“Oh, I’ve been expecting to hear it,”
she said grimly. “I felt the minute that
man came into the house he brought trouble with him.
Well, Miss Charlotte, I wish you happiness.
I don’t know how the climate of California will
agree with me, but I suppose I’ll have to put
up with it.”
“But, Nancy,” I said, “I can’t
expect you to go away out there with me. It’s
too much to ask of you.”
“And where else would I be going?” demanded
Nancy in genuine astonishment. “How under
the canopy could you keep house without me?
I’m not going to trust you to the mercies of
a yellow Chinee with a pig-tail. Where you go
I go, Miss Charlotte, and there’s an end of
it.”
I was very glad, for I hated to think of parting with
Nancy even to go with Cecil. As for the blank
book, I haven’t told my husband about it yet,
but I mean to some day. And I’ve subscribed
for the Weekly Advocate again.
“We must invite your Aunt Jane, of course,”
said Mrs. Spencer.
Rachel made a protesting movement with her large,
white, shapely hands—hands which were so
different from the thin, dark, twisted ones folded
on the table opposite her. The difference was
not caused by hard work or the lack of it; Rachel
had worked hard all her life. It was a difference
inherent in temperament. The Spencers, no matter
what they did, or how hard they labored, all had plump,
smooth, white hands, with firm, supple fingers; the
Chiswicks, even those who toiled not, neither did they
spin, had hard, knotted, twisted ones. Moreover,
the contrast went deeper than externals, and twined
itself with the innermost fibers of life, and thought,
and action.
“I don’t see why we must invite Aunt Jane,”
said Rachel, with as much impatience as her soft,
throaty voice could express. “Aunt Jane
doesn’t like me, and I don’t like Aunt
Jane.”
“I’m sure I don’t see why you don’t
like her,” said Mrs. Spencer. “It’s
ungrateful of you. She has always been very kind
to you.”
“She has always been very kind with one hand,”
smiled Rachel. “I remember the first time
I ever saw Aunt Jane. I was six years old.
She held out to me a small velvet pincushion with
beads on it. And then, because I did not, in
my shyness, thank her quite as promptly as I should
have done, she rapped my head with her bethimbled
finger to ‘teach me better manners.’
It hurt horribly—I’ve always had
a tender head. And that has been Aunt Jane’s
way ever since. When I grew too big for the thimble
treatment she used her tongue instead—and
that hurt worse. And you know, mother, how she
used to talk about my engagement. She is able
to spoil the whole atmosphere if she happens to come
in a bad humor. I don’t want her.”
“She must be invited. People would talk
so if she wasn’t.”
“I don’t see why they should. She’s
only my great-aunt by marriage. I wouldn’t
mind in the least if people did talk. They’ll
talk anyway—you know that, mother.”
