The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne
Page 14
CHAPTER XIV
More happy days followed; for Santa Paloma, after the Fourth of July,felt only friendliness for the new owner of the Hall, and Mrs.Burgoyne's informal teas on the river bank began to prove a powerfulattraction, even rivaling the club in feminine favor. Sometimes thehostess enlisted all their sympathies for a newly arrived Old Palomababy, and they tore lengths of flannel, and busily stitched at tinygarments, under the shade of the willow and pepper trees. Sometimes shehad in her care one or more older babies whose busy mother was taking aday's rest, or whose father was perhaps ill, needing all the wife'scare. Always there was something to read and discuss; an editorial insome eastern magazine that made them all indignant or enthusiastic, ora short story worth reading aloud. And almost always the children werewithin call, digging great holes in the pebbly shallows of the river,only to fill them up again, toiling over bridges and dams, climbing outto the perilous length of the branches that hung above the water.Little Mary Scott, released from the fear of an "op'ration," and facingall unconsciously a far longer journey than the dreaded one to a SanFrancisco hospital, had her own cushioned chair near the bank, whereshe could hear and see, and laugh at everything that went on, and revelin consolation and bandages when the inevitable accidents made themnecessary. Mary had no cares now, no responsibility more serious thanto be sure her feet didn't get cold, and to tell Mrs. Burgoyne theminute her head ached; there was to be nothing but rest and comfort andlaughter for her in life now. "I don't know why we should pity her,"little Mrs. Brown said thoughtfully, one day, as they watched her withthe other children; "we can't ever hope to feel that any of ourchildren are as safe as she is."
Mrs. Burgoyne's method of entertaining the children was simple. Shealways made them work as hard as possible. One day they begged her tolet them build a "truly dam" that would really stop the Lobos in itsplacid course. She consulted gravely with George Carew: should theyattempt it? George, after serious consideration, thought they should.
As a result, twenty children panted and toiled through a warm Saturdayafternoon, George and the Adams boys shouting directions as theyhandled planks and stones; everybody wet, happy, and excited. Not theleast glorious moment was when the dam was broken at five o'clock, justbefore refreshments were served.
"We'll do that better next Saturday," said George. But a week laterthey wanted to clean the barn and organize a club. Mrs. Burgoyne wassure they couldn't. All that space, she said, and those bins, and thelittle rooms, and all? Very well, then, they could try. Later theylonged for a picnic supper in the woods, with an open fire, andpotatoes, and singing. Their hostess was dubious: entreated them toconsider the WORK involved, dragging stones for the fire, and carryingpotatoes and bacon and jam and all the rest of it 'way up there'. Thiswas at two o'clock, and at six she was formally asked to come up andinspect the cleared camping ground, and the fireplace with itsbroilers, and the mammoth stack of fuel prepared.
"I knew you'd do it!" said the lady delightedly. "Now we'll really havea fine supper!" And a memorable supper they had, and Indian stories,and singing, and they went home well after dusk, to end the dayperfectly.
"They like this sort of thing much better than white dresses, and aprofessional entertainer, and dancing, and too much ice-cream," saidMrs. Burgoyne to Mrs. Adams.
"Of course they do," said Mrs. Adams, who had her own reasons forturning rather red and speaking somewhat faintly. "And it's much lesswork, and much less expense," she added.
"Now it is, when they can be out-of-doors," said Mrs. Burgoyne; "but inwinter they do make awful work indoors. However, there is tramping fordry weather, and I mean to have a stove set up in the old billiard-roomdown-stairs and turn them all loose in there when it's wet.Theatricals, and pasting things, and singing, and now and thencandy-making, is all fun. And one knows that they're safe, and pilingup happy memories of their home."
"You make a sort of profession of motherhood," said Mrs. White dryly.
"It IS my profession," said the hostess, with her happy laugh.
But her happiness had a sudden check in mid-August; Sidney foundherself no more immune from heartache than any other woman, no morephilosophical over a hurt. It was, she told herself, only a trifle,after all. She was absurd to let it cloud the bright day for her andkeep her restless and wakeful at night. It was nothing. Only--
Only it was the first time that Barry had failed her. He was gone. Gonewithout a word of explanation to anyone, leaving his work at the Mailunfinished, leaving even Billy, his usual confidant, quite in the dark.Sidney had noticed for days a certain moodiness and unresponsivenessabout him; had tried rather timidly to win him from it; had got upuneasily half a dozen times in the night just past to look across thegarden to his house, and wonder why Barry's light burned on and on.
She had meant to send for him in the morning, but Billy, artlesslyappearing when the waffles came on at breakfast, remarked that Dad wasgone to San Francisco.
"To the city, Billy?" Sidney asked. "Didn't he say why?"
"He didn't even say goodbye," Billy replied cheerfully. "He just left anote for Hayashi. It said he didn't know how long he would be gone."
Sidney tried with small success to deceive herself into thinking thatit was the mere mysteriousness of this that cut her. She presently wentdown to see Mrs. Carew, and was fretted because that lady would forsome time discuss nothing but the successful treatment of insects onthe rose-bushes.
"Barry seems to have disappeared," said Sidney finally, in a casualtone.
Mrs. Carew straightened up, forgot hellebore and tobacco juice for themoment.
"Did I tell you what Silva told me?" she asked.
"Silva?" echoed Sidney, at a loss.
"The milkman. He told me that when he came up at five o'clock thismorning, Barry came out of the gate, and that he looked AWFULLY. Hesaid he was pale, and that his eyes looked badly, and that he hardlyseemed to know what he was doing. And oh, my dear, I'm afraid that he'sdrinking again! I'm sure of it. It's two years now since he has donethis. I think it's too bad. But you know he used to go down to townevery little while for a regular TIME with those newspaper men. Hedoesn't like Santa Paloma, you know. He gets very bored here. He'll beback in a day or two, thoroughly ashamed of himself."
Sidney did not answer, because she could not. Resentment and loyalty,shame and heartache, kept her lips dumb. She walked to and fro in thegarden, alone in the sweet early darkness, for an hour. Then she wentindoors, and tried to amuse herself at the piano. Suddenly her facetwisted, she laid her arm along the rack, and her face on her arm; butit was only for a moment; then she straightened up resolutely, piledthe music, closed the piano, and went upstairs.
"But perhaps I'm not old enough yet for an olive garden," she told thestars from her window an hour later.