“To return to this reprehensible boy, did he say his first name was Hiram? He’s named after his father! And he’s a shame and disgrace to an honorable name. Didn’t he tell you his name was Hiram?”
“Oh, no,” said Margaret. “He said his name was Revel. He is named after his mother’s family.”
“Exactly! There you have it! Disloyal to his father, that’s what I call it. His father is one of the foremost businessmen in town, and everybody defers to him, and yet that boy has the nerve to go around calling himself Revel. I never knew the Revels myself. They live in another state, but I should imagine they were kind of a shiftless lot. I know Mr. Radcliffe never had much to do with them. And as for his wife, she was a colorless little thing, never took any part in civic affairs, and kept to herself most of the time. She had an unhappy, discontented look around her mouth. I never could stand that. A woman who lived in the finest house in town and had all the servants she could possibly use, even in that big house! And yet with all that, and new silk dresses every time the season changed, she used to go around with the most forlorn look in her eyes, a look as if she’d been crying all night. Spoiled child, I’ll say she was!”
Then Margaret remembered how Revel had told her that his father had made his mother unhappy, and looking at the smug, complacent set of Mrs. Martin’s lips, her heart jumped at once to the defense of the woman whose boy had loved her so. Impulsively, she opened her lips in defense of Revel’s dead mother and then remembered that nothing she, a stranger, could say would have weight with a woman like Mrs. Martin. So she closed her lips firmly and set a watch before them. Anyway this was something she had not a right to discuss.
Mrs. Martin rambled on with her analysis of young Radcliffe’s character, but Margaret said no more, and as soon as opportunity offered she asked a question about some night bird whose call she had heard as she slipped through the hedge. She got Mrs. Martin off to discussing birds, especially the edible ones of which she had a great many in her chicken yard, dove cote, and down at her duck pond. And somehow the conversation drifted away from dangerous topics.
Margaret had hoped that Mrs. Martin would be able to tell her a little bit about the days when her mother lived there, but Mrs. Martin didn’t at all remember the little girl who had gone away when she was only in grammar school and had later married an unknown person named Weldon, so there was not much information to be extracted from her on that subject.
After the evening meal Mrs. Martin got out an old photograph album, and Margaret had to hear long, monotonous stories of the people enshrined in it. Her thoughts wandered away from the dreary stories of men and women who had lived and died in that vicinity. Only once did her interest rouse, and that was when she caught the familiar face of her mother’s old teacher.
“Oh, that is my mother’s dear teacher, Miss Hammitt. My mother loved her very much.”
“Miss Hammitt?” echoed Mrs. Martin sourly. “Oh, yes, Miss Hammitt! I remember her. She was a teacher I never could bear. She never would pay any attention to you if you raised your hand to say something. She said that if scholars would give attention, they wouldn’t need to ask so many questions. I remember once I tried to tell her that the boy across the aisle from me was spearing a spider with his pen point and putting him in his inkwell. He said he was pickling that spider. It was horrid, and I thought the teacher ought to know what was going on, so I raised my hand to tell her, but no, she wouldn’t recognize me, so I had to stand and call it out to her. I simply couldn’t endure it to see that poor spider suffering such agonies. You say she was your mother’s teacher? Poor child! I always felt sorry for anyone who was doomed to be in her classes.”
“Oh, but Mother loved her very much, Mrs. Martin!” said Margaret.
“Well, then, it couldn’t have been the same Miss Hammitt, for your mother never could love her, I’m sure. I thought she was utterly unfair in every way. She called me down once for telling a boy who sat in front of me that his neck was dirty. Imagine that, calling a nice, neat girl down for advising a boy to wash his neck.”
“Well,” said the girl quietly, “I suppose it makes a difference under what circumstances you see a person. Mother loved Miss Hammitt very much. But who is this sweet lady on the opposite page. Was that your mother, Mrs. Martin?”
“ ‘Sweet old lady’? Who, that woman? No, that wasn’t my mother, that was my mother-in-law, and she was anything but sweet! She certainly made my life miserable while she lived. She had to live with us, and it was most uncomfortable. Fortunately, she didn’t live long after she came here, but she made a lasting impression while she was here. I don’t know why I ever left her picture in the album. My husband put it there, and I’ve never taken the trouble to remove it. But I don’t see how she could look sweet to you, even though she is a stranger. She was a very trying woman. Now there, next to her was a good woman, Mrs. Fordyce.” Mrs. Martin pointed to the next picture, a woman with a very determined mouth, and hard eyes. “She ran for the office of poor inspector, and she certainly saved the county money. No one could put anything over on her. She didn’t believe in having a lot of whining poor around. She got them all jobs. Of course, there was a lot of complaint from lazy people who had been used to being on relief, but she certainly was a worker. She would go around teaching people to do things to earn their living. She taught one woman to hemstitch handkerchiefs and do petit point, till she went blind and had to be sent to the county home. Mrs. Fordyce was my second cousin, and I was always proud to own her as a relation.”
Margaret was relieved when at last the quaint old clock in the hall struck nine and Mrs. Martin decided that since the travelers would be leaving early the next morning it was time for a young girl to retire.
As she knelt to pray, Margaret thought of Revel and wondered what he would do. He had seemed so desolate. She wondered if he had found some solution to his problem. “Heavenly Father, show him some way out of his trouble, or else make him very strong to endure it. Please, make him happy somehow, dear Lord,” she added at the end.
The next morning while they were eating breakfast there came a knock at the side door, and Susie brought in a box, neatly wrapped.
“It’s for Miss Margaret,” she explained to the mistress of the house, who was holding out her hand for the package.
“For Miss Margaret?” repeated Mrs. Martin with a bewildered look on her face. “Why, who could be sending her a package? You didn’t buy anything yesterday, did you, Margaret? Who brought it, Susie?”
“Why, it was just that Radcliffe boy,” explained Susie. “He said it was flowers and they was all wrapped to travel.”
“Flowers! What presumption! The idea of that unspeakable boy daring to give my guest flowers! I wish you had called me, Susie. Go to the door and call him back. I’ll make him understand that he can’t presume with my guests.”
But Margaret was quick to understand. She took the box in her hands and held it firmly.
“Oh, please don’t, Mrs. Martin,” she said calmly. “It’s just some wildflowers he knew I wanted, and he has been very kind to get them for me. He knew I was looking for them, but it was too dark to find any.”
“How do you know it is flowers, Margaret? It might be some kind of an infernal machine. You can’t trust that boy. He would just delight to play a trick on anybody who was staying here. Open it carefully. It might be something that would go off. I’ve read of such things, and sometimes they go off with quite a noise. Be careful, and hold it away from your eyes.”
Margaret was very angry, but she rightly judged that the quickest way to end this annoyance was to open the box. It was fastened with rubber bands, and swiftly she slipped them off, lifted the lid of the tin box, and turned back the tissue paper lining, disclosing a fine dewy collection of hepaticas and anemones lying in a bed of maidenhair ferns. Margaret caught her breath with their loveliness, and then she held the box where her hostess could see it.
“There they are! Aren’t they lovely? Oh, I’m so glad
to have them! Mother used to love them so, and she told me just where to look for them, but it was rather dark when I got there.”
Mrs. Martin stepped cautiously around the table to examine them.
“Why, they’re nothing but weeds!” she said contemptuously. “I think it is an insult to bring you flowers like that. But it’s just what I would expect of that boy!”
“Oh, they are exactly what I wanted,” said Margaret, her face wreathed in happy smiles, “and he has brought them with the roots on them. I can set them out and make them grow when I get there! See! He has packed them in wet moss. I’m sure they’ll keep. I can open them at night, on the way, sprinkle them, and give them a little air, and I think they’ll be all right, don’t you?”
“But, my dear! You wouldn’t cart a lot of weeds like that across the continent. Just because some silly lovesick boy got up early and dug them up for you?”
“Oh, Mrs. Martin! How disgusting! That’s a terrible word for you to use! Lovesick! Why, we’re nothing but kids, either of us, and I never saw him before, nor he me. Please don’t even think such things. I told the boy I was looking for some of the flowers my mother used to love, and he was just being polite and getting me what I wanted. I’m very pleased to have them to take with me, and you’ll please not say anything more about it. Just forget it!”
“And you are determined to take them with you? You wouldn’t consent to let me return them to him with a proper reproof for his impertinence? I’m sure I don’t know what the people of the town will think of you, and of me for allowing this, unless I send them back to him.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, appalled at the suggestion. “How on earth would the people of the town know anything about it? Unless of course you choose to go out and tell them. Even so, I’m sure I don’t see what harm it would do! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better run up and put on my hat. I see my uncle has come downstairs and gone out to the car. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
With the box of flowers clasped in her arms, she went swiftly up the stairs to her room. And when she came down a few minutes later, the box was wrapped in her coat and firmly strapped together with other things.
But Mrs. Martin maintained her air of disapproval all through the farewell ceremony, and as they were about to drive away she remarked, “Well, I still think you are very unwise to hang on to those flowers, and I’m sure I hope that you will have no communication with that boy, not even to send a mistaken ‘thank-you’ to him. That is the only condition under which I could consent to protect that boy and not let the town know what he has dared to do. Remember, he is fairly well known in this neighborhood.”
Margaret looked at her steadily for a moment and then said quite quietly, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Martin. You will have to do what you think is right, of course. And now I must thank you for your hospitality. I’ve enjoyed being in my mother’s old hometown for a few hours very much, and it was very lovely to see it in the springtime. Good-bye!”
Mr. Devereaux, the uncle, made his elderly adieu, and they were presently started on their way once more. Margaret was glad that her uncle, a much older brother of Margaret’s father, with a quaint sense of humor, did not seem to have noticed Mrs. Martin’s remarks, and there was therefore no need to explain. For Mrs. Martin was his old friend’s widow, and it would not have been courteous for Margaret to burst forth with complaints of their hostess. So Margaret rode on through the lovely spring day, fairly boiling with rage at the vindictive old woman and wishing she knew some way to protect Revel Radcliffe from her unpleasant tongue.
But Margaret, try as she would, was unable to keep her thoughts from the boy whose sorrow had so touched her heart. Missing her own mother as she did, it was impossible for her not to know how the boy had felt. She kept wondering what he would do, what he ought to do.
When they stopped at noon for lunch and then to rest a few minutes, she took the occasion to slip into the lobby of the hotel and find a desk, and there write a brief note of thanks for the flowers. If afterward any words of Mrs. Martin should reach his ears, at least he would not think her ungrateful.
Dear Revel,
What a beautiful surprise you gave me this morning, bringing those lovely dewey flowers for me to take with me! I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is just what I wanted, to get fresh ones, with roots.
But I am sorry that you went away so quickly. I would have liked to thank you and to say good-bye. I hope you will get this tonight, or at least tomorrow, and then you will know that I am grateful.
Now I hope God will show you what to do, and that you will find a happy solution to your difficulties.
I shall not forget to pray for you, and I would be glad to know how you come out with your decision, that is, if you do not mind having a stranger know about your troubles.
Your friend and well-wisher,
Margaret Weldon
She slipped the letter into the hotel postbox and then told her uncle she was ready to go whenever he was, so they were soon on their way again. But the interval, and the letter she had written, made Margaret feel as if she had been talking with the boy again.
Chapter 3
After the maid had gone into the house and he could see her no longer, Revel slid through the hedge and made his way by devious brief paths well known to himself. Arriving at the rear lot of his home, he stopped to take in the situation. His father, he knew, had intended going out that evening to a meeting of some businessmen, and it was long after his usual time for leaving, but Revel was wary. His father might be so annoyed at his absence that he had delayed going. So he slid around the house furtively and watched for indications.
There were the usual lights in the kitchen regions, showing that the servants were still downstairs, probably eating their own dinner. The lights were burning on the porch and in the front hall. The big living room was lit dimly, probably with one lamp as usual, unless there were guests. He hurried around to the other side of the house, but there was no light in the library. If his father were at home, that was where he would likely be. But the library was dark. So were the upstairs windows, except where the upper hall light would penetrate.
It was with relief that he stepped cautiously up the front porch, turned the front doorknob warily, and let himself into the hall. There was no sign of his father, and though he drew a breath of relief, still that same desolate lonely feeling came over him that so often came when he went home and found no one there to be glad he had come, no one even to be sorry.
He was well practiced in silent going, but this time he was aware that the doors through the butler’s pantry into the kitchen were both open, for there was a sudden cessation of the low grumble of conversation that had been going on, and a sense of intense listening. An instant later Irving, the butler, appeared, shuffling in his slippers.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Hiram. Your father certainly was upset that you didn’t come to dinner. He said he told you he wanted to talk to you.”
Revel lifted his young chin defensively.
“Sorry,” he said haughtily, “I couldn’t come then. You needn’t bother about my dinner. I don’t want anything.”
Revel made a dash for the stairs and hurried up.
“Your dinner’s here on a plate in the warming oven,” admonished the butler, lifting his habitual formal voice a trifle. But Revel went on to his room and closed and locked the door. The butler came out into the hall and looked up the stairs, listening, and finally went slowly back to the kitchen, shaking his head and mumbling. Then he and the cook held a long grumbling conversation. They had been servants in the house since Revel was a baby and were really attached to him, though they knew on which side their bread was buttered and never dared openly to take the boy’s part. But they were set at heart to care for his well-being if it didn’t involve any break with the master, to whom they gave the utmost deference.
The outcome of the kitchen conversation was that Irving prepared a plate with a
tasty little dinner upon it—a bit of chicken and stuffing, some mashed potato with gravy, two biscuits with butter, a glass of milk, and a neat piece of apple pie. He carried it up to the young master’s door.
“Mr. Hiram, I don’t think you should go to your bed without a bite to eat. If you’ll just unlock your door, I’ll set the tray on the table. Then if you get hungry later, why, it’ll be there.”
Revel drew an annoyed sigh, but the habitual order of obedience prevailed, and he opened the door.
The old servant set down the tray, drew up a convenient chair, poked the grate fire and put another stick on it, and then looked at the boy.
“You feeling all right, Mr. Hiram?” he asked anxiously.
Revel gave him a fleeting grin.
“Oh, sure!” he said. “Thank you, Irving. I just didn’t want to make you and Mandy any trouble. But that looks good.”
But after the man had left with a lingering glance of anxiety, Revel sat for several minutes staring at the door through which he had gone. Here was another who would be affected by the new order of things. Irving had been devoted to Revel’s mother. How would he and Mandy stand it, waiting on a stranger in her place? His desperate eyes rested meditatively for an instant on the bright flames that were leaping up now in the fireplace. It all spoke of the kindness of these old servants. The plate of hot food before him, with its savory odor, was beginning to get his attention and to tell him that he was really hungry. After a little he swung around in his chair and began to eat the dinner, but his mind kept going back to the girl who had come upon him weeping. She was a swell kid. She hadn’t laughed at him nor kidded him. She’d been as nice as Mother, or perhaps a real sister, would. Never having had one, he couldn’t know how a sister would act, but he liked her, and he liked her name, too, Margaret Weldon. He had a feeling that she was a girl his mother would have liked, and she would have liked his mother, too. It warmed his heart to think about it. To think she had come out to get flowers that her mother used to love, and she had found him bawling at a fancied indignity to his mother. And she had understood. Not everybody would understand, but she had. She was a swell kid. In a way their mothers had sort of linked them together!
The Girl of the Woods Page 3