A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill
up the rooms with folks that pay for what they eat, an' there won't be
any room for the free prowlers. You git the boarders an' I'll manage
'em.”
“Why, Mrs. Ivy and Gerald wanted to come that way, but I laughed at
them. Besides I don't know about Gerald--”
“On account of Miss Connie?” asked Myrtella, who had been too much in
charge of the family not to know its secrets. “You let him come. He's
one of them men that's like vanilla extract--you git too much of him
onct, you never want no more!”
“And perhaps Mr. Gooch would come.”
“Well it would go kinder hard with him to pay fer anything he's always
got free. But git Miss Hattie to ast him. He'd do it fer her quicker'n
anybody.”
The project, under Myrtella's able generalship, developed immediately.
Mr. Gooch and the Ivys gladly availed themselves of the opportunity
of fleeing from the stifling city to the cool shade of Thornwood. Two
former pupils of the Doctor's, who were taking a summer course at the
university, also asked if they might have a room, and at the end of a
week paying guests were in possession and the family relegated to any
nook or corner that was large enough to accommodate a bed.
One problem was unexpectedly solved by the appearance of Uncle Jimpson,
who announced that “he had done come back home to stay.” The distinction
of driving forth daily in solitary grandeur to exercise the Sequins'
horses, had palled upon him, and the prospect of conducting the
Queerington boarders back and forth to the station, and renewing his
intimacy with old John and Mike, had proven irresistible.
Aunt Caroline had died in the early spring, and Uncle Jimpson found
even the society of Myrtella a relief after his enforced loneliness. He
listened with bulging eyes and sagging jaw to her accounts of the latest
murders and obeyed her slightest command with a briskness that would
have amazed the old Colonel.
“We's helpin' Miss Lady git a start,” he would say proudly again and
again, “an' then maybe she git married some more.”
“Married!” Myrtella would flare, “yes, she orter git married to another
widower with three children, and a thousand kin folks. Besides, who's
she going to marry?”
“Ain't no trouble 'bout dat,” Uncle Jimpson said wisely; “you jes' let
her peek over de blinds onct, an' you see what gwine happen.”
“Well, she ain't going to peek,” Myrtella said firmly. “She ain't got
a thought in her head, but gittin' Miss Hattie an' Bertie educated, an'
keepin' Miss Connie straight, an' carryin' out that fool will of the
Doctor's.”
“Jest wait,” Uncle Jimpson smilingly insisted, “dat chile can't no more
help 'cumulatin' beaux dan a flower kin bees. An' hits de king bee dat's
comin' dis time, shore!”
CHAPTER XXVI
“Where's Connie? Where's Hat?” cried Miss Lady breathlessly, bringing
her foam-flecked horse to a halt in front of the porch where Mrs. Ivy
was sitting in the twilight. “Don Morley has written a book and it's
going to be published this month!”
“A book!” echoed Mrs. Ivy incredulously, then,
“Ah, my dear, do get off that vicious beast; I haven't had a moment's
peace since Mr. Wicker sent him over!”
Miss Lady slipped to the ground and stood with her arm around Prince's
neck, laughing. The thrill of her long ride, the first one in nearly
two years, still surged through her, and the news just received made her
heart dance for joy. Happiness, in spite of her efforts not to expect
it, was beginning to shine across the troubled waters, a dim and
wavering light as yet, but drawing her toward it with irresistible
fascination. It was something to steer by in times of stress and storm,
something to turn to tremulously, in the lonely hours of the night, when
over-taxed muscles refused to relax and her tired brain ached with the
pity and sorrow of the world.
During her long ride this afternoon she had dared for the first time to
give rein to thoughts that had hitherto been held in check. Surely life
was more than the dreary, monotonous, loveless business of the past
summer! With all its problems and perplexities, it was nevertheless a
mysterious, fascinating thing. She did not approve of it, nor did she
altogether trust it, but she was incorrigibly in love with it--and would
be to the end.
“I suppose you know that supper is over,” said Mrs. Ivy, with veiled
reproach. “Were there no letters for me?”
“Oh, dear, how stupid of me. I forgot to look through the rest of the
mail. Here it is.”
Mrs. Ivy sorted out her own official-looking budget, then peered closely
at the two remaining envelopes.
“As I suspected,” she said with a significant lifting of her eyebrows;
“two for Constance, in the same handwriting and both postmarked from the
Capitol.”
“But what of it, Mrs. Ivy?”
“My _dear_,” Mrs. Ivy breathed, “don't you see they are from Mr.
Morley?”
“Yes; but I have one from him, too; he's telling us about his book.”
Mrs. Ivy smiled with sad superiority, “Ah, my dear, you are not a very
sophisticated little chaperon. I have hesitated to speak to you before,
but I really think this young man's attention to Constance should be
stopped. It isn't fair to poor Gerald. You know how she has always
adored my boy, ever since she was in pinafores, and I don't mind
confessing to you that I've encouraged her. Of course Gerald's artistic
temperament has made him susceptible to many forms of beauty, but he has
really been quite devoted of late. I simply can not endure the thought
of that Mr. Morley interfering with the blossoming of their childhood
love.”
“But Mrs. Ivy, he--he is her cousin; he looks upon her as a child.”
“She is only a year younger than you are, my dear, and much more worldly
wise. I've had my eyes open and I've seen a great deal. She is getting
quite secretive, and she isn't always gracious to Gerald. Mr. Morley's
back of it all, you 'II see.”
“I don't think there is any danger,” said Miss Lady critically examining
the tip of Prince's nose.
“Ah, my dear girl, you have been too engrossed for the past six months
to notice. Ask Mr. Wicker; he spoke to Gerald about it last spring. Ask
Gerald himself, he's wretchedly unhappy. And now you are helping her
to get ready to go up to the Capitol to visit, and he's sure to see her
every day. I must say that I think it's wretched taste for him to pay
attentions to any girl under the circumstances.”
In an instant Miss Lady had wheeled with flashing eyes:
“Donald's friends know that he hasn't done anything to be ashamed of!
I don't believe he thinks of Connie in the way you mean, but if he does
she has every reason to be proud of it!”
And without waiting for an answer she drew the bridle over her arm and
tramped indignantly off to the stable.
Mrs. Ivy sighed, then turned to join Mr. Gooch who had just come out on
the porch.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” she said as if enunciating a hitherto
unuttered truth, “how reluctant youth is to learn of age? This dear
little widow that the good Doctor left to our care, is making some grave
mistakes.”
“I think she does fairly well,” said Mr. Gooch, settling himself
comfortably; “the beef is not always good, but the fowls and the
vegetables are ex-excellent.”
Mr. Gooch spoke with unusual warmth. Myrtella's cooking, together with
Miss Lady's graciousness, and the sharp proprietorship that Hattie had
assumed over him, were working a miracle. Even now as the sounds of
music and laughter came forth from the living-room, he paused to listen.
He was surprised to find that “Molly Darlings,” and “Nellie Grays,”
and other musical girls he'd left behind him, still haunted the dim
corridors of his argumentative mind, and gave him little thrills of
pleasure.
“Ah,” purred Mrs. Ivy, continuing the conversation. “Far be it from me
to criticize her. It is against my principles to entertain a critical
attitude toward any one. Besides, I quite adore the dear child.
I consider her a precious gift to a grateful world. But you must
acknowledge, Mr. Gooch, that with all her sweetness, she doesn't always
allow herself to be guided.”
“Good Lord, no,” said Mr. Gooch testily.
“She'll look you straight in the eye and smile, while you are advising
her, then go straight off and do as she pleases. This matter of the
Doctor's will, for instance. I spent two days arguing with her about the
futility of publishing two dozen volumes that nobody will ever read.”
“But that was his dying request, Mr. Gooch. Only one who has loved
and lost can know the nature of that obligation.” Mr. Gooch sniffed
impatiently. Conjugal felicity was a subject that irritated him in every
fiber.
“Then her charities,” he went on crustily; “she's got no money to be
throwing away, yet every family on Billy-goat Hill comes to her when it
gets into trouble.”
“Yes, and she doesn't hesitate to sit down in those dreadful hovels,
and take those unclean babies in her arms. It has made me frightfully
nervous since we came here. Gerald is so sensitive to germs.”
“What is this latest tomfoolery about a kindergarten?”
“Why, she has actually gotten Mrs. Bartrum and Mrs. Horton, and some of
those other society women, to rent the hall over the grocery where the
Cant-Pass-It Saloon used to be. They are going to open a kindergarten
and Margery Sequin is coming home from Europe to take charge of it. I am
afraid the project is built upon the sands. There is not a church member
on the board!”
“Well, they needn't come to me for a contribution,” said Mr. Gooch. “I
don't believe in kindergartens.”
While this conversation was taking place, quite a different one was in
progress, on the up-stairs side porch which had been converted into a
summer bedroom for Miss Lady and Bertie.
“Do you 'spose,” Bert was saying sleepily, “that God 'ud give me a horn
'stead of a harp when I get to heaven, if I ask him to?”
“I know He will, Bert. Take off your other shoe.”
“Why didn't He give Chick something to say?”
“He did, but Chick's throat won't let the words come through. Step out
of your clothes now, hurry up, Buddikin!”
But Bert's feet were firmly planted, and his sleepy eyes fixed in
philosophic musings:
“If He had all kinds of throats I don't see why He didn't give Chick a
good one.”
This required elucidation, and Miss Lady attempted to make the matter
clear while extricating the small boy from his clothes.
“Ain't you going to tell me a story?”
“Not to-night, Bert. I'm so tired; all the stories have run out.”
Bert crawled into his bed silently, and lay watching the shadows in the
big tree outside.
“I wish Cousin Don was here,” he sighed. “He never does run out of
stories. When is he coming back?”
“I don't know, dear. Shut your eyes now, and go to sleep.”
He shut his eyes obediently, but continued the conversation drowsily,
“He knows all about whales and tigers, and big ships and elephants.
He's--been--clear--around--the--earth--”
But the Sandman had conquered, and Miss Lady, having slipped on a
dressing-gown and loosened her hair, tiptoed to the far end of the
porch and sitting on the railing gazed fixedly out into the gathering
darkness. For half an hour the dim enchantments of twilight had been
abroad, transforming hill and valley, and merging heaven and earth in a
tender, elusive atmosphere of dreams. But her absorbed, white face, and
tense hands locked about her knees, showed that she was not concerned
with the beauty of the evening.
Mrs. Ivy's words had kindled a bonfire, by the light of which recent
events leapt into view. Connie had been secretive, not only about her
letters but about her engagements as well. She was growing daily more
indifferent to Gerald Ivy, and developing a taste for reading that
had been the cause of much surmising and teasing on the part of the
household.