“Did she?” said I. “Oh, mother, the old white rose is out!”
“There they are, back again,” said mother. “He’s leaving her at the gate.”
Well, we both waited for Aunt Elizabeth to come up the path. I picked the first white rose and made mother smell it, and when I had smelled it myself I began to sing under my breath, “Come into the garden, Maud,” because I remembered last night.
“Hush, child,” said mother, quickly. “Elizabeth, you are tired. Come right in.”
Aunt Elizabeth’s lip trembled a little. I thought she was going to cry. I had never known her to cry, though I had seen tears in her eyes, and I remember once, when she was talking to Dr. Denbigh, Charles Edward noticed them and laughed. “Those are not idle tears, Peg,” he said to me “They’re getting in their work.”
Now I was so sorry for her that I stopped thinking of last night and put it all away. It seemed cruel to be so happy. Aunt Elizabeth sat down on the step and mother brought her an eggnog. It had been all ready for grandmother, and I could see mother thought Aunt Elizabeth needed it, if she was willing to make grandmother wait.
“Ada,” said Aunt Elizabeth, suddenly, as she sipped it, “what was Dr. Denbigh’s wife like?”
“Why,” said mother, “I’d almost forgotten he had a wife, it was so long ago. She died in the first year of their marriage.”
Aunt Elizabeth laughed a little, almost as if no one were there. “He began to talk about her quite suddenly this morning,” she said. “It seems Peg reminds him of her. He is devoted to her memory. That’s what he said — devoted to her memory.”
“That’s good,” said mother, cheerfully, as if she didn’t know quite what to say. “More letters, Lily? Any for us?” I could see mother was very tender of her for some reason, or she never would have called her Lily.
“For me,” said Aunt Elizabeth, as if she were tired. “From Mrs. Chataway. A package, too. It looks like visiting-cards. That seems to be from her, too.” She broke open the package. “Why!” said she, “of all things! Why!”
“That’s pretty engraving,” said mother, looking over her shoulder. She must have thought they were Aunt Elizabeth’s cards. “Why! of all things!”
Aunt Elizabeth began to flush pink and then scarlet. She looked as pretty as a rose, but a little angry, I thought. She put up her head rather haughtily. “Mrs. Chataway is very eccentric,” she said. “A genius, quite a genius in her own line. Ada, I won’t come down to luncheon. This has been sufficient. Let me have some tea in my own room at four, please.” She got up, and her letter and one of the cards fell to the floor. I picked them up for her, and I saw on the card:
Mrs. Ronald Chataway Magnetic Healer and Mediumistic Divulger Lost Articles a Specialty
I don’t know why, but I thought, like mother and Aunt Elizabeth, “Well, of all things!”
But the rest of that day mother and I were too busy to exchange a word about Mrs. Chataway or even Aunt Elizabeth. We plunged into my preparations to sail, and talked dresses and hats, and ran ribbons in things, and I burned letters and one photograph (I burned that without looking at it), and suddenly mother got up quickly and dropped her lapful of work. “My stars!” said she, “I’ve forgotten Aunt Elizabeth’s tea.”
“It’s of no consequence, dear,” said Aunt Elizabeth’s voice at the door. “I asked Katie to bring it up.”
“Why,” said mother, “you’re not going?”
I held my breath. Aunt Elizabeth looked so pretty. She was dressed, as I never saw her before, a close-fitting black gown and a plain white collar and a little close black hat. She looked almost like some sister of charity.
“Ada,” said she, “and Peggy, I am going to tell you something, and it is my particular desire that you keep it from the whole family. They would not understand. I am going to ally myself with Mrs. Chataway in a connection which will lead to the widest possible influence for her and for me. In Mrs. Chataway’s letter to-day she urges me to join her. She says I have enormous magnetism and — and other qualifications.”
“Don’t you want me to tell Cyrus?” said mother. She spoke quite faintly.
“You can simply tell Cyrus that I have gone to Mrs. Chataway’s,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “You can also tell him I shall be too occupied to return. Good-bye, Ada. Good-bye, Peggy. Remember, it is the bruised herb that gives out the sweetest odor.”
Before I could stop myself I had laughed, out of happiness, I think. For I remembered how the spearmint had smelled in the garden when Stillman Dane and I stepped on it in the dark and how bright the moon was, and I knew nobody could be unhappy very long.
“I telephoned for a carriage,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “There it is.” She and mother were going down the stairs, and suddenly I felt I couldn’t have her go like that.
“Oh, Aunt — Aunt Lily!” I called. “Stop! I want to speak to you.” I ran after her. “I’m going to have a profession, too,” I said. “I’m going to devote my life to it, and I am just as glad as I can be.” I put my arms round her and kissed her on her soft, pink cheeks, and we both cried a little. Then she went away.
CHAPTER XII THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY by Henry Van Dyke
“Eastridge, June 3, 1907. “To Gerrit Wendell, The Universe Club, New York:
“Do you remember promise? Come now, if possible. Much needed. Cyrus Talbert.”
This was the telegram that Peter handed me as I came out of the coat-room at the Universe and stood under the lofty gilded ceiling of the great hall, trying to find myself at home again in the democratic simplicity of the United States. For two years I had been travelling in the effete, luxurious Orient as a peace correspondent for a famous newspaper; sleeping under canvas in Syria, in mud houses in Persia, in paper cottages in Japan; riding on camel-hump through Arabia, on horseback through Afghanistan, in palankeen through China, and faring on such food as it pleased Providence to send. The necessity of putting my next book through the press (The Setting Splendors of the East) had recalled me to the land of the free and the home of the brave. Two hours after I had landed from the steamship, thirty seconds after I had entered the club, there was Peter, in his green coat and brass buttons, standing in the vast, cool hall among the immense columns of verd-antique, with my telegram on a silver tray, which he presented to me with a discreet expression of welcome in his well-trained face, as if he hesitated to inquire where I had been, but ventured to hope that I had enjoyed my holiday and that there was no bad news in my despatch. The perfection of the whole thing brought me back with a mild surprise to my inheritance as an American, and made me dimly conscious of the point to which New York has carried republicanism and the simple life.
But the telegram — read hastily in the hall, and considered at leisure while I took a late breakfast at my favorite table in the long, stately, oak-panelled dining-room, high above the diminished roar of Fifth Avenue — the telegram carried me out to Eastridge, that self-complacent overgrown village among the New York hills, where people still lived in villas with rubber-plants in the front windows, and had dinner in the middle of the day, and attended church sociables, and listened to Fourth-of-July orations. It was there that I had gone, green from college, to take the assistant-editorship of that flapping sheet The Eastridge Banner; and there I had found Cyrus Talbert beginning his work in the plated-ware factory — the cleanest, warmest, biggest heart of a man that I have known yet, with a good-nature that covered the bed-rock of his conscience like an apple orchard on a limestone ridge. In the give-and-take of every day he was easy-going, kindly, a lover of laughter; but when you struck down to a question of right and wrong, or, rather, when he conceived that he heard the divine voice of duty, he became absolutely immovable — firm, you would call it if you agreed with him, obstinate if you differed.
After all, a conscience like that is a good thing to have at the bottom of a friendship. I could be friends with a man of almost any religion, but hardly with a man of none. Certainly the intimacy that sprang up between Talbert
and me was fruitful in all the good things that cheer life’s journey from day to day, and deep enough to stand the strain of life’s earthquakes and tornadoes. There was a love-affair that might have split us apart; but it only put the rivets into our friendship. For both of us in that affair — yes, all three of us, thank God — played a straight game. There was a time of loss and sorrow for me when he proved himself more true and helpful than any brother that I ever knew. I was best man at his wedding; and because he married a girl that understood, his house became more like a home to me than any other place that my wandering life has found.
I saw its amazing architectural proportions erupt into the pride of Eastridge. I saw Cyrus himself, with all his scroll-saw tastes and mansard-roof opinions, by virtue of sheer honesty and thorough-going human decency, develop into the unassuming “first citizen” of the town, trusted even by those who laughed at him, and honored most by his opponents. I saw his aggravating family of charming children grow around him — masterful Maria, aesthetic Charles Edward, pretty Peggy, fairy-tale Alice, and boisterous Billy — each at heart lovable and fairly good; but, taken in combination, bewildering and perplexing to the last degree.
Cyrus had a late-Victorian theory in regard to the education of children, that individuality should not be crushed — give them what they want — follow the line of juvenile insistence — all the opportunities and no fetters. This late-Victorian theory had resulted in the production of a collection of early-Rooseveltian personalities around him, whose simultaneous interaction sometimes made his good old head swim. As a matter of fact, the whole family, including Talbert’s preposterous old-maid sister Elizabeth (the biggest child of the lot), absolutely depended on the good sense of Cyrus and his wife, and would have been helpless without them. But, as a matter of education, each child had a secret illusion of superiority to the parental standard, and not only made wild dashes at originality and independent action, but at the same time cherished a perfect mania for regulating and running all the others. Independence was a sacred tradition in the Talbert family; but interference was a fixed nervous habit, and complication was a chronic social state. The blessed mother understood them all, because she loved them all. Cyrus loved them all, but the only one he thought he understood was Peggy, and her he usually misunderstood, because she was so much like him. But he was fair to them all — dangerously fair — except when his subcutaneous conscience reproached him with not doing his duty; then he would cut the knot of family interference with some tremendous stroke of paternal decision unalterable as a law of the Medes and Persians.
All this was rolling through my memory as I breakfasted at the Universe and considered the telegram from Eastridge.
“Do you remember promise?” Of course I remembered. Was it likely that either of us would forget a thing like that? We were in the dingy little room that he called his “den”; it was just after the birth of his third child. I had told my plan of letting the staff of The Banner fall into other hands and going out into the world to study the nations when they were not excited by war, and write about people who were not disguised in soldier-clothes. “That’s a big plan,” he said, “and you’ll go far, and be long away at times.” I admitted that it was likely. “Well,” he continued, laying down his pipe, “if you ever are in trouble and can’t get back here, send word, and I’ll come.” I told him that there was little I could do for him or his (except to give superfluous advice), but if they ever needed me a word would bring me to them. Then I laid down my pipe, and we stood up in front of the fire and shook hands. That was all the promise there was; but it brought him down to Panama to get me, five years later, when I was knocked out with the fever; and it would take me back to Eastridge now by the first train.
But what wasteful brevity in that phrase, “much needed”! What did that mean? (Why will a man try to put a forty-word meaning into a ten-word telegram?) Sickness? Business troubles? One of those independent, interfering children in a scrape? One thing I was blessedly sure of: it did not mean any difficulty between Cyrus and his wife; they were of the tribe who marry for love and love for life. But the need must be something serious and urgent, else he never would have sent for me. With a family like his almost anything might happen. Perhaps Aunt Elizabeth — I never could feel any confidence in a red-haired female who habitually dressed in pink. Or perhaps Charles Edward — if that young man’s artistic ability had been equal to his sense of it there would have been less danger in taking him into the factory. Or probably Maria, with her great head for business — oh, Maria, I grant you, is like what the French critic said of the prophet Habakkuk, “capable de tout.”
But why puzzle any longer over that preposterous telegram? If my friend Talbert was in any kind of trouble under the sun, there was just one thing that I wanted — to get to him as quickly as possible. Find when the first train started and arrived — send a lucid despatch — no expensive parsimony in telegraphing:
‘“To Cyrus Talbert, Eastridge, Massachusetts:
“I arrived this morning on the Dilatoria and found your telegram here. Expect me on the noon train due at Eastridge five forty-three this afternoon. I hope all will go well. Count on me always. Gerrit Wendell.”
It was a relief to find him on the railway platform when the train rolled in, his broad shoulders as square as ever, his big head showing only a shade more of gray, a shade less of red, in its strawberry roan, his face shining with the welcome which he expressed, as usual, in humorous disguise.
“Here you are,” he cried, “browner and thinner than ever! Give me that bag. How did you leave my friend the Shah of Persia?”
“Better,” I said, stepping into the open carriage, “since he got on the water-wagon — uses nothing but Eastridge silver-plated ice-pitchers now.”
“And my dear friend the Empress of China?” he asked, as he got in beside me.
“She has recovered her digestion,” I answered, “due entirely to the abandonment of chop-sticks and the adoption of Eastridge knives and forks. But now it’s my turn to ask a question. How are YOU?”
“Well,” said he. “And the whole family is well, and we’ve all grown tremendously, but we haven’t changed a bit, and the best thing that has happened to us for three years is seeing you again.”
“And the factory?” I asked. “How does the business of metallic humbug thrive?”
“All right,” he answered. “There’s a little slackening in chafing-dishes just now, but ice-cream knives are going off like hot cakes. The factory is on a solid basis; hard times won’t hurt us.”
“Well, then,” said I, a little perplexed, “what in Heaven’s name did you mean by sending that—”
“Hold on,” said Talbert, gripping my knee and looking grave for a moment, “just you wait. I need you badly enough or else the telegram never would have gone to you. I’ll tell you about it after supper. Till then, never mind — or, rather, no matter; for it’s nothing material, after all, but there’s a lot in it for the mind.”
I knew then that he was in one of his fundamental moods, imperviously jolly on the surface, inflexibly Puritan underneath, and that the only thing to do was to let the subject rest until he chose to take it up in earnest. So we drove along, chaffing and laughing, until we came to the dear, old, ugly house. The whole family were waiting on the veranda to bid me welcome home. Mrs. Talbert took my hands with a look that said it all. Her face had not grown a shade older, to me, since I first knew her; and her eyes — the moment you look into them you feel that she understands. Alice seemed to think that she had become too grown-up to be kissed, even by the friend of the family; and I thought so, too. But pretty Peggy was of a different mind. There is something about the way that girl kisses an old gentleman that almost makes him wish himself young again.
At supper we had the usual tokens of festivity: broiled chickens and pop-overs and cool, sliced tomatoes and ice-cream with real strawberries in it (how good and clean it tasted after Ispahan and Bagdad!) and the usual family arguing and
joking (how natural and wholesome it sounded after Vienna and Paris!). I thought Maria looked rather strenuous and severe, as if something important were on her mind, and Billy and Alice, at moments, had a conscious air. But Charles Edward and Lorraine were distinctly radiant, and Peggy was demurely jolly. She sounded like her father played on a mandolin.
After supper Talbert took me to the summer-house at the foot of the garden to smoke. Our first cigars were about half burned out when he began to unbosom himself.
“I’ve been a fool,” he said, “an idiot, and, what is more, an unnatural and neglectful father, cruel to my children when I meant to be kind, a shirker of my duty, and a bringer of trouble on those that I love best.”
“As for example?” I asked.
“Well, it is Peggy!” he broke out. “You know, I like her best of them all, next to Ada; can’t help it. She is nearer to me, somehow. The finest, most unselfish little girl! But I’ve been just selfish enough to let her get into trouble, and be talked about, and have her heart broken, and now they’ve put her into a position where she’s absolutely helpless, a pawn in their fool game, and the Lord only knows what’s to come of it all unless he makes me man enough to do my duty.”
From this, of course, I had to have the whole story, and I must say it seemed to me most extraordinary — a flagrant case of idiotic interference. Peggy had been sent away to one of those curious institutions that they call a “coeducational college,” chiefly because Maria had said that she ought to understand the duties of modern womanhood; she had gone, without the slightest craving for “the higher education,” but naturally with the idea of having a “good time”; and apparently she had it, for she came home engaged to a handsome, amatory boy, one of her fellow “students,” named Goward. At this point Aunt Elizabeth, with her red hair and pink frock, had interfered and lured off the Goward, who behaved in a manner which appeared to me to reduce him to a negligible quantity. But the family evidently did not think so, for they all promptly began to interfere, Maria and Charles Edward and Alice and even Billy, each one with an independent plan, either to lure the Goward back or to eliminate him. Alice had the most original idea, which was to marry Peggy to Dr. Denbigh; but this clashed with Maria’s idea, which was to entangle the doctor with Aunt Elizabeth in order that the Goward might be recaptured. It was all extremely complicated and unnecessary (from my point of view), and of course it transpired and circulated through the gossip of the town, and poor Peggy was much afflicted and ashamed. Now the engagement was off; Aunt Elizabeth had gone into business with a clairvoyant woman in New York; Goward was in the hospital with a broken arm, and Peggy was booked to go to Europe on Saturday with Charles Edward and Lorraine.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 883
