Mrs. Gilson encouraged him; Bill sat with almost closed eyes, glorying in the saga of small-town life; Saxton and Gilson did not conceal their contemptuous grins.
But Claire---- After nervously rubbing the tips of her thumbs with flickering agitated fingers, she had paid no attention to Bill and the revelation of Milt"s rustic life; she had quietly gone to Milt, to help him prepare the scanty tea.
She whispered, "Never mind, dear. I don"t care. It was all twice as much fun as being wheeled in lacy prams by cranky nurses, as Jeff and I were.
But I know how you feel. Are you ashamed of having been a prairie pirate?"
"No, I"m not! We were wild kids--we raised a lot of Cain--but I"m glad we did."
"So am I. I couldn"t stand it if you were ashamed. Listen to me, and remember little Claire"s words of wisdom. These fools are trying--oh, they"re so obvious!--they"re trying to make me feel that the prim Miss Boltwood of Brooklyn Heights is a stranger to you. Well, they"re succeeding in making me a stranger--to them!"
"Claire! Dear! You don"t mind Bill?"
"Yes. I do. And so do you. You"ve grown away from him."
"I don"t know but---- Today has been quite a test."
"Yes. It has. Because if I can stand your friend Mr. McGolwey----"
"Then you do care!"
"Perhaps. And if I think that he"s, oh, not much good, and I remember that for a long time you just had him to play with, then I"m all the more anxious to make it up to you."
"Don"t be sorry for me! I can"t stand that! After all, it was a good town, and good folks----"
"No! No! I"m not sorry for you! I just mean, you couldn"t have had so terribly much fun, after you were eighteen or so. Schoenstrom must have been a little dull, after very many years there. This stuff about the charm of backwoods villages--the people that write it seem to take jolly good care to stay in Long Island suburbs!"
"Claire!" He was whispering desperately, "The tea"s most done. Oh, my dear. I"m crazy with this puttering around, trying to woo you and having to woo the entire Gilson tribe. Let"s run away!"
"No; first I"m going to convince them that you are--what I know you are."
"But you can"t."
"Huh! You wait! I"ve thought of the most beautiful, beastly cruel plan for the reduction of social obesity----"
Then she was jauntily announcing, "Tea, my dears. Jeff, you get the tooth-mug. Isn"t this jolly!"
"Yes. Oh yes. Very jolly!" Jeff was thoroughly patronizing, but she didn"t look offended. She made them drink the acid tea, and taste the chalk-like bread and b.u.t.ter sandwiches. She coaxed Bill to go on with his stories, and when the persistent Mrs. Gilson again asked the pariahs to come to dinner, Claire astonished Milt, and still more astonished Mrs. Gilson, by begging, "Oh yes, please do come, Milt."
He consented, savagely.
"But first," Claire added to Mrs. Gilson, "I want us to take the boys to---- Oh, I have the bulliest idea. Come, everybody. We"re going riding."
"Uh, where----?" hinted Mr. Gilson.
"That"s my secret. Come!"
Claire pranced to the door, herded all of them down to the limousine, whispered an address to the chauffeur.
Milt didn"t care much for that ride. Bill was somewhat too evidently not accustomed to limousines. He wiped his shoes, caked with red mud, upon the seat-cushions, and apologized perspiringly. He said, "Gee whillikens, that"s a dandy idee, telephone to bawl the shuffer out with," and "Are them flowers real, the bokay in the vase?"
But the Gilsons and Jeff Saxton were happy about it all--till the car turned from a main thoroughfare upon a muddy street of shacks that clung like goats to the sides of a high cut, a street unchanged from the pioneer days of Seattle.
"Good heavens, Claire, you aren"t taking us to see Aunt Hatty, are you?"
wailed Mrs. Gilson.
"Oh yes, indeed. I knew the boys would like to meet her."
"No, really, I don"t think----"
"Eva, my soul, Jeff and you planned our tea party today, and a.s.sured me I"d be so interested in Milt"s bachelor apartment---- By the way, I"d been up there already, so it wasn"t entirely a surprise. It"s my turn to lead." She confided to Milt, "Dear old Aunt Hatty is related to all of us. She"s Gene"s aunt, and my fourth cousin, and I think she"s distantly related to Jeff. She came West early, and had a hard time, but she"s real Brooklyn Heights--and she belongs to Gramercy Park and North Washington Square and Rittenhouse Square and Back Bay, too, though she has got out of touch a little. So I wanted you to meet her."
Milt wondered what unperceived bag of cement had hardened the faces of Saxton and the Gilsons.
Silent save for polite observations of Claire upon tight skirts and lumbering, the merry company reached the foot of a lurching flight of steps that scrambled up a clay bank to a cottage like a hen that has set too long. Milt noticed that Mrs. Gilson made efforts to remain in the limousine when it stopped, and he caught Gilson"s mutter to his wife, "No, it"s Claire"s turn. Be a sport, Eva."
Claire led them up the badly listed steps to an unpainted porch on which sat a little old lady, very neat, very respectable, very interested, and reflectively holding in one ivory hand a dainty handkerchief and a black clay pipe.
"h.e.l.lo, Claire, my dear. You"ve broken the relatives" record--you"ve called twice in less than a year," said the little old lady.
"How do you do, Aunt Harriet," remarked Mrs. Gilson, with great lack of warmth.
"h.e.l.lo, Eva. Sit down on the edge of the porch. Those chickens have made it awful dirty, though, haven"t they? Bring out some chairs. There"s two chairs that don"t go down under you--often." Aunt Harriet was very cheerful.
The group lugubriously settled in a circle upon an a.s.semblage of wind-broken red velvet chairs and wooden stools. They resembled the aftermath of a funeral on a damp day.
Claire was the cheerful undertaker, Mrs. Gilson the grief-stricken widow.
Claire waved at Milt and conversed with Aunt Hatty in a high brisk voice: "This is the nice boy I met on the road that I think I told you about, Cousin Hatty."
The little old lady screwed up the delicate skin about her eyes, examined Milt, and cackled, "Boy, there"s something wrong here. You don"t belong with my family. Why, you look like an American. You haven"t got an imitation monocle, and I bet you can"t talk with a New York-London accent. Why, Claire, I"m ashamed of you for bringing a human being into the Boltwood-Gilson-Saxton tomb and expecting----"
Then was the smile of Mrs. Gilson lost forever. It was simultaneously torpedoed, mined, scuttled, and bombed. It went to the bottom without a ripple, while Mrs. Gilson snapped, "Aunt Hatty, please don"t be vulgar."
"Me?" croaked the little old lady. She puffed at her pipe, and dropped her elbows on her knees. "My, ain"t it hard to please some folks."
"Cousin Hatty, I want Milt to know about our families. I love the dear old stories," Claire begged prettily.
Mrs. Gilson snarled. "Claire, really----"
"Oh, do shut up, Eva, and don"t be so bossy!" yelped the dear little old lady, in sudden and dismaying rage. "I"ll talk if I want to. Have they been bullying you, Claire? Or your boy? I tell you, boy, these families are fierce. I was brought up in Brooklyn--went through all the schools--used to be able to misplay the piano and misp.r.o.nounce French with the best of "em. Then Gene"s pa and I came West together--he had an idea he"d get rich robbing the Injuns of their land. And we went broke.
I took in washing. I learned a lot. I learned a Gilson was just the same common stuff as a red-shirt miner, when he was up against it. But Gene"s pa succeeded--there was something about practically stealing a fur schooner--but I never was one to tattle on my kin. Anyway, by the time Gene come along, his pa was rich, and that means aristocratic.
"This aristocracy west of Pittsburgh is just twice as bad as the sn.o.bbery in Boston or New York, because back there, the families have had their wealth long enough--some of "em got it by stealing real estate in 1820, and some by selling Jamaica rum and n.i.g.g.e.rs way back before the Revolutionary War--they"ve been respectable so long that they know mighty well and good that n.o.body except a Britisher is going to question their blue blood--and oh my, what good blueing third-generation money does make. But out here in G.o.d"s Country, the marquises of milling and the barons of beef are still uneasy. Even their pretty women, after going to the best hair-dressers and patronizing the best charities, sometimes get scared lest somebody think they haven"t either brains or breeding.
"So they"re nasty to all low pussons like you and me, to make sure we understand how important they are. But lands, I know "em, boy. I"m kept pensioned up here, out of the way, but I read the social notes in the papers and I chuckle---- When there"s a big reception and I read about Mrs. Vogeland"s pearls, and her beautiful daughter-in-law, I remember how she used to run a boarding-house for miners----
"Well, I guess it"s just as shoddy in the East if you go far enough back. Claire, you"re a nice comforting body, and I hate to say it, but the truth is, your great-grandfather was an hostler, and made his first money betting on horses. Now, my, I oughtn"t to tell that. Do you mind, dearie?"
"Not a bit. Isn"t it delightful that this is such a democratic country, with no castes," said Claire.