While the building operations were going on at such a rapid rate on the corner lot, Mrs. Cliff tried to make herself as happy as possible in her own home. She liked having enough servants to do all the work, and relieve both her and Willy. She liked to be able to drive out when she wanted to, or to invite a few of her friends to dinner or to tea, and to give them the very best the markets afforded of everything she thought they might like; but she was not a satisfied woman.
It was true that Mr. Burke was doing all that he could with her money, and doing it well, she had not the slightest doubt; but, after all, a new dining-room was a matter of small importance. She had fears that even after it was all finished and paid for she would find that her income had gained upon her.
As often as once a day the argument came to her that it would be wise for her to give away the bulk of her fortune in charity, and thus rid herself of the necessity for this depressing struggle between her desire to live as she wanted to live, and the obligations to herself under which her fortune placed her; but she could not consent to thus part with her great fortune. She would not turn her back upon her golden opportunities. As soon as she had so determined her life that the assertion of her riches would not interfere with herdomestic and social affairs, she would be charitable enough, she would do good works upon a large scale; but she must first determine what she was to do for herself, and so let her charities begin at home.
This undecided state of mind did not have a good effect upon her general appearance, and it was frequently remarked that her health was not what it used to be. Miss Nancy Shott thought there was nothing to wonder at in this. Mrs. Cliff had never been accustomed to spend money, and it was easy to see, from the things she had bought abroad and put into that little house, that she had expended a good deal more than she could afford, and no wonder she was troubled, and no wonder she was looking thin and sick.
Other friends, however, did not entirely agree with Miss Shott. They thought their old friend was entirely too sensible a woman to waste a fortune, whether it had been large or small, which had come to her in so wonderful a manner; and they believed she had money enough to live on very comfortably. If this were not the case, she would never consent to keep a carriage almost for Willy Croup's sole use.
They thought, perhaps, that the example and companionship of Mr. Burke might have had an effect upon her. It was as likely as not that she had borne part of the expense of moving the Barnard house, so that there should be nothing between her and the new building. But this, as they said themselves, was mere surmise. Mr. Burke might fancy large grounds, and he was certainly able to have them if he wanted them.Whatever people said and thought about Mrs. Cliff and her money, it was generally believed that she was in comfortable circumstances. Still, it had to be admitted that she was getting on in years.
Now arose a very important question among the gossips of Plainton: who was to be Mrs. Cliff's heir?
Everybody knew that Mrs. Cliff had but one blood relation living, and that was Willy Croup, and no one who had given any thought whatever to the subject believed that Willy Croup would be her heir. Her husband had some distant relatives, but, as they had had nothing to do with Mrs. Cliff during the days of her adversity, it was not likely that she would now have anything to do with them. Especially, as any money she had to leave did not come through her husband.
But, although the simple-minded Willy Croup was a person who would not know how to take care of money if she had it, and although everybody knew that if Mrs. Cliff made a will she would never think of leaving her property to Willy, still, everybody who thought or talked about the matter saw the appalling fact staring them in their faces—that if Mrs. Cliff died without a will, Willy would inherit her possessions!
The more it was considered, the more did this unpleasant contingency trouble the minds of certain of the female citizens of Plainton. Miss Cushing, the principal dressmaker of the place, was greatly concerned upon this subject, and as her parlor, where she generally sat at her work, was a favorite resort of certain ladies,who sometimes had orders to give, and always had a great deal to say, it was natural that those good women who took most to heart Mrs. Cliff's heirless condition should think of Miss Cushing whenever they were inclined to talk upon the subject.
Miss Shott dropped in there one day with a very doleful countenance. That very morning she had passed Mrs. Cliff's house on the other side of the way, and had seen that poor widow standing in her front yard with the most dejected and miserable countenance she had ever seen on a human being.
"People might talk as much as they pleased about Mrs. Cliff being troubled because she had spent too much money, that all might be, or it might not be, but it was not the reason for that woman looking as if she was just ready to drop into a sick-bed. When people go to the most unhealthy regions in the whole world, and live in holes in the ground like hedgehogs, they cannot expect to come home without seeds of disease in their system, which are bound to come out. And that those seeds were now coming out in Mrs. Cliff no sensible person could look at her and deny."
When Miss Cushing heard this, she felt more strongly convinced than ever of the importance of the subject upon which she and some of her friends had been talking. But she said nothing in regard to that subject to Miss Shott. What she had to say and what she had already said about the future of Mrs. Cliff's property, and what her particular friends had said, were matters which none of them wanted repeated, and when a citizenof Plainton did not wish anything repeated, it was not told to Miss Shott.
But after Miss Shott had gone, there came in Mrs. Ferguson, a widow lady, and shortly afterwards, Miss Inchman, a middle-aged spinster, accompanied by Mrs. Wells and Mrs. Archibald, these latter both worthy matrons of the town. Mrs. Archibald really came to talk to Miss Cushing about a winter dress, but during the subsequent conversation she made no reference to this errand.
Miss Cushing was relating to Mrs. Ferguson what Nancy had told her when the other ladies came in, but Nancy Shott had stopped in at each of their houses and had already given them the information.
"Nancy always makes out things a good deal worse than they are," said Mrs. Archibald, "but there's truth in what she says. Mrs. Cliff is failing; everybody can see that!"
"Of course they can," said Miss Cushing, "and I say that if she has any friends in Plainton,—and everybody knows she has,—it's time for them to do something!"
"The trouble is, what to do, and who is to do it," remarked Mrs. Ferguson.
"What to do is easy enough," said Miss Cushing, "but who is to do it is another matter."
"And what would you do?" asked Mrs. Wells. "If she feels she needs a doctor, she has sense enough to send for one without waiting until her friends speak about it."
"The doctor is a different thing altogether!" said Miss Cushing. "If he comes and cures her, that'sneither here nor there. It isn't the point! But the danger is, that, whether he comes or not, she is a woman well on in years, with a constitution breaking down under her,—that is as far as appearances go, for of course I can't say anything positive about it,—and she has nobody to inherit her money, and as far as anybody knows she has never made a will!"
"Oh, she has never made a will," said Mrs. Wells, "because my John is in the office, and if Mrs. Cliff had ever come there on such business, he would know about it."
"But she ought to make a will," said Miss Cushing. "That's the long and short of it; and she ought to have a friend who would tell her so. That would be no more than a Christian duty which any one of us would owe to another, if cases were changed."
"I don't look upon Mrs. Cliff as such a very old woman," said Miss Inchman, "but I agree with you that this thing ought to be put before her. Willy Croup will never do it, and really if some one of us don't, I don't know who will."
"There's Mrs. Perley," said Mrs. Archibald.
"Oh, she'd never do!" struck in Miss Cushing. "Mrs. Perley is too timid. She would throw it off on her husband, and if he talks to Mrs. Cliff about a will, her money will all go to the church or to some charity. I should say that one of us ought to take on herself this friendly duty. Of course, it would not do to go to her and blurt out that we all thought she would not live very long, and that she ought to make her will; but conversation couldbe led to the matter, and when Mrs. Cliff got to consider her own case, I haven't a doubt but that she would be glad to have advice and help from an old friend."
All agreed that this was a very correct view of the case, but not one of them volunteered to go and talk to Mrs. Cliff on the subject. This was not from timidity, nor from an unwillingness to meddle in other people's business, but from a desire on the part of each not to injure herself in Mrs. Cliff's eyes by any action which might indicate that she had a personal interest in the matter.
Miss Cushing voiced the opinion of the company when she said: "When a person has no heirs, relatives ought to be considered first, but if there are none of these, or if they aren't suitable, then friends should come in. Of course, I mean the oldest and best friends of the party without heirs."
No remark immediately followed this, for each lady was thinking that she, probably more than any one else in Plainton, had a claim upon Mrs. Cliff's attention if she were leaving her property to her friends, as she certainly ought to do.
In years gone by Mrs. Cliff had been a very kind friend to Miss Cushing. She had loaned her money, and assisted her in various ways, and since her return to Plainton she had put a great deal of work into Miss Cushing's hands. Dress after dress for Willy Croup had been made, and material for others was still lying in the house; and Mrs. Cliff herself had ordered so much work, that at this moment Miss Cushing had two girls upstairs sewing diligently upon it.
Having experienced all this kindness, Miss Cushing felt that if Mrs. Cliff left any of her money to her friends, she would certainly remember her, and that right handsomely. If anybody spoke to Mrs. Cliff upon the subject, she would insist, and she thought she had a right to insist, that her name should be brought in prominently.
Mrs. Ferguson had also well-defined opinions upon the subject. She had two daughters who were more than half grown, had learned all that they could be taught in Plainton, and she was very anxious to send them away to school, where their natural talents could be properly cultivated. She felt that she owed a deep and solemn duty to these girls, and she had already talked to Mrs. Cliff about them.
The latter had taken a great deal of interest in the matter, and although she had not said she would help Mrs. Ferguson to properly educate these girls, for she had not asked her help, she had taken so much interest in the matter that their mother had great hopes. And if this widow without any children felt inclined to assist the children of others during her life, how much more willing would she be likely to be to appropriate a portion of what she left behind her to such an object!
Mrs. Wells and Mrs. Archibald had solid claims upon Mrs. Cliff. It was known that shortly after the death of her husband, when she found it difficult to make collections and was very much in need of money for immediate expenses, they had each made loans to her. It is true that even before she started for South Americashe had repaid these loans with full legal interest. But the two matrons could not forget that they had been kind to her, nor did they believe that Mrs. Cliff had forgotten what they had done, for the presents she had brought them from France were generally considered as being more beautiful and more valuable than those given to anybody else,—except the Thorpedykes and the Perleys. This indicated a very gratifying gratitude upon which the two ladies, each for herself, had every right to build very favorable hopes.
Miss Inchman and Mrs. Cliff had been school-fellows, and when they were both grown young women there had been a good deal of doubt which one of them William Cliff would marry. He made his choice, and Susan Inchman never showed by word or deed that she begrudged him to her friend, to whom she had always endeavored to show just as much kindly feeling as if there had been two William Cliffs, and each of the young women had secured one of them. If Mrs. Cliff, now a widow with money enough to live well upon and keep a carriage, was making out her will, and was thinking of her friends in Plainton, it would be impossible for her to forget one who was the oldest friend of all.
So it is easy to see why she did not want to go to Mrs. Cliff and prejudice her against herself, by stating that she ought to make a will for the benefit of the old friends who had always loved and respected her.
Miss Cushing now spoke. She knew what each member of the little company was thinking about, and she felt that it might as well be spoken of.
"It does seem to me," said she, "and I never would have thought of it, if it hadn't been for the talk we had,—that we five are the persons that Mrs. Cliff would naturally mention in her will, not, perhaps, regarding any money she might have to leave—"
"I don't see why!" interrupted Mrs. Ferguson.
"Well, that's neither here nor there," continued Miss Cushing. "Money is money, and nobody knows what people will do with it when they die, and if she leaves anything to the church or to charity, it's her money! but I'm sure that Mrs. Cliff has too much hard sense to order her executors to sell all the beautiful rugs, and table-covers, and glass, and china, and the dear knows what besides is in her house at this moment! They wouldn't bring anything at a sale, and she would naturally think of leaving them to her friends. Some might get more and some might get less, but we five in this room at this present moment are the old friends that Mrs. Cliff would naturally remember. And if any one of us ever sees fit to speak to her on the subject, we're the people who should be mentioned when the proper opportunity comes to make such mention."
"You're forgetting Willy Croup," said Mrs. Wells.
"No," answered Miss Cushing, a little sharply, "I don't forget her, but I'll have nothing to do with her. I don't suppose she'll be forgotten, but whatever is done for her or whatever is not done for her is not our business. It's my private opinion, however, that she's had a good deal already!"
"Well," said Mrs. Ferguson, "I suppose that whatyou say is all right,—at least I've no objections to any of it; but whoever's going to speak to her, it mustn't be me, because she knows I've daughters to educate, and she'd naturally think that if I spoke I was principally speaking for myself, and that would set her against me, which I wouldn't do for the world. And whatever other people may say, I believe she will have money to leave."
Miss Cushing hesitated for a moment, and then spoke up boldly.
"It's my opinion," said she, "that Miss Inchman is the proper person to speak to Mrs. Cliff on this important subject. She's known her all her life, from the time when they were little girls together, and when they were both grown she made sacrifices for her which none of the rest of us had the chance to make.
"Now, for Miss Inchman to go and open the subject in a gradual and friendly way would be the right and proper thing, no matter how you look at it, and it's my opinion that we who are now here should ask her to go and speak, not in our names perhaps, but out of good-will and kindness to us as well as to Mrs. Cliff."
Mrs. Wells was a lady who was in the habit of saying things at the wrong time, and she now remarked, "We've forgotten the Thorpedykes! You know, Mrs. Cliff—"
Miss Cushing leaned forward, her face reddened. "Bother the Thorpedykes!" she exclaimed. "They're no more than acquaintances, and ought not to be spoken of at all. And as for Mrs. Perley, if any one's thinking of her, she's only been here four years, and that givesher no claim whatever, considering that we've been lifelong friends and neighbors of Sarah Cliff.
"And now, in behalf of all of us, I ask you, Miss Inchman, will you speak to Mrs. Cliff?"
Miss Inchman was rather a small woman, spare in figure, and she wore glasses, which seemed to be of a peculiar kind, for while they enabled her to see through them into surrounding space, they did not allow people who looked at her to see through them into her eyes. People often remarked that you could not tell the color of Miss Inchman's eyes when she had her spectacles on.
Thus it was that although her eyes were sometimes brighter than at other times, and this could be noticed through her spectacles, it was difficult to understand her expression and to discover whether she was angry or amused.
Now Miss Inchman's eyes behind her spectacles brightened very much as she looked from Miss Cushing to the other members of the little party who had constituted themselves the heirs of Mrs. Cliff. None of them could judge from her face what she was likely to say, but they all waited to hear what she would say. At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Cliff entered the parlor.
It was true that on that morning Mrs. Cliff had been standing in her front yard looking as her best friends would not have liked her to look. There was nothing physically the matter with her, but she was dissatisfied and somewhat disturbed in her mind. Mr. Burke was so busy nowadays that when he stopped in to see her it was only for a few minutes, and Willy Croup had developed a great facility in discovering things which ought to be attended to in various parts of the town, and of going to attend to them with Andrew Marks to drive her.
Not only did Mrs. Cliff feel that she was left more to herself than she liked, but she had the novel experience of not being able to find interesting occupation. She was was glad to have servants who could perform all the household duties, and could have done more if they had had a chance. Still, it was unpleasant to feel that she herself could do so little to fill up her unoccupied moments. So she put on a shawl and went into her front yard, simply to walk about and get a little of the fresh air. But when she went out of the door, she stood still contemplating the front fence.
Here was a fence which had been an eyesore to her for two or three years! She believed she had money enough to fence in the whole State, and yet those shabbypalings and posts must offend her eye every time she came out of her door! The flowers were nearly all dead now, and she would have had a new fence immediately, but Mr. Burke had dissuaded her, saying that when the new dining-room was brought over from the corner lot there would have to be a fence around the whole premises, and it would be better to have it all done at once.
"There are so many things which I can afford just as well as not," she said to herself, "and which I cannot do!" And it was the unmistakable doleful expression upon her countenance, as she thought this, which was the foundation of Miss Shott's remarks to her neighbors on the subject of Mrs. Cliff's probable early demise.
Miss Shott was passing on the other side of the street, and she was walking rapidly, but she could see more out of the corner of her eye than most people could see when they were looking straight before them at the same things.
Suddenly Mrs. Cliff determined that she must do something. She felt blue,—she wanted to talk to somebody. And, feeling thus, she naturally went into the house, put on her bonnet and her wrap, and walked down to see Miss Cushing. There was not anything in particular that she wanted to see her about, but there was work going on and she might talk about it; or, it might happen that she would be inclined to give some orders. She was always glad to do anything she could to help that hard-working and kind-hearted neighbor!
When Mrs. Cliff entered the parlor of Miss Cushing, five women each gave a sudden start. The dressmakerwas so thrown off her balance that she dropped her sewing on the floor, and rising, went forward to shake her visitor by the hand, a thing she was not in the habit of doing to anybody, because, as is well known to all the world, a person who is sewing for a livelihood cannot get up to shake hands with the friends and acquaintances who may happen in upon her. At this the other ladies rose and shook hands, and it might have been supposed that the new-comer had just returned from a long absence. Then Miss Cushing gave Mrs. Cliff a chair, and they all sat down again.
Mrs. Cliff looked about her with a smile. The sight of these old friends cheered her. All her blues were beginning to fade, as that color always fades in any kind of sunshine.
"I'm glad to see so many of you together," she said. "It almost seems as if you were having some sort of meeting. What is it about,—can't I join in?"
At this there was a momentary silence which threatened to become very embarrassing if it continued a few seconds more, and Miss Cushing was on the point of telling the greatest lie of her career, trusting that the other heirs would stand by her and support her in whatever statements she made, feeling as they must the absolute necessity of saying something instantly. But Miss Inchman spoke before any one else had a chance to do so.
"You're right, Mrs. Cliff," said she, "we are considering something! We didn't come here on purpose to talk about it, but we happened in together, and so wethought we would talk it over. And we all came to the conclusion that it was something which ought to be mentioned to you, and I was asked to speak to you about it."
Four simultaneous gasps were now heard in that little parlor, and four chills ran down the backs of four self-constituted heirs.
"I must say, Susan," remarked Mrs. Cliff, with a good-humored smile, "if you want me to do anything, there's no need of being so wonderfully formal about it! If any one of you, or all of you together, for that matter, have anything to say to me, all you had to do was to come and say it."
"They didn't seem to think that way," said Miss Inchman. "They all thought that what was to be said would come better from me because I'd known you so long, and we had grown up together."
"It must be something out of the common," said Mrs. Cliff. "What in the world can it be? If you are to speak, Susan, speak out at once! Let's have it!"
"That's just what I'm going to do," said Miss Inchman.
If Mrs. Cliff had looked around at the four heirs who were sitting upright in their chairs, gazing in horror at Miss Inchman, she would have been startled, and, perhaps, frightened. But she did not see them. She was so much interested in what her old friend Susan was saying, that she gave to her her whole attention.
But now that their appointed spokeswoman had announced her intention of immediately declaring theobject of the meeting, each one of them felt that this was no place for her! But, notwithstanding this feeling, not one of them moved to go. Miss Cushing, of course, had no excuse for leaving, for this was her own house; and although the others might have pleaded errands, a power stronger than their disposition to fly—stronger even than their fears of what Mrs. Cliff might say to them when she knew all—kept them in their seats. The spell of self-interest was upon them and held them fast. Whatever was said and whatever was done they must be there! At this supreme moment they could not leave the room. They nerved themselves, they breathed hard, and listened!
"You see, Sarah," said Miss Inchman, "we must all die!"
"That's no new discovery," answered Mrs. Cliff, and the remark seemed to her so odd that she looked around at the rest of the company to see how they took it; and she was thereupon impressed with the idea that some of them had not thought of this great truth of late, and that its sudden announcement had thrown them into a shocked solemnity.
But the soul of Miss Cushing was more than shocked,—it was filled with fury! If there had been in that room at that instant a loaded gun pointed towards Miss Inchman, Miss Cushing would have pulled the trigger. This would have been wicked, she well knew, and contrary to her every principle, but never before had she been confronted by such treachery!
"Well," continued Miss Inchman, "as we must die, weought to make ourselves ready for it in every way that we can. And we've been thinking—"
At this moment the endurance of Mrs. Ferguson gave way. The pace and the strain were too great for her. Each of the others had herself to think for, but she had not only herself, but two daughters. She gave a groan, her head fell back, her eyes closed, and with a considerable thump she slipped from her chair to the floor. Instantly every one screamed and sprang towards her.
"What in the world is the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Cliff, as she assisted the others to raise the head of the fainting woman and to loosen her dress.
"Oh, I suppose it's the thought of her late husband!" promptly replied Miss Inchman, who felt that it devolved on her to say something, and that quickly. Mrs. Cliff looked up in amazement.
"And what has Mr. Ferguson to do with anything?" she asked.
"Oh, it's the new cemetery I was going to talk to you about," said Miss Inchman. "It has been spoken of a good deal since you went away, and we all thought that if you'd agree to go into it—"
"Go into it!" cried Mrs. Cliff, in horror.
"I mean, join with the people who are in favor of it," said Miss Inchman. "I haven't time to explain,—she's coming to now, if you'll all let her alone! All I've time to say is, that those who had husbands in the old graveyard and might perhaps be inclined to move them and put up monuments, had the right to be first spoken to.Although, of course, it's a subject which everybody doesn't care to speak about, and as for Mrs. Ferguson, it's no wonder, knowing her as we do, that she went off in this way when she knew what I was going to say, although, in fact, I wasn't in the least thinking of Mr. Ferguson!"
The speaker had barely time to finish before the unfortunate lady who had fainted, opened her eyes, looked about her, and asked where she was. And now that she had revived, no further reference could be made to the unfortunate subject which had caused her to swoon.
"I don't see," said Mrs. Cliff, as she stood outside with Miss Inchman, a few minutes later, "why Mr. Ferguson's removal—I'm sure it isn't necessary to make it if she doesn't want to—should trouble Mrs. Ferguson any more than the thought of Mr. Cliff's removal troubles me. I'm perfectly willing to do what I can for the new cemetery, and nobody need think I'm such a nervous hysterical person that I'm in danger of popping over if the subject is mentioned to me. So when you all are ready to have another meeting, I hope you will let me know!"
When Mrs. Ferguson felt herself well enough to sit up and take a glass of water, with something stimulating in it, she was informed of the nature of the statements which had been finally made to Mrs. Cliff.
"You know, of course," added Miss Cushing, still pale from unappeased rage, "that that Susan Inchman began as she did, just to spite us!"
"It's just like her!" said Mrs. Archibald. "But Inever could have believed that such a dried codfish of a woman could have so much intellect!"
The little meeting at the house of Miss Cushing resulted in something very different from the anticipations of those ladies who had consulted together for the purpose of constituting themselves the heirs of Mrs. Cliff.
That good lady being then very much in want of something to do was so pleased with the idea of a new cemetery that she entered into the scheme with great earnestness. She was particularly pleased with this opportunity of making good use of her money, because, having been asked by others to join them in this work, she was not obliged to pose as a self-appointed public benefactor.
Mrs. Cliff worked so well in behalf of the new cemetery and subscribed so much money towards it, through Mr. Perley, that it was not many months before it became the successor to the little crowded graveyard near the centre of the town; and the remains of Mr. Cliff were removed to a handsome lot and overshadowed by a suitable monument.
Mrs. Ferguson, however, in speaking with Mrs. Cliff upon the subject, was happy to have an opportunity ofassuring her that she thought it much better to devote her slender means to the education of her daughters than to the removal of her late husband to a more eligible resting-place.
"I'm sure he's done very well as he is for all these years," she said, "and if he could have a voice in the matter, I'm quite sure that he would prefer his daughters' education to his own removal."
Mrs. Cliff did not wish to make any offer which might hurt Mrs. Ferguson's very sensitive feelings, but she said that she had no doubt that arrangements could be made by which Mr. Ferguson's transfer could be effected without interfering with any plans which might have been made for the benefit of his daughters; but, although this remark did not satisfy Mrs. Ferguson, she was glad of even this slight opportunity of bringing the subject of her daughters' education before the consideration of her friend.
As to the other would-be heirs, they did not immediately turn upon Miss Inchman and rend her in revenge for the way in which she had tricked and frightened them, for there was no knowing what such a woman would do if she were exasperated, and not for the world would they have Mrs. Cliff find out the real subject of their discussion on that unlucky morning when she made herself decidedly one too many in Miss Cushing's parlor.
Consequently, all attempts at concerted action were dropped, and each for herself determined that Mrs. Cliff should know that she was a true friend, and to trust tothe good lady's well-known gratitude and friendly feeling when the time should come for her to apportion her worldly goods among the dear ones she would leave behind her.
There were certain articles in Mrs. Cliff's house for which each of her friends had a decided admiration, and remarks were often made which it was believed would render it impossible for Mrs. Cliff to make a mistake when she should be planning her will, and asking herself to whom she should give this, and to whom that?
It was about a week after the events in Miss Cushing's parlor, that something occurred which sent a thrill through the souls of a good many people in Plainton, affecting them more or less according to their degree of sensibility.
Willy Croup, who had been driven about the town attending to various matters of business and pleasure, was informed by Andrew Marks, as she alighted about four o'clock in the afternoon at the house of an acquaintance, that he hoped she would not stop very long because he had some business of his own to attend to that afternoon, and he wanted to get the horse cared for and the cow milked as early as possible, so that he might lock up the barn and go away. To this Willy answered that he need not wait for her, for she could easily walk home when she had finished her visit.
But when she left the house, after a protracted call, she did not walk very far, for it so happened that Mr. Burke, who had found leisure that afternoon to take a drive in his barouche, came up behind her, and verynaturally stopped and offered to take her home. Willy, quite as naturally, accepted the polite proposition and seated herself in the barouche by the side of the fur-trimmed overcoat and the high silk hat.
Thus it was that the people of the town who were in the main street that afternoon, or who happened to be at doors or windows; that the very birds of the air, hopping about on trees or house-tops; that the horses, dogs, and cats; that even the insects, whose constitutions were strong enough to enable them to buzz about in the autumn sunlight, beheld the startling sight of Willy Croup and the fine gentleman at the hotel riding together, side by side, in broad daylight, through the most public street of the town.
Once before these two had been seen together out of doors, but then they had been walking, and almost any two people who knew each other and who might be walking in the same direction, could, without impropriety walk side by side and converse as they went; but now the incident was very different.
It created a great impression, not all to the advantage of Mr. Burke, for, after the matter had been very thoroughly discussed, it was generally conceded that he must be no better than a fortune-hunter. Otherwise, why should he be paying attention to Willy Croup, who, as everybody knew, was not a day under forty-five years old, and therefore at least ten years older than the gentleman at the hotel.
In regard to the fortune which he was hunting, there was no difference of opinion; whatever Mrs. Cliff's fortune might be, this Mr. Burke wanted it. Of course, he would not endeavor to gain his object by marrying the widow, for she was entirely too old for him; but if he married Willy, her only relative, that would not be quite so bad as to age, and there could be no doubt that these two would ultimately come into Mrs. Cliff's fortune, which was probably more than had been generally supposed. She had always been very close-mouthed about her affairs, and there were some who said that even in her early days of widowhood she might have been more stingy than she was poor. She must have considerable property, or Mr. Burke would not be so anxious to get it.
Thus it happened that the eventful drive in the barouche had a very different effect upon the reputations of the three persons concerned. Mr. Burke was lowered from his position as a man of means enjoying his fortune, for even his building operations were probably undertaken for the purpose of settling himself in Mrs. Cliff's neighborhood, and so being able to marry Willy as soon as possible.
Willy Croup, although everybody spoke of her conduct as absolutely ridiculous and even shameful, rose in public estimation simply from the belief that she was about to marry a man who, whatever else he might be, was of imposing appearance and was likely to be rich.
As to Mrs. Cliff, there could be no doubt that the general respect for her was on the increase. If she were rich enough to attract Mr. Burke to the town, she was probably rich enough to do a good many other things,and after all it might be that that new house at the corner was being built with her money.
Miss Shott was very industrious and energetic in expressing her opinion of Mr. Burke. "There's a chambermaid at the hotel," she said, "who's told me a lot of things about him, and it's very plain to my mind that he isn't the gentleman that he makes himself out to be! His handkerchiefs and his hair-brush aren't the kind that go with fur overcoats and high hats, and she has often seen him stop in the hall downstairs and black his own boots! Everybody knows he was a sailor, but as to his ever having commanded a vessel, I don't believe a word of it! But Willy Croup and that man needn't count on their schemes coming out all right, for Sarah Cliff isn't any older than I am, and she's just as likely to outlive them as she is to die before them!"
The fact that nobody had ever said that Burke had commanded a vessel, and that Miss Shott had started the belief that Mrs. Cliff was in a rapid decline, entirely escaped the attention of her hearers, so interested were they in the subject of the unworthiness of the fine gentleman at the hotel.
Winter had not yet really set in when George Burke, who had perceived no reason to imagine that he had made a drop in public estimation, felt himself stirred by emotions of triumphant joy. The new building on the corner lot was on the point of completion!
Workmen and master-workmen, mechanics and laborers, had swarmed in, over, and about the new edifice in such numbers that sometimes they impeded each other.Close upon the heels of the masons came the carpenters, and following them the plumbers and the plasterers; while the painters impatiently restrained themselves in order to give their predecessors time to get out of their way.
The walls and ceilings were covered with the plaster which would dry the quickest, and the paper-hangers entered the rooms almost before the plasterers could take away their trowels and their lime-begrimed hats and coats. Cleaners with their brooms and pails jostled the mechanics, as the latter left the various rooms, and everywhere strode Mr. Burke. He had made up his mind that the building must be ready to move into the instant it arrived at its final destination.
It was a very different building from what Mrs. Cliff had proposed to herself when she decided to add a dining-room to her old house. It was so different indeed, that after having gone two or three times to look upon the piles of lumber and stone and the crowds of men, digging, and hammering, and sawing on the corner lot, she had decided to leave the whole matter in the hands of Mr. Burke, the architect, and the contractor. And when Willy Croup endeavored to explain to her what was going on, she always stopped her, saying that she would wait until it was done and then she would understand it.
Mr. Burke too had urged her, especially as the building drew near to completion, not to bother herself in the least about it, but to give him the pleasure of presenting it to her entirely finished and ready for occupancy. Soeven the painting and paper-hanging had been left to a professional decorator, and Mrs. Cliff assured Burke that she was perfectly willing to wait for the new dining-room until it was ready for her.
This dining-room, large and architecturally handsome, was planned, as has been said, so that one of its doors should fit exactly against the side hall door of the little house, but the other door of the dining-room opened into a wide and elegant hall, at one end of which was a portico and spacious front steps. On the other side of this hall was a handsome drawing-room, and behind the drawing-room and opening into it, an alcove library with a broad piazza at one side of it. Back of the dining-room was a spacious kitchen, with pantries, closets, scullery, and all necessary adjuncts.
In the second and third stories of the edifice were large and beautiful bedrooms, small and neat bedrooms, bath-rooms, servants' rooms, trunk-rooms, and every kind of room that modern civilization demands.
Now that the building was finished, Mr. Burke almost regretted that he had not constructed it upon the top of a hill in order that he might have laid his smooth and slippery timbers from the eminence to the side of Mrs. Cliff's house, so that when all should be ready he could have knocked away the blocks which held the building, so that he could have launched it as if it had been a ship, and could have beheld it sliding gracefully and rapidly from its stocks into its appointed position. But as this would probably have resulted in razing Mrs. Cliff's old house to the level of the ground, hedid not long regret that he had not been able to afford himself the pleasure of this grand spectacle.
The night before the day on which the new building was to be moved, the lot next to Mrs. Cliff's house was covered by masons, laborers, and wagons hauling stones, and by breakfast-time the next morning the new cellar was completed.
Almost immediately the great timbers, which, polished and greased, had been waiting for several days, were put in their places, and the great steam engines and windlasses, which had been ready as long a time, were set in motion. And, as the house began to move upon its course, it almost missed a parting dab from the brush of a painter who was at work upon some final trimming.
That afternoon, as Mrs. Cliff happened to be in her dining-room, she remarked to Willy that it was getting dark very early, but she would not pull up the blind of the side window, because she would then look out on the new cellar, and she had promised Mr. Burke not to look at anything until he had told her to do so. Willy, who had looked out of the side door at least fifty times that day, knew that the early darkness was caused by the shadows thrown by a large building slowly approaching from the west.
When Mrs. Cliff came downstairs the next morning she was met by Willy, very much excited, who told her that Mr. Burke wished to see her.
"Where is he?" said she. "At the dining-room door," answered Willy, and as Mrs. Cliff turned towards the little room in which she had been accustomed to take her meals, Willy seized her hand and led her into the side hall. There, in the open doorway, stood Mr. Burke, his high silk hat in one hand, and the other outstretched towards her.
"Welcome to your new dining-room, madam!" said he, as he took her hand and led her into the great room, which seemed to her, as she gazed in amazement about her, like a beautiful public hall.
We will not follow Mrs. Cliff, Willy, and the whole body of domestic servants, as they passed through the halls and rooms of that grand addition to Mrs. Cliff's little house.
"Carpets and furniture is all that you want, madam!" said Burke, "and then you're at home!"
When Mrs. Cliff had been upstairs and downstairs, and into every chamber, and when she had looked out of the window and had beheld hundreds of men at work upon the grounds and putting up fences; and when Mr. Burke had explained to her that the people at the back of the lot were beginning to erect a stable and carriage house,—for no dining-room such as she had was complete, he assured her, without handsome quarters for horses and carriages,—she left him and went downstairs by herself.
As she stood by the great front door and looked up at the wide staircase, and into the lofty rooms upon each side, there came to her, rising above all sentiments of amazement, delight, and pride in her new possessions, a feeling of animated and inspiring encouragement. The mists of doubt and uncertainty, which had hung over her,began to clear away. This noble edifice must have cost grandly! And, for the first time, she began to feel that she might yet be equal to her fortune.
The new and grand addition to Mrs. Cliff's house, which had been so planned that the little house to which it had been joined appeared to be an architecturally harmonious adjunct to it, caused a far greater sensation in Plainton than the erection of any of the public buildings therein.
Its journey from the corner lot was watched by hundreds of spectators, and now Mrs. Cliff, Willy, and Mr. Burke spent day and evening in exhibiting and explaining this remarkable piece of building enterprise.
Mr. Burke was very jolly. He took no credit to himself for the planning of the house, which, as he truthfully said, had been the work of an architect who had suggested what was proper and had been allowed to do it. But he did feel himself privileged to declare that if every crew building a house were commanded by a person of marine experience, things would move along a good deal more briskly than they generally did, and to this assertion he found no one to object.
Mrs. Cliff was very happy in wandering over her new rooms, and in assuring herself that no matter how grandthey might be when they were all furnished and fitted up, nothing had been done which would interfere with the dear old home which she had loved so long. It is true that one of the windows of the little dining-room was blocked up, but that window was not needed.
Mr. Burke was not willing to give Mrs. Cliff more than a day or two for the contemplation of her new possessions, and urged upon her that while the chimneys were being erected and the heating apparatus was being put into the house, she ought to attend to the selection and purchase of the carpets, furniture, pictures, and everything which was needed in the new establishment.
Mrs. Cliff thought this good advice, and proposed a trip to Boston; but Burke did not think that would do at all, and declared that New York was the only place where she could get everything she needed. Willy, who was to accompany Mrs. Cliff, had been to Boston, but had never visited New York, and she strongly urged the claims of the latter city, and an immediate journey to the metropolis was agreed upon.
But when Mrs. Cliff considered the magnitude and difficulties of the work she was about to undertake, she wished for the counsel and advice of some one besides Willy. This good little woman was energetic and enthusiastic, but she had had no experience in regard to the furnishing of a really good house.
When, in her mind, she was running over the names of those who might be able and willing to go with her and assist her, Mrs. Cliff suddenly thought of the Thorpedyke ladies, and there her mental categorystopped as she announced to Willy that she was going to ask these ladies to go with them to New York.
Willy thought well of this plan, but she had her doubts about Miss Barbara, who was so quiet, domestic, and unused to travel that she might be unwilling to cast herself into the din and whirl of the metropolis. But when she and Mrs. Cliff went to make a call upon the Thorpedykes and put the question before them, she was very much surprised to find that, although the elder sister, after carefully considering the subject, announced her willingness to oblige Mrs. Cliff, Miss Barbara agreed to the plan with an alacrity which her visitors had never known her to exhibit before.
As soon as the necessary preparations could be made, a party of five left Plainton for New York, and a very well-assorted party it was! Mr. Burke, who guided and commanded the expedition, supplied the impelling energy; Mrs. Cliff had her check book with her; Willy was ready with any amount of enthusiasm; and the past life of Miss Eleanor Thorpedyke and her sister Barbara had made them most excellent judges of what was appropriate for the worthy furnishing of a stately mansion.
Their youth and middle life had been spent near Boston, in a fine old house which had been the home of their ancestors, and where they had been familiar with wealth, distinguished society, and noble hospitality. But when they had been left the sole representatives of their family, and when misfortune after misfortune had come down upon them and swept away their estatesand nearly all of their income, they had retired to the little town of Plainton where they happened to own a house.
There, with nothing saved from the wreck of their prosperity but their family traditions, and some of the old furniture and pictures, they had settled down to spend in quiet the rest of their lives.
For two weeks our party remained in New York, living at one of the best hotels, but spending nearly all their time in shops and streets.
Mrs. Cliff was rapidly becoming a different woman from the old Mrs. Cliff of Plainton. At the time she stepped inside of the addition to her house the change had begun, and now it showed itself more and more each day. She had seen more beautiful things in Paris, but there she looked upon them with but little thought of purchasing. In New York whatever she saw and desired she made her own.
The difference between a mere possessor of wealth and one who uses it became very apparent to her. Not until now had she really known what it was to be a rich woman. Not only did this consciousness of power swell her veins with a proud delight, but it warmed and invigorated all her better impulses. She had always been of a generous disposition, but now she felt an intense good-will toward her fellow-beings, and wished that other people could be as happy as she was.
She thought of Mrs. Ferguson and remembered what she had said about her daughters. To be sure, Mrs. Ferguson was always trying to get people to do things forher, and Mrs. Cliff did not fancy that class of women, but now her wealth-warmed soul inclined her to overlook this prejudice, and she said to herself that when she got home she would make arrangements for those two girls to go to a good school; and, more than that, she would see to it that Mr. Ferguson was moved. It seemed to her just then that it would be a very cheerful thing to make other people happy.
The taste and artistic judgment of the elder Miss Thorpedyke, which had been dormant for years, simply because there was nothing upon which they could exercise themselves, now awoke in their old vigor, and with Mrs. Cliff's good sense, reinforced by her experience gained in wandering among the treasures of Paris, the results of the shopping expedition were eminently satisfactory. And, with the plan of the new building, which Mr. Burke carried always with him, everything which was likely to be needed in each room, hall, or stairway, was selected and purchased, and as fast as this was done, the things were shipped to Plainton, where people were ready to put them where they belonged.
Willy Croup was not always of service in the purchasing expeditions, for she liked everything that she saw, and no sooner was an article produced than she went into ecstasies over it; but as she had an intense desire to see everything which New York contained, she did not at all confine herself to the shops and bazaars. She went wherever she could and saw all that it was possible for her to see; but in the midst of the sights and attractions of the metropolis she was still Willy Croup.
One afternoon as she and Miss Barbara were passing along one of the side streets on their return from an attempt to see how the poorer people lived, Willy stopped in front of a blacksmith's shop where a man was shoeing a horse.
"There!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with delight, "that's the first thing I've seen that reminds me of home!"
"It is nice, isn't it!" said gentle Miss Barbara.
During the latter part of their sojourn in the city, Willy went about a good deal with Miss Barbara because she thought this quiet, soft-spoken lady was not happy and did not take the interest in handsome and costly articles which was shown by her sister. She had been afraid that this noisy bustling place would be too much for Miss Barbara, and now she was sure she had been right.
The younger Miss Thorpedyke was unhappy, and with reason. For some months a little house in Boston which had been their principal source of income had not been rented. It needed repairs, and there was no money with which to repair it. The agent had written that some one might appear who would be willing to take it as it stood, but that this was doubtful, and the heart of Miss Barbara sank very low. She was the business woman of thefamily. She it was who had always balanced the income and the expenditures. This adjustment had now become very difficult indeed, and was only accomplished by adding a little debt to the weight on the income scale.
She had said nothing to her sister about this sad change in their affairs because she hoped against hope that soon they might have a tenant, and she knew that her sister Eleanor was a woman of such strict and punctilious honor that she would insist upon living upon plain bread, if their supply of ready money was insufficient to buy anything else. To see this sister insufficiently nourished was something which Miss Barbara could not endure, and so, sorely against her disposition and her conscience, she made some little debts; and these grew and grew until at last they weighed her down until she felt as if she must always look upon the earth and could never raise her head to the sky. And she was so plump, and so white, and gentle, and quiet, and peaceful looking that no one thought she had a care in the world until Willy Croup began to suspect in New York that something was the matter with her, but did not in the least attribute her friend's low spirits to the proper cause.
When Miss Barbara had favored so willingly and promptly the invitation of Mrs. Cliff, she had done so because she saw in the New York visit a temporary abolition of expense, and a consequent opportunity to lay up a little money by which she might be able to satisfy for a time one of her creditors who was beginning to suspect that she was not able to pay his bill, and was therefore pressing her very hard. Even while she had been inNew York, this many-times rendered bill had been forwarded to her with an urgent request that it be settled.
It was not strange, therefore, that a tear should sometimes come to the eye of Miss Barbara when she stood by the side of her sister and Mrs. Cliff and listened to them discussing the merits of some rich rugs or pieces of furniture, and when she reflected that the difference in price between two articles, one apparently as desirable as the other, which was discussed so lightly by Mrs. Cliff and Eleanor, would pay that bill which was eating into her soul, and settle, moreover, every other claim against herself and her sister. But the tears were always wiped away very quickly, and neither Mrs. Cliff nor the elder Miss Thorpedyke ever noticed them.
But although Willy Croup was not at all a woman of acute perceptions, she began to think that perhaps it was something more than the bustle and noise of New York which was troubling Miss Barbara. And once, when she saw her gazing with an earnest eager glare—and whoever would have thought of any sort of a glare in Miss Barbara's eyes—upon some bank-notes which Mrs. Cliff was paying out for a carved cabinet for which it was a little doubtful if a suitable place could be found, but which was bought because Miss Eleanor thought it would give an air of distinction in whatever room it might be placed, Willy began to suspect the meaning of that unusual exhibition of emotion.
"She's money hungry," she said to herself, "that's what's the matter with her!" Willy had seen the signsof such hunger before, and she understood what they meant.
That night Willy lay in her bed, having the very unusual experience of thinking so much that she could not sleep. Her room adjoined Miss Barbara's, and the door between them was partly open, for the latter lady was timid. Perhaps it was because this door was not closed that Willy was so wakeful and thoughtful, for there was a bright light in the other room, and she could not imagine why Miss Barbara should be sitting up so late. It was a proceeding entirely at variance with her usual habits. She was in some sort of trouble, it was easy to see that, but it would be a great deal better to go to sleep and try to forget it.
So after a time Willy rose, and, softly stepping over the thick carpet, looked into the other room. There was Miss Barbara in her day dress, sitting at a table, her arms upon the table, her head upon her arms, fast asleep. Upon her pale face there were a great many tear marks, and Willy knew that she must have cried herself to sleep. A paper was spread out near her.
Willy was sure that it would be a very mean and contemptible thing for her to go and look at that paper, and so, perhaps, find out what was troubling Miss Barbara, but, without the slightest hesitation, she did it. Her bare feet made no sound upon the carpet, and as she had very good eyes, it was not necessary for her to approach close to the sleeper.
It was a bill from William Bullock, a grocer and provision dealer of Plainton. It contained but one item,—'To bill rendered,' and at the bottom was a statement in Mr. Bullock's own handwriting to the effect that if the bill was not immediately paid he would be obliged to put it into the hands of a collector.
Willy turned and slipped back into her room. Then, after sitting down upon her bed and getting up again, she stepped boldly to the door and knocked upon it. Instantly she heard Miss Barbara start and push back her chair.
"What are you doing up so late?" cried Willy, cheerfully. "Don't you feel well?"
"Oh, yes," replied the other, "I accidentally fell asleep while reading, but I will go to bed instantly."
The mind of Willy Croup was a very small one and had room in it for but one idea at a time. For a good while she lay putting ideas into this mind, and then taking them out again. Having given place to the conviction that the Thorpedykes were in a very bad way indeed,—for if that bill should be collected, they would not have much left but themselves, and Mr. Bullock was a man who did collect when he said he would,—she was obliged to remove this conviction, which made her cry, in order to consider plans of relief; and while she was considering these plans, one at a time, she dropped asleep.
The first thing she thought of when she opened her eyes in the morning was poor Miss Barbara in the next room, and that dreadful bill; and then, like a flash of lightning, she thought of a good thing to do for the Thorpedykes. The project which now laid itself out,detail after detail, before her seemed so simple, so sensible, so absolutely wise and desirable in every way, that she got up, dressed herself with great rapidity, and went in to see Mrs. Cliff.
That lady was still asleep, but Willy awakened her, and sat on the side of the bed. "Do you know what I think?" said Willy.
"How in the world should I!" said Mrs. Cliff. "Is it after breakfast-time?"
"No," said Willy; "but it's this! What are you going to do in that big house, with all the bedrooms, parlor, library, and so forth? You say that you are going to have one room, and that I'm to have another, and that we'll go into the old house to feel at home whenever we want to; but I believe we'll be like a couple of flies in a barrel! You're going to furnish your new house with everything but people! You ought to have more people! You ought to have a family! That house will look funny without people! You can't ask Mr. Burke, because it would be too queer to have him come and live with us, and besides, he'll want a house of his own. Why don't you ask the Thorpedykes to come and live with us? Their roof is dreadfully out of repairs. I know to my certain knowledge that they have to put tin wash-basins on every bed in the second story when it rains, on account of the holes in the shingles! If they had money to mend those holes, they'd mend them, but as they don't mend them, of course they haven't the money. And it strikes me that they aren't as well off as they used to be, and they'llhave a hard time gettin' through this winter. Now, there isn't any piece of furniture that you can put in your house that will give it 'such an air of distinction,' as Miss Eleanor calls it, as she herself will give it if you put her there! If you could persuade Miss Eleanor to come and sit in your parlor when you are having company to see you, it would set you up in Plainton a good deal higher than any money can set you up."
"They would never agree to anything of the kind," said Mrs. Cliff, "and you know it, Willy!"
"I don't believe it," said Willy. "I believe they'd come! Just see how willing they were to come here with you! I tell you, Sarah, that the older and older those Thorpedyke ladies get, the more timid they get, and the more unwilling to live by themselves!
"If you make Miss Eleanor understand that it would be the greatest comfort and happiness to both of us if she would come and spend the winter with you, and so help you to get used to your great big new house; and more than that, if they'd bring with them some of their candle-sticks and pictures on ivory and that sort of thing, which everybody knows can't be bought for money, it would be the great accommodation to you and make your house look something like what you would like to have it. I believe that old-family lady would come and stay with you this winter, and think all the time that she was giving you something that you ought to have and which nobody in Plainton could give you but herself. And as to Miss Barbara, she'd come along as quick as lightning!"
"Willy," said Mrs. Cliff, very earnestly, "have you any good reason to believe that the Thorpedykes are in money trouble?"
"Yes, I have," said Willy, "I'm positive of it, and what's more, it's only Miss Barbara who knows it!"
Mrs. Cliff sat for some minutes without answering, and then she said, "Willy, you do sometimes get into your head an idea that absolutely sparkles!"