29. CHAPTER XXIX.
AUNT MARIA FREES HER MIND.
THE door opened, to let out the two gentlemen, just
as Mrs. Wouvermans was coming up the steps,
fresh and crisp as one out betimes on the labors of a
good conscience.
The dear woman had visited the Willises, at the remote
end of the city, had had diplomatic conversations
with both mistress and maid in that establishment, and
had now arrived as minister plenipotentiary to set all
matters right in Eva's establishment. She had looked
all through the subject, made up her mind precisely what
Eva ought to do, revolved it in her own mind as she sat
apparently attending to a rather drowsy sermon at her
church, and was now come, as full of sparkling vigor
and brisk purposes as a well-corked bottle of champagne.
Eva met her at the door with the dutiful affection
which she had schooled herself to feel towards one whose
intentions were always so good, but with a secret reserve
of firm resistance as to the lines of her own proper personality.
“I have a great deal to do, to-day,” said the lady,
“and so I came out early to see you before you should
be gone out or anything, because I had something very
particular I wanted to say to you.”
Eva took her aunt's things and committed them to
the care of Maggie, who opened the parlor-door at this
moment.
Aunt Maria turned towards the girl in a grand superior
way and fixed a searching glance on her.
“Maggie,” she said, “is this you? I'm astonished to
see you here.”
The words were not much, but the intonation and
manner were meant to have all the effect of an awful and
severe act of judgment on a detected culprit—to express
Mrs. Wouvermans' opinion that Maggie's presence
in any decent house was an impertinence and a disgrace.
Maggie's pale face turned a shade paler, and her
black eyes flashed fire, but she said nothing; she went
out and closed the door with violence.
“Did you see that?” said Aunt Maria, turning to Eva.
“I saw it, Aunty, and I must say I think it was more
your fault than Maggie's. People in our position ought
not to provoke girls, if we do not want to excite temper
and have rudeness.”
“Well, Eva, I've come up here to have a plain talk
with you about this girl, for I think you don't know what
you're doing in taking her into your house. I've talked
with Mrs. Willis, and with your Aunt Atkins, and with
dear Mrs. Elmore about it, and there is but just one
opinion—they are all united in the idea that you ought
not to take such a girl into your family. You never can
do anything with them; they are utterly good for nothing,
and they make no end of trouble. I went and talked
to your mother, but she is just like a bit of tow string,
you can't trust her any way, and she is afraid to come
and tell you what she really thinks, but in her heart she
feels just as the rest of us do.”
“Well, now, upon my word, Aunt Maria, I can't see
what right you and Mrs. Willis and Aunt Atkins and
Mrs. Elmore have to sit as a jury on my family affairs
and send me advice as to my arrangements, and I'm not
in the least obliged to you for talking about my affairs to
them. I think I told you, some time ago, that Harry
and I intend to manage our family according to our own
judgment; and, while we respect you, and are desirous
of showing that respect in every proper way, we cannot
allow you any right to intermeddle in our family matters.
I am guided by my husband's judgment (and you yourself
admit that, for a wife, there is no other proper appeal)
and Harry and I act as one. We are entirely united in
all our family plans.”
“Oh, well, I suppose there is no harm in my taking
an interest in your family matters, since you are my god-child,
and I brought you up, and have always cared as
much about you as any mother could do—in fact, I think
I have felt more like a mother to you than Nellie has.”
“Well, Aunty,” said Eva, “of course, I feel how kind
and good you have always been, and I'm sure I thank
you with all my heart; but still, after all, we must be
firm in saying that you cannot govern our family.”
“Who is wanting to govern your family?—what
ridiculous talk that is! Just as if I had ever tried;
but you may, of course, allow your old aunt, that
has had experience that you haven't had, to propose
arrangements and tell you of things to your advantage,
can't you?”
“Oh, of course, Aunty.”
“Well, I went up to the Willises, because they are
going to Europe, to be gone for three years, and I
thought I could secure their Ann for you. Ann is a
treasure. She has been ten years with the Willises, and
Mrs. Willis says she don't know of a fault that she has.”
“Very well, but, Aunty, I don't want Ann, if she were
an angel; I have my Mary, and I prefer her to anybody
that could be named.”
“But, Eva, Mary is getting old, and she is encumbered
with this witch of a daughter, whom she is putting
upon your shoulders and making you carry; and I
perceive that you'll be ridden to death—it's a perfect
Old Man of the Sea on your backs. Now, get rid of
Mary, and you'll get rid of the whole trouble. It isn't
worth while, just because you've got attached to Mary,
to sacrifice your interests for her sake. Just let her go.”
“Well, now, Aunty, the short of the matter is, that I
will do nothing of the kind. I won't let Mary go, and I
don't want any other arrangement than just what I have.
I am perfectly satisfied.”
“Well, you'll see that your keeping that girl in your
house will bring you all into disgrace yet,” said Aunt
Maria, rising hastily. “But it's no use talking. I
spent a good half-day attending to this matter, and
making arrangements that would have given you the
very best of servants; but if you choose to take in
tramps, you must take the consequences. I can't help
it;” and Aunt Maria rose vengefully and felt for her
bonnet.
Eva opened the door of the little sewing-room, where
Maggie had laid it, and saw her vanishing out of the
opposite door.
“I hope she did not hear you, Aunty,” she said, involuntarily.
“I don't care if she did,” was the reply, as the injured
lady resumed her bonnet and departed from the
house, figuratively shaking the dust from her feet.
Eva went out also to attend to some of her morning
business, and, on her return, was met by Mary with an
anxious face. Maggie had gone out and taken all her
things with her, and was nowhere to be found. After
some search, Eva found a paper pinned to the cushion
of her toilet-table, on which was written:
“Dear Mrs. Henderson: You have tried hard to save me; but
it's no use. I am only a trouble to mother, and I disgrace you. So
I am going, and don't try to find me. May God bless you and
mother.
