Reels and Spindles: A Story of Mill Life

"What are you asking? Look, you've wet my cuffs! Your hands just out of hot water and all liniment!"

"Never mind your cuffs. Look out for your heart. You're a poor, lonely old fellow, and I'm sorry for you."

Before he knew what she was about, Amy had thrown her arms about her cousin's neck and imprinted a kiss – somewhere. It didn't much matter that it landed squarely on the tip of his pudgy nose. Archibald Wingate was so little in the habit of receiving kisses that he might easily have imagined this was quite the customary place for their bestowal.

CHAPTER XXI.

A PECULIAR INVITATION

It would be difficult to tell which was the most startled. Amy stepped back from the unresponsive object of her affectionate impulse and blushed furiously. She feared that he would think her bold and silly, yet she had only meant to be kind, to comfort him because she pitied him. Now, she was painfully conscious that Marshall was standing near, coolly observant, with a cynical smile upon his thin lips. It was a curious fact, which Amy instantly recognized, that this master of whom so many people stood in awe should himself stand in awe of his own valet.

"Ahem – shall I remove the bath, sir? Has the young person finished?"

Amy had not been accustomed to hearing herself spoken of as a "person," and the word angered her. This restored her self-possession. She looked up, laughing.

"I don't know how I came to do that, cousin Archibald. I hope you'll forgive me."

"Oh, I'll forgive you. I don't know how you did it, either. Well, man, why are you standing there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I tell you she has finished. You can take away the things."

"Very well; it is time for your nap, sir."

The worm turned. "What if I don't take one to-day? What will happen?"

"I don't know, sir, except that you will probably be ill. The doctor's orders are, when you have an attack – "

"Hang you and the doctor and the attacks, all together! You can leave the room, can't you? When I want you, I'll ring."

Because he was too astonished to do otherwise, Marshall obeyed. He was a privileged person. His master did not often cross his will. There being no other apparent heirs, Marshall had, in his own imagination, constituted himself Mr. Wingate's heir. Why not? A lifelong service, an untiring devotion to whims of all sorts, a continual attention to the "creature comforts" which were so greatly a part of Archibald's life – these merited a rich reward. Marshall intended to receive this reward, should he be lucky enough to outlive his employer. He felt that he would fill the position of owner of Fairacres with dignity and profit. He did not like this new interest Mr. Wingate was taking, by fits and starts, in the deposed family who were his relatives and – enemies. In Marshall's opinion the breech between these kinsfolk ought not to be healed. Amy's presence in the house was a disastrous portent. She must be gotten out of it as soon as possible, and in such a way that she would not care to come again. But how?

The servant revolved this question, as he carried away the bath, and so profoundly that he failed to notice where he was going and stepped down a forgotten stair so unexpectedly that he fell and drenched himself with the water from the tub.

"Plague on her! Now, I'm in for it!" Which meant that before he could remove the damage to his attire Amy would probably have gained whatever she came to seek. He did not believe that anybody would visit his master without having "an axe to grind," for he judged all men by himself.

However, having tasted the sweets of rebellion against this iron rule of Marshall, Mr. Wingate determined to enjoy it further.

"He's a meddling old fool. He's a good servant, too. There isn't another man in the world would put up with my tempers as he does. Never a word in return, and as smooth as silk."

Amy laughed. "He looks to me as if he had had his hair licked by kittens. It's so slick and flat. Do you have to mind him always?"

"Mind him? I– mind my servant, eh?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course – "

Mr. Wingate's face was scarlet. The weakness which he had hardly acknowledged to himself had been instantly discovered by this bright-eyed girl. It wasn't a pleasant thing to have so observant a person about. He had something to say to her, however, and he would do it at once and get rid of her. All his newly aroused affection died in his resentment against her judgment.

"I want to go to the studio. There is something there I don't mean to keep, and don't wish to destroy, without consulting some of you."

Amy followed him quietly out of the house toward the building where her father had spent so many hours, and which she held in strictest veneration. Did it not still enclose the "great picture" which even she had never seen, and which had been kept screened from the sight of all?

So she still expected to find the white curtain undisturbed; and as she entered the studio, paused – amazed. The canvas covered the end of the apartment; but after one hasty glance Amy shielded her eyes in a distress that was almost terror.

"Hmm. It is very realistic, isn't it? The thing is horrible. I don't wonder that Cuthbert's wits got scattered, working on it. It would drive me crazy in a week, and I'm a hard, matter-of-fact man. I kept it, because by right I might have kept everything that was here. I supposed I was getting something worth while. But this! I don't want it. I couldn't sell it. I hate to destroy it. What's to be done?"

"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!"

"So do I. I see it sometimes in the night and then I can't sleep. I mean I imagine I see it, for I never come here after dark. It's a wonderful picture, sure enough. A horrible one."

The canvas fascinated Amy. It depicted a great fire. It was ugly in extreme. The big, bare building was in flames, everywhere. The windows seemed numberless, and at almost every window a face; on these faces all the gamut of fright, appeal, and unutterable despair. They were human —living. The girl felt impelled to run and snatch them from their doom; also the impulse to hide her eyes, that she might not see.

Mr. Wingate had taken a chair before the painting, and was looking at it critically.

"I tell you that's a marvellous thing, and it's as dreadful as masterly. There's only one way I can see by which a man could get any money out of it: that's by cutting out the separate faces and selling them singly. A body might endure to see one such countenance in his collection, but not more; or, it might be destroyed altogether. It explains why Cuthbert never recovered from the shock of the accident he was in. He never lost sight of it. He must have begun this while it was fresh in his brain, and he did his utmost to keep it fresh. Poor Salome, she had a hard life."

"She had a happy life. She loved my father. He loved her. Whatever he did was right, just right in her eyes. You needn't pity her. But, oh, if she were only here to consult! Why did you show it to me? Why did I have to see it?"

"Because it couldn't be helped. The thing is; it exists. Now what is to be done with it?"

"I – will ask my father."

"I don't know that that is wise. It might bring about a return of his malady, and I'm told he is improving in all respects."

"I must do it; it is his. There is no other way."

"What if it makes him worse again?"

Poor Amy! All her Christmas cheer had died from her heart. She felt that it would be almost wicked to remind her father of this, his "life work," of which she had not heard him speak since he left Fairacres. Yet it was his. He had given years to its completion, so far as it had neared that point.

Mr. Wingate regarded her keenly. "Well?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know what to say. Have you nothing to propose?"

"Only what I did. To cut it up and sell the faces as so many small canvases. That would partially repay me for the things he still owes for – the paints and so on. But I detest the thing so I hate to spread the misery of it."

"Repay you? Do you mean that you believe you have a right – you own that picture?"

"Certainly."

"Why, it is the labor of – it means many years out of my poor father's life. Can such a thing be 'owned' by anybody except him?"

"Yes, of course. Hark you. You go home and tell him what I offer. I will take the picture off his hands and allow him – hmm – maybe two hundred dollars; or, he can take it and owe me that much more. In any case I want to get rid of it. I won't have it left here much longer. I shall have other uses for this room, maybe. Anyway, I mean to get that off the place."

Amy moved slowly toward the door. She did not know how to reply, and she felt her cousin was a very hard, unjust man. Yet she agreed with him that the picture was enough to make a person wish it out of sight, even out of existence.

At the doorway he arrested her steps, by laying his hand upon her shoulder.

"Help me down; I'm afraid of stairs. And there's another thing – that donkey."

"Oh, yes; I had forgotten Balaam. May I ride him home? Will you have him brought around for me?"

"Eh? What? Not so fast – not quite so fast! No, I don't mean the stairs. I can manage this pace for them. I mean the donkey. It came here of its own accord. It gave me an idea. If your brother wants to sell him – By the way, how do you expect to pay the rent?"

Amy stopped short, halfway down the stairs, and so suddenly that Mr. Wingate remonstrated.

"If you'd give warning of these spasmodic actions of yours, it would be more comfortable for those depending on you. There, please move along."

"The rent? I had not thought. Didn't my mother attend to that?"

"For the first quarter year, she did. To whom must I look now?"

Unmindful, since this new distressing question had been raised, how much she inconvenienced him, Amy sat plump down and leaned her head against the hand-rail.

It always appeared to aid her reflective powers if she could rest her troubled head against something material.

"I'll try to think. I earn two dollars and a half a week."

"Oh, my foot hurts again. Let's get into a decent room and talk it over there. I hate draughty halls and unwarmed rooms. There's a fire in the little side parlor off the dining room. That's my own private den. I want to get there and lie down. That rabbit pie I had for lunch doesn't agree with me, I'm afraid. Do you like rabbit pie?"

"No, indeed; I wouldn't eat one for anything."

"Why not?"

"I should fancy the pretty creatures looking at me with their soft eyes. They're the gentlest animals in the world."

"The most destructive, you mean."

She did not contest. Besides, she was now in great haste to leave Fairacres and regain the shelter of her own home. Strange, she reflected, how quickly she had ceased to think of this house, her birthplace, as a home; since all that went to make it such had gone elsewhere.

"About that rent money. If Hallam is able to keep at work we may together earn five dollars a week. That would be twenty dollars a month. The rent is ten. We will be able to pay it, I think."

"Do you imagine you will be able to live upon the remainder? Upon two and a half dollars a week, four grown persons?"

"If we have no more, we shall have to do so, shan't we?"

"Excuse me; but what would you eat? I saw no sign of scrimping and pinching that day I first came here – to stay."

"Oh, then Cleena was determined you should say no blame of her housekeeping. She gave you all in one meal. We've often laughed over it since."

"Humph! But this two and a half per week, what would it buy?"

"Meal and milk. Sometimes oat meal, sometimes corn. Once and again an egg or something for father. Oh, we'd manage."

"Hmm, hmm; you'd rather live on that than run in debt? You younger Kayes, who are all I seem to take account of now – Salome is gone."

"We will run in no debt we cannot pay, unless we are ill and it is impossible to help. Hal and I settled that long ago. So far we have managed, and now he is working too, I feel as rich as – rich."

"Exactly. Amy, if this old house were yours, what would you do with it?"

The answer was prompt and decided.

"Make it into a Home for Mill Girls."

"Whew! What in the world! Fairacres? The proudest old mansion in the country, or in this part of it! Are you beside yourself?"

"I should be with delight, if I could make that dream a reality."

"I gave you credit for more sense. But, business – that donkey. How much did Mr. Metcalf intend to pay for it?"

"I suppose the same as he did for Pepita. Seventy-five dollars – burro, harness, and all."

"At ten dollars a month, that would take you along well into next summer. Tell Hallam that I will keep the animal and allow him eight months' rent for it. That's giving you a half month, you see. Will you?"

"Yes, I'll tell him," answered she, with a catch in her voice. "Only I had hoped to take him home with me. It would have made such a delightful Christmas for us all. You don't know how much we love those pretty creatures."

"Pretty! Opinions differ."

"And would it be quite right to make any such arrangements, after having asked the superintendent to buy it, and he agreeing? Wouldn't he be the one to say something about it?"

"Amy, you're incorrigible. You're a radical. A thing is either absolutely right or it is absolutely wrong – according to your standard. You'll be in trouble as long as you live, for you'll find nobody else with such antiquated notions as yours. There are a great many things that are expedient."

"I hate expedient things. I like just the easy, simple 'no' and 'yes' that was my darling mother's rule. I'm glad I'm at least a birthright Friend."

Mr. Wingate was silent. He seemed to drop into a profound reverie, and the girl hesitated to disturb him, eager as she now was to be away. Finally, as she had made up her mind to speak, he did so himself.

"Amy, do you ever use the plain speech now?"

"Sometimes – between ourselves. For mother's sake we can never let it die."

"Will thee use it to me now and then? It was the habit of my boyhood. Salome was my oldest friend. We've played together in this very room, again and again. She was my good angel. Until – No matter. You are her child. Not like her at all in face or manner. She was always gentle, and shrank from giving pain. Truthful and puritanical as she was in her ideas, she had the tact, the knowledge to say things without hurting those whom she corrected. She corrected me often and often, when we were young, but she hurt me – never. Now, you – heigho!"

"Now, I hurt – thee. Of course. I speak first and think afterward. But does thee know, cousin Archibald, thee is the very queerest man I ever met?"

"Have you – has thee – known many?"

"Very few. Thee is so good on one side and so – so – not nice on the other. Like a half-ripened pear. But I am sorry for thee. I wish I could do thee good. Do I speak it as thee wishes?"

"Indeed, yes. It is music, even though the words are unflattering enough. Well, I'll not keep thee longer. And I don't ask you to call attention to this whim of mine by saying 'thee' in public," he remarked, himself falling back into the habit of their intercourse.

"No; if I say 'thee,' it is to be always, whenever I remember – like a bond to remind me I must be kind to thee for my mother's sake. If she did thee good, I must try to do thee good too."

"In what way?"

Amy reflected. The first, most obvious way, would be by cheering his solitude. Yet she hesitated. The thing which had come into her mind involved the desires of others also. She had no right, until she consulted them, to commit herself. Yet she disliked to leave this lonely old fellow, without trying to make him glad.

She sat down again in the chair from which she had risen and regarded him critically.

"Oh, cousin Archibald, if thee were only a little bit different!"

"Thee, too!" he laughed – actually laughed; and the action seemed to clear his features like a sunburst.

"Oh, of course. Well, it's this way. To-morrow's Christmas, isn't it?"

"So I've heard."

"And somebody – Teamster John – has sent Cleena 'the furnishing of a good dinner,' she told me. I don't know when we may have another such a meal, one that thee would think fit to eat. I'd like to ask thee to come and share it with us, instead of staying here alone, all grumpy with the gout. But it isn't my dinner, thee sees, and I'm going home to tell my people everything. About the picture and the donkey and all. If, after that, they agree with me that it would be nice to ask thee to spend the holiday with us, I'll bring thee word. If I do, will thee come?"

Mr. Wingate leaned back in his easy-chair and hugged his gouty foot for so long and so silently that Amy grew impatient and rose.

"Anyway, I must go home. I've been here ever so much later than I meant to stay. Good-by."

"Wait! How impetuous you – thee is. Well, I've received a great many invitations to dine, from the banquets of bank presidents down to the boiled dinners of my own workmen, but I doubt if I ever received one so honest and so honestly expressed."

"Will thee come, if thee is asked?"

"Yes; I'll come —if I'm asked. Don't thee bother to walk all the way back again, though. If by nine o'clock to-night I have heard nothing to the contrary, I shall understand that I am expected to dine with my tenants at 'Spite House.' At what hour, please?"

"On Christmas, dinner is usually at three o'clock. And, if thee pleases, it is no longer 'Spite' but 'Charity House.' My mother changed all that. Thee must not dishonor her wishes if thee loves her."

A wonderful, an almost beautiful change passed over the old man's face.

"Amy, thee speaks as if she were here still."

"She is to me. She always will be. Good-by."

She was gone, and the house seemed bigger and emptier after she had left it. But Archibald Wingate would not have had anybody know with what almost childish anxiety he waited the striking of the clock, as the hour of nine drew near. He had been judged a hard and bitter man. He was very human, after all. The small brown hand of his young cousin was pointing a new, strange way, wherein he might happily walk, and in secret he blessed her for it. But he was a man who liked his own will and to follow his own road still; though he might do his utmost to bend that road in the direction she had elected. Meanwhile, he would have his supper sent in and sitting at ease before his own hearth-blaze review many plans.

So he did, and after the supper a comfortable nap, from which he roused with a start, fancying the old clock in the hall was striking the hour.

"Eh? What? Is it nine already? That timepiece must be fast."

"It's only me, sir, Marshall, with a bucket of coals. And, if you please, there's a young person outside insists upon seeing you, sir. Am I to bid him go away until morning?"

In his disappointment the master's face really paled. Marshall noticed it and wondered, but he knew enough, sometimes, to hold his tongue. This seemed to him to be one of the times, and he therefore made no comment, nor even inquired for the master's health.

"No, don't send anybody away. I fancy that was never the custom at Fairacres, on Christmas Eve, be the visitor who he might. We'll not disturb the old ways, more than we can help. After all – Bid the messenger come in."

CHAPTER XXII.

TWO WANDERERS RETURN

The "young person" to whom Marshall referred in such contemptuous terms was Lionel Percival Jones. He so announced himself, as he was ushered into the presence of the great man.

"I've come to bring a letter from Amy Kaye."

"Indeed; would it not sound better if you said 'Miss Kaye,' or 'Miss Amy'? She is a kinswoman of mine."

Lionel Percival was astonished. He had prepared himself for this visit with the utmost care. He had oiled his curly auburn locks with a scented pomatum, and parted them rakishly in the middle. He wore his most aggressive necktie and his yellowest shoes, also his Sunday suit of clothes. With the exception of the necktie and the pomatum, he would not have attracted attention to himself anywhere, and so would have been well dressed. With these, he seemed to be all-pervading. He had instantly, by means of them, offended Mr. Wingate's taste, and put himself at disadvantage.

"Why, I'd just as lief say 'Miss,' but she's a mill girl, same as my own sister. I didn't go to mean no harm."

The mill owner winced. Then inquired: —

"Is there an answer expected?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Wait here."

The master of Fairacres limped into the adjoining room and turned his back toward the door between, hiding his face from the lad's observation as he read.

"Humph! She left it open, which is correct enough with reliable messengers. Probably, though, he had the curiosity to read what she had to say," – in which he wholly wronged the bearer. But Mr. Wingate had yet to learn that even lads who attire themselves atrociously may still be true gentlemen at heart, and sin in taste through ignorance only.

This was the note: —

"Dear Cousin Archibald Wingate: My father and Hallam will be very happy to have thee dine with us to-morrow, Christmas Day. Cleena says that dinner will be served at three o'clock. If thee knew her as well as I do, thee would understand that she means not a minute before nor one afterward. If thee pleases, I would rather not have any 'business' talk of any sort to-morrow. I would like it to be a day of peace, as my mother always kept it for us. Thee may meet some other guests, but we will try to make thee happy.

"Good night,"Amy."

It was a very cheerful and smiling old gentleman who returned to the room where Lionel Percival waited for the reply, a brief but stately acceptance of the invitation; for since Amy had set him the example, the mill owner considered that she regarded such formality essential.

Then he called in Marshall and bade him see that the messenger had a bit of supper before his return walk, which proceeding made the valet stare, and the boy feel exceedingly proud. It would be something of which to boast among his comrades at the mill.

The morning proved a cloudless one, mild and merciful to such as suffered from gout, and Mr. Wingate drove himself to "Charity House" in his own little phaeton. He felt this was an occasion when Marshall's too solicitous attentions might be in the way. He held a debate with himself, before setting off, whether he should or should not add to the feast from his own larder, and he decided against so doing by the simple test of "put yourself in his place."

But there was plenty and to spare. Teamster John did nothing by halves. Those who have least of this world's goods are always the most generous. Cleena had prepared each dish with her best skill and waited upon her guests with smiling satisfaction. Afterward, in the kitchen, she and John discussed the strange reunion of their "betters," and Cleena speculated upon it in her own fashion: —

"Sure, there's never fish, flesh, nor fowl could withstand the loving ways of me little colleen. And to hear them talkin' together, like lambs in the field. Them – "

"I never heerd lambs talkin'," observed John, facetiously.

"Then it's deaf ye've been belike. Oh, me fathers, if here doesn't come me own Gineral – Napoleon – Bonyparty! Where have ye been avick, avick?" she demanded, pushing hastily back from the board and hurrying out of doors. "Well, it's proof o' yer sense ye comes back in due time for a bit o' the nicest turkey ever was roast. But it's shamefaced ye be, small wonder o' that! Howsomever, it's a day o' good will. Come by. Wash up, eat yer meat, an' give thanks. To-morrow —I'll settle old scores. Come by."

Yet when Fayette entered the kitchen and learned from John who were the guests in the dining room beyond, he scowled and would have gone away again. However, he had forgotten Cleena. That good woman, having received her prodigal back, did not intend to relinquish him. She saw his frown, his hasty movement, and shutting the door put her back against it.

"You silly omahaun! If your betters forgives an' eats the bread o' peace, what's you to be settin' such a face on the matter? Come by. Be at peace. There's the blessed little hunchback eatin' cranberry sauce cheek by jowl with her 'boss,' an' can't you remember the Child was born for such as you, me poor silly lad? Come by."