Chapter IV.
VASHTI.
The first bad suggestion almost certainly came from Mr. Silk.Two or three of the company afterwards put their heads together and,comparing recollections, agreed that either Silk or Manley had startedit. Beyond the alternative they could not trace it.
But the whole table, they admitted, had been to blame, and prettydamnably. To be sure they were drunk, every man Jack of them, theCollector included. The Collector, indolent by nature but capable oflong stretches of work at a pinch, had been at his desk since sixo'clock in the morning. The news brought by the _Fish-hawk_ had reachedhim at five; and after bathing, dressing, and drinking his chocolate, hehad started to write, and had been writing letters all day. The most ofthese were lengthy, addressed to England, to his relatives, his Londonlawyers, the steward at Carwithiel. . . . The Surveyor andDeputy-Collector could deal--as they usually did--with the officialcorrespondence of the Custom House; his own Secretary had the light taskof penning a score of invitations to dinner; but these letters ofcondolence and private business must be written by his own hand, as alsoa note to Governor Shirley formally announcing his accession and newtitle.
The Collector dined at five. He laid down his pen at four, havingwritten for ten hours almost at a stretch, declining all food--for hehated to mix up work with eating and drinking. Before dressing fordinner he refreshed himself with another bath; but he came to table witha jaded brain and a stomach fasting beyond appetite for food; and thewine was champagne.
Miss Quiney and Ruth Josselin, seated that evening in the drawing-roomat Sabines, were startled at eight o'clock or thereabouts by aknocking on the front door. Miss Quiney looked up from hertambour-work, with hand and needle suspended in mid-air, and gazedacross at Ruth, who, seated at the harpsichord, had been singingsoftly--murmuring rather--the notes of Ben Jonson's _Charis herTriumph_--
"Have you seen but a bright Lillie grow Before rude hands have touch'd it?"--
--but desisted at the noise and slewed her body half around, letting herfingers rest on the keys.
"Who in the world--at this hour?" demanded Miss Quiney.
A serving-maid ushered in Manasseh.
The tall black halted a little within the doorway, saluted and stoodgrinning respectfully, his white teeth gleaming in the candle-light.
"Yo' pardon, ladies. His Honah sends to say he entertainin' to-night.Plenty people drink his Honah's health an' long life to Sir OlivahVyell. He wish pertick'ly Mis' Josselin drink it. He tol' me run, getout sedan-chair an' fetch Mis' Josselin along; fetch her back soon asshe likes. Chairmen at de door dis moment, waitin'. I mak' 'em run."
Ruth stood up. Her hand went to the edge of her bodice open below thethroat.
"Must I?" she asked, turning from Manasseh to Miss Quiney. Her voicewas tense.
"I--I think so, dear," Miss Quiney answered after a pause. "It is acommand, almost; and to-night naturally Captain Vyell--Sir Oliver--has aclaim on our congratulations."
"You tell me to go? . . . Oh! but let me be sure you know what you areadvising." She faced the negro again. "What guests is Sir Oliverentertaining?"
Manasseh enumerated a dozen.
"All gentlemen! So, you see!"
"Captain--Sir Oliver (bless me, how I forget! ) has an aversion fromladies' society--Boston ladies. . . . It is not for me to criticise, butthe distaste is well known."
"And the gentlemen, Manasseh--they will have taken a great deal of wineby now?"
Manasseh spread out his hands, and again his teeth gleamed. "To besho', Mis' Josselin; it is not ebery day in the yeah dat Cap'n Vyellbecome Sir Olivah--"
"I did not ask you," interrupted Ruth coldly, "to excuse your errand.. . . And now, Tatty dear, do you still bid me to go?"
"On the contrary, I forbid it."
Ruth stepped close to the little lady. Said she, standing straightbefore her and looking down, "It cost you some courage to say that."
"It may cost me more to-morrow; but I am not afraid."
"My brave Tatty! But the courage is thrown away, for I am going."
"You do not mean this?"
"I do mean it. My master sends for me. You know what duty I owe him."
"He is just. He will thank you to-morrow that you disobeyed."
"I shall not disobey."
Little Miss Quiney, looking up into her ward's eyes, argued this pointno further. "Very well," said she. "Then I go too." She closed hermouth firmly, squaring her jaw.
"But in the sedan there is room for one only."
"Then I go first," said Miss Quiney, "and the chair shall return foryou. That," she went on, falling back upon her usual pedantic speech,"presents no difficulty whatever to me. What I wear does not matter--the gentlemen will not regard it. But you must dress in what you haveof the best. It--it will assist you. Being without experience, youprobably have no notion how dress assists one's self-respect."
"I think I have some little notion," Ruth assured her demurely.
"And while the chair is taking me and returning, you will have good timeto dress. On no account are you to hurry. . . . It is essential that atno point--at _no_ point, dear--you allow yourself to be hurried, or toshow any trace of hurry."
Ruth nodded slowly. "Yes, Tatty. I understand. But, little lionessthat you are, do _you?_ You will be alone, and for some time withthese--with these--"
"I have never mentioned it to a living soul before," said Miss Quiney,dismissing Manasseh with a wave of the hand and closing the door uponhim; "but I had an eldest brother--in the Massachusetts militia--who,not to put too fine a point on it, was sadly addicted to the bottle.It shortened his days. . . . A bright young genius, of which we hopedmuch, and (I fear me) not all unselfishly, for our family wasimpoverished. But he went astray. Towards the end he would bring homehis boon companions--I will say this for poor dear George, that hisfootsteps, at their unsteadiest, ever tended homeward; he never affectedlow haunts--and it fell to me as the eldest daughter of the house tokeep his hospitality within bounds--"
"Dear Tatty!" Ruth stooped and kissed the plain little face, cuttingshort the narrative. It was strange to note how these two of diverseages--between whom for the length of their acquaintance no dispute ofmastery had arisen--now suddenly and in quick alternation, out of purelove, asserted will against will. "You shall tell me to-morrow.(I always knew that your meekness and weakness were only pretence.)But just now we must hurry."
"Hurry, as I must repeat," answered Miss Quiney primly, smoothing downthe front of her creased grey satin skirt, "is--will be--our capitalmistake. For me, I need in this weather but an additional shawl.I am ready. . . . Go to your room . . . and let me enjoin a certaindeliberation even in crossing the hall. Manasseh is there, and beforeservants--even a negro--The white brocade if I may advise; it is fresherthan the rose-coloured silk--and the hair combed a trifle higher off thebrows. That, with the brocade, will correct your girlishness somewhat.Brocades are for dignity, and it is dignity we chiefly need to-night.. . . Shall I send Selina to you? No? Well, she would be persuadingyou to some new twist or experiment with your hair, and you are betterwithout her. Also I shall want a last word with you when I have fetchedmy cloak, and Selina is better out of the way."
Miss Quiney's last word was a curious one. It took the form of a pearlnecklace, her one possession of value, last surviving heirloom of theQuineys, of whom she was the last surviving descendant: her lasttangible evidence, too, of those bygone better days. She never wore it,and it never saw the light save when she unlocked the worn jewel-case tomake sure that her treasure had not been stolen.
She entered Ruth's room with it furtively. Despite her injunctionagainst hurry, the girl had already indued the white brocade and stoodbefore the mirror conning herself. She wore no jewels; she owned none.
"Shut your eyes, dear," commanded Miss Quiney, and, stealing up behindher, slipped and clasped the necklace about her throat, then fell back,admiring the reflection in the glass
.
"Oh, Tatty!"
But Ruth, too, had to pause for a moment to admire. When she turned,Miss Quiney, forgetting her own injunction, had stolen in haste from theroom.
The girl's eyes moistened. For a moment she saw herself reflected fromthe glass in a blur. Then through the blur the necklace took shape,point by point of light, pearl by pearl, until the whole chain grewdefinite in the parting of the bodice, resting on the rise of her youngbosom.
Yes, and the girl saw that it was good.
A string of words danced upon her brain, as though the mirrored pearlsreflected them.
_She shall be brought unto the King . . . the virgins that be herfellows shall bear her company_.
Lady Good-for-Nothing: A Man's Portrait of a Woman Page 17
