Читать книгу "Good-Morning, Rosamond!" - Constance Lindsay Skinner - Страница 3

Table of Contents

Négligés were unknown in Roseborough. Even at seven in the morning, which was Rosamond Mearely’s hour for greeting the new day, the ladies of Roseborough did not kimono: they dressed.

Young Rosamond Mearely might be—as indeed she was—the richest and fairest woman in Roseborough, and the widow of a gentleman whose name the hamlet and countryside mentioned still with the bated breath of pride; but she would no more have dared to appear at breakfast before her housemaids, the imposing Frigget sorority—Amanda, aged forty-nine years “come Michelmas,” and Jemima, forty-seven and three quarter years—in what they would have pronounced (and condemned as) a “wrapper,” than she would wittingly have committed any other irretrievable faux pas.

The mother of the Frigget sorority had guided the first adventures of the late, distinguished Hibbert Mearely about the by-ways of Trenton Waters, his birthplace, in the infantile push-carts of his period—that is to say, fifty-odd years before this morning when his young widow slipped a decorous print gown (lavender with black floral design) over her dainty, white roundness and the whalebone and batiste article that confined it, and descended to her fourteen hundred and eightieth solitary breakfast. It was four years since Hibbert Mearely’s departure. His faithful nurse was slowly preparing to follow him; she lay bedridden in Trenton Waters. Her two daughters, who had been brought up to serve him, still dominated his household.

Rosamond saw them now, as the stairs circled to the door of the large living room where summer breakfasts were spread. They were tall, multi-boned women with straight, thin, gray hair—drawn sheerly to a polka dot at the back, which one, or at most two, hairpins controlled—and clad in skimpy, dark, cotton dresses, well starched and designed to reveal every puritan angle. They stood at opposite sides of a long, black table. The table was one of Hibbert Mearely’s antiques (a ticket attached to the foot gave its date and history); its “early Seventeenth” carvings were hidden now by a cloth of gleaming white damask bearing Mrs. Mearely’s breakfast. Rosamond’s glance, by habit, travelled in a direct line between her female grenadiers to the wall where a life-size portrait, in oils, of the late master depended. Outside the wide-open doors, the sunlight filtered through the overlacing trees and kindled the proud red of the dahlias to flame. A little breeze, vagrant and wilful, danced through the garden and set all the leaves to clapping their hands. Rosamond sighed. She flitted through the doorway and down the huge room, sedately, to her place.

“Good-mornin’, Mrs. Mearely, ma’am.”

“Good-mornin’, Mrs. Mearely, ma’am.”

“Good-morning, Amanda. Good-morning, Jemima.”

These salutations never varied. Rosamond spread her old-fashioned damask napkin on her lap slowly with a sense of apprehension. Amanda had her own manner of establishing an “atmosphere.” Out of the corner of her eye Rosamond perceived that she was more unbending than usual this morning.

“I was a’most a-comin’ up to see if you’d ben took sick—it’s five after.” Amanda’s tone was dry and accusative.

“Is it? Perhaps I may have dawdled a little … I mean,” hastily, “I think one of my laces knotted.”

“Seven sharp was a’ways Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s breakfast hour”—Jemima’s tone was impersonal and final—“as we’d oughter know that cooked and served it to him twenty year, not countin’ the long time of his young an middle manhood when he was trapsein’ the world after them curios an’ antics of his’n.”

“Antiques, Jemima,” the lady of the house corrected.

“That’s wot I said,” stubbornly.

“Your porridge was dished at seven sharp an’ was perfec’ for that hour; but five minutes makes a world of difference in the nature of a hot bowl of porridge.”

“I’m sure it will be delicious, Amanda,” her mistress murmured. Her tone was timid and placating.

“Speakin’ of laces knottin’,” Amanda continued, “Mary Caroline was the only one of us girls that was inclined to fat, an’ maw a’ways made her let ’em out when she took ’em off, nights, so there’d be no time wasted in the mornin’.”

“It was my boot-lace, Amanda,” milady protested.

“Mebbe ’twas—an’ mebbe ’twasn’t. It’s loosenin’ ’em overnight that counts—both boots an’ stays. An’ so Mary Caroline found—leastways if she didn’t want maw to wallop her for bein’ late—sloth bein’ one of the seven deadly sins maw could not abide. Mary Caroline was a natural temptation to a high-tempered, energetic woman like maw—she bein’ inclined to fat.”

Mrs. Mearely motioned the porridge bowl away with a chill gravity.

“I’d like my toast and eggs now. Of course I do not suppose you mean anything personal, Amanda, by your repeated allusions to your deceased sister’s physique. Nevertheless I may say, without lowering my dignity, that, although I am not thin and—and—er—flat all over like some of Roseborough’s women, I am not fat. I am not even ‘inclined to fat’ as it appears your—er—walloped sister was, according to your description.”

Mrs. Mearely’s attempt to reduce Amanda Frigget, domestic, to a proper sense of her relation toward the mistress of Villa Rose, failed miserably. The haughty eye of the would-be grande dame wavered from that forbidding countenance and weakly sought refuge in the colour-blend of buttered toast with yolk of egg. Alas, she had given Amanda the sort of opportunity which never passed unimproved.

“You’re not fat as compared with some, but you’ve got a general curve to you, which is on’y to be expected in the daughter-of-a-farmer’s figure.” Amanda proceeded, uncompromisingly, to make the Frigget position on curves and non-curves even plainer. “Now Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s sisters, both what married small but choice titles, was so lean an’ aristocratical you could count the ridges in their backbones—on’y you wouldn’t of persoomed that way on born ladies. But look who their father was—an’ Mr. Mearely’s father, too! A perfessor an’ clergy that had his descent from the middle ages of Henery Seven!”

“No wonder Mr. Mearely felt he could afford to be condescendin’,” Jemima put in, as she removed the tea cosy. “But I don’t s’pose he’d ever have set his a’most royal foot onto ploughed an’ harrowed groun’, if he hadn’t of seen you that day in the gate of your father’s farm in Poplars Vale. That’s when he forgot about Henery Seven an’ went back to the soil—a man that was past fifty an’ had seen all the museums of Europe!”

“Strange—strange, indeed!” Mrs. Mearely hissed softly, striking a small silver knife into a butter ball with intent to wound.

Amanda took up the theme.

“An’ how did it all come to happen? By the accident of him, a absen’-minded man, takin’ the wrong turn at the cross-roads as he come up from fishin’! The han’ of fate pinted him to Poplars Vale ’stead of Roseborough. An’ there was you, eighteen—an’ allurin’ no doubt, but ’umble an’ uncultured—a-sittin’ on your paw’s farm gate, but lookin’ higher. What a talk it made in these parts! When I says to maw, I says, ‘Mr. Mearely’s goin’ to marry Rosamon’ Cort of Poplars Vale,’ she took to her bed for the day with a spell. Such a shock it was to her to think how him as she’d used to trundle had forgot his station.”

“By marrying a butter-maker?” Rosamond’s voice was sharp at the edges now.

“We said then—maw an’ Jemima an’ me (Mary Caroline havin’ passed beyon’)—we said, ‘We’ll never remember again in this life that Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s fiancy’s mother made an’ sol’ the first roun’ fancy butter pats in this distric’.’ That’s the way all Trenton Waters an’ Roseborough felt bounden towards the Mearelys. That’s, in special, the way His Friggets felt bounden toward Mr. Hibbert Mearely.”

“No doubt he is very grateful to you both, and is waiting eagerly to reward your devotion”—she paused also at the “cross-roads,” so to speak, ere she gestured a vague direction and concluded—“wherever he is.”

If her inflections were strangely pungent and her phraseology speculative, the angle of vision sought by her too large, cloud-flecked, sky-blue eyes was absolutely right. They gazed ceilingward. Amanda folded her hands across her apron. She also looked upward.

“No doubt,” she repeated, solemnly.

“No doubt;” Jemima echoed her sister’s sepulchral accents, and folded her hands and looked at the same bit of the gold cornice. If they had concentrated on this point long enough in rapt faith—who knows?—they might have materialized there the shade of the departed collector of antiquities to demand of them, sternly, which careless handmaid with intrusive mop had nicked his Florentine gilding.

“The raspberries, Jemima, please. I shall always wonder why it is that … (cream, please) … the very persons who wouldn’t for worlds … (and powdered sugar) … recall the fact that Hibbert Mearely’s widow’s mother once sold butter … (are you sure this is sugar, Jemima? It looks suspiciously like salt) … are the very ones who are always reminding me of … the butter, please.” She finished, tartly.

Jemima hastened to pass the hereditary slur.

“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t go to say that exac’ly.” Amanda studied the question. “But them what thought so high of Mr. Mearely kind of wants to help you remember what he done for you.”

“Ah! that is it, eh?”

“Yes. An’ you bein’ a widow an’ havin’ to put all his blue blood in the tomb—when you hadn’t enjoyed it but a year an’ four month—we feel like it comforts you to remin’ you that, even if you come off a farm in Poplars Vale, your diseased husban’ didn’t. No, Sir! He come off of Henery Seven!”

An odd little squeak pierced through Rosamond’s damask napkin. It terminated hastily in a cough.

“May I ask, ma’am, when Mrs. Witherby stopped in here yesterday mornin’ did you happen to be wearin’ them white cuffs an’ collar with your lavender ’stead of the black watered ribbon ones as you’ve worn for nigh a year?”

“Yes. Yes, Amanda, I believe I did have these on yesterday—for the first time in the daytime. You know I’ve worn all white with flowers—in the evening.”

“It’s doin’ it in broad daylight that causes remark. Oh, I’m not forgettin’ my place an’ criticizin’. It’s all correc’ enough. You done your eighteen months crape an’ one year plain, then your six month black’n white. Then come your year of lavender with black ribbons, an’ now it’s time for white or even light colours, if you’re desirous, an’ none should objec’. But Mrs. Witherby’s tongue is like a dog’s on a huntin’ mornin’; it’s that easy set to waggin’ an’ anticipatin’. Jemima, you it was overheard her remarks. Be so kin’ an’ repeat.”

Nothing loath, Jemima obliged.

“Mrs. Witherby says, says she, ‘well, you mark me,’ says she, ‘Mrs. Mearely will not remain long a widder. It’ll be Judge Giffen or Wilton Howard afore Christmas.’ ”

“Oh! the gossip!” Mrs. Mearely snapped indignantly. Amanda nodded sagely.

“It was them white muslin trimmin’s what done it,” she averred. “She says it afore her niece, Miss Mabel, who all Roseborough knows is jus’ a-pinin’ an’ a-languishin’ for Mr. Howard; and Miss Mabel she goes white as your napkin—which ain’t so white, but considerable eggy now you’ve had your sof’ boileds. I could a’ways tell your napkin from Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s wherever I’d pick ’em up—be it in church or tavern—for Mr. Mearely he could comfort his appetite without a smear. But, of course, he was born to refinements. Well, it’s too bad, ma’am, but gossip is what you mus’ expec’ from now henceforth.”

“Yes,” Jemima went on to illustrate, “all Roseborough is a-waitin’ breathless to see what you’ll do nex’—you bein’ the widder of a aristocrat but the chil’ of a farm.”

“Standing, so to speak, with one foot on the throne and the other on the churn?” milady murmured between bites at a large berry.

“Wilton Howard’s too young—he’s on’y aroun’ thirty-five,” Jemima continued. “Though him bein’ a relation of the departed has a sort of sentimentality to it. It’ll be the Judge, if ever she do take unto her another spouse. Him an’ Mr. Mearely was intimate bach’lor frien’s; an’ the Judge is a highborn man, specially on his mother’s side—‘Doubledott’ bein’ one of our proudest names. An’ he’s jus’ fifty-three years old, what is the exac’ age Mr. Hibbert Mearely was when he lifted you from the farm gate to the altar. It’d be a’most like gettin’ married to Mr. Mearely all over again—specially as the Judge not havin’ any property, you’d be livin’ on here with him.”

This graphic prophecy of a second state of connubial bliss affected Mrs. Mearely strongly. She burst into explosive sobs.

“Yes! yes—yes! It would be just the—the same as marrying Hib—Hib—Hibbert Mearely all o—o—over again! And I’m only—only—not quite—twenty-four. Oh—h—h!”

She swept the dishes back ruthlessly, overtoppling the hot water pitcher—Amanda saved the cream just in time—and hid her face on her black-flowered, lavender sleeves with their white cuffs (which, being amorously interpreted by the Roseborough gossip, had provoked this sorrow) and sobbed as stormily and shamelessly as if she were still little Rosamond Cort pouring out the briny aftermath of punishment in the hayrick behind the dairy.

“There, there, ma’am,” Amanda said, gently. “There, there. Who could know better how you feel than His Friggets, what has been to Hibbert Mearely fifty year—mother an’ daughters—all that hired help can be in the life of any highborn man?”

“Who could know better’n us?” Jemima obbligatoed.

“It’s like a sacrilege to you to think of putting any man, even Judge Giffen, acrost the table from you under that portrait. To take a secon’ spouse seems to some natures a’most indelicate. Ma’am, while His Friggets is conductin’ Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s late home on earth, gossip can say no word agin you, for I’ll promise you as no young sheeps-eyed, gallantin’ male critter will ever get inside the walls of Villa Rose to blaspheme your sacred mem’ries. It’ll be the Judge or none—an’ I ain’t decided yet even as the Judge. …” She stopped short.

From the little anteroom which connected the living room with the formal dining room came a tinkling.

“A telephone in Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s antic an’ aristocratical home is what I’ll never get accustomed to.” Amanda drew her lips down in displeasure. “He’d never have permitted it.”

“Answer it, if you please, Amanda.” Mrs. Mearely lifted her head with an air that became her well, despite her tears.

“Answer it, Jemima,” the elder sister commanded, noting, with a glitter of satisfaction, that her alleged “mistress’s” eyes flashed angrily. By such subtleties did Amanda remind milady, when necessary, that, while “His Friggets” would do whatever was to be expected of servants in Villa Rose, neither would take personal orders—above all, if given as such—from the farmer’s daughter of Poplars Vale.

“I don’t mind obligin’ you, Amanda,” Jemima responded, with a certain pointedness.

“There won’t be anyone there to answer, if you don’t hurry,” Rosamond said sharply. Perhaps it was the liberating influence of her white cuffs and fichu; perhaps it was because the early morning sun and breeze on a midsummer day have a rapture of their own which is communicable and urges gay defiance of all convention; but, whatever the cause, Rosamond Mearely was aware that, although she had been irked aforetime, never had she felt the oppressiveness of the Frigget sorority as she felt it at that moment. Inwardly she was thinking:

“I couldn’t discharge them. They wouldn’t go. Or, if they did leave, they’d make it impossible for me to live in Roseborough. But if a wicked tramp were to come by and I paid him a lot of money, and he murdered them for me … ?”

Mrs. Mearely’s assassination reverie was cut short by woeful wails from Jemima at the telephone.

“Oh! Mercy! Amanda! oh … !”

It was only on extreme occasions that Amanda indulged in profanity. She did so now.

“Jemima! What in all sassafras is the matter with you?” she demanded sternly as her sister reeled into the room.

“Oh! Oh! Maw’s had another stroke! We’re to go to her bedside immejit.”

“Another stroke!” Amanda echoed in a ghostly voice. “It’s the end. Poor Maw! Another stroke!”

“Oh, poor Mrs. Frigget. Oh, poor Amanda! Oh, poor Jemima! But it isn’t the end. She’ll have lots more.” Rosamond, all tender consternation, endeavoured to console. “It’s only her second, and they always have three, at least. Dr. Wells says he knew a patient who had seven.”

Failing to stop their cries by hopeful words, she took practical steps. She ran to the open door and called:

“Blake! Blake! Oh, there you are. Blake, you must harness the mare at once and drive Amanda and Jemima to Trenton. Their mother is ill!”

“Good-mornin’, Mrs. Mearely, mum. Ill, is she? In course, she’s ill,” came in a slow, rumbling voice from some aged masculine out of sight. “She’s been bedridden nigh three year.”

“Hush, Blake. You must not be so unfeeling. She’s just had a stroke.”

“That’s them sleezy, new-style, board-roof cottages. They’d oughter kep’ a green umbreller over ’er bed.”

“It isn’t a sun-stroke, Blake! It’s a—another kind. And you must harness, at once, and take her daughters to her.”

“Oh, yep. If the wuss is a-goin’ to ’appen, them two Friggets has got to be thar to see it. Good-mornin’, Amanda and Jemima.”

Blake, gray-haired, sixty, and stooped but hale and ruddyfaced, limped to the threshold.

“So yer maw’s nearin’ ’er end, is she? That’s very sad—I know to a t ’ow you feel—if so be ye’re feelin’ bad—coz my rheumatiz is twistin’ me like a peavine this mornin’. I’m four square yards of twinges. ’Owever, I’ll ’arness the mare an’ she’ll get us over to Trenton lickety-split—judgin’ from the way she’s been actin’ sence daybreak. That is, if she don’t fling us all over the bridge.”

“Yes, yes! That’ll do, Blake,” Mrs. Mearely interrupted impatiently. “People could be dying while you’re talking, you know. Hurry, now! hurry!”

“Oh, whatever’ll you do without us? Somethin’s mortally sure to happen!” Amanda moaned, torn between two duties. “Somethin’ a’ways goes wrong in Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s home when His Friggets leaves it. Oh, be sure and sen’ right away for Bella Greenup to tidy up an’ get your dinner.”

“Nonsense, Amanda. What should happen? Nothing has ever happened in Roseborough yet. Nothing ever will happen in Roseborough. Leave everything and go at once to your mother.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Jemima said between sobs. “It’s kin’ of you. If you’ll telephone to Dollop’s Drugs, he’ll sen’ to Bella Greenup for you—him bein’ sweet on her an’ more’n willin’ to take her messages.”

At the end of a half hour Rosamond saw them driven off down the winding hill road, the gray mare snorting and kicking up her heels as if she had not, some time since, reached years of discretion.

“Florence is not acting in the least like a Roseborough mare,” she commented aloud. “She is positively unladylike this morning. Oh, dear, I do hope their mother will get better—the poor things!” Then, in spite of her genuine sympathy, a giggle escaped her. “If it weren’t such a sad occasion it would be rather fun to see Florence kick a fraction too high and roll ‘His Friggets’ down the hill. They are so unintentionally amusing that there are times when I could almost like them if only they wouldn’t call themselves that!”