Reels and Spindles: A Story of Mill Life

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?"