The spring had filled and flushed into summer. Bolton had gone over the grass on the slope before the house, and it was growing thick again, dark green above the yellow of its stubble, and the young generation of robins was foraging in it for the callow grasshoppers. Some boughs of the maples were beginning to lose the elastic upward lift of their prime, and to hang looser and limper with the burden of their foliage. The elms drooped lower toward the grass, and swept the straggling tops left standing in their shade.
The early part of September had been fixed for the theatricals. Annie refused to have anything to do with them, and the preparations remained altogether with Brandreth. “The minuet,” he said to her one afternoon, when he had come to report to her as a co-ordinate authority, “is going to be something exquisite, I assure you. A good many of the ladies studied it in the Continental times, you know, when we had all those Martha Washington parties—or, I forgot you were out of the country—and it will be done perfectly. We're going to have the ball-room scene on the tennis-court just in front of the evergreens, don't you know, and then the balcony scene in the same place. We have to cut some of the business between Romeo and Juliet, because it's too long, you know, and some of it's too—too passionate; we couldn't do it properly, and we've decided to leave it out. But we sketch along through the play, and we have Friar Laurence coming with Juliet out of his cell onto the tennis-court and meeting Romeo; so that tells the story of the marriage. You can't imagine what a Mercutio Mr. Putney makes; he throws himself into it heart and soul, especially where he fights with Tybalt and gets killed. I give him lines there out of other scenes too; the tennis-court sets that part admirably; they come out of a street at the side. I think the scenery will surprise you, Miss Kilburn. Well, and then we have the Nurse and Juliet, and the poison scene—we put it into the garden, on the tennis-court, and we condense the different acts so as to give an idea of all that's happened, with Romeo banished, and all that. Then he comes back from Mantua, and we have the tomb scene set at one side of the tennis-court just opposite the street scene; and he fights with Paris; and then we have Juliet come to the door of the tomb—it's a liberty, of course; but we couldn't arrange the light inside—and she stabs herself and falls on Romeo's body, and that ends the play. You see, it gives a notion of the whole action, and tells the story pretty well. I think you'll be pleased.”
“I've no doubt I shall,” said Annie. “Did you make the adaptation yourself, Mr. Brandreth?”
“Well, yes, I did,” Mr. Brandreth modestly admitted. “It's been a good deal of work, but it's been a pleasure too. You know how that is, Miss Kilburn, in your charities.”
“Don'tspeak of my charities, Mr. Brandreth. I'm not a charitable person.”
“You won't get people to believethat” said Mr. Brandreth. “Everybody knows how much good you do. But, as I was saying, my idea was to give a notion of the whole play in a series of passages or tableaux. Some of my friends think I've succeeded so well in telling the story, don't you know, without a change of scene, that they're urging me to publish my arrangement for the use of out-of-door theatricals.”
“I should think it would be a very good idea,” said Annie. “I suppose Mr. Chapley would do it?”
“Well, I don't know—I don't know,” Mr. Brandreth answered, with a note of trouble in his voice. “I'm afraid not,” he added sadly. “Miss Kilburn, I've been put in a very unfair position by Miss Northwick's changing her mind about Juliet, after the part had been offered to Miss Chapley. I've been made the means of a seeming slight to Miss Chapley, when, if it hadn't been for the cause, I'd rather have thrown up the whole affair. She gave up the part instantly when she heard that Miss Northwick wished to change her mind, but all the same I know—.”
He stopped, and Annie said encouragingly: “Yes, I see. But perhaps she doesn't really care.”
“That's what she said,” returned Mr. Brandreth ruefully. “But I don't know. I have never spoken of it with her since I went to tell her about it, after I got Miss Northwick's note.”
“Well, Mr. Brandreth, I think you've really been victimised; and I don't believe the Social Union will ever be worth what it's costing.”
“I was sure you would appreciate—would understand;” and Mr. Brandreth pressed her hand gratefully in leave-taking.
She heard him talking with some one at the gate, whose sharp, “All right, my son!" identified Putney.
She ran to the door to welcome him.
“Oh, you'rebothhere!” she rejoiced, at sight of Mrs. Putney too.
“I can send Ellen home,” suggested Putney.
“Ohno, indeed!” said Annie, with single-mindedness at which she laughed with Mrs. Putney. “Only it seemed too good to have you both,” she explained, kissing Mrs. Putney. “I'msoglad to see you!”
“Well, what's the reason?” Putney dropped into a chair and began to rock nervously. “Don't be ashamed: we'reallselfish. Has Brandreth been putting up any more jobs on you?”
“No, no! Only giving me a hint of his troubles and sorrows with those wretched Social Union theatricals. Poor young fellow! I'm sorry for him. He is really very sweet and unselfish. I like him.”
“Yes, Brandreth is one of the most lady-like fellows I ever saw,” said Putney. “That Juliet business has pretty near been the death of him. I told him to offer Miss Chapley some other part—Rosaline, the part of the young lady who was dropped; but he couldn't seem to see it. Well, and how come on the good works, Annie?”
“The good works! Ralph, tell me:dopeople think me a charitable person? Do they suppose I've done or can do any good whatever?” She looked from Putney to his wife, and back again with comic entreaty.
“Why, aren't you a charitable person? Don't you do any good?” he asked.
“No!” she shouted. “Not the least in the world!”
“It is pretty rough,” said Putney, taking out a cigar for a dry smoke; “and nobody will believe me when I report what you say, Annie. Mrs. Munger is telling round that she don't see how you can live through the summer at the rate you're going. She's got it down pretty cold about your taking Brother Peck's idea of the invited dance and supper, and joining hands with him to save the vanity of the self-respecting poor. She says that your suppression of that one unpopular feature has done more than anything else to promote the success of the Social Union. You ought to be glad Brother Peck is coming to the show.”
“To the theatricals?”
Putney nodded his head. “That's what he says. I believe Brother Peck is coming to see how the upper classes amuse themselves when they really try to benefit the lower classes.”
Annie would not laugh at his joke. “Ralph,” she asked, “is it true that Mr. Peck is so unpopular in his church? Is he really going to be turned out—dismissed?”
“Oh, I don't know about that. But they'll bounce him if they can.”
“And can nothing be done? Can't his friends unite?”
“Oh, they're united enough now; what they're afraid of is that they're not numerous enough. Why don't you buy in, Annie, and help control the stock? That old Unitarian concern of yours isn't ever going to get into running order again, and if you owned a pew in Ellen's church you could have a vote in church meeting, after a while, and you could lend Brother Peck your moral support now.”
“I never liked that sort of thing, Ralph. I shouldn't believe with your people.”
“Ellen's people, please.Idon't believe with them either. But I always vote right. Now you think it over.”
“No, I shall not think it over. I don't approve of it. If I should take a pew in your church it would be simply to hear Mr. Peck preach, and contribute toward his—”
“Salary? Yes, that's the way to look at it in the beginning. I knew you'd work round. Why, Annie, in a year's time you'll be trying tobuyvotes for Brother Peck.”
“I shouldnevervote,” she retorted. “And I shall keep myself out of all temptation by not going to your church.”
“Ellen's church,” Putney corrected.
She went the next Sunday to hear Mr. Peck preach, and Putney, who seemed to see her the moment she entered the church, rose, as the sexton was showing her up the aisle, and opened the door of his pew for her with ironical welcome.
“You can always have a seat with us, Annie,” he mocked, on their way out of the church together.
“Thank you, Ralph,” she answered boldly. “I'm going to speak to the sexton for a pew.”
A wire had been carried from the village to the scene of the play at South Hatboro', and electric globes fizzed and hissed overhead, flooding the open tennis-court with the radiance of sharper moonlight, and stamping the thick velvety shadows of the shrubbery and tree-tops deep into the raw green of the grass along its borders.
The spectators were seated on the verandas and terraced turf at the rear of the house, and they crowded the sides of the court up to a certain point, where a cord stretched across it kept them from encroaching upon the space intended for the action. Another rope enclosed an area all round them, where chairs and benches were placed for those who had tickets. After the rejection of the exclusive feature of the original plan, Mrs. Munger had liberalised more and more: she caused it to be known that all who could get into her grounds would be welcome on the outside of that rope, even though they did not pay anything; but a large number of tickets had been sold to the hands, as well as to the other villagers, and the area within the rope was closely packed. Some of the boys climbed the neighbouring trees, where from time to time the town authorities threatened them, but did not really dislodge them.
Annie, with other friends of Mrs. Munger, gained a reserved seat on the veranda through the drawing-room windows; but once there, she found herself in the midst of a sufficiently mixed company.
“How do, Miss Kilburn? That you? Well, I declare!” said a voice that she seemed to know, in a key of nervous excitement. Mrs. Savor's husband leaned across his wife's lap and shook hands with Annie. “William thought I better come,” Mrs. Savor seemed called upon to explain. “I got to dosomething. Ain't it just too cute for anything the way they got them screens worked into the shrubbery down they-ar? It's like the cycloraymy to Boston; you can't tell where the ground ends and the paintin' commences. Oh, I do want 'em tobegin!”
Mr. Savor laughed at his wife's impatience, and she said playfully: “What you laughin' at? I guess you're full as excited as what I be, when all's said and done.”
There were other acquaintances of Annie's from Over the Track, in the group about her, and upon the example of the Savors they all greeted her. The wives and sweethearts tittered with self-derisive expectation; the men were gravely jocose, like all Americans in unwonted circumstances, but they were respectful to the coming performance, perhaps as a tribute to Annie. She wondered how some of them came to have those seats, which were reserved at an extra price; she did not allow for that self-respect which causes the American workman to supply himself with the best his money can buy while his money lasts.
She turned to see who was on her other hand. A row of three small children stretched from her to Mrs. Gerrish, whom she did not recognise at first. “Oh, Emmeline!” she said; and then, for want of something else, she added, “Where is Mr. Gerrish? Isn't he coming?”
“He was detained at the store,” said Mrs. Gerrish, with cold importance; “but he will be here. May I ask, Annie,” she pursued solemnly, “how you got here?”
“How did I get here? Why, through the windows. Didn't you?”
“May I ask who had charge of the arrangements?”
“I don't know, I'm sure,” said Annie. “I suppose Mrs. Munger.”
A burst of music came from the dense shadow into which the group of evergreens at the bottom of the tennis-court deepened away from the glister of the electrics. There was a deeper hush; then a slight jarring and scraping of a chair beyond Mrs. Gerrish, who leaned across her children and said, “He's come, Annie—right through the parlour window!” Her voice was lifted to carry above the music, and all the people near were able to share the fact that righted Mrs. Gerrish in her own esteem.
From the covert of the low pines in the middle of the scene Miss Northwick and Mr. Brandreth appeared hand in hand, and then the place filled with figures from other apertures of the little grove and through the artificial wings at the sides, and walked the minuet. Mr. Fellows, the painter, had helped with the costumes, supplying some from his own artistic properties, and mediævalising others; the Boston costumers had been drawn upon by the men; and they all moved through the stately figures with a security which discipline had given them. The broad solid colours which they wore took the light and shadow with picturesque effectiveness; the masks contributed a sense of mystery novel in Hatboro', and kept the friends of the dancers in exciting doubt of their identity; the strangeness of the audience to all spectacles of the sort held its judgment in suspense. The minuet was encored, and had to be given again, and it was some time before the applause of the repetition allowed the characters to be heard when the partners of the minuet began to move about arm in arm, and the drama properly began. When the applause died away it was still not easy to hear; a boy in one of the trees called, “Louder!” and made some of the people laugh, but for the rest they were very orderly throughout.
Toward the end of the fourth act Annie was startled by a child dashing itself against her knees, and breaking into a gurgle of shy laughter as children do.
“Why, you little witch!” she said to the uplifted face of Idella Peck. “Where is your father?”
“Oh, somewhere,” said the child, with entire ease of mind.
“And your hat?” said Annie, putting her hand on the curly bare head—“where's your hat?”
“On the ground.”
“On the ground—where?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Idella lightly, as if the pursuit bored her.
Annie pulled her up on her lap. “Well, now, you stay here with me, if you please, till your papa or your hat comes after you.”
“My—hat—can't—come—after—me!” said the child, turning back her head, so as to laugh her sense of the joke in Annie's face.
“No matter; your papa can, and I'm going to keep you.”
Idella let her head fall back against Annie's breast, and began to finger the rings on the hand which Annie laid across her lap to keep her.
“For goodness gracious!” said Mrs. Savor, “who you got there, Miss Kilburn?”
“Mr. Peck's little girl.”
“Where'd she spring from?”
Mrs. Gerrish leaned forward and spoke across the six legs of her children, who were all three standing up in their chairs: “You don't mean to say that's Idella Peck? Where's her father?”
“Somewhere, she says,” said Annie, willing to answer Mrs. Gerrish with the child's nonchalance.
“Well, that's great!” said Mrs. Gerrish. “I should think he better be looking after her—or some one.”
The music ceased, and the last act of the play began. Before it ended, Idella had fallen asleep, and Annie sat still with her after the crowd around her began to break up. Mrs. Savor kept her seat beside Annie. She said, “Don't you want I should spell you a little while, Miss Kilburn?” She leaned over the face of the sleeping child. “Why, she ain't much more than a baby! William, you go and see if you can't find Mr. Peck. I'm goin' to stay here with Miss Kilburn.” Her husband humoured her whim, and made his way through the knots and clumps of people toward the rope enclosing the tennis-court. “Won't you let me hold her, Miss Kilburn?” she pleaded again.
“No, no; she isn't heavy; I like to hold her,” replied Annie. Then something occurred to her, and she started in amazement at herself.
“Or yes, Mrs. Savor, youmaytake her a while;” and she put the child into the arms of the bereaved creature, who had fallen desolately back in her chair. She hugged Idella up to her breast, and hungrily mumbled her with kisses, and moaned out over her, “Oh dear! Oh my! Oh my!”
The people beyond the rope had nearly all gone away, and Mr. Savor was coming back across the court with Mr. Peck. The players appeared from the grove at the other end of the court in their vivid costumes, chatting and laughing with their friends, who went down from the piazzas and terraces to congratulate them. Mrs. Munger hurried about among them, saying something to each group. She caught sight of Mr. Peck and Mr. Savor, and she ran after them, arriving with them where Annie sat.
“I hope you were not anxious about Idella,” Annie said, laughing.
“No; I didn't miss her at once,” said the minister simply; “and then I thought she had merely gone off with some of the other children who were playing about.”
“You shall talk all that over later,” said Mrs. Munger. “Now, Miss Kilburn, I want you and Mr. Peck and Mr. and Mrs. Savor to stay for a cup of coffee that I'm going to give our friends out there. Don't you think they deserve it? Wasn't it a wonderful success? They must be frightfully exhausted. Just go right out to them. I'll be with you in one moment. Oh yes, the child! Well, bring her into the house, Mrs. Savor; I'll find a place for her, and then you can go out with me.”
“I guess you won't get Maria away from her very easy,” said Mr. Savor, laughing. His wife stood with the child's cheek pressed tight against hers.
“Oh, I'll manage that,” said Mrs. Munger. “I'm counting on Mrs. Savor.” She added in a hurried undertone to Annie: “I've asked a number of the workpeople to stay—representative workpeople, the foremen in the different shops and their families—and you'll find your friends of all classes together. It's a great day for the Social Union!” she said aloud. “I'm sureyoumust feel that, Mr. Peck. Miss Kilburn and I have to thank you for saving us from a great mistake at the outset, and now your staying,” she continued, “will give it just the appearance we want. I'm going to keep your little girl as a hostage, and you shall not go till I let you. Come, Mrs. Savor!” She bustled away with Mrs. Savor, and Mr. Peck reluctantly accompanied Annie down over the lawn.
He was silent, but Mr. Savor was hilarious. “Well, Mr. Putney,” he said, when he joined the group of which Putney was the centre, “you done that in apple-pie order. I never see anything much better than the way you carried on with Mrs. Wilmington.”
“Thank you, Mr. Savor,” said Putney; “I'm glad you liked it. You couldn't say I was trying to flatter her up much, anyway.”
“No, no!” Mr. Savor assented, with delight in the joke.
“Well, Annie,” said Putney. He shook hands with her, and Mrs. Putney, who was there with Dr. Morrell, asked her where she had sat.
“We kept looking all round for you.”
“Yes,” said Putney, with his hand on his boy's shoulder, “we wanted to know how you liked the Mercutio.”
“Ralph, it was incomparable!”
“Well, that will do for a beginning. It's a little cold, but it's in the right spirit. You mean that the Mercutio wasn't comparable to the Nurse.”
“Oh, Lyra was wonderful!” said Annie. “Don't you think so, Ellen?”
“She was Lyra,” said Mrs. Putney definitely.
“No; she wasn't Lyra at all!” retorted Annie. “That was the marvel of it. She was Juliet's nurse.”
“Perhaps she was a little of both,” suggested Putney. “What did you think of the performance, Mr. Peck? I don't want a personal tribute, but if you offer it, I shall not be ungrateful.”
“I have been very much interested,” said the minister. “It was all very new to me. I realised for the first time in my life the great power that the theatre must be. I felt how much the drama could do—how much good.”
“Well, that's what we're after,” said Putney. “We had no personal motive; good, right straight along, was our motto. Nobody wanted to outshine anybody else. I kept my Mercutio down all through, so's not to get ahead of Romeo or Tybalt in the public esteem. Did our friends outside the rope catch on to my idea?” Mr. Peck smiled at the banter, but he seemed not to know just what to say, and Putney went on: “That's why I made it so bad. I didn't want anybody to go home feeling sorry that Mercutio was killed. I don't suppose Winthrop could have slept.”
“You won't sleep yourself to-night, I'm afraid,” said his wife.
“Oh, Mrs. Munger has promised me a particularly weak cup of coffee. She has got us all in, it seems, for a sort of supper, in spite of everything. I understand it includes representatives of all the stations and conditions present except the outcasts beyond the rope. I don't see what you're doing here, Mr. Peck.”
“Was Mr. Peck really outside the rope?” Annie asked Dr. Morrell, as they dropped apart from the others a little.
“I believe he gave his chair to one of the women from the outside,” said the doctor.
Annie moved with him toward Lyra, who was joking with some of the hands.
With all her good-nature, she had the effect of patronising them, as she stood talking about the play with them in her drawl, which she had got back to again. They were admiring her, in her dress of the querulous old nurse, and told her how they never would have known her. But there was an insincerity in the effusion of some of the more nervous women, and in the reticence of the others, who were holding back out of self-respect.
She met Annie and Morrell with eager relief. “Well, Annie?”
“Perfect!”
“Well, now, that's very nice; you can't go beyond perfect, you know. Ididdo it pretty well, didn't I? Poor Mr. Brandreth! Have you seen him? You must say something comforting to him. He's really been sacrificed in this business. You know he wanted Miss Chapley. She would have made a lovely Juliet. Of course she blames him for it. She thinks he wanted to make up to Miss Northwick, when Miss Northwick was just flinging herself at Jack. Look at her!”
Jack Wilmington and Miss Sue Northwick were standing together near her father and a party of her friends, and she was smiling and talking at him. Eyes, lips, gestures, attitude expressed in the proud girl a fawning eagerness to please the man, who received her homage rather as if it bored him. His indifferent manner may have been one secret of his power over her, and perhaps she was not capable of all the suffering she was capable of inflicting.
Lyra turned to walk toward the house, deflecting a little in the direction of her nephew and Miss Northwick. “Jack!” she drawled over the shoulder next them as she passed, “I wish you'd bring your aunty's wrap to her on the piazza.”
“Why, stay here!” Putney called after her. “They're going to fetch the refreshments out here.”
“Yes, but I'm tired, Ralph, and I can't sit on the grass, at my age.”
She moved on, with her sweeping, lounging pace, and Jack Wilmington, after a moment's hesitation, bowed to Miss Northwick and went after her.
The girl remained apart from her friends, as if expecting his return.
Silhouetted against the bright windows, Lyra waited till Jack Wilmington reappeared with a shawl and laid it on her shoulders. Then she sank into a chair. The young man stood beside her talking down upon her. Something restive and insistent expressed itself in their respective attitudes. He sat down at her side.
Miss Northwick joined her friends carelessly.
“Ah, Miss Kilburn,” said Mr. Brandreth's voice at Annie's ear, “I'm glad to find you. I've just run home with mother—she feels the night air—and I was afraid you would slip through our fingers before I got back. This little business of the refreshments was an afterthought of Mrs. Munger's, and we meant it for a surprise—we knew you'd approve of it in the form it took.” He looked round at the straggling workpeople, who represented the harmonisation of classes, keeping to themselves as if they had been there alone.
“Yes,” Annie was obliged to say; “it's very pleasant.” She added: “You must all be rather hungry, Mr. Brandreth. If the Social Union ever gets on its feet, it will haveyouto thank more than any one.”
“Oh, don't speak of me, Miss Kilburn! Do you know, we've netted about two hundred dollars. Isn't that pretty good, doctor?”
“Very,” said the doctor. “Hadn't we better follow Mrs. Wilmington's example, and get up under the piazza roof? I'm afraid you'll be the worse for the night air, Miss Kilburn. Putney,” he called to his friend, “we're going up to the house.”
“All right. I guess that's a good idea.”
The doctor called to the different knots and groups, telling them to come up to the house. Some of the workpeople slipped away through the grounds and did not come. The Northwicks and their friends moved toward the house.
Mrs. Munger came down the lawn to meet her guests. “Ah, that's right. It's much better indoors. I was just coming for you.” She addressed herself more particularly to the Northwicks. “Coffee will be ready in a few moments. We've met with a little delay.”
“I'm afraid we must say good night at once,” said Mr. Northwick. “We had arranged to have our friends and some other guests with us at home. And we're quite late now.”
Mrs. Munger protested. “Take our Juliet from us! Oh, Miss Northwick, how can I thank you enough? The whole play turned upon you!”
“It's just as well,” she said to Annie, as the Northwicks and their friends walked across the lawn to the gate, where they had carriages waiting. “They'd have been difficult to manage, and everybody else will feel a little more at home without them. Poor Mr. Brandreth, I'm sureyouwill! I did pity you so, with such a Juliet on your hands!”
In-doors the representatives of the lower classes were less at ease than they were without. Some of the ministers mingled with them, and tried to form a bond between them and the other villagers. Mr. Peck took no part in this work; he stood holding his elbows with his hands, and talking with a perfunctory air to an old lady of his congregation.
The young ladies of South Hatboro', as Mrs. Munger's assistants, went about impartially to high and low with trays of refreshments. Annie saw Putney, where he stood with his wife and boy, refuse coffee, and she watched him anxiously when the claret-cup came. He waved his hand over it, and said, “No; I'll take some of the lemonade.” As he lifted a glass of it toward his lips he stopped and made as if to put it down again, and his hand shook so that he spilled some of it. Then he dashed it off, and reached for another glass. “I want some more,” he said, with a laugh; “I'm thirsty.” He drank a second glass, and when he saw a tray coming toward Annie, where Dr. Morrell had joined her, he came over and exchanged his empty glass for a full one.
“Not much to brag of as lemonade,” he said, “but first-rate rum punch.”
“Look here, Putney,” whispered the doctor, laying his hand on his arm, “don't you take any more of that. Give me that glass!”
“Oh, all right!” laughed Putney, dashing it off. “You're welcome to the tumbler, if you want it, Doc.”
Mrs. Munger's guests kept on talking and laughing. With the coffee and the punch there began to be a little more freedom. Some prohibitionists among the working people went away when they found that the lemonade was punch; but Mrs. Munger did not know it, and she saw the ideal of a Social Union figuratively accomplished in her own house. She stirred about among her guests till she produced a fleeting, empty good-fellowship among them. One of the shoe-shop hands, with an inextinguishable scent of leather and the character of a droll, seconded her efforts with noisy jokes. He proposed games, and would not be snubbed by the refusal of his boss to countenance him, he had the applause of so many others. Mrs. Munger approved of the idea.
“Don't you think it would be great fun, Mrs. Gerrish?” she asked.
“Well, now, if Squire Putney would lead off,” said the joker, looking round.
Putney could not be found, nor Dr. Morrell.
“They're off somewhere for a smoke,” said Mrs. Munger. “Well, that's right. I want everybody to feel that my house is their own to-night, and to come and go just as they like. Do you suppose Mr. Peck is offended?” she asked, under her breath, as she passed Annie. “Hecouldn'tfeel that this is the same thing; but I can't see him anywhere. He wouldn't go without taking leave, you don't suppose?”
Annie joined Mrs. Putney. They talked at first with those who came to ask where Putney and the doctor were; but finally they withdrew into a little alcove from the parlour, where Mrs. Munger approved of their being when she discovered them; they must be very tired, and ought to rest on the lounge there. Her theory of the exhaustion of those who had taken part in the play embraced their families.
The time wore on toward midnight, and her guests got themselves away with more or less difficulty as they attempted the formality of leave-taking or not. Some of the hands who thought this necessary found it a serious affair; but most of them slipped off without saying good night to Mrs. Munger or expressing that rapture with the whole evening from beginning to end which the ladies of South Hatboro' professed. The ladies of South Hatboro' and Old Hatboro' had met in a general intimacy not approached before, and they parted with a flow of mutual esteem. The Gerrish children had dropped asleep in nooks and corners, from which Mr. Gerrish hunted them up and put them together for departure, while his wife remained with Mrs. Munger, unable to stop talking, and no longer amenable to the looks with which he governed her in public.
Lyra came downstairs, hooded and wrapped for departure, with Jack Wilmington by her side. “Why,Ellen!” she said, looking into the little alcove from the hall. “Are you here yet? And Annie! Where in the world is Ralph?” At the pleading look with which Mrs. Putney replied, she exclaimed: “Oh, it's what I was afraid of! I don't see what the woman could have been about! But of course she didn't think of poor Ralph. Ellen, let me take you and Winthrop home! Dr. Morrell will be sure to bring Ralph.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Putney passively, but without rising.
“Annie can come too. There's plenty of room. Jack can walk.”
Jack Wilmington joined Lyra in urging Annie to take his place. He said to her, apart, “Young Munger has been telling me that Putney got at the sideboard and carried off the rum. I'll stay and help look after him.”
A crazy laugh came into the parlour from the piazza outside, and the group in the alcove started forward. Putney stood at a window, resting one arm on the bar of the long lower sash, which was raised to its full height, and looking ironically in upon Mrs. Munger and her remaining guests. He was still in his Mercutio dress, but he had lost his plumed cap, and was bareheaded. A pace or two behind him stood Mr. Peck, regarding the effect of this apparition upon the company with the same dreamy, indrawn presence he had in the pulpit.
“Well, Mrs. Munger, I'm glad I got back in time to tell you how much I've enjoyed it. Brother Peck wanted me to go home, but I told him, Not till I've thanked Mrs. Munger, Brother Peck; not till I've drunk her health in her own old particular Jamaica.” He put to his lips the black bottle which he had been holding in his right hand behind him; then he took it away, looked at it, and flung it rolling-along the piazza floor. “Didn't get hold of the inexhaustible bottle that time; never do. But it's a good article; a better article than you used to sell on the sly, Bill Gerrish. You'll excuse my helping myself, Mrs. Munger; I knew you'd want me to. Well, it's been a great occasion, Mrs. Munger.” He winked at the hostess. “You've had your little invited supper, after all. You're a manager, Mrs. Munger. You've made even the wrath of Brother Peck to praise you.”
The ladies involuntarily shrank backward as Putney suddenly entered through the window and gained the corner of the piano at a dash. He stayed himself against it, slightly swaying, and turned his flaming eyes from one to another, as if questioning whom he should attack next.
Except for the wild look in them, which was not so much wilder than they wore in all times of excitement, and an occasional halt at a difficult word, he gave no sign of being drunk. The liquor had as yet merely intensified him.
Mrs. Munger had the inspiration to treat him as one caresses a dangerous lunatic. “I'm sure you're very kind, Mr. Putney, to come back. Do sit down!”
“Why?” demanded Putney. “Everybody else standing.”
“That's true,” said Mrs. Munger. “I'm sure I don't know why—”
“Oh yes, you do, Mrs. Munger. It's because they want to have a good view of a man who's made a fool of himself—”
“Oh, now, Mr.Putney!” said Mrs. Munger, with hospitable deprecation. “I'm sure no one wants to do anything of the kind.” She looked round at the company for corroboration, but no one cared to attract Putney's attention by any sound or sign.
“But I'll tell you what,” said Putney, with a savage burst, “that a woman who puts hell-fire before a poor devil who can't keep out of it when he sees it, is better worth looking at.”
“Mr. Putney, I assure you,” said Mrs. Munger, “that it was themildestpunch! And I really didn't think—I didn't remember—”
She turned toward Mrs. Putney with her explanation, but Putney seemed to have forgotten her, and he turned upon Mr. Gerrish, “How's that drunkard's grave getting along that you've dug for your porter?” Gerrish remained prudently silent. “I know you, Billy. You're all right. You've got the pull on your conscience; we all have, one way or another. Here's Annie Kilburn, come back from Rome, where she couldn't seem to fix it up with hers to suit her, and she's trying to get round it in Hatboro' with good works. Why, there isn't any occasion for good works in Hatboro'. I could have told you that before you came,” he said, addressing Annie directly. “What we want is faith, and lots of it. The church is going to pieces because we haven't got any faith.”
His hand slipped from the piano, and he dropped heavily back upon a chair that stood near. The concussion seemed to complete in his brain the transition from his normal dispositions to their opposite, which had already begun. “Bill Gerrish has done more for Hatboro' than any other man in the place. He's the only man that holds the church together, because he knows the value offaith.” He said this without a trace of irony, glaring at Annie with fierce defiance. “You come back here, and try to set up for a saint in a town where William B. Gerrish has done—has done more to establish the dry-goods business on a metro-me-tro-politan basis than any other man out of New York or Boston.”
He stopped and looked round, mystified, as if this were not the point which he had been aiming at.
Lyra broke into a spluttering laugh, and suddenly checked herself. Putney smiled slightly. “Pretty good, eh? Say, where was I?” he asked slyly. Lyra hid her face behind Annie's shoulder. “What's that dress you got on? What's all this about, anyway? Oh yes, I know.Romeo and Juliet—Social Union. Well,” he resumed, with a frown, “there's too muchRomeo and Juliet, too much Social Union, in this town already.” He stopped, and seemed preparing to launch some deadly phrase at Mrs. Wilmington, but he only said, “You're all right, Lyra.”
“Mrs. Munger,” said Mr. Gerrish, “we must be going. Good night, ma'am. Mrs. Gerrish, it's time the children were at home.”
“Of course it is,” said Putney, watching the Gerrishes getting their children together. He waved his hand after them, and called out, “William Gerrish, you're a man; I honour you.”
He laid hold of the piano and pulled himself to his feet, and seemed to become aware, for the first time, of his wife, where she stood with their boy beside her.
“What you doing here with that child at this time of night?” he shouted at her, all that was left of the man in his eyes changing into the glare of a pitiless brute. “Why don't you go home? You want to show people what I did to him? You want to publish my shame, do you? Is that it? Look here!”
He began to work himself along toward her by help of the piano. A step was heard on the piazza without, and Dr. Morrell entered through the open window.
“Come now, Putney,” he said gently. The other men closed round them.
Putney stopped. “What's this? Interfering in family matters? You better go home and look after your own wives, if you got any. Get out the way, 'n' you mind your own business, Doc. Morrell. You meddle too much.” His speech was thickening and breaking. “You think science going do everything—evolution! Talk me about evolution! What's evolution done for Hatboro'? 'Volved Gerrish's store. One day of Christianity—real Christianity—Where's that boy? If I get hold of him—”
He lunged forward, and Jack Wilmington and young Munger stepped before him.
Mrs. Putney had not moved, nor lost the look of sad, passive vigilance which she had worn since her husband reappeared.
She pushed the men aside.
“Ralph, behave yourself!Here'sWinthrop, and we want you to take us home. Come now!” She passed her arm through his, and the boy took his other hand. The action, so full of fearless custom and wonted affection from them both, seemed with her words to operate another total change in his mood.
“All right; I'm going, Ellen. Got to say good night Mrs. Munger, that's all.” He managed to get to her, with his wife on his arm and his boy at his side. “Want to thank you for a pleasant evening, Mrs. Munger—want to thank you—”
“AndIwant to thank youtoo, Mrs. Munger,” said Mrs. Putney, with an intensity of bitterness no repetition of the words could give, “It's been a pleasant evening forme!”
Putney wished to stop and explain, but his wife pulled him away.
Dr. Morrell and Annie followed to get them safely into the carriage; he went with them, and when she came back Mrs. Munger was saying: “I will leave it to Mr. Wilmington, or any one, if I'm to blame. It had quite gone out of my head about Mr. Putney. There was plenty of coffee, besides, and if everything that could harm particular persons had to be kept out of the way, society couldn't go on. We ought to consider the greatest good of the greatest number.” She looked round from one to another for support. No one said anything, and Mrs. Munger, trembling on the verge of a collapse, made a direct appeal: “Don't you think so, Mr. Peck?”
The minister broke his silence with reluctance. “It's sometimes best to have the effect of error unmistakable. Then we are sure it's error.”
Mrs. Munger gave a sob of relief into her handkerchief. “Yes, that's just what I say.”
Lyra bent her face on her arm, and Jack Wilmington put his head out of the window where he stood.
Mr. Peck remained staring at Mrs. Munger, as if doubtful what to do. Then he said: “You seem not to have understood me, ma'am. I should be to blame if I left you in doubt. You have been guilty of forgetting your brother's weakness, and if the consequence has promptly followed in his shame, it is for you to realise it. I wish you a good evening.”
He went out with a dignity that thrilled Annie. Lyra leaned toward her and said, choking with laughter, “He's left Idella asleep upstairs. We haven'tanyof us gotperfectmemories, have we?”
“Run after him!” Annie said to Jack Wilmington, in undertone, “and get him into my carriage. I'll get the little girl. Lyra,don'tspeak of it.”
“Never!” said Mrs. Wilmington, with delight. “I'm solid for Mr. Peck every time.”