Talbot's Angles

"It must be as a paying guest, you understand," said Linda, when Phebe had left them.

"Paying nonsense! Isn't my house big enough for plump me, skinny you, and fat Phebe? You see how I discriminate between my size and Phebe's?"

"Then if I am not to be a real boarder, I can't come," said Linda firmly.

"And I shall lose Phebe! Verlinda Talbot, you are right-down mean. All right, then, come any way you like, and the sooner, the better. We'll fix it somehow; just make yourself easy on that score. My! I never looked for such luck; a young companion and a good cook at one and the same time. I'll get your room ready right away. I don't suppose you could stay now?"

Linda smiled. "Not to-day. I haven't a very extensive wardrobe, but such as it is, I must get it together; but I shall come within the next ten days. It is so very good of you to take me in, Miss Ri. Joking aside, I am most grateful. It makes the giving up of my own home less of a dread."

"Bless your heart, you dear child; I will try to make you comfortable. I have always wanted someone to mother, but I never expected the Lord would send me Verlinda Talbot. I am not going to ask any questions now, but some day we'll get at the root of the matter. Meantime let it rest. How is Grace bearing up?"

Linda hesitated. "Of course, she misses Martin terribly, but I think she is well; she has a good appetite."

Miss Ri smiled. "I don't doubt it. Has her sister come?"

"Yes."

"A nice sort of somebody, is she?"

"Yes, quite harmless, really good-hearted, I think, but rather dull. However, though she may bore one, she has no affectations. She is devoted to Grace, and I think will be of great use to her."

Miss Ri nodded understandingly. "Take off your things, dear," she said gently. "You are going to stay to dinner, you know, and then we will choose a room for you." She missed the color from the girl's face and noted the heavy shadows under the violet eyes, when Linda removed her hat. "Poor darling," she said to herself, "only time can help her. Grief sits heavily on her heart." She turned to a curious old cupboard in one corner of the room. "You must have some of my home-made wine," she said, "and then we will pick out the room. Would you like one looking out on the river or on the road?"

"Oh, a river room, if I may," replied Linda eagerly.

"Very well; so be it. I'll show you both and you can take your choice; or no, better still, I will fix up the one I am sure you will prefer, for it will look cosier than it does now, and you will have a better impression of it." She poured out some amber-hued wine from an old decanter. "Here, drink this," she said, "and I will join you in a health. Here's to many happy days under my roof, Verlinda, and may you never regret coming to your old friend, Maria Hill."

Just then Phebe's black face appeared at the door. "Miss Ri," she said, "I cain't stan' pokin' 'roun' arfter that fool nigger. I is gwine to set de table, ef yuh'll show me whar de things is, please, ma'am."

Miss Ri finished her glass with a "Here's to Phebe!" and Linda followed her to the dining-room.

CHAPTER III

LEAVING THE NEST

In this quiet little corner of Maryland's eastern shore, if life lacked the bustle and stir of more widely-known localities, it did not lack interest for its residents, while at the same time it provided a certain easy content which is missed in places more densely populated, or of more stirring affairs… To Linda Talbot the days had come and gone in careless fashion up to the time of her brother's death, for even his marriage did not rob her of friendships, and of concern in the small neighborhood doings, especially in matters relating to the little church, which, because it stood upon Talbot ground, had always been considered the special care of those dwelling at Talbot's Angles. The church was very old and it had required many bazars, many efforts at subscription, many appeals to keep it in repair, and now it showed its antiquity in moss-grown walls, mouldy woodwork, falling plaster and weather-stained casements.

On this last Sunday, when she should perform her weekly duty of placing flowers upon the altar, Linda clipped her choicest white chrysanthemums from the bushes and early in the day took them to the church, making her way through dankly green paths overgrown with woodbine, that she might reach the enclosure where dead and gone Talbots of many generations were buried. Upon a newly-sodded grave she laid her fairest blossoms, and stood for a moment with heaving breast and quivering lips, then she went on to the church, pushing open the creaking door which led into the still, dimly-lighted, musty-smelling place.

"There must be more air and sun," she said, setting wide the door and forcing open a window that the sunlight might pour in. Then she busied herself with placing the flowers in their vases. This done, she sat down in the old family pew, her thoughts travelling back to the days when it had been scarce large enough for them all, father, mother, grandmother, two brothers, three sisters, and now all resting in the quiet churchyard, herself the youngest of them all, the only one left. She ran her hand lovingly along the corner of the pew where her mother had been wont to sit; she touched with her lips the spot where Martin's forehead had so often rested as he knelt by her side. Next she knelt, herself, for a few minutes; then, without looking back, she left the church, to return later to the one service of the day, letting Grace and Lauretta follow.

Even sorrow possessed certain elements of satisfaction to Grace when she was made a conspicuous object of sympathy. She could not have mourned in silence, if she had tried, and the gratification of hearing someone say as she passed: "Poor, dear Mrs. Talbot, how pathetic she looks," was true balm to her grief. She always went regularly to church, swept in late in all her swathing of crape, to take her place in the Talbot pew, and as certain suggestive looks were cast her, she returned them with a plaintive droop of the eye, and a mournful turn of the head, as if she would say: "Yes, here I am in all my woe. Pity me who will, and I shall be grateful." Linda, on the contrary, stole into a back seat just before the service began and stole out again as soon as it was over. She could not yet face sympathy and commiseration.

Especially on this last Sunday did she feel uncertain of herself and wished heartily that the day were over, for Grace could not and would not be set aside for any matter of packing, and reproached the girl for her coldness and indifference toward her "own brother's wife," from whom she was about to be parted, so that Linda must fain sit and listen to commonplaces till Grace settled herself for a nap, and then she escaped to her room. There had promised to be a stormy time over Phebe's leave-taking, but as both Linda and Lauretta brought arguments to bear upon the matter, Grace was at last made to admit that, after giving a week's notice, Phebe could not be expected to lose the opportunity of taking a good place when Grace herself should so soon cease to need her. At first there was an effort at temporizing, and then Grace tried to exact a promise that Phebe would return in the summer, but the old woman would give her no satisfaction, and she was obliged to make the best of it.

There was a great bustle and stir the next morning, more because of Phebe's departure than because of Linda's, for Phebe was here, there, everywhere giving orders and scolding away "Jes' lak a ole bluejay," declared Jake. She was so importantly funny that Popsy, who was to fill her place, and Jake, who had long known her ways, grinned and snickered so continually, that after all, Linda's departure was not the heart-breaking thing she had fancied it would be, and even the drive to town was deprived of melancholy on account of the lively chatter which Jake and Phebe kept up and which was too droll not to bring a smile from one listening.

"Of course, you will come back for the summer holidays," Grace had said at parting, with the air of one who knows her duty and intends to do it. "Of course, you remember that it was dear Martin's wish that you would make the place your home whenever I might be here."

But Linda had made no reply except a faint "I don't know what I shall do next summer." That season was too far off to be making plans for it now when the winter must be gone through, a winter whose unknown ways she would be compelled to learn.

But Miss Ri's welcome was so warm that there was little room left for the sadness of parting after the cheery greeting. "Welcome home, dear child. Come right upstairs. Your room is all ready. That's it, Phebe. Fetch along the bags. I've fixed you up a place over the kitchen. It is a new experience for me to have a cook who doesn't want to go home nights. Right through the kitchen and up the back stairs. You'll find your way. Come, Verlinda, let me have your umbrella or something. I can take that bag."

"Indeed, no. I'm not going to have you waiting on me, Miss Ri."

"Just this once. I'm so proud of having a young lass to look after that you'll have to let me have my way for this first day. There, how do you like it?" She threw open the door of the spotless room, whose windows, though small, were many, and revealed a view of the sparkling blue river, the harbor near by and, on the opposite shores, stretches of green farmlands. The room itself was long and low. It held an old-fashioned four-poster bed with snowy valance, a handsomely-carved mahogany bureau, a spindle-legged table with leaf set up against the wall, a desk which was opened to show many pigeon-holes and small drawers. A low, soft couch, chairs of an antique pattern, and a wood stove completed the furniture. White curtains were at the windows, and on the high mantel were one or two quaint ornaments.

"Now, my dear," said Miss Ri, "this is your sanctum. You can switch the furniture around any way that you prefer, tack up pictures, put your own belongings where you choose, and if there is anything you don't like, it shall be removed."

"It is a darling room," returned Linda gratefully. "I can't imagine how one could want to change a single thing."

"Then we'll have your trunk up; there will be room for one at least in this closet," Miss Ri told her, flinging open a door to disclose further accommodations. "Here's your washstand, you see, and there will be room for some of your frocks on these hooks; the rest can go in the clothes-press on the other side of the room and you can have another bureau, if you like. The trunks could go up in the attic, if that would suit better; but we will let that work out as it will later. Now, make yourself comfortable, and I'll go look after Phebe. Come down when you are ready."

Left to herself, Linda sank down in a chair by the window, for a moment overcome by the thought that she had cut loose from all the ties which bound her to the dear old home. But in a moment her courage returned. "What nonsense," she murmured. "Was ever a girl so lucky? Here I am with my living assured and with dear Miss Ri to coddle me; with this darling room; and, last of all, with my own old Mammy at hand. I am a perfect ingrate to want more." She turned her eyes from a survey of the room to a survey of the outside. Along the river's brink stood some little houses, where the oystermen lived; nearer, was a long building, where the oyster-packing went on. Every now and then, through the open window, came a sound of cheerful singing from the shuckers at work. Tall-masted sail-boats dipped and curtseyed upon the sapphire waters. Across the river a line of shore was misty-green in the autumn light; closer at hand a grassy slope, over which tall trees cast their shadows, stretched down to the river. One or two little row-boats tethered to a stake, near a small boat-house, rocked gently as the tiny wavelets leaped up on the sandy brink. Vines clambered to the very windows of her room, amongst their leaves birds were twittering. The trees about the place were many, and from one of them a scarlet tanager was shrilling out his inviting call. "It is next best to being at home," Linda told herself, "and to get next best is a rare thing. I will unpack at my leisure, for perhaps I'd better see how Mammy is faring."

She found Miss Ri in the sitting-room and Phebe already busy in the kitchen. Miss Ri was looking over some photograph prints. She handed one to Linda. "Tell me what you think of it," she said.

"Fine!" exclaimed Linda. "I didn't know you were an expert photographer, Miss Ri."

"I'm not. Don't give me credit for them. Sit down and I'll tell you how I happen to have them. One day, not long ago, I was potting some of my plants for the winter, when a young man came in the gate. I had never seen him before and thought he must be a book-agent or some sort of trader in dustless dusters or patent flat-irons, though he was much too nice-looking for that kind of business. Well, he walked up to me and said, 'Don't you want me to take some photographs of your house and grounds? This is certainly the most picturesque place I have seen about here.'"

"Of course, that pleased you, and so – "

"Yes, that is it exactly, and so he took a lot of views, interiors and exteriors, and I think they are pretty good. He didn't overcharge, and if he had done it, I should be disposed to forgive him. He stayed all the morning – "

"And I'll venture to say you asked him to dinner."

Miss Ri laughed. "Well, yes, I did; for who wouldn't have almost anyone rather than eat alone? He did stay and told me his story, which was a most interesting one."

"I hope he didn't go off with his pockets full of your old silver."

"My dear, he is a gentleman."

"Oh, is he? And goes around taking photographs? This is interesting, Miss Ri. Tell me some more."

"Well, it seems that he has come down here to look up some property that belonged to his great-grandfather and which he should have inherited by all rights; but, unfortunately, his trunk, with all the papers he needs, has gone astray, and, what is more, he was robbed of his pocketbook; so now, while he is waiting to find the trunk and until his next quarter's money comes in, he finds himself, as they express it, 'momentarily embarrassed'; but, having his camera with him and being a good amateur photographer, he is turning his gifts to account, that he may at least pay his board."

"It seems to me it would have been more to the purpose, if he had been robbed of the camera instead of the pocket-book. He strikes me as a very careless young man to lose both his trunk and his purse."

"He didn't lose the pocket-book; it was stolen; he is sure of that; and as for the trunk, it was sent by a local expressman to the steamboat, and so far has not been traced."

"A very clever story," Linda went on. "I am only surprised that you didn't offer to take him in here until the missing articles are found."

"I did think of it," returned Miss Ri with a twinkle in her eye, "and if you hadn't been coming, I might have done it; but I was afraid he might prove too susceptible or that – "

"I might," returned Linda, laughing. "You certainly are considerate, Miss Ri. Where is our paragon, now?"

"Oh, I sent him to Parthy Turner's, and they are both having a mighty nice time of it. She has turned him over to Berk Matthews, and he is doing what he can for him."