Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV. NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 18. Dear Perry, What do you suppose Aunt Ruth said to me this evening? I will give you a scene from our conversation. She sat at the round table, making up her account of the day's expenses. I sat, biting the end of my wooden penholder. It was not that I couldn't think what to say first to you, but something in the book I had been reading came fresh to my mind just then,
and I stopped to think about it. What are you doing? Aunt Ruth asked, suddenly, stopping in the midst of her column. Writing, I said, dipping my pen in ink and dating your letter. Who, too? You know Aunt Ruth isn't remarkably well posted as regards the arrangement of sentences. To Perry What do you and him write to each other for?
Did you ever happen to be asked that question? If you have been, I wonder what you said. I'm sure I didn't know what to say. I waited a little, but her keen gray eyes were looking right at me, so I said, Why, for fun, I suppose. What does anyone write letters to anybody for? Humph, she said. You both pretend to be a world too busy to waste hours of time in choirs of paper, just for fun. If you either of you had any earthly object, it would be different.
After Aunt Ruth went back to her adding, which, by the way, she does half audibly, so that I can distinctly catch the last half of every figure as it escapes her lips, I fell to thinking over her question. What do we write letters for? Do you suppose these long epistles can ever be utilized in any way, either for your good or mine, or even for our harm, if they can't be made to produce good fruit? Dear me, I believe I would rather do mischief
than do just nothing. Of course, now I enjoy your letters, and all that sort of thing, and I know you do mine. What a mercy it is that we don't have to waste time in being proper to each other. Well, never mind, we'll find out in the millennium, probably, why we enjoyed writing about every earthly thing to each other. We have had a rich experience today. I may as well tell you that it was this over which I was biting my penholder. To tell or not to tell, that is the
question. I decided to tell. I don't believe it will trouble you. In fact, I don't think it will surprise you. And it was so funny. To commence. Your friend Eleanor is in town, dined with us today. That is, she came to our dinner table as the guest of Laura Myers. Isn't that a strange friendship? I wasn't introduced. The comical side of that struck me, too. If Perry were here, I said to myself, I wonder just how he would manage that. After dinner, we were in the parlor.
Laura was discoursing with her usual sense. We have a very mixed table, I heard her say. Not half so pleasant as it used to be. In fact, we are becoming decidedly democratic. "'Your Eleanor's beautiful lip curled, and, by the way, you ought to tell her that the habit is very unbecoming to her style of face.' "'I detest the word democratic,' she said scornfully. "'So do I,' piped Laura. "'But I think you would detest it more if you lived here.
The house is even becoming the resort of day-labourers.' "'Indeed! Yes. Did you ever know a man by the name of Romaine?' Not that I have any recollection of. Well, he is a character. You ought to be here one day, and see the air that he affects. He is a mechanic of some sort, goes to work at seven o'clock, and isn't released until six. But you would think he was king over us all. He really is rather
fine-looking, but he does such funny things. Don't you think he has prayers in this very room every evening. Insufferable, said Miss Eleanor. Plebeianism of any kind is hard to endure, but when it comes to you with a religious wine, it is just unbearable. There he is, was Miss Laura's next announcement. Now, Eleanor, isn't he fine-looking? We all looked in Mr. Romaine's direction, and I really wish you could have seen what a contrast he
presented to the foppish fellows about him. I suppose I shall have to introduce you, Laura said with a sigh. They all do here. Miss Eleanor was queenly. Thank you, she said. I have no desire to extend the circle of my acquaintance. You may spare yourself that trouble. I'm sure you must be wondering where I was all this time, that I seemed to have the benefit of the conversation, and yet be ignored. That is it
precisely. I was ignored. I stood just at their back, looking over a list of paintings, a catalogue, you know, and waiting for the mail to be brought in before I went upstairs. On ordinary occasions Laura is friendly enough with me, but the presence of such an aristocrat as Miss Haddington was too much for her. She did not even glance in my direction. Presently I moved a little to one side, but it seemed that I was still within range of their tongues.
Who is that pale-faced girl with an unbecoming dress and a round collar? She stands at your left. I have to inform you, O most trusting Perry, that the hero of the unbecoming dress was your friend Eunice. The dress is unbecoming, I haven't a doubt. I have had it three winters, and am likely to have it three more, and round collars are out of fashion. That, said Laura, is a niece of our landlady. She is a good sort of a girl, goes to school and works for her board, or something of
that kind. It is just some more of our democracy, you see. I see. You having heard the lady speak several times in the course of your life, doubtless know just how she said that, I see. At that particular moment, who should appear in our midst but Tom Haddington? I hadn't seen him in six months, didn't know he was in town. You know what a fresh, genial air he used to have. Well, he hasn't changed in the least. He went the rounds of the room, aided by Laura Myers,
who had rushed forward to greet him, meeting old friends and being introduced to new ones, when suddenly he dropped Laura's hand, and his clear, ringing voice sounded through the room. Romaine, as true as I am here, he said, and he held his hand out eagerly. Why, man, where did you come from? I as soon expected to see the President, and I would give more to see your little finger at any time than his whole body,
much as I admire him. All this time they were shaking hands in the most eager way, and Laura, for once in her life losing sight of effect, stood looking in an open-eyed amazement. "'Why, Romaine,' Tom commenced again, "'have you seen my sister?' "'No, she is here. Where is she, Miss Laura?' "'Oh, there she is, and you haven't met her. That is an oversight. Come right over here and let me
introduce you. Eleanor, this is the best friend I ever had or ever expect to have, Mr. Romaine of Philadelphia. It must have been a transfer from the torrid zone to the frigid zone, in the region of Mr. Romaine's heart, to turn from Tom Haddington's greeting to receive his sister's bow. I don't care if she is your friend, Perry. I was provoked with her. She might have been more courteous to her brother than to ignore his friend in the way she did. I wonder what Tom
would have said if he hadn't suddenly been thrown into another surprise. He spied me, and rushed towards me, both hands extended. Why, Eunice, said he, little Una, I thought you had gone home. How splendid it is to see you all here. Have you met my sister? Then immediately, before I could answer his question, he asked another. You know Tom always used to ask at least two questions at once. Oh, Eunice, he said, seeing you makes me think of Perry. Have you heard
from him lately? I stood near your lady, and I felt wicked, so I answered promptly. I had a letter last evening. He is improving, though he seems to think rather slowly. He is impatient as usual. At that point I had the satisfaction of a full view of Miss Eleanor's face, and she gave me a prolonged and astonished stare. She had evidently heard of me before. I made another discovery, which is that Miss Haddington doesn't care to be absolutely rude to a friend of Perry Harrison.
So, my friend, thank you for condescending to be known as my friend. It earned me a gracious reception, even though I did wear an unbecoming dress. Now, why have I told you this long story? I hardly know myself, except because of the foolish habit of telling you all that happens in this house. I wish I were one of the good young ladies that one reads about in books, then I should have locked this story into the secret chamber of my own great heart,
and borne my share of wrong in noble silence. Isn't that the way they do it? This isn't answering your letter, is it? Well, there are two points in it that amused me. One was the idea of your being conscientious. I never suspected it. How does it make you feel? The other, the idea of your going to hear that country preacher. Truly, Perry, I thought you had more respect for your mother and your early education than to actually make light of preaching
of any sort. It would have served you right to have caught another horrid cold. But I don't suppose you did. Wicked people never get their desserts in this wicked world. However, since you will do wrong, give me the benefit of your experience. What do you suppose I've done next? gone into the Sunday school and taken a class of little savages under my care. What on earth will I teach them? There are five of them boys, with bare feet, or nearly so,
even in this weather, and such hands. I don't think the idea of washing them can have entered their minds in a century. I presume you think they are not a century old, but in that you are mistaken. I'm sure they must have been created when the world was. They know all the evil in it, and there is so much that it must have taken some time to learn. Of course, Mr. Romaine is the individual who had to do with my being so foolish. He was in great perplexity as to what he should do
with them. Aunt Ruth came to his help. Why, here is Eunice. Why don't you get her into it? She taught day school in Nassau, and managed first-rate, my brother said. I laughed, of course. Why, Aunt Ruth, I said, I don't know what has become of your usual good sense, the idea of my being a Sabbath school teacher. Why not, child? It is a pity if you can't teach them to say their Bible verses. It can't be harder than staying in a little old schoolhouse
with them all day, and you lived through that. But Aunt Ruth, I said, you know I had the amusement of whipping them to sustain my spirits, and I'm afraid that wouldn't look well in Sunday school. Meantime, Mr. Romaine had evidently been considering. I'm not sure that he had heard a word that either of us had said, after Aunt Ruth's first sentence. He spoke at last, in a sort of doubtful tone. If you could manage them for me for one or two Sundays,
until I could look around me and... Do better, I said, finishing the sentence as he seemed to hesitate. And the truth is, Perry, I was piqued into taking it, because he evidently thought I couldn't do anything with them. I wish I had time to tell you what a funny time I had with them last Sunday. That was my first attempt. I should have resigned all future care of them the minute I reached home. Only Charlie Thorpe spoiled that by advising me to. I am resolved not to act on
any idea that emanates from his brain. This letter is to go by the next mail, and that closes in ten minutes. In my next, I'll try to answer some of your remarks. In haste, Eunice. End of chapter 4
