Idle Hour Stories Part 19

"John Smith," he said, with his natural ease.

"Oh!" half exclaimed Daisy, upon hearing such a very common name from such very uncommon lips; but checking it, and softly humming a tune, she retired to an inner room to prepare for dinner.

This episode was the beginning of elysium for John Smith. Every day saw him at the farm-house. Every day revealed some new charm in the Daisy he had found. She was as industrious and sensible as she was pet.i.te and pretty. Rollin and Plutarch were discarded for modern authors, or for simple chit-chat about mamma, papa, and little ones at home.

But when the day came for John Smith to tell his love, he met with a shock that quite paralyzed his senses.

Looking up with her big blue eyes, she said:

"You mustn't talk like that; I'm engaged."

"Engaged?" he stammered, "engaged?"

"Yes, I'm engaged."

"And to whom? May I ask?"

"Oh, I can't tell you his name; it's a secret yet. He is a person I never saw."

"Sheer madness!" was his horrified e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. "Never saw him, and going to marry him?"

"I promised, you know; I must, if he wants me," she said in her unconcerned way.

"But don't you love _me_, Daisy?"

"Yes, I suppose I do, but that can't be helped; a promise is a promise."

"Who is to prevent it?" he exclaimed impatiently. "I say it shall be helped."

There was not time for further rhapsodies. Aunt Hepsy appeared with a telegram, calling Daisy home; and home she went next day, leaving Mr.

John Smith in despair. In vain he laid siege to Aunt Hepzibah and Uncle Reuben; they could not help him.

Then, in a mighty wrath, he too went home, and desperately resolved to have it out with the Thornton girl, one way or the other; but not "the other" if Daisy could be brought to terms.

It was easy travelling where the way was all prepared. So a lovely moonlight evening found him in Squire Thornton's parlor. In a few moments there floated down to him from the invisible upper regions a cloud of blue muslin, and the laughing face of Daisy Merrifield was before him.

"Oh, Daisy, what a surprise! and how sweet you are!" as impulsively he strained her to his heart. "What joy to find you here!"

"Don't crush my dress," she said, righting up the ruffles; "it's new.

Yes, I am here. Didn't you come to see me?"

"No--that is--I came to see Miss Thornton," and his face fell.

"There is no Miss Thornton," she said, her dimples playing mischievously. "It is only _I_--_now_ don't you know?"

"But how is it? I was told--I understood--"

"Pshaw! you stupid!" she said, with a bewitching pout, "if you had been a little more civil, you would have known that I am Mrs. Thornton's daughter--not Mr. Thornton's; that mamma is mamma, but papa isn't papa, and--"

But in an ecstacy of surprise and joy the rest of her sentence was entirely smothered.

"And you knew from the first?" he asked, reproachfully.

"Not from the first, but almost. They were all in the plot. I meant to snub you outright, only--well, somehow you didn't look as horrid as you really were! The 'John Smith' was almost too much for me, but I stood it. Then when the letter came--it was well for you I had seen you under the tree. So you wouldn't marry the heiress," she said, archly. "I did my very best to teach you a lesson, young man. Have you learned it?"

The answer was fervently though silently given the merry, rosy, smiling lips.

Treesa

A CHARACTER SKETCH

They called her Treesa. She was not young. That she had ever been was hard to realize. Whatever her childhood, and however the years had brought her up to woman's estate, there was no footprint upon the worn face of the gladsome time we call youth. No light in the eye of other and happier days. No echo in the quiet heart, of bounding pulses, or ever a sweet enthusiasm. The treadmill of duty in life's most trivial task, enthralled her every faculty. Her daily round was in a large hotel--an arena of toil circ.u.mscribed by four brick walls. Her domain was the parlor floor; that sacred area of rosy vistas and costly suites, where she was as proud to tread as a king in his royal glory. Where beauty and fas.h.i.+on made for her a panorama of short glimpses amid pauses of broom and duster.

The maids on the other floors might earn the wage just as honorably; Treesa permitted no trespa.s.s upon her exalted territory. The bridal chambers, the private sitting rooms, the luxurious sleeping apartments--these were her pride and her joy. The Excelsior had a reputation, national and international. Princes and potentates had slumbered in Treesa's chambers. The "n.o.bility and the gentry" had been feted there. Year after year her pale eyes had watched over the welfare of distinguished visitors, American and foreign. They had seen the help come and go; she was still the "girl of the parlor floor." Discreet, silent, honest, they might well allow her a share of caprice. "Cranky"

they called her, yet no one found fault. She neglected no duty. The lady manager of the interior was not always the same. She changed from time to time; Treesa was always the same, and always there. At length there came a dainty little woman, full of native pluck, who was born to rule, and rule she did, to the limit of her jurisdiction. Though so far apart, a kindred chord was struck between mistress and maid. The high spirit that smouldered in these two never crossed; but with the smallest tangible demonstration they were fast friends. The girl's horizon now bordered a triune interest;--the church, the mistress, and the parlor floor. Gaunt and spare, she trod her beat. Shy of manner, with eyes looking nowhere, she seemed a human machine of the broom. A woman without kith or kin, without a history, and apparently without a memory.

Never sick, never absent, never a letter from friends, never a visit away. The old habitues of the house liked her. She gave no sign of favor or disfavor, till at last it was their way to respect her and leave her alone. But whenever a mission of trust was needed Treesa was the one called upon.

But as the calmest stream is ruffled at some time on its course, so there comes to every human life a shock that upturns hidden forces. And this came to Treesa. It was when she was one day summoned to the private office downstairs: that dread tribunal for the wrongdoers of the large household--a locality as little heeded by the girl as any other foreign place, albeit there had been new and strange proprietors as the years went by. Without so much as a ripple of excitement upon her homely features, she came down and stood within the door, respectfully awaiting orders. The two arbiters of her destiny were in close conference upon ways and means. Expense must be cut down. There must be a weeding out.

Raising his head and looking in some curiosity at the queer apparition, the new partner said: "Are you Teresa O'Toole?"

"Me name is that same, sir," she said, meeting the eyes. "An' what thin, sir?" she added, as for a moment he was silent.

"Yes--ah--" he went on, this time not exactly confronting the expectant face--"We've been thinking, Teresa--we were just saying--that you are getting along in years now, and--ah--the fact is, we think you ought to have a rest. Some one younger, and stronger, ought to relieve you, and give you a chance to pick up. You are a good girl," with encouraging justice, "a very good girl, and have been faithful and honest. But we--"

he hesitated, as Treesa's lean face suddenly darkened with an unwonted flush. Then she broke out:

"An' is it me dischairge ye'd be afther givin' me, sir?"

"Well, yes, about that, it amounts to that, I suppose," admitted the great man. "You see, my good woman," he ventured softly, noting the breakers ahead, "the fact is--"

"Well, thin," she burst forth in righteous wrath, placing her hard, red arms akimbo, and struggling to loose her tongue, "I'll be afther tellin'

yees, I'll not take a dischairge from yees, sir! It's here I've been this fifty year, an' more. I was the first gurll in the house, for sure I come before the likes of yees was born an' before yees iver darkened the doors. It's no fault can be found with me. I'll stay right here!"

and turning, she went out.

There was silence in the office. Then the senior partner, his eye twinkling, spoke:

"What are we going to do about it?"

"Why, nothing", drily said the other, "nothing, I suppose; you heard what she said, I presume she will stay on."

And stay on she did, her one dominant idea as fixed as the polar star.

As the years rolled by she might have rested from her labors, but for this sense of devotion to duty. Even a monthly pittance will count through the ages; so Treesa's savings came at last to foot up into the thousands. Not even good Father Clement could have told the amount, or where she kept it. Like herself, it was a mystery. She continued to h.o.a.rd and to hide, with no misgiving of loss by thief, or by accident; with no forewarning of danger. Yet dire calamity was impending.

It was past midnight when the veteran chambermaid was awakened by the sound of crackling wood and the smell of stifling smoke. To spring out of bed was the work of a moment, the aged limbs obedient to her call; then all her faculties alert, she thrust her hand into a hidden recess of the mattress, and clutching a bulky package from its depths, made her way out into the corridor, where the smoke was still thicker, on down the stairs from the servants' dormitory to the floor below. Staggering to the manager's door she pounded with all her strength till those within were aroused; and dizzy from fright and half-suffocation, she ran to the fire alarm, banging the gong till doors flew open right and left, and the halls were alive with people. The cry of "Fire!" on all sides now added to the din. More alarms were turned in till ample help was at hand. While the hotel manager's orders were being obeyed, and the guests were deserting their rooms for greater safety in the lobby below, Treesa was struggling to get back to the servant's floor, whence now issued screams of terror, as, for the first time, the flames were seen creeping in close proximity to the maid's quarters. In vain the firemen, who were now cutting holes in the floor to insert the hose, tried to intercept her. Bent upon serving her fellow-servants, she disappeared through the blinding smoke Crawling flat upon her face up the stairs to avoid the onset of the fumes, the girl reached the gla.s.s door that imprisoned the terrified creatures, burst it through with one powerful blow, and forced them out upon the fire escape, where now, too, the firemen's ladders were seen manned by the helmeted brigade. All bruised and bleeding from the splintered gla.s.s, and still clutching fast the rescued package, Treesa turned to retrace her steps, her only thought now being to save the parlor floor and its treasures. Again she eluded those who would have guarded her from danger, and made a hurried dash for the stairway, when a sudden rush of flame, now fanned by the air, blinded her, and she fell to the landing, dropping the bulk of her holdings, where the fire greedily licked it to destruction.