Part 3 (1/2)
”Oh, no! PLEASE, Pa!”
Her father studied her coldly, while the table waited with bated breath.
”Pittsville,” he resumed in a measured voice, without moving his eyes from his third daughter, ”is, as usual, making a very strong and a most undignified claim for the Park. They wish it to be known as the Pittsville Casino. But Selwyn told me to-day that our people propose to take a leading share of the liability and to call the Park the Monroe Grove.”
He paused. His listeners exchanged glances of surprise and gratification.
”Not that there's a tree there now!” Martie said cheerfully.
It was an unfortunate speech, breaking irreverently as it did upon this moment of exaltation. Lydia hastily came to Martie's relief.
”Pa! ISN'T that splendid--for Grandfather Monroe! I think that's very nice. They know what this town would have amounted to without HIM! All those fine reference books in the library--and files and files of bound magazine's! And didn't he give the property for the church?”
Every one present was aware that he had; there was enthusiastic a.s.sent about the table.
”They propose,” Malcolm added as a climax, ”to erect a statue of Leonard Monroe in a prominent place in that Park; my gift.”
”Pa!” said a delighted chorus. The girls' s.h.i.+ning eyes were moist.
”It was Selwyn's idea that there should be a fund for the cost of the statue,” their father said. ”But as the town will feel the added taxation in any case, I propose to make that my gift. The cost is not large, the time limit for paying it indefinite.”
”Twenty thousand dollars?” Martie, who had a pa.s.sion for guessing, ventured eagerly.
”Not so much.” But Malcolm was pleased to have the reality so much more moderate than the guess. ”Between two and three thousand.”
”Some money!” Leonard exclaimed. He grinned at Martie contemptuously.
”TWENTY!” said he.
”Your sister naturally has not much idea of the value of money,”
Malcolm said, with what was for him rare tolerance. ”Yes, it is a large sum, but I can give it, and if my townspeople turn to me for this tribute to their most distinguished pioneer ...”
During the rest of the meal no other subject was discussed.
The evening was bright with memories and dreams for Martie. When a large dish of stewed apples in tapioca had been eaten, the whole family rose and left the room, and Belle, the little maid, came in wearily, alone, to attack the disordered table. For two hours the sound of running water and the dragging of Belle's heavy feet would be heard in the kitchen. Meanwhile, Belle's mother, in a small house down in the village, would keep looking at the clock and wondering whatever had become of Belle, and Belle's young man would loiter disconsolately at the bridge, waiting.
The three Monroe girls and their mother went into the parlour, Malcolm going across the hall to a dreary library, where he had an old-fas.h.i.+oned cabinet desk, and Lenny gaining a reluctant consent to his request to go down to ”Dutch's” house, where he and Dutch would play lotto.
”Why doesn't Dutch Harrison ever come here to play lotto?” Martie asked maliciously. ”You go to Dutch's because it's right down near Bonestell's and Mallon's and the Pool Parlour!” Leonard shot her a threatening glance, accepted a half-permission, s.n.a.t.c.hed his cap and was gone.
The parlour was large, cold, and uncomfortable, its woodwork brown, its walls papered in dark green. Lydia lighted the fire, and as Leonard had made his escape, Belle brought up a supplementary hodful of coal.
Martie lighted two of the four gas jets, and settled down to solitaire.
Sally read ”Idylls of the King.” Lydia and her mother began to sew, the older woman busy with mending a hopelessly worn table-cloth, the younger one embroidering heavy linen with hundreds of knots. Lydia had been making a parasol top for more than a year. They gossiped in low, absorbed tones of the affairs of friends and neighbours; the endless trivial circ.u.mstances so interesting to the women of a small town.
There were two gas jets, also on hinged arms, beside the white marble fireplace, and one of these Sally lighted, taking her father's comfortable chair. A hood of thin plum-coloured flannel, embroidered in coloured flowers, was on the mantel, with sh.e.l.ls, two pink gla.s.s vases, and a black marble clock. On the old square piano, where yellowing sheets of music were heaped, there was a cover of the same flannel.
Alb.u.ms and gift books, Schiller's ”Bell” with Flaxman plates, and Dante's ”Inferno” with Dore's ill.u.s.trations--lay on the centre table; Martie pushed them back for her game.
She looked a mere overgrown, untidy girl, to whose hair, belt, finger-nails, and shoes she might have attended with advantage. But Martie was a bride to-night, walking the realm of Romance.
She had never had an admirer, nor had Sally. Neither girl admitted it, but it was true. Poor Lydia had had a taste of the joy of life, and a full measure of the sorrow, seven years ago, when Clifford Frost, twelve years her senior, at thirty-one the perfect match, had singled her out for his favour. Martie and Sally could remember how pleasantly exciting it was to have Cliff Frost so much at the house, how Lydia laughed and bloomed! Lydia had been just Sally then: her age, and her double.