importance.”
“Nobody likes to eat them better than you do, papa!”
“Well I will curb my appetite for once,” said Mr. Howard
laughing.
The subject of country neighbours was not quite laid
asleep, for in spite of Kate and Stephanie's precautions
we were exposed to a visit now and then which did not
please them,—sometimes dictated by curiosity, sometimes
by policy. If the family of the country doctor had failed
in attention, there would have been danger of our being
sick under nobody knows what auspices; and the same
might be said of our quarrels had the attorney been remiss;
—while the proprietor of the only mill in the neighbourhood
probably thought that as we were putting up another
there could be no reason why we should not be well acquainted.
Mrs. Howard bore it all with her usual gentleness towards
human nature in whatever form; but Kate found it very
annoying, and would fain have made the visits begin and
end at the front door. This my father negatived with his
usual coolness. Everybody might come that wanted to he
said, and get all the good that eyes could take in;—as for
being “engaged” to one person and not to another—merely
because the one was poor and the other rich—he had no
idea of it,—“he knew what was due to ourselves.” To do
him justice he never put himself out of the way for anybody,
in the least. If he didn't want to stay in the drawing-room
he walked off into the study; and when he did stay
it was to be silent as often as to talk. But listeners are
always popular, and my father was soon voted the pink of
politeness,—either physician or attorney would have attended
him with pleasure.
July was well on its way before Stephanie returned; and
then she came tired, grave, and rather silent,—a most unusual
combination for Miss Holbrook. Sleep exerted its
restorative powers but partially; for though she talked
fast enough all breakfast time, afterwards, when we took
our work into the room where she was unpacking, Stephanie
seemed to plunge as deep into the recesses of her mind as
of her trunks,—and brought forth much less.
“What are you thinking about?” Kate said at length.
“I was reflecting upon the amount of things that a visit
may do and undo—just look at this dress! who would
suppose it had ever been fit to put on!”
“Why anybody that knew anything about dresses and
wearing them. But what has the visit done? this is just
the undoing.”
But Stephanie only made another plunge. “It must be
yourself!” said Kate laughing—“I never saw you in such
good order before,—you have excessively the air of having
just come from the ruffle woman. I didn't know that
Mrs. Eustace made such liberal use of starch and fluting-irons.”
“If it's all the same to you,” said Stephanie with something
of her own manner, “I'd as leave not be exasperated.”
“I would exasperate you in a minute,” said Kate still
laughing, “if I only knew how—at present I have not the
slightest idea who you are. Just look out of the window
and say that you feel at home or I shall conclude you are
somebody else.”
“Wilder conclusions than that have come true, and my
eyes have at present full occupation.”
“But Stephanie,” I said, “it is so lovely out,—it's a
shame not to look at such flowers and sunshine,—we
think everything is prettier than it ever was.”
“Very likely”—said Stephanie,—“I can answer for
Kate;—but Grace my dear, I do not wish to have my
fancy entangled among flowers and sunshine.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have made up my mind to run a race with a
snow-ball—and in those latitudes you know, such things
don't flourish.”
“I wonder which foot you are on now?” said Kate.
“Why do you talk such nonsense?”
“Truth must be spoken, if it is nonsense.”
“Do separate them,” said Kate a little impatiently, “and
give us the short cut of this rigmarole. What are you
talking about?”
“Short cut?” said Stephanie—“it's a hard knot, or like
to be; and as to talking—I was alluding with sufficient
distinctness to a person I thought you might remember.”
And locking the empty trunk, Miss Holbrook pushed it
from her and opened a full one.
Kate laid down her work.
“I never saw you serious in my life, so it's no wonder
if I am puzzled. You don't mean that you intend to marry
Mr. Freeman.”
“Precisely—if you like that name better,—I prefer his
appellation of Snowball.”
“How can you be so absurd!” said Kate, laughing in
spite of herself at the cool demureness of the reply.
“My gracious me!” said Stephanie as with an emphatic
fling of a pair of shoes into the corner, she crossed her
arms and looked up at us, “you're enough to try more
patience than I've got! Here am I making revelations
that ought to be à la rouge I suppose, and you won't believe
them. Don't I tell you I'm going to marry that man?
Was nobody ever married before?”
“But not to Mr. Freeman,” said Kate—with a most
innocent rendering of her thoughts into plain English.
“Not to Mr. Freeman!—Probably not—your pieces of
information are startling. I suppose there must be a first
time—even for Mr. Freeman. You see the `thtarths' have
melted him, as Henderson says.”
“But what has melted you?” said Kate.
“I don't profess to be an iceberg,” said Stephanie dryly
and turning to her trunk. Then changing her tone she
added,
“And it isn't desirable you know that we should both
be of `the melting mood', or we might run away together.
Now don't look so horrified either of you. Kate—do you
perceive how completely unstarched I am?”
Kate smiled a little but with a rather grave face, and
went on taking stitches in the most abstracted manner;
while Stephanie as half in argument with her silence continued.
“What is it to any one if I like snow-balls? I don't say
they're as striking as epaulettes, or as aspiring as eagles.
And by the way, how is his falconship?”
“I didn't know eagles were falcons,” said I.
“Belong to the Falconidæ, don't they? or I've forgotten
all about ornithology. But you know, Kate, I never was
reserved for—somebody else. Better eyes than mine must
exert their powers, when the object is some miles above
earth. Don't puzzle your head Gracie.”
“Well,” said Kate, “as I do not know Mr. Freeman I
cannot congratulate you.”
“And knowing me you cannot congratulate him—I'll
forgive you all that if you'll do something else. Katydid
—just be Katydo for once, and tell Mr. Howard what I
have told you. I really cannot tell him myself, for he'd certainly
pour out some of the prophecies he used to make
about the poor Captain; and I'm afraid I should pass all
bounds of decorum if he told me my snow-ball would
“never set fire to anything.”
“O Stephanie!” Kate said—then checking herself she
folded up her work, and sticking the needle in it with unusual
care, remarked,
“I will do all you wish me to.”
“That was not what you were going to say?”
“No.”
“Tell me that.”
“It's better unsaid.—Is there anything else for me to
tell papa?”
“Nothing,—only make him understand all this clearly,
so that he won't come down upon me with any questions,—
my self-possession extends but to ordinary occasions. And
now Kate,” she said springing off the floor and laying her
hands on Kate's shoulders, “I know every word you were
going to say, and you are altogether right and partly wrong,
—which is a charming combination. There, now go, both
of you, and let me finish this job without the distraction
of your eyelashes—which make me feel melancholy. Preliminary
`tears and white muslin' are more than I bargained
for.”
When Kate and I had talked over this strange conversation
with a mingling of sorrow and wonder, we went into
Mrs. Howard's room and gave her the benefit of it. My
father's comments were deferred for a day or two as he was
from home.
“Papa,” Kate began the next morning after his return,
“do you know that Stephanie is going to be married?”
“No I don't,” he replied, facing round upon Kate as if he
wondered how the subject got into her head.
“Then I have the pleasure of informing you,” said Kate
with a laugh at the gravity with which she was eyed.
“I have not the pleasure of hearing,” said Mr. Howard
knitting his brows.
“But you must hear and be pleased too, papa.”
“With what?”
“Why—with this news I am telling you.”
“Humph—” said my father. “Who set that ball a
rolling?”
“Mr. Freeman in the first place, I suppose, papa.”
My father looked at the demure eyes that met his, as if
he would like to find fault with something,—he couldn't
with them.
“Freeman!” he said turning round to his former position.
“Marry that man! no indeed she shall not.”
“Why Mr. Howard!” said my stepmother, “what can
you possibly mean?”
“Just that,” said my father coolly.
“But you have no right to say so,—and it wouldn't do
any good besides.”
“What can you possibly mean now? No right, and I
her guardian! No good to forbid her marrying a man with
more inches than ideas!”
“No good at all—for she'd marry him when she came of
age or run away before. And as to the right, as your friend
the Chancellor used to say `you may have it in law but not
in equity,'—if she really likes the man and he is unobjectionable.”
“I tell you he isn't unobjectionable. I never heard any
harm of him, but he's a nonentity.”
“That is only a negative objection,” said my stepmother
smiling.
“My objections are positive enough,” said my father.
“Now my dear Mr. Howard, do be reasonable. Make
inquiries about Mr. Freeman, and if he is good and respectable
and has enough to live upon, let them please themselves,—you
can't bring everybody to the same standard of
sense and enjoyment.”
“I wish everybody was brought to your standard of
even know where the man lives,—and I'm sure it is not my
fault if we have any mutual friends.”
“Go over to the Moon and see Captain De Camp,” said
Mrs. Howard.
“Yes I suppose I may as well go to the Moon as anywhere.
But De Camp—he hasn't got another furlough has
he?”
“O yes papa,” said I,—“he has been here twice.”
“The deuce he has!—I am well set to work, certainly.”
“But papa!” exclaimed Kate as he reached the door,
“you mustn't tell Captain De Camp why you want to
know about Mr. Freeman,—you must be very careful.”
“I shall say first that Stephanie's going to marry him,—
after which I shall inquire if he is a respectable man. Do
you think I am a fool, Kate?”
“No papa, but”—
“Well my dear, if I can't deal with Captain De Camp it's
a pity. You needn't wait dinner for me—I shall stop at
the Bird's Nest.”
“But stay,” said Mrs. Howard—“you must find out
where Mr. Freeman is, as well as who he is,—he may be
staying at the Moon again, and then you must call upon
him and invite him over here.”
My father stopped and stood irresolute.
“No doubt he is there!—it's the rallying point for all the
satellites of this region. I wish he was in Egypt!”
There was such a mixture of the undecided, the ludicrous,
and the dismayed in my father's face, that we all burst out
laughing.
“Take care or that child will hear you,” he said.
“She has gone out,” said my stepmother. “But why
does this annoy you so? If it were Kate, indeed”—
“Kate!” interrupted my father,—and as if words could
no further go, he quitted the room and left us to laugh at
our leisure.
The afternoon was just ending when Mr. Howard returned.
“Well!” he said as he sat down, “I ought to have come
back luminous after such a sojourn in that precious planet!”
“Did you see Miss Caffery, papa?” said I.
“Good Miss Caffery!” said my father, his face unbending,
“she half persuaded me out of my ill-humour,—half
convinced me that if people could be happy without anything
to make them so, it was none of my business.”
“And what said Miss Bain?” inquired my stepmother.
“Miss Bain said that the very best thing young people
could do—at least,” said my father checking himself, “she
said sundry foolish things which I need not repeat. Do
we have any tea to-night?—or are we to live upon laughing?”
“But papa,” said Kate composing her face, “you haven't
told us about Mr. Freeman?”
“What about Mr. Freeman?”
“Why all about him,—what you have heard and seen.
Stephanie will come down when the tea-bell rings, and then
you will have no chance.”
“Well,” said Mr. Howard again and reseating himself,
“I went to the Moon and I saw Captain De Camp—and
Mr. Freeman—of course. And Mr. Freeman had the
sense (which I didn't expect) to take himself off. I reckon
he was afraid of me. And the Captain was unusually lucid
in his answers. So I learned without much difficulty that
Mr. Freeman has survived a precocious childhood; that he
rests his knowledge of the State's prison solely on information
and belief; that roguery and riches are in the future
tense with him; and that to hinder as much as possible
his pursuit after both, `he has fallen desperately in love
with Miss Holbrook—quite head and ears, I assure you sir.'
If I could imitate the concluding laugh, my dear, you would
have a fair presentation of the whole. Kate and Grace
what are you laughing at?”
“Only at the presentation, papa. And what did you
say?”
“I? O I said, `Ah indeed!'—and `you are sure sir?'—
and finally rushed about after the man himself to tell him
of my joy that he was not an escaped convict, and to ask
him here to dinner to-morrow.”
“And he will come?”
“Come!—he would have followed me home to-night if I
hadn't looked rather cross, I believe,” said my father.
“But you must not look cross,” said my stepmother.
off her happiness.”
“Tut! my dear—if the sight of Mr. Freeman don't
take the edge off it's quite out of my reach. But poor
child! as you say; and she's a good child too; and I love
her for her father's sake as well as her own.”
So he did. No remark that was even doubtful in its
bearing was suffered to reach Stephanie's ear; and there
was a kindness in his tone that brought tears to her eyes,
when he said,
“Well Stephanie my dear, your old friend Mr. Freeman
dines with us to-morrow, so I hope you will make yourself
very agreeable. And by the way,” he added, “I told the
two ladies that we should be glad of their company.”
“That is just what we were wishing!” said Kate and I
together.
It so happened that Caddie Mc In—the only specimen
of womankind who then inhabited our kitchen—knew about
as much of the mysteries of flour and spice, as she did of
botany and Epicurus. Therefore on that eventful morning,
which, as Stephanie expressed it, “would bring a coolness
among the members of our family,” Kate and I rolled up
our sleeves and “went but,” as the Scotch say; for we had
declared that Stephanie should play visiter, and see neither
Charlotte nor Soufflé till they were on the table.
I was busily engaged before the kitchen window, introducing
ladies' fingers to the most intimate acquaintance
with the Charlotte mould; and Kate in the shade of the
wall sat quietly mixing an odoriferous compound; when
a quick, frosty step made me look up,—and there, just before
my open window, stood Squire Brown. Since our first
coming to Glen Luna the Browns had sent frequent messages
that they meant to call upon us, but themselves never
came,—this was the first time a Brown foot had approached
our house.
The present apparition was a little old man—or he
would have been old if he hadn't been jolly—whose roll-about
body sat rather insecurely upon his little roll-about
legs; whose coat was snuff-colour, and his trousers a compromise
between pantaloons and small-clothes. His hat was
broad-brimmed, a whip flourished in one hand, and his little
air into our kitchen—of course dark by contrast. Perhaps
an occasional waft of maraschino may have quickened these
efforts.
“Ah, my dear!” said the Squire, “how d'ye do?—busy,
eh?”—here he gave himself a little twist and peered more
anxiously than ever,—“how's your father? well, eh? and
the rest of you?”
“Quite well sir, I thank you.”
“Well my dear,” with a turn of the head that convinced
me he knew where Kate sat and was trying to see her; “well
my dear, has your father got through haying?”
“O yes sir, long ago.”
“Long ago! eh,—well that's good. D'ye think now—
you're his data ain't you?”
“Yes sir.”
“D'ye think your father could let me have Mr. Barrington
for a couple of days? I've got a field of grass down
and my man's taken sick.”
“I don't know sir, I'll tell him when he comes home.”
“He's out, is he?”
“Yes sir.”
“D'ye know where he's gone my dear, eh?”
“To Mr. Collingwood's I believe, sir.”
“Farmer Collingwood's—that's out of my way,” said the
Squire, again nearly oversetting my gravity and his own,—
“fine young man his son is, ain't he? Well my dear you'll
tell him—d'ye know my name now, eh?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Yes I guess so too—and harkye, my datas have been
coming down here this long time, only it's so far you see,
they haven't made it out;—but they'll come very soon.
Good-day my dear.”
How we laughed!
“He didn't see you Kate, after all!”
“No; but I wonder what he means by `so far,'—I'm
sure they go often enough to the Moon, which is much
further.”
“If they're like him we needn't care,” said I,—“did you
hear him say `datas'?”
“I suspect they are modernized copies,” said Kate: “at
ask them here to-day,—it would have been only polite.”
“He did: I heard him telling mamma this morning.”
“Then I haven't made enough soufflé said Kate despairingly.
“O they're not coming to dinner—only to tea and ice-cream.”
“Ice-cream?” said Stephanie—“that sounds pleasant.
Do I look quite fiery?” she added advancing into the kitchen.
We both turned and looked at her.
Pretty, very pretty she always was, and that day especially.
Excitement had given even neck and arms a slight
reflection of her pink dress, but the prevailing tint was kept
down by her gracefully arranged black hair; while in her
eyes the expression—half dance half defiance—which usually
shone there, was softened by other feelings—the new
and the timid. I even fancied that her eyelashes were
wet, and that tears lay hid behind them as she returned our
earnest gaze.
“Well Katie, well Gracie,” she said at last, “what are
you thinking of?”
I saw the sigh that might not be heard, as Kate answered,
“I was thinking of you dear,—how nice you look!”
“Nice!—And not fiery?”
“Not a bit.”
“And do you say so too, Gracie?”
“I don't know—I was thinking your neighbourhood might
be pleasant to—to anything very cold,” said I inexplicitly.
Stephanie laughed, and saying “she wasn't wanted in the
kitchen, then,” she left us.
| CHAPTER XIII. Dollars and cents | |