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An Alabaster Box, a fiction by Mary E Wilkins Freeman |
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Chapter 12 |
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_ Chapter XII "I am sure I don't know what you'll think of us gadding about in the morning so," began Mrs. Dix, as she caught sight of Lydia. Mrs. Dix was sitting in the back seat of the carryall with Mrs. Dodge. The two girls were in front. Lydia noticed mechanically that both were freshly gowned in white and that Fanny, who was driving, eyed her with haughty reserve from under the brim of her flower-laden hat. Ellen Dix had turned her head to gaze after Jim Dodge's retreating figure; her eyes returned to Lydia with an expression of sulky reluctance. "I'm so glad to see you," said Lydia. "Won't you come in?" "I should like to," said Mrs. Dodge. "Jim has been telling us about the improvements, all along." "It certainly does look nice," chimed in Mrs. Dix. "I wouldn't have believed it possible, in such a little time, too. Just cramp that wheel a little more, Fanny." The two older women descended from the carryall and began looking eagerly around. "Just see how nice the grass looks," said Mrs. Dodge. "And the flowers! My! I didn't suppose Jim was that smart at fixing things up.... Aren't you going to get out, girls?" The two girls still sat on the high front seat of the carryall; both were gazing at Lydia in her simple morning frock. There were no flowers on Lydia's Panama hat; nothing but a plain black band; but it had an air of style and elegance. Fanny was wishing she had bought a plain hat without roses. Ellen tossed her dark head: "I don't know," she said. "You aren't going to stay long; are you, mother?" "For pity sake, Ellen!" expostulated Mrs. Dodge briskly. "Of course you'll get out, and you, too, Fanny. The horse'll stand." "Please do!" entreated Lydia. Thus urged, the girls reluctantly descended. Neither was in the habit of concealing her feelings under the convenient cloak of society observance, and both were jealously suspicious of Lydia Orr. Fanny had met her only the week before, walking with Wesley Elliot along the village street. And Mrs. Solomon Black had told Mrs. Fulsom, and Mrs. Fulsom had told Mrs. Deacon Whittle, and Mrs. Whittle had told another woman, who had felt it to be her Christian duty (however unpleasant) to inform Fanny that the minister was "payin' attention to Miss Orr." "Of course," the woman had pointed out, "it wasn't to be wondered at, special, seeing the Orr girl had every chance in the world to catch him--living right in the same house with him." Then she had further stated her opinions of men in general for Fanny's benefit. All persons of the male sex, according to this woman, were easily put upon, deceived and otherwise led astray by artful young women from the city, who were represented as perpetually on the lookout for easy marks, like Wesley Elliot. "He ain't any different from other men, if he _is_ a minister," said she with a comprehensive sniff. "They're all alike, as far as I can find out: anybody that's a mind to soft-soap them and flatter them into thinkin' they're something great can lead them right around by the nose. And besides, _she's_ got _money!_" Fanny had affected a haughty indifference to the doings of Wesley Elliot, which did not for a moment deceive her keen-eyed informer. "Of course, anybody with eyes in their heads can see what's taken place," compassionated she, impaling the unfortunate Fanny on the prongs of her sympathy. "My! I was telling George only yesterday, I thought it was a _perfect shame!_ and somebody ought to speak out real plain to the minister." Whereat Fanny had been goaded into wishing the woman would mind her own business! She did wish everybody would leave her and her affairs alone! People had no right to talk! As for speaking to the minister; let any one dare--! As for Ellen Dix, she had never quite forgiven Lydia for innocently acquiring the fox skin and she had by now almost persuaded herself that she was passionately in love with Jim Dodge. She had always liked him--at least, she had not actively disliked him, as some of the other girls professed to do. She had found his satirical tongue, his keen eyes and his real or affected indifference to feminine wiles pleasantly stimulating. There was some fun in talking to Jim Dodge. But of late she had not been afforded the opportunity. Fanny had explained to Ellen that Jim was working terribly hard, often rising at three and four in the morning to work on his own farm, and putting in long days at the Bolton place. "She seems to have most of the men in Brookville doing for her," Ellen had remarked coldly. Then the girls had exchanged cautious glances. "There's something awfully funny about her coming here, anyway," said Ellen. "Everybody thinks it's queer." "I expect she had a reason," said Fanny, avoiding Ellen's eyes. After which brief interchange of opinion they had twined their arms about each other's waists and squeezed wordless understanding and sympathy. Henceforth, it was tacitly understood between the two girls that singly and collectively they did not "like" Lydia Orr. Lydia understood without further explanation that she was not to look to her nearest neighbors for either friendship or the affection she so deeply craved. Both Ellen and Fanny had passed the place every day since its restoration began; but not once had either betrayed the slightest interest or curiosity in what was going on beyond the barrier of the hedge. To be sure, Fanny had once stopped to speak to her brother; but when Lydia had hurried hopefully out to greet her it was only to catch a glimpse of the girl's back as she walked quickly away. Jim Dodge had explained, with some awkwardness, that Fanny was in a hurry.... "Well, now, I'll tell you, Miss Orr," Mrs. Dix was saying, as all five women walked slowly toward the house. "I was talking with Abby Daggett, and she was telling me about your wanting to get back the old furniture that used to be in the house. It seems Henry Daggett has put up a notice in the post office; but so far, he says, not very many pieces have been heard from. You know the men-folks generally go after the mail, and men are slow; there's no denying that. As like as not they haven't even mentioned seeing the notice to the folks at home." "That's so," confirmed Mrs. Dodge, nodding her head. "I don't know as Jim would ever tell us anything that happened from morning till night. We just have to pump things out of him; don't we, Fanny? He'd never tell without we did. His father was just the same." Fanny looked annoyed, and Ellen squeezed her arm with an amused giggle. "I didn't know, mother, there was anything we wanted to know, particularly," she said coldly. "Well, you know both of us have been real interested in the work here," protested Mrs. Dodge, wonderingly. "I remember you was asking Jim only last night if Miss Orr was really going to--" "I hope you'll like to see the house," said Lydia, as if she had not heard; "of course, being here every day I don't notice the changes as you might." "You aren't living here yet, are you?" asked Mrs. Dix. "I understood Mrs. Solomon Black to say you weren't going to leave her for awhile yet." "No; I shall be there nights and Sundays till everything is finished here," said Lydia. "Mrs. Black makes me very comfortable." "Well, I think most of us ladies had ought to give you a vote of thanks on account of feeding the men-folks, noons," put in Mrs. Dodge. "It saves a lot of time not to have to look after a dinner-pail." "Mother," interrupted Fanny in a thin, sharp voice, quite unlike her own, "you know Jim always comes home to his dinner." "Well, what if he does; I was speaking for the rest of th' women," said Mrs. Dodge. "I'm sure it's very kind of Miss Orr to think of such a thing as cooking a hot dinner for all those hungry men." Mrs. Dodge had received a second check from the assignees that very morning from the sale of the old bank building, and she was proportionately cheerful and content. "Well; if this isn't handsome!" cried Mrs. Dix, pausing in the hall to look about her. "I declare I'd forgotten how it used to look. This is certainly better than having an old ruin standing here. But, of course it brings back old days." She sighed, her dark, comely face clouding with sorrow. "You know," she went on, turning confidentially to Lydia, "that dreadful bank failure was the real cause of my poor husband's death. He never held up his head after that. They suspected at first he was implicated in the steal. But Mr. Dix wasn't anything like Andrew Bolton. No; indeed! He wouldn't have taken a cent that belonged to anybody else--not if he was to die for it!" "That's so," confirmed Mrs. Dodge. "What Andrew Bolton got was altogether too good for him. Come right down to it, he wasn't no better than a murderer!" And she nodded her head emphatically. Fanny and Ellen, who stood looking on, reddened impatiently at this: "I'm sick and tired of hearing about Andrew Bolton," complained Ellen. "I've heard nothing else since I can remember. It's a pity you bought this house, Miss Orr: I heard Mr. Elliot say it was like stirring up a horrid, muddy pool. Not very complimentary to Brookville; but then--" "Don't you think people will--forget after a while?" asked Lydia, her blue eyes fixed appealingly on the two young faces. "I don't see why everybody should--" "Well, if you'd fixed the house entirely different," said Mrs. Dix. "But having it put back, just as it was, and wanting the old furniture and all--whatever put that into your head, my dear?" "I heard it was handsome and old--I like old things. And, of course, it was--more in keeping to restore the house as it was, than to--" "Well, I s'pose that's so," conceded Mrs. Dodge, her quick dark eyes busy with the renovated interior. "I'd sort of forgot how it did look when the Boltons was livin' here. But speaking of furniture; I see Mrs. Judge Fulsom let you have the old sofa. I remember she got it at the auction; she's kept it in her parlor ever since." "Yes," said Lydia. "I was only too happy to give a hundred dollars for the sofa. It has been excellently preserved." "A hundred dollars!" echoed Mrs. Dix. "Well!" Mrs. Dodge giggled excitedly, like a young girl. "A hundred dollars!" she repeated. "Well, I want to know!" The two women exchanged swift glances. "You wouldn't want to buy any pieces that had been broke, I s'pose," suggested Mrs. Dodge. "If they can be repaired, I certainly do," replied Lydia. "Mother!" expostulated Fanny, in a low but urgent tone. "Ellen and I--we really ought to be going." The girl's face glowed with shamed crimson. She felt haughty and humiliated and angry all at once. It was not to be borne. Mrs. Dix was not listening to Fanny Dodge. "I bid in the big, four-post mahogany bed at the auction," she said, "and the bureau to match; an' I believe there are two or three chairs about the house." "We've got a table," chimed in Mrs. Dodge; "but one leg give away, an' I had it put up in the attic years ago. And Fanny's got a bed and bureau in her room that was painted white, with little pink flowers tied up with blue ribbons. Of course the paint is pretty well rubbed off; but--" "Oh, might I have that set?" cried Lydia, turning to Fanny. "Perhaps you've grown fond of it and won't want to give it up. But I--I'd pay almost anything for it. And of course I shall want the mahogany, too." "Well, we didn't know," explained Mrs. Dix, with dignity. "We got those pieces instead of the money we'd ought to have had from the estate. There was a big crowd at the auction, I remember; but nobody really wanted to pay anything for the old furniture. A good deal of it had come out of folks' attics in the first place." "I shall be glad to pay three hundred dollars for the mahogany bed and bureau," said Lydia. "And for the little white set--" "I don't care to part with my furniture," said Fanny Dodge, her pretty round chin uplifted. She was taller than Lydia, and appeared to be looking over her head with an intent stare at the freshly papered wall beyond. "For pity sake!" exclaimed her mother sharply. "Why, Fanny, you could buy a brand new set, an' goodness knows what-all with the money. What's the matter with you?" "I know just how Fanny feels about having her room changed," put in Ellen Dix, with a spirited glance at the common enemy. "There are things that money can't buy, but some people don't seem to think so." Lydia's blue eyes had clouded swiftly. "If you'll come into the library," she said, "we'll have some lemonade. It's so very warm I'm sure we are all thirsty." She did not speak of the furniture again, and after a little the visitors rose to go. Mrs. Dodge lingered behind the others to whisper: "I'm sure I don't know what got into my Fanny. Only the other day she was wishing she might have her room done over, with new furniture and all. I'll try and coax her." But Lydia shook her head. "Please don't," she said. "I want that furniture very much; but--I know there are things money can't buy." "Mebbe you wouldn't want it, if you was t' see it," was Mrs. Dodge's honest opinion. "It's all turned yellow, an' the pink flowers are mostly rubbed off. I remember it was real pretty when we first got it. It used to belong to Mrs. Bolton's little girl. I don't know as anybody's told you, but they had a little girl. My! what an awful thing for a child to grow up to! I've often thought of it. But mebbe she didn't live to grow up. None of us ever heard." "Mother!" called Fanny, from the front seat of the carryall. "We're waiting for you." "In a minute, Fanny," said Mrs. Dodge.... "Of course you can have that table I spoke of, Miss Orr, and anything else I can find in the attic, or around. An' I was thinking if you was to come down to the Ladies' Aid on Friday afternoon--it meets at Mrs. Mixter's this week, at two o'clock; you know where Mrs. Mixter lives, don't you? Well; anyway, Mrs. Solomon Black does, an' she generally comes. But I know lots of the ladies has pieces of that furniture; and most of them would be mighty glad to get rid of it. But they are like my Fanny--kind of contrary, and backward about selling things. I'll talk to Fanny when we get home. Why, she don't any more want that old painted set--" "Mother!" Fanny's sweet angry voice halted the rapid progress of her mother's speech for an instant. "I shouldn't wonder if the flies was bothering th' horse," surmised Mrs. Dodge; "he does fidget an' stamp somethin' terrible when the flies gets after him; his tail ain't so long as some.... Well, I'll let you know; and if you could drop around and see the table and all-- Yes, some day this week. Of course I'll have to buy new furniture to put in their places; so will Mrs. Dix. But I will say that mahogany bed is handsome; they've got it in their spare room, and there ain't a scratch on it. I can guarantee that.... Yes; I guess the flies are bad today; looks like rain. Good-by!" Lydia stood watching the carryall, as it moved away from under the milk-white pillars of the restored portico. Why did Fanny Dodge and Ellen Dix dislike her, she wondered, and what could she do to win their friendship? Her troubled thoughts were interrupted by Martha, the taciturn maid. "I found this picture on the floor, Miss Lydia," said Martha; "did you drop it?" Lydia glanced at the small, unmounted photograph. It was a faded snapshot of a picnic party under a big tree. Her eyes became at once riveted upon the central figures of the little group; the pretty girl in the middle was Fanny Dodge; and behind her--yes, surely, that was the young clergyman, Wesley Elliot. Something in the attitude of the man and the coquettish upward tilt of the girl's face brought back to her mind a forgotten remark of Mrs. Solomon Black's. Lydia had failed to properly understand it, at the time. Mrs. Solomon Black was given to cryptic remarks, and Lydia's mind had been preoccupied by the increasing difficulties which threatened the accomplishment of her purpose: "A person, coming into a town like Brookville to live, by rights had ought to have eyes in the backs of their heads," Mrs. Black had observed. It was at breakfast time, Lydia now remembered, and the minister was late, as frequently happened. "I thought like's not nobody would mention it to you," Mrs. Black had further elucidated. "Of course _he_ wouldn't say anything, men-folks are kind of sly and secret in their doings--even the best of 'em; and you'll find it's so, as you travel along life's path-way." Mrs. Black had once written a piece of poetry and it had actually been printed in the Grenoble _News_; since then she frequently made use of figures of speech. "A married woman and a widow can speak from experience," she went on. "So I thought I'd just tell you: he's as good as engaged, already." "Do you mean Mr. Elliot?" asked Lydia incuriously. Mrs. Black nodded. "I thought you ought to know," she said. Mr. Elliot had entered the room upon the heels of this warning, and Lydia had promptly forgotten it. Now she paused for a swift review of the weeks which had already passed since her arrival. Mr. Elliot had been unobtrusively kind and helpful from the first, she remembered. Later, he had been indefatigable in the matter of securing workmen for the restoration of the old house, when she made it clear to him that she did not want an architect and preferred to hire Brookville men exclusively. As seemed entirely natural, the minister had called frequently to inspect the progress of the work. Twice in their rounds together they had come upon Jim Dodge; and although the clergyman was affable in his recognition and greeting, Lydia had been unpleasantly surprised by the savage look on her landscape-gardener's face as he returned the polite salutation. "Don't you like Mr. Elliot?" she had ventured to inquire, after the second disagreeable incident of the sort. Jim Dodge had treated her to one of his dark-browed, incisive glances before replying. "I'm afraid I can't answer that question satisfactorily, Miss Orr," was what he said. And Lydia, wondering, desisted from further question. "That middle one looks some like one of the young ladies that was here this morning," observed Martha, with the privileged familiarity of an old servant. "She must have dropped it," said Lydia, slowly. "The young ladies here in the country has very bad manners," commented Martha, puckering her lips primly. "I wouldn't put myself out for them, if I was you, mem." Lydia turned the picture over and gazed abstractedly at the three words written there: "Lest we forget!" Beneath this pertinent quotation appeared the initials "W. E." "If it was for _me_ to say," went on Martha, in an injured tone, "I'd not be for feedin' up every man, woman and child that shows their face inside the grounds. Why, they don't appreciate it no more than--" The woman's eloquent gesture appeared to include the blue-bottle fly buzzing noisily on the window-pane: "Goodness gracious! if these flies ain't enough to drive a body crazy--what with the new paint and all...." _ |
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