Reels and Spindles: A Story of Mill Life

"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."

Fayette "came by" at last, silently and because he was half famished, and could not resist the savory odors of the tempting food Cleena offered him. Yet in his heart there was still anger and evil intent; and though he was amazed to find Mary Reese a guest at the Kayes' table, as well as their "mortal enemy," Mr. Wingate, he made no further comment, and as soon as the meal was over retreated without a word to his chamber and shut the door.

"It's like he might ha' just stepped out yesternight, he drops into ways so quick," said Cleena.

"But he's not the same lad. He'll give somebody trouble before long. You do wrong, woman, to harbor him. He's vindictive and dangerous."

The trustful Cleena laughed the teamster to scorn.

"Faith, give a dog a bad name an' he'll earn it. Let the lad be. In old Ireland we call such the 'touched of God.' We judge not, an' that's the size of a man – how he betreats the helpless ones. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it."

Surely, John thought, there was a deal of good sense and heart kindness in this stalwart daughter of Erin. He was Yankee himself, to the backbone; yet, as he pushed back from the table, satisfied and at ease, he pulled from his pocket a small paper parcel. It was his Christmas gift for his hostess, and intended to suggest many things. She was bright enough to comprehend his meaning, if she chose. Would she? She gave no sign, if she did, as she unrolled the package and placed its contents – a small flag of Ireland and its mate, in size, of the United States – behind the kitchen clock, where the blended colors made a bit of gayety upon the whitewashed wall.

"Long may they wave!" cried the donor.

"Troth, I'm not seein' no wavin'. They're best as they be, with the timepiece betwixt. Each in its place, as the Lord wills, an' mine's here. So here I bides till I'm no longer wanted."

"It's a biggish house," quoth the undismayed suitor. "There's room in it for me, too, I cal'late."

But if Cleena heard this remark she ignored it, passing swiftly into the dining room to remove the dishes of the first course, and substituting the luxury of a basket of fruit which she had accumulated somehow, as only herself could have explained.

Maybe there is no trivial thing that so greatly helps to bridge over a trying situation as good breeding. The breeding which is really good, out of the inner life: kindness and the reluctance to inflict pain. It was such breeding that enabled the oddly assorted company at that Christmas dinner table to pass the hours of their intercourse not only in peace, but with absolute enjoyment.