Читать книгу Magdalen's Vow - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 6
ОглавлениеMR. GEORGE BARSTONE.
The cloudless sunshine of a June morning, streaming through the hotel windows, made squares of luminous glory on the gaudy Brussels carpet, and shone and scintillated on the china and silver of a freshly laid breakfast table. A white-aproned waiter had just borne in the steaming coffee and steak and rolls, and now stood anxiously awaiting the arrival of the gentleman who was to demolish these edibles before they grew cold. The early mail had just arrived, and, piled beside the hot plates, were about twenty letters in white envelopes, and in dainty—more or less—female hands. The Herald, all damp, and smelling very strong of printer's ink, lay beside them.
"Good morning, William," said Mr. Barstone. "Nice sort of day, isn't it? Hey! The mail got in, and half a bushel of notes for me! All from ladies, William—every one from ladies, bless their precious little hearts! Pour out the coffee like a good fellow, and then go."
William obeyed, whipped the silver covers off the steak and eggs, and took his departure, leaving Mr. Barstone to eat and read at his leisure.
Mr. Barstone seated himself at the table, tumbling over the pile of letters, shook his head reflectively as he counted twenty, buttered his first roll and unfolded the moist newspaper.
He was a big man—this Mr. George Barstone—six feet, if an inch, with broad shoulders, fair hair, blue eyes and a good-looking, good-humored face.
Very leisurely he ate and read, swallowing the "horrid murders," and robberies, and awful accidents, with his coffee and underdone steak. By and by he turned to the advertisements and glanced down the long columns of "wants." At one he suddenly paused.
WANTED—A Governess. Must be under twenty-five, of attractive appearance, willing to reside in the country, and proficient in music, drawing and French. Terms liberal. Address G. B., Herald Office.
Mr. Barstone perused this advertisement with extraordinary relish, considering how often he had read it before. Then he flung down the papers and turned to the letters with a look of commiseration.
"Poor little things!" he said, tossing them over; "twenty to-day, and eighteen yesterday; all under twenty-five—all attractive and all proficient in music, French and drawing. Poor little souls! I wish I could engage the whole of them, and take them to Connecticut with me, and settle them in a colony of pretty white cottages, and pension them off with husbands and dowries. But I can't, I can only give thirty-seven my deepest compassion, and bring the thirty-eighth home with me to Golden Willows."
Mr. Barstone plunged at once into business and began tearing open the white missives. They were all more or less alike; the writers were all twenty or thereabouts, prepossessing to look at, possessed of the requisite arts and all perfectly willing to reside in the country.
The gravity of Mr. Barstone's face, as he read these piteous appeals, was a sight to see.
"Poor little soul! poor little thing!" he interjected, compassionately, after each, as it fluttered down among the white drifts on the carpet. "'How happy could I be with either were t'other dear charmer away!' Any one of them would do; but how in the world is a fellow to choose among so many? I wish Fanny was here to help me."
The last of the twenty seemed to impress Mr. Barstone. There was no particular reason why it should, either. It was daintily written, but so were the rest, and it was briefer and less elaborate than most.
The writer did not even mention her good looks, and she was the only one who had omitted that important item. She was under twenty, she said—eighteen that very month—and had but a year's experience as governess. A personal interview could be had by calling at No. —West Twenty-third Street, and the note was signed "Magdalen Wayne."
Perhaps it was the pretty, peculiar name that struck his fancy, and Mr. Barstone was whimsical in his fancies; but he folded this note up and put it in his pocket, with the resolution of calling at No.—West Twenty-third Street. On the trifle of a name destinies hung—on the turning of a hair whole lives balance. He pulled out his watch and saw that it was nearly eleven.
"I'll jump into an omnibus and go there at once," thought the young man. "I'm very sorry for you," apostrophizing the other letters as he picked them up—"deucedly sorry; but what's a man to do? If Magdalen Wayne don't suit, I'll try some of you; but, I've a presentiment that she will."
The house in Twenty-third Street was very easily found—a stately brownstone front. Mr. Barstone rang the bell, inquired for Miss Magdalen Wayne, and was ushered at once into a handsome parlor.
"What name, sir?" insinuated the damsel in calico, hovering, expectant, on the threshold, and the gentleman pulled Miss Wayne's note out of his pocket by way of reply.
"Give her that," he said, "and tell her I'm the person whose advertisement she answered."
The girl departed and Mr. Barstone was left to his reflections.
"Silence and solitude," he thought, glancing around and taking stock. "'I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and'—nice style of thing this. Miss Wayne's lines seem to have fallen in pleasant places. Inlaid tables, pretty pictures, velvet carpets, grand piano—remarkably nice, indeed! I hope she'll hurry."
But she didn't hurry. Ten minutes passed—fifteen—half an hour. Mr. Barstone fidgeted in his cushioned chair as if it had been stuffed with squirming eels.
"I might have known how it would be," he mused, despondingly; "she is doing up her hair. Fanny always does up her hair when gentlemen call. If one could only smoke, or if I had brought the Police Gazette, or something entertaining to read."
But all things come to an end. Just there the door opened, and, with a mighty rustling of silk, a lady swept stormily in.
"I'm afraid I've kept you waiting an 'orrid length of time," burst out the lady, volubly; "but I was so busy with the children, and nobody knows what a torment children are except those that have to deal with them. You really must excuse me, for I couldn't have helped it anyway."
Mr. Barstone gazed aghast. The lady was short and fat—dreadfully fat—with a high-colored, chubby face, and certainly never destined to see thirty-five again.
"Oh, my heavens!" thought Mr. Barstone, in consternation, "she'll never do! To think of a woman of her inches and time of life answering my advertisement for an attractive-looking governess!"
He rose as he spoke, his dismay vividly depicted on his face and stared at the lady.
"You are Miss Wayne, are you not?"
"Oh, dear, no!" shrilly cried the fat lady. "I'm Mrs. 'Oward. Miss Wayne is my governess, and a treasure of a governess she is; and I wouldn't think of parting with her on any account if she'd stay, for she's worth her weight in gold, and Mr. 'Oward thinks everything of her, and so do the children; but it's natural, you know, she shouldn't care to leave her native county and go to Hingland, particularly 'aving relatives 'ere who are entirely dependent upon her, and very 'ard that must be for her, poor dear! 'Ow many children 'ave you got?"
Mr. Barstone, with his breath quite taken away, and, sitting staring helplessly, was some time before he could realize this question was addressed to him.
"There are no children!" exclaimed the young man, desperately. "It's a young lady—a ward of my aunt's—a young lady of sixteen. Pray, ma'am," cutting in briskly as he saw Mrs. Howard about to burst out afresh, "where is Miss Wayne, and when can I see her? My time is precious—very precious—and I want to close the business at once."
"And so you can," responded Mrs. Howard, "for she'll be here directly. She's just run across to Sixth Avenue, to Miss Simpkins' store, to match my pea-green—oh, here she is, now!"
As she spoke the parlor door opened and a young girl entered, recoiling again immediately at sight of a stranger.
"I beg your pardon," she said, hurriedly, "I thought you were alone."
"Oh, come right in," cried Mrs. Howard. "It is to see you this gentleman came, and he's been waiting goodness knows how long. It's about the advertisement, my dear—'G. B.,' you know, my love—and I'm sure the situation will suit you, seeing that there are no children, and only one young lady, which will be quite like a sister to you, I'm sure. My dear sir, my governess, Miss Magdalen Wayne."
The young person named bowed respectfully. Mr. Barstone rose up and bowed respectfully also. He had seen, while good Mrs. Howard chattered, that she was a very pretty young person, with a pale face, deep dark eyes, and golden brown hair, and Mr. Barstone was always impressed by pretty people. She was stately, too, and tall, with a certain queenliness about her that, perhaps, was a trifle out of place in a governess.
"My name is Barstone," said the gentleman, quite subdued by so much beauty; "and I am certain, Miss Wayne, from all Mrs. Howard says, I will be fortunate, indeed, if I can secure your services."
"May I inquire, Mr. Barstone, where it is?"
"Millford, Connecticut," responded Mr. Barstone. "Millford is our town. The place to which you are going—a country villa—is called Golden Willows."
"And as to terms, now," struck in Mrs. Howard, "Magdalen has no head for business, whatever, so you'll excuse my asking, I hope. They're liberal I trust, because, poor dear, she has an old nurse and a little niece, down in New Hampshire, to support. You mentioned in the advertisement, you know, Mr. Barstone, 'terms liberal.'"
"Terms? Oh, yes; my aunt requested me to say five hundred dollars per annum."
"And extremely liberal, I am sure, that is!" cried Mrs. Howard; "do you hear, Magdalen, my dear? Only one pupil and five hundred dollars per annum. I am certain, Mr. Barstone, Magdalen is delighted to close with your offer at once."
Mr. Barstone bowed with a beaming face.
"I will call for you on Friday morning, at half-past seven. Good morning, Mrs. Howard—good morning, Miss Wayne. I congratulate myself on my success."
Mr. Barstone soon reached his hotel, and ran up to pen a line to his aunt before descending to the three o'clock dinner:
"New York.
"My Dear Aunt:—
"It's all right. I've got Fan a governess—a regular out-and-outer! Pardon the force of that expression, but it just conveys my meaning. She plays and sings like St. Cecilia—never heard St. Cecilia, but heard of her—her name is Miss Magdalen Wayne, eighteen years old, and pretty as a picture. Tell Fanny we will be down Friday evening, and let her be on her best behavior. Is Phil with you yet? Best regards if he is, and until Friday, my dear aunt, adieu. Affectionately,
George."
Addressing this to "Miss Lydia Barstone, Golden Willows, Millford, Conn.," Mr. Barstone, with a heavy weight off his manly mind, gave it to a waiter to post, and went down-stairs to dinner.
