Volume II Part 23 (1/2)

”Then I don't mind what they think. Perhaps they'll suppose we've known each other long; but we'll arrange it by-and-by. They'll think the more of it the longer we stay out here,--hear them laugh! I must run back now. I'll send you somebody.”

A round of juvenile applause greeted her as she hurried into the parlor, and a number of grown people smiled quite musically. Her quick woman-wit showed her how to retaliate and divide the embarra.s.sment of the occasion. As she pa.s.sed me she said in an undertone,--”Answer quick!

Who's that fat lady on the sofa, that laughs so loud?”

”Mrs. Cromwell Craggs,” said I, as quietly.

Miss Pilgrim made a satirically low courtesy, and spoke in a modest but distinct voice,--”I really must be excused for asking. I'm a stranger, you know; but is there such a lady here as Mrs. Craggs,--Mrs. _Cromwell_ Craggs? For if so, the present doorkeeper would like to see Mrs.

Cromwell Craggs.”

Then came the turn of the fat lady to be laughed at; but out she had to go and get kissed like the rest of us.

Before the close of the evening, Billy was made as jealous as his parents and I were surprised to see Daniel in close conversation with Miss Pilgrim among the geraniums and fuschias of the conservatory. ”A regular flirtation,” said Billy, somewhat indignantly. The conclusion they arrived at was, that after all no great harm had been done, and that the dear little fellow ought not to be peached on for his fun. If I had known at the time how easily they forgave him, I should have suspected that the offence Billy had led Daniel into committing was not unlikely to be repeated on the offender's own account; but so much as I could see showed me that the ice was broken....

--_Little Brother, and Other Genre Pictures_.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

(BORN, 1836.)

A RIVERMOUTH ROMANCE.

I.

At five o'clock in the morning of the tenth of July, 1860, the front door of a certain house on Anchor Street, in the ancient seaport town of Rivermouth, might have been observed to open with great caution. This door, as the least imaginative reader may easily conjecture, did not open itself. It was opened by Miss Margaret Callaghan, who immediately closed it softly behind her, paused for a few seconds with an embarra.s.sed air on the stone step, and then, throwing a furtive glance up at the second-story windows, pa.s.sed hastily down the street towards the river, keeping close to the fences and garden walls on her left.

There was a ghost-like stealthiness to Miss Margaret's movements, though there was nothing whatever of the ghost about Miss Margaret herself.

She was a plump, short person, no longer young, with coal-black hair growing low on the forehead, and a round face that would have been nearly meaningless if the features had not been emphasized--italicized, so to speak--by the small-pox. Moreover, the brilliancy of her toilet would have rendered any ghostly hypothesis untenable. Mrs. Solomon (we refer to the dressiest Mrs. Solomon, which ever one that was) in all her glory was not arrayed like Miss Margaret on that eventful summer morning. She wore a light-green, shot-silk frock, a blazing red shawl, and a yellow c.r.a.pe bonnet profusely decorated with azure, orange, and magenta artificial flowers. In her hand she carried a white parasol. The newly risen sun, ricocheting from the bosom of the river and striking point-blank on the top-knot of Miss Margaret's gorgeousness, made her an imposing spectacle in the quiet street of that Puritan village. But, in spite of the bravery of her apparel, she stole guiltily along by garden walls and fences until she reached a small, dingy frame-house near the wharves, in the darkened doorway of which she quenched her burning splendor, if so bold a figure is permissible.

Three quarters of an hour pa.s.sed. The suns.h.i.+ne moved slowly up Anchor Street, fingered noiselessly the well-kept bra.s.s knockers on either side, and drained the heeltaps of dew which had been left from the revels of the fairies overnight in the cups of the morning-glories. Not a soul was stirring yet in this part of the town, though the Rivermouthians are such early birds that not a worm may be said to escape them. By and by one of the brown Holland shades at one of the upper windows of the Bilkins Mansion--the house from which Miss Margaret had emerged--was drawn up, and old Mr. Bilkins in spiral nightcap looked out on the sunny street. Not a living creature was to be seen, save the dissipated family cat--a very Lovelace of a cat that was not allowed a night-key--who was sitting on the curbstone opposite, waiting for the hall door to be opened. Three quarters of an hour, we repeat, had pa.s.sed, when Mrs. Margaret O'Rourke, _nee_ Callaghan, issued from the small, dingy house by the river, and regained the door-step of the Bilkins mansion in the same stealthy fas.h.i.+on in which she had left it.

Not to prolong a mystery that must already oppress the reader, Mr.

Bilkins's cook had, after the manner of her kind, stolen out of the premises before the family were up, and got herself married--surrept.i.tiously and artfully married, as if matrimony were an indictable offence.

And something of an offence it was in this instance. In the first place Margaret Callaghan had lived nearly twenty years with the Bilkins family, and the old people--there were no children now--had rewarded this long service by taking Margaret into their affections. It was a piece of subtle ingrat.i.tude for her to marry without admitting the worthy couple to her confidence. In the next place, Margaret had married a man some eighteen years younger than herself. That was the young man's lookout, you say. We hold it was Margaret that was to blame. What does a young blade of twenty-two know? Not half so much as he thinks he does.

His exhaustless ignorance at that age is a discovery which is left for him to make in his prime.

”Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybells window panes,-- Wait till you come to Forty Year!”

In one sense Margaret's husband _had_ come to forty year--she was forty to a day.

Mrs. Margaret O'Rourke, with the baddish cat following closely at her heels, entered the Bilkins mansion, reached her chamber in the attic without being intercepted, and there laid aside her finery. Two or three times, while arranging her more humble attire, she paused to take a look at the marriage certificate, which she had deposited between the leaves of her Prayer-Book, and on each occasion held that potent doc.u.ment upside down; for Margaret's literary culture was of the severest order, and excluded the art of reading.

The breakfast was late that morning. As Mrs. O'Rourke set the coffee-urn in front of Mrs. Bilkins and flanked Mr. Bilkins with the broiled mackerel and b.u.t.tered toast, Mrs. O'Rourke's conscience smote her. She afterwards declared that when she saw the two sitting there so innocent-like, not dreaming of the _comether_ she had put upon them, she secretly and unbeknownt let a few tears fall into the cream-pitcher.

Whether or not it was this material expression of Margaret's penitence that spoiled the coffee does not admit of inquiry; but the coffee was bad. In fact, the whole breakfast was a comedy of errors.

It was a blessed relief to Margaret when the meal was ended. She retired in a cold perspiration to the penetralia of the kitchen, and it was remarked by both Mr. and Mrs. Bilkins that those short flights of vocalism--apropos of the personal charms of one Kate Kearney, who lived on the banks of Killarney--which ordinarily issued from the direction of the scullery we're unheard that forenoon.