The White Lady (18 page)

It was almost nine o’clock that evening when the minister made his first call. Perhaps he purposely made his visit late, that there might not be a number of loungers in the vicinity to witness his entrance to the house. He was not anxious to have any more scenes such as had occurred in front of the drugstore, but he was determined to seek out this newcomer and if possible, explain his abrupt appearance in her backyard that first evening.

Constance had spent a weary two hours listening to her grandmother’s stories of the past, for somehow, now that she had left that old life of society, it was not pleasant to her to hear much about it. Those old scenes and people belonged to another girl, a girl with money and social prestige. She was just a plain, everyday girl earning her own living, no better than anyone else. Her friends back there in her past would want nothing to do with her here.

She almost felt like crying that night, for she had worked hard all day. There had been an unusual number of people in for meals, and Norah had to have help. She had been learning a lot about cooking, and though she was interested in it and wanted to do it, it wearied her as any new work will. Norah would not let her wash the dishes nor do anything that would soil her hands; neither would she let her wait upon people in the dining room. She felt that she was the only one in the wide world now to take care of her young lady, and she meant to do it to the best of her ability. Waiting upon common people was no work for a lady, and she would prevent it as long as possible.

But neither Norah nor Constance had been brought up under circumstances calculated to teach them economy, and the first week’s receipts had not been enormously satisfactory. On the whole, Constance was weary and discouraged, and longed for her old life more than she had done since she first left it. There was, too, an undertone of a new want, a want that had been growing upon her ever since she visited her aunt Susan, a want that the Sunday’s sermon had deepened and made more insistent. Then, too, that girl Jennie, with all her odd requests and impertinent questions, was a problem yet unsolved. Constance wished that she might run away from it all.

Her grandmother had been asking some troublesome questions about this house, and who owned it, and why there were not more boarders; and though she expressed herself as very happy so long as her granddaughter cared to remain, Constance could see that she was feeling that it was only a temporary residence, and was looking forward to a return to New York in the near future. She was not sinking into that blissful oblivion to the outside world and its happenings that Constance had hoped for. For instance, she had been very curious to know when Constance had heard last from Morris Thayer and why he did not come to see them. It seemed strange to her, she said, that he should forget them so utterly; of course, Constance had kept him posted as to their whereabouts. And Constance had not dared to tell her that she had not lest the dear old lady should immediately write to some friend and send Morris Thayer the information Constance most earnestly desired he should not have.

It was, therefore, trying, to have Norah come to her and announce that there was a man downstairs who wanted to see her.

“But I’m tired tonight, Norah. I don’t want to see anyone,” she said irritably. “Who is it? What is his name?”

“Indade he niver guv it me, ma’am, an’ me bein’ so onused to door-tendin’ niver thunk to ast. He’s a gintlemon, though, ivery bit, an’ it’ll mebbe do ye a bit gude to tahk wid him.”

Constance turned on her with sudden suspicion.

“What do you mean, Norah? It’s no one from home, surely? It’s not Mr. Thayer?”

“No, indade, Miss Connie. Sure, did yez thank I’d be afther a kapin’ me muth shet ef ’twas the loikes ov anny of thim? It’s sumbuddy as lives in the toiwne, an’ he axes right p’lite, cud he see Miss Wetherill.”

Constance unconsciously gave a glance in the glass as she passed, and a touch to her hair. She was curious to know who would call. Perhaps someone wished to engage regular board. That might be a help. She swept down the stairs with her regal manner, and the minister, waiting for her in the library—for Norah had not dared admit him to the inner room without her mistress’s permission—looked up to wonder and admire.

There was something winning in his smile, and his eyes had a way of lighting up that made them handsome. Constance could not help answering with another smile.

“Will you ask me again, Miss Wetherill, what I am doing here, and give me a chance to explain myself?” he asked, and Constance, knowing at once what he meant, laughed merrily.

“I understand,” she said. “You need not explain. You took me for the white lady who lives in this ‘haunted’ house. Jimmy has told me all about her, and I have quite enjoyed the joke.”

He watched her face as she spoke, noting the pretty curves of her lip and cheek and chin, the ease of her pose, the perfect grace of every line in her slight figure, the soft, well-modulated voice. He wondered where she dropped from and what good fortune, or ill, sent her to Rushville to keep a tearoom.

“Won’t you sit down?” she said. “No, not in here. We are liable to interruption.” She pushed back the curtains and led him into the room beyond.

Instantly his face changed. Delight, appreciation, spoke in every feature. Ah! Here was a room that spoke forth the character of its occupant. His mental vision compared it to his own suite of apartments at Mrs. Bartlett’s. Here were luxury and ease and all the beautiful things to which he had never been accustomed, and yet which his soul naturally recognized and appreciated.

“Oh, this is a good place to rest and talk,” he said as he settled into the great easy chair to which Constance motioned him. Everything there was a delight to his beauty-starved eyes. Constance, looking at him, saw the sharp outline of his face in the soft lamplight and thought he looked tired. She touched the little bell, and when Norah appeared, told her to bring them some tea; and presently Norah, acting on her own advice, set before them a tray containing tea, dainty sandwiches, and little cakes, and the coziness seemed complete.

Doubtfully had the minister entered the haunted house; well had he drilled himself in the thought that it was late and he must not stay long; many times had he told himself that he must go cautiously, because he really knew nothing about this strange girl. Nevertheless, he stayed a whole hour and a half. After they had finished the tea and cakes and had talked about a number of books that lay upon the table, some of which he had read—and all of which he had read about and longed to read, but had neither the time nor the books—he turned toward the piano lovingly as to an old friend and said almost pleadingly: “You will play me something, Miss Wetherill? I have had no music since I left college, and I long to hear some again. My chum was quite a musician and had a piano in his room, and many’s the hour I have lain and listened to him play.”

She sat down at the piano, and then of course the time flew by on wings. He closed his eyes and reveled in the sound, then opened them to steal glances at the player. He could scarcely believe his senses as he sat there amid those sounds, with this lovely woman playing for him. He must be mistaken. Was he not back in Mrs. Bartlett’s second-story back room with the red-and-green ingrain carpet, dreaming wild dreams that would never be realities?

But suddenly the music ceased, and he knew it had been real and that it must be late. Mrs. Bartlett would be on the watch, and if it were a possible thing, would discover where he had been, by the law of elimination if by no other method. She would begin on Lamper’s baby and inquire whether it was dying or whether old Deacon Trumpet had had another bad spell, and she would find out every place where he had been or had not been that day. He must hurry away. Besides, what did Miss Wetherill think of his staying so long this first time? He had enjoyed himself so much that he had forgotten everything else. He had even forgotten to find out what kind of a person she was and whether she would take a Sunday school class. They would have to wait until another time now, and he sadly reflected that the other times must be few and far between if he would not have Mrs. Bartlett and all the other good ladies of his congregation after him with their sharp tongues.

He stood, hat in hand, preparatory to going, when he remembered some of his reasons for coming. It would have been easier to ask her certain questions before he had listened to her music, for now he felt she was so far above him in many ways that it seemed presumptuous to think of helping her. He looked at her hesitatingly and then said, “You have given me a great deal of pleasure this evening, and your music has almost made me forget to ask you what you meant last evening. I hope you are a Christian, Miss Wetherill.”

Constance felt a sudden chilly breath sweep over her with a realization of something that troubled her. She had not known before that this subject had become a vital one to her, but now it seemed like something she could not get away from. It pursued her everywhere in this new home. The minister’s call, the first touch with her own native world of culture that she had had since coming to Rushville, had made her forget the new life with all its perplexities for a little while. She had heartily enjoyed talking about her favorite books and music with one who knew and loved them, and she had found many a gleam of appreciation in the dark eyes that met hers as they were talking or as she looked up from her playing. She had a pleasant sense of companionship with one who would understand her mood. But now, with his few quiet words, all was changed, and a cloud settled upon her sweet brow.

“I do not know,” she answered simply after a pause. “I have always supposed I was, that is, in a way, but a number of things lately have made me feel that I am not. Your sermon made me feel so. I never heard a sermon just like that, or perhaps I never listened to one before. I do not understand the kind of life you spoke of. I wish I did. It seems ideal and impossible.”

“It is not impossible,” he said earnestly. “I should like to tell you all that Christ has been to me.”

Constance, watching him, could not but compare this man with Morris Thayer. She felt that he had something of which Morris did not possess.

“I should like to hear it,” she answered gravely.

He did not linger much longer, and when he was gone Constance went to her room thoughtfully. She had enjoyed this evening. The young minister was interesting and had a keen sense of humor. She smiled as she recalled several witty stories he had told. How different he was from Morris Thayer!

He could not be a great man probably, else he would not be preaching in this out-of-the-way place, but he had fine traits, and it was easy to see that his tastes and instincts were right. Then, too, he was not lacking in education. He could appreciate Chopin and Beethoven.

Altogether, she was glad he had called. It had made a pleasant break in the secluded life she led.

She went to sleep with a dreamy satisfaction in the finding of one congenial friend in her exile.

T
he minister knelt long beside his study chair that night. How soon might he go and tell her more about his Lord? It must not be at once, for he must go cautiously. There were many tongues to wag in Rushville, and they made as loud a clamor as the katydids when they began. He did not wish to have them turned upon him. He could almost imagine it. “Mr. Endicott did! Yes, he did! I know he did!” And few would be the voices on the other side to say, “No, he didn’t! I say he didn’t!” He must just put that matter into the hands of the Lord, and ask Him when to go. There would be some guidance, he felt sure. With all his heart he wished a way might open for him to visit Miss Wetherill frequently, for the music and the talk had put into his life an element that had been lacking since he had left college, for which he often felt a great longing. There were few people of culture in Rushville, but there were many quiet homes of true refinement, where the opportunities for culture had been lacking. In these he was a welcome visitor and enjoyed many restful hours. Nevertheless, there were not many where music in its highest forms was even understood, much less was a part of the daily life, and where the latest books were read and discussed; neither was there a single home where art and luxury united to make beautiful surroundings. This plain man, born in a plain home, surrounded all his life with the simplest of this world’s goods and seeing luxury only occasionally and from afar, yet loved beautiful surroundings and was rested by them.

It came about through old Mrs. Wetherill.

She had declared a wish, one day, to take a drive. She seemed to forget that they had moved and that the car had been left in New York. For a moment Constance thought she would leave her unaware, but then she reflected that it would be impossible, for her grandmother would at once notice that the car was not their own, so she said gently, “Well, Grandmother, you know we didn’t have the car sent down. But I think I can get one here. You lie down and rest a bit while I go out to see.”

“Send a servant, child. Don’t go yourself. It isn’t becoming, even in the country,” said the old lady. “It’s likely they have a garage here, or a telephone, at least.”

“All right, Grandmother,” said Constance, slipping away quickly, as she always did when her grandmother began to ask troublesome questions. There were a great many of these, and Constance sometimes felt as if she were living in a web of deception, and was tempted to tell the old lady the whole truth now that they were established here. Her grandmother seemed tolerably comfortable, but some little sentence would so often reveal how utterly shaken to its foundations her grandmother’s life would be if she should discover the true state of their finances, how perfectly crushed and humiliated to know her granddaughter was earning her living by keeping a tearoom. Why disturb her last days by so great a revolution? It was too late to change her ideas and show her that a girl who earned her living by making toast and coffee for Holly Beech was just as good as when she made chocolate and served it with expensive wafers to Morris Thayer in her New York reception room.