Part 13 (2/2)

”Real pleasant,” replied Mrs. Field. Mrs. Lowe sat down in one of the plush chairs. To seat herself for a few minutes before announcing dinner was, she supposed, a matter of etiquette. She held up her long rasped chin with a curt air, and, in spite of herself, her voice also was curt. She was too thorough a New England woman to play with any success softening lights over the steel of her character. She disdained to, and she was also unable to. She was not pleased to receive these unexpected guests, and she showed it.

As soon as she thought it decently practicable, she gave a significant look at her brother and arose. ”I guess we'll walk out to dinner now,” said she, with solemn embarra.s.sment. Mrs. Lowe had nothing of her brother's ease of manner; indeed, she entertained a covert scorn for it. ”Daniel _can_ be dreadful smooth an' fine when he sets out,” she sometimes remarked to her daughter. The lawyer's suave manner seemed to her downrightness to border upon affectation.

She, however, had a certain respect for it as the probable outcome of his superior education.

She marched ahead stiffly now, and left her brother to his flouris.h.i.+ng seconding of her announcement. Flora and the children received them beamingly when they entered the dining-room. Flora was quite sure that she remembered Mrs. Maxwell, she was glad to see her, and she was glad to see Lois, and they would please sit right ”here,”

and ”here.” She had taken off the children's pinafores and washed their faces, and they stood aloof in little starched and embroidered frocks, with their cheeks pinker than ever.

Flora seated one on each side of her, as she had said. ”Now, you must be good and not tease,” she whispered admonis.h.i.+ngly, and their blue eyes stared back at her with innocent gravity, and they folded their small hands demurely.

Nevertheless, it was through them that the whole dignity of the meal was lost. If they had not been present, it would have pa.s.sed off with a strong undercurrent of uneasiness and discomfort, yet with composure. Mr. Tuxbury would have helped the guests to beefsteak, and the rest of the family would have preferred the warmed-up veal stew.

Or had the guests looked approvingly at the stew, the scanty portion of beefsteak would have satisfied the furthest desires of the family.

But the perfect understanding among the adults did not extend to the two little girls. They leaned forward, with their red lips parted, and watched their uncle anxiously as he carved the beefsteak. There was evidently not much of it, and their anxiety grew. When it was separated into three portions, two of which were dispensed to the guests, and the other, having been declined by their grandmother and mother, was appropriated by their uncle, anxiety lapsed into certainty.

”I want some beefsteak!” wailed each, in wofully injured tones.

Mr. Tuxbury set his mouth hard, and pushed his plate with a jerk toward his niece. Her face was very red, but she took it--she was aware there was no other course open--divided the meat impartially, and gave each child a piece with a surrept.i.tious thump.

Mr. Tuxbury, with a moodily knitted forehead and a smiling mouth, asked the guests miserably if they would have some veal stew. It was perfectly evident that if they accepted, there would be nothing whatever left for the family to eat. They declined in terrified haste; indeed, both Lois and her mother had been impelled to pa.s.s their portions of beefsteak over to the children, but they had not dared.

The children wished for veal stew also, and when they had eaten their meagre spoonfuls, clamored persistently for more.

”There isn't any more,” whispered their mother, with two little vigorous side-shakes. ”If you don't keep still, I shall take you away from the table. Ain't you ashamed?”

Then the little girls pouted and sniffed, but warily, lest the threat be carried into effect.

The rest of the family tried to ignore the embarra.s.sing situation and converse easily with the guests, but it was a difficult undertaking.

Lois bent miserably over her plate, and every question appeared to shock her painfully. She seemed an obstinately bashful young girl, to whom it was useless to talk. Mrs. Field replied at length to all interrogations with a certain quiet hardness, which had come into her manner since her daughter's arrival, but she never started upon a subject of her own accord.

It was a relief to every one when the meagre dinner lapsed into the borrowed pie. Mrs. Low cut it carefully into the regulation six pieces, while the children as carefully counted the people and watched the distribution. The result was not satisfactory. The older little girl, whose sense of injury was well developed, set up a shrill demand.

”I want a piece of Mis' Bennett's pie,” said she. ”Mother, I want a piece of Mis' Bennett's pie!”

The younger, viewing the one piece of pie remaining in the plate and her clamorous sister, raised her own jealous little pipe. ”I want a piece of Mis' Bennett's pie,” she proclaimed, pulling her mother's sleeve. ”Mother, can't I have a piece of Mis' Bennett's pie?”

Flora's face was very red, and her mouth was twitching. She hastily pushed her own pie to the elder child, and gave the last piece on the plate to the younger. Their grandmother frowned on them like a rock, but they ate their pie unconcernedly.

”I think Mis' Bennett's pie is a good deal better than grandma's,”

said the younger little girl, smacking her lips contemplatively; and Flora gave a half-chuckle, while her mother's severity of mien so deepened that she seemed to cast an actual shadow.

”Now, Flora, I tell you what 'tis,” said she, when the meal was at last over and the guests were gone--they took their leave very soon afterward--”if you don't punish them children, I shall.”

There was a wail of terror from the little girls. ”Oh, mother, you do it, you do it!” cried they.

Flora giggled audibly.

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