“You have a tremendous start with your European reputation, but I’m afraid that will not mean everything for you in America.”
“I know that, too,” the girl admitted. “In many instances it will only make jealousy and suspicion. I have to begin.”
“But there isn’t the shadow of a doubt of your success, my dear, both professionally and socially. I was so proud of you, dear child, at Lady Raynor’s.”
“It was sweet of her to ask me. She only did it because she was so fond of you. Of course I did my prettiest for your sake.”
“And your prettiest brought every one of them to your feet — not only the men but the women. That’s what I admire so much about you, Margaret,” she went on soberly. “Any girl as handsome as you are would have plenty of men admirers, in spite of your professional success. But to have both beauty and success, and yet make friends among the women, as you do — I am so proud of you, Margaret! And you have every right to be proud of yourself.”
The girl was silent. Turning to look at her more closely, Miss Yale saw that her eyes brimmed with tears. “Dear child, what is it? Have I said it wrong?”
“No, no, Mother dear, you never say anything wrong. You may be as proud of me as your generous heart allows, but I shall — never — be proud of myself.”
“Now, child, how absurd! You have ten times — a hundred times — the right to be proud that these sheltered ignorant young creatures have, that never knew danger, and never did anything worthwhile in their lives.”
“Yes — I know,” Margaret answered slowly. “In a sense you are right. And I might have grown almost to feel so — if it were not for Dolly.... You see, no matter how I rebuild myself, I cannot make up to her for the lack of a father, a home, brothers and sisters maybe, a family, a position. I could stand my own loss, my own suffering; I could even honestly feel that I could do enough good work in the world to make up for my own misdoing. But nothing can ever make up to her.” She set her lips tightly and turned her face away. Miss Yale kept silent for a while. Then she spoke, gently.
“That is true, my dear, while you consider her as a child, as a girl. But she is growing up in as much happiness as most children have, with your love and care, and mine. By and by she will marry, I trust, and then she will have her own home and family, and never feel more than a sentimental regret for what after all she does not miss, because she does not know it. When Julie married again, she did grieve for her, but she was so little that she soon got over it. She loves me I think. She loves you dearly. And in another ten years’ time she will be loving somebody else, still better, perhaps. Cheer up, dear child. I can’t bear to have you feel so, when we’re coming home.” Margaret smiled bravely, the kind hand held close in her own. “I’ll be good,” she said. “I won’t do this again, I promise you. But, Mother, while we are on it — do you suppose I’ll ever meet — him?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to, my dear, if you will persist in living in Boston. You know I’m perfectly willing to go to New York with you, or to California. Los Angeles is a fine place for a young doctor.”
“Not another word about that, you immeasurable darling,” Margaret interrupted. “We’ve argued that subject to a finish. I will not take you away from your home city, and I will not go away from you, unless you send me.”
“Well, then, you obstinate child, you may make up your mind to coming face to face with that man, someday, among the other doctors. He stands very high in his profession, I hear — the wretch. But you needn’t be in the least afraid of his knowing you — your mother wouldn’t, scarcely.”
“Have I really changed so much?”
“Changed? Why, you’re inches taller; you are full and round. Dear me, what a scrawny little chicken you were, child! That red hair is copper-brown, copper-black-brown! I never saw such splendid hair. Your color is as different as a red rose from a pink hollyhock. And even your eyes — they say eyes do not change, but I could swear yours are darker. Perhaps it’s the lashes and brows, they are so thick and dark, now. And your whole carriage and bearing — you really have a beautiful manner. Nobody would ever know you. And your aunt, poor dear, is gone. Oh, you’re safe enough.”
“I should hate to meet him, all the same,” said the girl. “But don’t you give another thought to my foolishness, best of women. I’m going to be a credit to you from this hour. We will drop my ‘past’ in this deep blue water, and I’ll take the future standing.”
When the dim blue line of land was sighted, Margaret found to her surprise a lump in her throat, a stir of tender feeling in her heart. She had not imagined that she loved her country in that vital sense. And when the tall towers of New York rose before them, unbelievable height upon height, she turned to Miss Yale with shining eyes.
“I’m glad to come home,” she said.
7. An Unexpected Arrival
Before the blazing logs of the big fireplace of his Adirondack “camp” sat the Reverend Edward Leicester-Briggs, reading the last Churchman. He looked rather more reverend than when puffing up New Hampshire hills, burdened with baskets, or holding a necessarily casual position at the spare table of Miss Joelba Bingham; and the “Leicester” was now ungrudgingly added to the Briggs in all public mention of his name, though some still balked at the hyphen.
His book, after years of calm unhurried labor, had appeared, through an unexceptional publishing house, and held its place in reference libraries, and among other theological works of like character, with dignity if not distinction. Life had given him comfort, and as much honor as his unambitious soul desired, though not perhaps as much as the more ambitious soul of Mrs. Leicester-Briggs desired. She had long entertained a wish to appear in those disconnected announcements “the Bishop of Rhodeshire and Mrs. Leicester-Briggs” — which leave the uninitiated to wonder what this matron is doing with that bishop. As years passed, this hope receded with the dreams of youth, and her present ambitions were mainly maternal.
The soft breeze of a pleasant August afternoon came in at the wide door, opposite the fire, and at the open windows, fluttering the white curtains (Mrs. Leicester-Briggs would have had white curtains on a desert island) and the papers on the long table.
Mr. Briggs rose ponderously and closed the door, reseating himself in comfort. He liked the fire in all weathers in this mountain region. He sat with his back to the stairway at the hall’s end, and did not see a small, curly-headed child, who peeped through the window beside it, and presently climbed in. With the utmost caution she stole up behind him, holding a long wisp of grass in her hand, a fuzzy-tipped slender spear, with which she delicately touched that reverend and somewhat bald crown.
He clapped his hand to it, and turned upon her.
“Now Dolly Yale!” said he. “I’m astonished at you! Little girls mustn’t be rude, you know!”
The child drew back, abashed, but her big dark eyes still twinkled.
“Was that rude?” she asked, shyly.
“Yes, my little dear — you know it was. But I will forgive you. Come and be friends.”
With a most benign expression of countenance, he held out a large white hand. The little girl sidled up slowly and laid her small brown paw in it for a moment, then skipped away again. She ran to the door, pushed aside the sash and looked out; then to the big window opposite the stair, from which the road could be seen for quite a distance; then back to stand by the fire and look at him, asking, “When will Aunt Mary and Sister Margaret come?”
He smiled at her again.
“Not for some time yet, my dear. You must not be impatient. You must trust, and wait.”
The small bright face clouded, almost in tears.
He added, hastily, “Aren’t you happy here in the beautiful hills? Don’t you like visiting us? Better than your school in Germany?”
“Yes,” she admitted, politely, but not with ardor. “But I want my Aunt Mary to come.”
“You love your Aunt Mary very much?”
The child nodded emphatic
ally.
“And Sister Margaret?”
The child nodded less emphatically. “Don’t you love her, too?” pursued the benevolent inquirer, feeling now quite as if he was addressing a Sunday school.
“Oh, yes,” Dolly admitted, “but I don’t see her so much. She didn’t ‘dopt me.”
“You love your adoptive mother best?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love all your adopted brothers and sisters?”
She shook her head at this, with great decision. Her questioner could not but laugh at the bobbing curls, but recovered himself and declared:
“You should love everyone, my little friend, and especially your brothers and sisters. How many have you now, Dolly?”
“Oh, I don’t know, they do not all live with Aunt Mary. Only just Sister Margaret and me.”
“And ‘I,’ Dolly,” he corrected, and the child flushed a little. She was sensitive about her English, being more accustomed to other languages.
A firm step was heard on the gallery above, and the rustling skirts of Mrs. Leicester-Briggs brushed its balustrades and the broad treads of the stairway. She stopped on the lower landing, where the stair turned outward, and stood for a moment scanning the large hall with the housewife’s observant eye; then continued her descent.
“Well, Dorothea, are you having a good time?”
“Yes, ma’am” replied the child, drawing herself up primly.
“Don’t say ‘ma’am,’ Dorothea. ‘Yes’ is sufficient. Do you think you can change your dress for dinner all alone? Eliza has not come back from the village.”
“Yes, ma’am — I mean, yes.”
“That’s right, my dear. You had better run along and begin; it will take you some time, I am sure.”
The child departed rather slowly up the stairs, while her host, who had risen and stood with his broad back to the fire, waved his hand to her.
“She is really a very nice child, my dear, a very nice child,” he said.
His wife agreed with him. “Yes, Mary Yale has better luck with her selections as she grows older. Though they do say, this young doctor is a wonder — and she’s had her on her hands for some ten years or more.”
She went to the center table and arranged the papers in neat equidistant piles, with swift precision; then closed the corner window by the stairway, drawing the curtain into even folds, and arranging the cushions on the seat below.
“Yes,” said her husband. “Yes, I’ve just been reading an account of that special discovery of hers. It does seem surprising that a young woman like that should be so — so prominent.”
“Oh, women do everything nowadays,” she replied. “I confess I do not admire it, myself. It seems to me rather unfeminine! But dear Mary is as proud of her as if she were her own daughter. I simply had to ask her here.”
“When do they arrive? Little Dolly is getting very impatient.”
“I don’t quite know. She wrote last from the other side — they meant to come earlier, but this young woman’s work — or their English visits or something — has kept them.”
She withdrew into the dining room at this, and presently reappeared with a tray, bearing pitcher and glasses, which she set down on a small table in the corner.
“It is really very kind of you, Laura, to have this child on your hands all summer. So much trouble.”
She finally ceased to domineer over the furniture, and seated herself with a little sigh in the chair opposite him.
“It would have been no trouble — if she hadn’t been ill. And no one can be blamed for that, I suppose.” Mrs. Briggs seemed a little aggrieved at finding no one responsible for the child’s illness. “However, that’s all over.”
“Besides,” she added, after a moment’s silence, “I would do a great deal for Mary Yale. I have a deep affection for her — as you know — in spite of her eccentricities.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Laura. She is a fine woman, a very fine woman. And very fond of our Daisy, eh?”
“Yes, indeed. She always was.... It will be a good thing for the child, too — if she doesn’t marry.”
“Oh, she’ll marry fast enough!” said the good man, stretching his legs toward the fire. “Nature takes care of that!”
His wife surveyed him with affection and a general respect, somewhat tempered by a critical view of this particular statement.
“I wish it did,” she said at last, with a sigh that spoke volumes, “but really, Edward — I do think Dr. Armstrong is seriously interested this time.”
“You don’t say so! You don’t say so! Lose our little Daisy at last, eh? Well, well! It is Nature’s law. Nature’s law.”
His wife again considered him as if she thought his faith in Nature quite overdone and that in this particular instance other forces had been at work, but she said nothing.
He gazed at the fire, with a retrospective air. “I had thought — at one time — that Dr. Newcome fancied her. He is a good doctor, too.”
“Yes, indeed,” she assented, “especially with children. But he will never be more than a good practitioner. Dr. Armstrong, now, is brilliant.”
“Yes, he is. He stands very high, indeed. And then he was independent to begin with. That is a great consideration, of course.”
The parental conclave was interrupted at this moment by a quick step on the porch, and the entrance of Miss Daisy herself. She was a little flushed from her walk, and seemed to find the fire quite unnecessary.
“Dear me, Papa! Why will you have a fire in August? This room’s a perfect oven.”
She pulled off her gloves, kissed her parents with promptitude, and proceeded to frisk about the room, opening windows, shoving back curtains, and stirring up the papers on the table, as if looking for something, while her mother and father both regarded her with proud affection.
“Were the Hallocks in?” her mother asked.
“No, Mama, but I met that lady that’s visiting them and the oldest Hallock boy, on the road, as I was coming back. They are all much excited about Miss Yale’s wonderful protegee — want to know when she’s coming, and did I know this and that and the other. They said there was an account of her in the last National View,” and she pursued her search.
Her father regarded her fondly. “She will quite cut you out, my little Daisy.”
“How absurd you are, Edward!” said his wife. “These ‘advanced’ women are never attractive to gentlemen. And doctors, especially —
What are you going to wear tonight, Daisy?” she added, rather disconnectedly.
Daisy looked at her with some amusement. “Why — the pink one I suppose.”
“Why not your new one, dear, that Aunt Mary sent you from Paris?”
“I was rather saving that for some special occasion. It’s so pretty. Oh, here they are!”
“They” were only Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Newcome, who appeared at the door, the former proudly carrying a string of fish, the latter the rods, basket and other impedimenta.
The reverend gentleman rose to greet them.
“Welcome, my gallant Nimrods,” he said. “Or at least—”
“Tobits,” suggested Dr. Newcome, and his companion added, “or Jonahs.”
“How many, today?” inquired Miss Daisy, regarding the silvery victims.
“Don’t bring them any nearer, please,” her mother hastily protested. “I’ll call the cook.”
“I’ll take them to her,” said Dr. Newcome, and disappeared through the dining room door under the stairway.
“Daisy, do give Dr. Armstrong some lemonade. I have it all ready here — you must be so thirsty—” The good lady fairly beamed on him, and urged them both toward the small table in the corner. Dr. Newcome, returning fishless, she intercepted by the fireplace, saying, “Sit right here, now, and rest a little. Where did you go today? Edward, do bring Dr. Newcome a glass of lemonade.”
“Certainly, certainly, with pleasure.” Daisy poured it, her father brought it, and their guest drank it, with
evident satisfaction.
“Thank you,” he said. “We went up Potter’s Creek — and over into Little Brook afterward — had pretty good luck — eighteen.”
“And who caught the most?” pressed Mr. Briggs.
“I’ll have to admit that I did this time.”
“Have to admit — well, I like that!” The older man chuckled, and his wife smiled, too.
“I thought all men loved to brag about their success at fishing,” she said.
“Yes, but some like it more than others, Mrs. Briggs. What excellent lemonade this is. May I have another glass?”
They brought him another one, which he consumed with leisurely appreciation, while in her corner, Miss Daisy politely inquired:
“How many fish did you catch, Dr. Armstrong?”
“Oh, ten or a dozen, I think.”
“How men do love to kill things!”
“Not all the time, Miss Daisy,” he answered, in a low voice. “For instance, I wouldn’t have gone fishing this afternoon if you had been at home.”
“By the way,” said Dr. Newcome, suddenly rising, “we stopped on our way home and got the mail.” He burrowed into various pockets, bringing out papers, magazines and letters which his hostess thankfully seized, and began to sort out on the big table.
“On our way!” said Dr. Armstrong. “That’s a good one! He dragged me two miles out of our way to get that mail, Miss Daisy.”
“Any for me, Mama?” asked that young lady, going forward to see. Her father punctiliously distributed them, and with mutual excuses, all began to examine their respective shares, till Mrs. Briggs suddenly burst forth:
“Why, Daisy — Edward! Look here! Here’s one from Mary Yale. From New York — they’ve landed!” She looked hurriedly at the postmark. “This letter has been delayed! She says they’re coming right up — that — where is it? ‘We leave Monday night.’ Why, that was yesterday! They ought to be here now!”
“Let me see!” said her husband, taking the letter, while Daisy looked over his shoulder. “Why, yes, they ought to have gotten here by now, almost.”
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 59