The Watson girls; a Washington story

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Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Water-lilies 9

II. The Helpless Mother 14

I. THE WATER-LILIEb

“I HATE music,” Alice Watson said, “and I think I hate the ‘ Melodie in F ’ more than anything else. It’s practise this and practise that until I wish pianos had never been invented. And what’s the use ? Nobody listens when you play. They just talk.”

The dining-room was darkened, for it was a hot morning in August, and, though a breeze blew occasionally over the Capitol grounds, yet it was not a breeze that refreshed the young girl at the piano. The long drawing-room, rose-scented by the flowers in the tall vase on the mahogany table,

was cooler than any other place, but Alice felt that it was unbearable, because vacation had come and almost gone ; and she had to practise.

Clara, who was stringing tlie mandolin, said nothing; she sighed. These Watsons were girls of fourteen and fifteen. Clara was the younger, but quite as tall as her sister ; she was blonde in complexion, with large blue eyes, and a great deal of hair, which she arranged after the Pompadour fashion Avhen her mother’s attention could be. distracted. Alice was darker, slighter, more graceful, and not given as yet to much thought about her appearance. This morning Clara wore a pink shirt-waist with an immense bow of ribbon of the same tint fastened to the top of her head by a large imitation-turquoise pin.

Oh, Clara,” Alice said, as her sister rose to get a missing sheet of the hated “ Melodie,” “ you’ve no string in your left shoe ! ”

It broke,” said Clara. “ Nobody will see.”

Alice shook her head disapprovingly ; she was the very flower of neatness ; she went on stringing the mandolin.

“Everybody is out of town except us,” she said when Clara paused in her music. “ I don’t see why we should be kept here. If papa can’t afford

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to send us away and educate us, too, he might drop something off our education. I certainly would give up music and French with pleasure. Every house in the row, except the boarding-houses, is closed.’’

“ Oh, dear me ! I wish I could make my left hand as strong as my right ! If a girl has to play the piano, she ought to be born with two right hands ! You see father says that Bob’s education costs a lot. But now that Arthur’s at West Point, I do hope he’ll give us more things. Let’s try the ‘ Lorelei ’ together. Take the first part with the mandolin.”

‘‘We may as well. Mamma said that we must stick at it until she came from market. Ever since Cousin Amelie sent the music they’re crazy about the ‘ Lorelei.’ If there is anytliing I hate, it’s a Saturday in the vacation ! ”

The girls began the “ Lorelei.” Its sweetness penetrated through the closed shutters into the street. Suddenly Alice paused.

“ There is somebody singing ! ”

A sweet, high treble had taken up the strain

“ Ich weis nicht, was soli es bedeuten , Das ich so traurigbin.”

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The girls ran to the window and peered into the sunlit street.

Opposite on the pavement in front of the Capitol grounds, was a boy, dressed in a blue blouse, with a tight black cap on his head. He seemed to be about fourteen years of age. He stood facing their house, singing with all his might. He held in the hollow of his arm a great sheaf of water-lilies.

“ Listen ! He is singing the words of the ‘ Lorelei ’ in German.”

“ Dear me ! How foolish ! ” said Clara. “ I don’t see why he does not sing in English. It’s much easier.”

‘‘ Perhaps he is German.”

“ He looks so. He has rosy cheeks. All German children have rosy cheeks.”

‘‘ How do you know? ”

“ It’s just my idea, — I think that I am as much entitled to my ideas as anybody else.”

‘‘ But who told you so ? ” persisted Alice. “ He has stopped singing. I’d give him five cents, if I had it, but the ice-cream soda last night took everything I had.”

“ Let’s play the ‘ Lorelei ’ over again,” said Clara.

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‘‘ It’s SO funny to think of anybody listening to our music.”

The girls went back to the piano, and again the voice of the boy in the street rose in unison.

“There!” Clara said. “We’ve actually kept time ! I think even Miss Witherspoon would be satisfied.”

There was a ring at the door when the girls ceased playing.

“ The postman,” Alice said.

“No, he rings twice. It’s too soon for him.”

The maid entered with a bunch of water-lilies.

“ A little boy left them. I could not make out what he said.”

“ How funny I ” cried Clara. “ Aren’t they beauties ? It was the boy that sang.”

“We can’t thank him,” said Alice, who had gone to the window, “ he is not there.”

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II. The Helpless Mother

The water-lilies were carefully looked after. The girls were amused. It was like being musicians on the stage to have flowers sent after a performance. How Bob would laugh, — or perhaps he would want to punch the head of the German lad. You could never tell what a boy would do !

Alice and Clara forgot their grievances in chatting over the incident. Bob, who was nearly seventeen years of age, had gone down to Mount Vernon with a party of friends. No doubt he would come back full of adventures ; but nothing that could happen to him would be so strange and so true, — the girls suspected that Bob sometimes ‘‘ made up ” things, — as this incident of the German boy.

‘‘ He sang the tune as if he liked it,” Clara said, it must mean something to him. It is awfully pretty when you come to think of it.”

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“ Mamma doesn’t like us to say ‘ awfully,’ ” Alice interrupted.

“ Oh, dear,” Clara said, ‘‘ mamma is so particular. American girls all say ‘ awfully.’ ”

“It’s English slang. Miss Witherspoon said.”

“ I don’t care. American girls can’t be ‘ old timey ’ like foreigners. Mamma ought not to expect us to be so old-fashioned.

“ Oh, Clara, you’re finding fault with mother.”

“I don’t mean to, but there’s Bob, — he goes out with boys, and here we are sitting moping over our music. They don’t bother him with music. He talks slang. Just because I’m a girl, I’ve got to stay at home when I want to go out.”

“ If,” said Alice, solemnly, “you find fault with mother, you’ll have to tell it when you go to confession ; it’s disrespect to parents. There’s mamma now, — she’s opening the door.”

A. soft voice was heard outside giving orders to Joe, the negro boy, as to the disposition of the market-basket.

“You’ll not tell ! ” exclaimed Clara.

“ I never tell,” said Alice. “ I know a secret of Bob’s now, but I wouldn’t tell for the world.”

“ Oh, do tell me ! ” cried Clara. “ Only me I ”

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No,” answered Alice, with dignity. “ If I told one secret. I’d be suspected of telling another. And Bob’s is to be a great surprise.”

Mrs. Watson came into the drawing-room, looking somewhat tired and heated.

“ Soon, my dears,” she said, taking off her bonnet, “ I trust that you may go to market for me. It’s a very tiresome business.”

“ I’d rather go to market than practise.”.

‘‘You, Clara, would rather do anything than what it happens to be your duty to do. Where did you get the water-lilies ? There was not one in market. All that I could get was a bunch of red carnations.”

Clara began the story at once.

“I can’t make head or tail of it,” said her mother. “ The mandolin — the window shutters — the * Lorelei ’ — Germans have rosy cheeks. Do disentangle her, Alice. How did you get those beautiful water-lilies ? And what - have rosy cheeks to do with it? You talk,— Clara is* so breathless.” *

Alice told the story as directly as possible.

“ Poor little fellow ! ” said Mrs. Watson. “ He must have been homesick. The ‘ Lorelei ’ is a very

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favorite song in Germany. I wish you could have found out whether he was hungry or not.”

“He went off too soon,” said Alice.

“ What does the ‘ Lorelei ’ mean, mother. I never thought the music had any meaning.”

“ My dear, how can you say such a foolish thing ? I’ll read the ‘ Lorelei ’ for you sometime, — There’s a pretty translation in Bishop Spalding’s book of German songs. Oh, I forgot to tell you, — Your cousin, Amalie, is coming on Monday.”

“Cousin Amalie, the Virginian cousin ? ”

“ Oh, lovely ! ” said Alice.

Clara pouted. “ She’ll be a nuisance in this hot weather. She must be poor and stupid — and I hate poor relations.”

Mrs. Watson looked as if she were much pained.

“ Clara, I do not like such worldly talk. It is most unkind. Amalie is an orphan, your brother’s niece. Oh, Clara ! you forget that we are not rich, and our dear Lord was the poorest of the poor. I am sure she is nice and not stupid, though I have never seen her.”

Clara’s cheeks flushed. “ I don’t see why we can’t have rich relatives, like other people.

When Irene Goddard came to visit Myra Smith, 2

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she brought her the most beautiful lilac silk waist, with exquisite tucks and lace. I fancy Cousin Amelie will not bring us anything. ‘Amalie,’ what a queer name ! ”

“Her godmother was a Frenchwoman,” Mrs. Watson said, with a touch of impatience. “Is it not better to give than to receive ? Is it the part of gentlewomen to think as you do? I am shocked ! ”

Alice kissed her mother’s flushed forehead.

“ Don’t mind Clara. Of course, mamma, it would be nice if we had some rich relative who would take us out to drive and give us things.”

Mrs. Watson sighed. She looked at the two girls helplessly. “ I do wish that some power would change them ; I cannot,” she said to herself.

SUSAN’S GIFTS.

III. Susan’s Gifts

Amelie Watson, at the very time her cousins were talking about her, was standing at Robuck Junction waiting for the train. Her old “ mammy ” Susan lived at the Junction, and Amalie had gone out of her way to say good-by. She might have gone directly to Washington by the Baltimore and Ohio railway, but she preferred to lose three hours rather than not say good-by to Susan. Susan, very black and wrinkled, with a red and yellow handkerchief tied over her head and a dark shawl on her shoulders, though the weather was very warm, stood, holding Amalie’s hand tight.

“ You always was a good chile,” she said, ‘‘ and a pretty chile, though I never done tell you so when you was young, but now that you’re a young lady. Miss Em’ly, it’s a good thing to know — in moderation.”

‘‘No, Susan,” said Amalie, decidedly, “I never

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was pretty. Of course, you thought so, and papa thought so, but that’s because you love me.”

Susan shook her head, and looked at the faint color coming and going in Amalie’s cheeks.

“ You’se just like that brier-rose by the fence, chile.”

“ You mean that I have lots of thorns, Susan,” said Amalie, with a laugh. “ I know I have. Father Fi'ederick, who understands people, says that I’d lose my temper at the last moment just because St. Peter wouldn’t open the door of Heaven quick enough.”

“Well,” said Susan, complacently, “he’d understand that, — he’d know you weren’t poor white trash, just used to waitin’ on themselves, — that’s what he’d know.”

“ Susan dear,” Amalie said, “ it’s nice to be spoiled, even when I know I don’t deserve it. I wish I knew my faults as well as you don’t know them. I wish somebody would point tliem out as Father Frederick did, without hurting me. I want to know my faults, but I don’t want people to hurt me when they tell me of them. Oh, how I wish papa! — of course I love mother just as well, but she died so long ago, — she seems further

SUSAN’S GIFTS.

away, — but father, oh, father ! Only the other day ”

Ainelie leaned her head upon Susan’s shoulder and cried. There was nobody to see her, except some white butterflies floating above the purpletipped vines that clustered around the rough platform which served as a station.

“Dear lamb! Dear lamb!” Susan said. “I wish your old mammy could go with you. Not that I like Washington. It’s too full of the educated niggers for me. The singin’ in St. Augustine’s mighty fine, — I was there two years ago to visit my kin, — but to see ’em a-bowin’ and ascrapin’ and a-mongerin’ just like white folks was too much for me.”

“ What is a-mongerin’ ? ” asked Amalie, the tears still in her eyes ; the shrewd old nurse had made this diversion purposely.

“ Just a-mongerin’, — that’s all,” responded Susan tartly, “ when I say a-mongerin’, I mean a-mongerin’, that’s all.”

There was silence. Amalie was still in awe of her nurse.

“ It may do very well for Baptists and Methodists to take on that way, but I don’t hold with

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tliat sort. I’se a Roman Catholic, — thanks be to God ! — and I believe in keeping the Commandments and doing your work regular. If you howl yourself sick at ’sperience meetings and slight the cooking you’re not goin’ to walk in them golden slippers, — that’s all. Now, Miss Em’ly,” Susan broke off, seeing that the tears had disappeared. You keep that cage with the white mice — what Adolphus gave you, — in your left hand, when the train comes, and the bunch of roses and ’sparagras vine, — what Cecelia Veronica give you, — next to it in the same hand. Then your right hand will be free for the jar of yellow tomatoes, preserved in ginger, — what Martha Mary gave you, — and for the little picture of Abraham Lincoln, — what Aloysia Amelia drawed for you. Your trunk is all right, but I will tote your bag and the watermelon, with Adolphus’ name on it, and put them in the seat beside you. I hear the train ! ”

Susan put her ear to the ground.

Yes, it’s cornin’. Now, Miss Em’ly, you just keep yo’ head high. Don’t you let anybody moosle you, — you ain’t old Judge Gray’s granddaughter for nothin’/!^ What’s them Watsons, I’d

SUSAN'S GIFTS.

like to know. Just because they’re livin’ in a three-story house, they think they’re gregarious. If you want ’em taken down any time you just send for me ! And, thanks to your father, there’s a cabin over there, where your old mammy can take care of you, if you’re sick or have any misery ! ”

The train came in sight.

When it stopped, the conductor, who knew Susan of old, — she sold fried chicken and coffee to the passengers on the midday train, — gallantly helped Amelie into the car with her gifts.

Susan’s smile showed all her teeth as the train started. She took out another bandanna handkerchief and waved it until the train was out of sight. And then she threw herself among the purpletipped weeds and wept aloud.

‘‘ Oh, my baby ! my baby ! ” she cried.

But nobody saw her except the fluttering white butterflies.

“ Oh, my dear baby ! out in the cold, cold world ! ”

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IV. A Glimpse Of The World

Amelie did not notice the amused glances of the people around her. The white mice would have been sufficient to attract attention without the initialed watermelon and the large picture of Abraham Lincoln, the big, tightly compressed bouquet of pink monthly roses, with their trailing fringe of asparagus vine and the tall stone jar of yellow tomatoes.

In fact, she kept her eyelids almost closed to keep back the tears. Everything had changed so suddenly ! Her motlier’s death had occurred so long ago that Amalie scarcely remembered it. Then her godmother, Madame de Guerin, had taken her to New Orleans ; but every summer she came back to her father. Madame de Guerin had died in 1897, and she lived with the motherly Sisters, in their Convent. Her father — young Mars’ Watson, as Susan would have called him, — came to see her there during the session of the

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winter school. He did not look like himself. She went back to Richmond with him. Then followed happy days. Was there anybody like her father? With her eyes closed, she recalled the past, — so recently the present. But God had taken liim. Susan, her nurse, had gone to Robuck to take care of her own numerous family when Amalie went to New Orleans, so the girl, — she was only sixteen, — had been housekeeper, advised and directed by Susan’s niece, Dinah.

When her father died, she had been away, sent off by him to visit a school friend in Charlestown. This made it all the harder; — but Father Frederick said that his last words had been a prayer for her, and this was the greatest of her consolations.

She was awakened from her reverie by the porter.

“ One dollar. Miss — parlor car seat.”

Amalie had, as was usual when her father was alive, entered the parlor car. She had determined to be very frugal, for she knew that she could have but little money now. She looked helplessly at the jar, the cage of white mice, the bouquet, the picture and her bag. How could she ever carry them all to another car? She meekly paid the dollar, and looked about her. In the seat in front

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of liers was a young woman, dressed in soft pink lawn and wearing a Leghorn hat, laden with pink roses. She had put down her novel for a moment, and slie was looking at Amalie with amusement in her bright eyes. Amalie saw it and smiled. She was not embarrassed by the gifts strewn about her. The young woman evidently expected that she would be, for she turned away slightly and halfmurmured, “ Excuse me ! ’’

Further down in the car there was a tired-looking woman, witli three children. Beyond them sat three men playing cards. They had laughed immoderately when Amalie and her belongings had been handed in. And, just beyond them, a youth, with a large seal ring, a gold-headed cane, and a golf suit ; he had not yet recovered from his amusement. But of this, Amalie was unconscious. Susan and lier children had been kind in their own way. That was enough for her. Other persons might think as they chose. Of course, she could not keep all these gifts, but they should never know that she did not value them.

Amalie was dressed in a neat, dark-blue gown, with a little bolero jacket and a light-blue silk waist. Her hat was of dark-blue straw, with

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cornflowers and bows of white ribbon. Amelie was i*ather pale, but her skin was clear, and her brown hair was carefully parted over a rather high forehead. She was graceful because she was unconscious, and she looked what she was, a nice simple, direct sort of a girl. Her bag, neatly buckled with straps of Russia leather, caused the young woman with the Leghorn hat to speak to her. That young woman had a theory that people could be judged by their traveling bags. Amalie’s was of Russian leather, presented by Madame de Guerin, who also had a theory that all traveling apparatus should be in good form.

You have a very pretty bag,” said the young lady, noticing the initials E. M. G.” on the silver plate.

‘‘ Yes, I like it very much.”

“ Are those your initials ? ”

‘‘ Tliey are my godmother’s. She lived in Paris a great deal. This is a little French bag.”

“Yes, — I see. You have been abroa'

“ Once, with my father.”

‘‘ I suppose you are going to Washington?”

“ Oh, yes,” answered Am^;lie, brightening.

‘‘ She must be somebody,” the young lady

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thought. “ But I don’t know, — she is traveling alone. Whom do you know in Washington?” she said.

“ Oh, nobody, except my cousins — the Watsons.”

“ Senator Watson ? ”

“ Oh, dear, no ! ” Amalie smiled. “ Mr. Watson is not even a judge.”

The fashionable young lady resumed her novel. Amelie was evidently nobody.”

After a while the young man in the golf suit strutted leisurely toward Amelie. At this moment she was wishing she could help the tired woman and the three children.

“We want some fruit, mamma ! ” one of those little girls had said, in a fretful voice. “We haven't had any dinner.”

“We’ll have dinner when we reach Washington,” said the mother.

“ Oh, we can’t wait. Oh, mamma, we are so hot and tired ! ”

The young man stopped, with a superior smile, and said, with a view to much amusement, —

“Ah, Miss, you’re from the country, I see. You’ve lots of presents for the city folks. Can I do anything for you ? ”

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Amelie met his bantering stare very modestly.

“ Yes,” she said in her clear voice. “Just carry this melon to the porter and have him cut it up for those children. You can have a nice, large piece yourself.”

The young woman was heard to laugh behind her novel. The you»g golfer grew red, and then meekly bore the melon to the porter.

Amelie smiled, but took no further notice of the impudent young man. The three small children, in a little while, were quite happy. The rich red of the melon was disappearing, while they feasted their eyes on the white mice and the picture of Abraham Lincoln.

“ Susan would be pleased, I am sure, if she saw that tired mother, — and Pve kept the roses.”

Thinking of others, she did not have time to feel lonely until she saw the dome of the Capitol from the car window. With a rush, all sorts of fears came upon her. She had never seen her cousins or lier aunt. She had met her uncle a few moments at her father’s funeral. Her cousins might not like her. She was neither clever nor attractive. — “ Washington ! ” The train stopped.

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V. The Horseless Carriage

Amelie stepped from the train, gratefully, leaving the white mice, the gorgeous picture, and the remains of the melon, with the children, who were equally grateful. The pink monthly roses had retained their freshness, and they seemed somehow or other to relieve her loneliness. They were pledges of Susan’s undying affection. Bag in hand she walked through the gate, and upstairs to the waiting-room. There was nobody to meet her, and it suddenly occurred to her that her cousins had not even a photograph of her. How could they be expected to know her? Nevertheless, she was unreasonably impatient at their not coming. Her uncle would have known her certainly, — for everybody said she was like her father. She found her purse and nervously made sure that her trunkcheck and money were safe, and there, too, was the card with the Watsons’ address upon it.

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A blue-capped smiling porter approached her.

‘‘This way, Miss,” he said, taking her bag. He was doubtlessly a servant of the Watsons, Amalie thought. She was relieved ; she followed him very modestly through a great crowd of excursionists waiting for another train.

“ Step in. Miss,— there, your bag is all right.”

Amelie obeyed, and found herself, to her surprise, in an automobile.

“ Wliere do you want to go. Miss ? ” said the porter with extended cap. Amalie liad sufficient experience with servants to know what this meant. She dropped a quarter into the cap. He had not been sent by the Watsons, after all. She was not pleased to be in an automobile ; she had not even seen one before; the appearance of the thing rather frightened her. But she was ashamed to get out before all those people; it would look so “ countrified,” and Amelie was, above all, afraid of being “countrified;” so she sat bolt upright, with an air of great dignity.

“ Where ? ” asked the driver, whom the careful would call a “ chauffeur.”

In her nervousness, Amalie picked the wrong card from her pocket-book, and read “ Ecking-

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ton.” It was the card of an old schoolfriend’s mother, but Amalie, in her fear and doubt, could not just then distinguish very clearly. She was afraid of this new carriage, afraid of the new city, yet more afraid of letting anybody know that she was afraid.

Eckington ! — all right ! ” the driver said.

The automobile glided on the smooth asphalt with a queer sound that made Amalie more and more afraid. There might be an explosion at any moment, — and she had forgotten to secure her trunk ! She preserved her dignity, however, and, as the automobile passed onward, her fears began to grow less, — for she passed another of those doubtful vehicles filled with smiling children and a white-capped nurse. As the carriage had paused a moment near the station, to let a car go by, she saw two girls looking at her curiously.

“ It might be,” said one ; “ we are a little late.”

“No,” — and this Amalie heard, — “it can’t be she, — she would be in mourning.”

But so great was her trepidation of mind, that the words seemed to have no special meaning at the time. In a dim way, she recalled the fact that her dear father had disliked mourning clothes, and

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therefore, since his death, she had worn the color he liked best, — blue. She felt she would have liked to call out to the girls ; but the vehicle had gone away from them ; she looked back ; they were entering the station.

On she sped. If Amelie had been in her usual frame of mind she would have enjoyed the drive ; but she was torn by various anxieties. They were in the suburbs now, — rows of locusts and oaks, with blossomless dogwoods, with here and there a touch of the pink of the briar-rose, seemed to pass her. The air was full of the soft perfume of cool groves. Suddenly a panic seized her. Where was the strange, silent being who managed this horseless carriage taking her?

“ Are we near the Capitol ? ” she called out.

‘‘ No,” said the driver, in a pleasant voice, we’ve been going away from the Capitol for some time. We’re at the gypsy camp, — do you want your fortune told, Miss ? ” he asked, with a laugh.

On her left Amalie saw a space, sparsely shaded, which contained two tents, a large, gaily painted van, and several children playing contentedly in the dust. A well-dressed, olive-skinned old lady

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34 :

Amalie, who, by this time, had become somewhat morbid, principally because she had not eaten anything to speak of since morning, shrank back.

“ Oh, dear,” she said, ‘‘I am lost.”

“ Maybe you’ve given me the wrong address,” said the matter-of-fact voice. The gypsies won’t hurt you. Lots of people come out here to have their fortunes told.”

“ I think it is a sin,” said Amalie in a faint voice. “ Oh, dear ! — here’s the right card ! ” She drew the card from her pocket-book, and tried to say, in a voice befitting a young lady determined to keep the driver in his place, Oh, dear, isn’t it awful ! The address is B street, near the Capitol.”

On the Hill,” said the man, with a chuckle. “ Why, you might have walked there in five minutes. Don’t be afraid. Miss, — I have a little girl just your age, myself.”

Amalie blushed to the roots of her hair, and buried her face in the roses. The automobile turned, and she did not recover her dignity until the majestic dome of the Capitol came in sight again.

Past the B. & O. station, past an engine house, with a pump near, past many black boys with

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hoses refreshing small plots of grass, and foliagecovered houses, the automobile sped, until it stopped in front of a red brick house, with high brownstone steps.

‘‘ A dollar and a half. Miss.”

Amelie took the money from her pocket-book, reflecting, as she did so, that if she went on at this rate of extravagance, her plans of economy would be as the idle wind.

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