Mother And Daughter

: Jewel

Dr. Ballard had gone, and his hostesses were awaiting the summons to

dinner. Mrs. Evringham regarded her daughter critically as the girl sat

at the piano, idly running her fingers over the keys.



The listlessness expressed in the fresh face and rounded figure brought

a look of disapproval into the mother's eyes.



"You must practice that nocturne," she said. "You played it badly just

now, and t ere is no excuse for it, Eloise."



"If you will let me give lessons I will," responded the girl promptly,

without turning her graceful, drooping head.



The unexpected reply was startling.



"What are you talking about?" asked Mrs. Evringham.



"Oh, I'm so tired of it all," replied the girl wearily.



A frown contracted her mother's forehead. "Tired of what? Turn around

here!" She rose and put her hands on the pretty shoulders and turned her

child until the clear gray eyes met hers. "Now then, tired of what?"



Eloise smiled slightly, and sighed. "Of playing nocturnes to Dr.

Ballard."



"And he is quite as tired of hearing you, I dare say," was the retort.

"It seems to me you always stumble when you play to the doctor, and he

adores Chopin."



Eloise continued to meet her mother's annoyed gaze, her hands fallen in

her lap, all the lines of her nut-brown hair, her exquisite face, and

pliable, graceful figure so many silent arguments, as they always were,

against any one's harboring annoyance toward her.



"You say he does, mother, and you have assured him of it so often that

the poor man doesn't dare to say otherwise; but really, if you'd let him

have the latest Weber and Field hit, I think he would be so grateful."



"Learn it then!" returned Mrs. Evringham.



Eloise laughed lazily. "Intrepid little mother!" Then she added, in a

different tone, "Don't you think there is any danger of our being too

obliging? I'm not the only girl in town whose mother wishes her to

oblige Dr. Ballard. May we not overreach ourselves?"



"Eloise!" Mrs. Evringham's half-affectionate, half-remonstrating grasp

fell from her child's shoulders. "That remark is in very bad taste."



The girl shook her head slowly. "I never can understand why it is any

satisfaction to you to pretend. You find comfort in pretending that

Mr. Evringham likes to have us here, likes us to use his carriages, to

receive his friends, and all the rest of it. We've been here seven weeks

and three days, and that little game of pretending is satisfying you

still. You are like the ostrich with its head in the sand."



Mrs. Evringham drew her lithe figure up. "Well, Eloise, I hope there are

limits to this. To call your own mother an--an ostrich!"



"Don't speak so loud," returned the girl, rising and patting her

mother's hand. "Grandfather has returned from his ride. I just heard him

come in. It is too near dinner time for a scene. There is no need of our

pretending to each other, is there? You have always put me off and put

me off, but surely you mean to bring this to an end pretty soon?"



"You could bring it to an end at once if you would!" returned Mrs.

Evringham, her voice lowered. "Dr. Ballard has nothing to wait for. I

know all about his circumstances. There never was such a providence as

father's having a friend like him ready to our hand--so suitable, so

attractive, so rich!"



"Yes," responded the girl low and equably, "it is just five weeks and

two days that you have been throwing me at that man's head."



"I have done nothing of the kind, Eloise Evringham."



"Yes you have," returned the girl without excitement, "and grandfather

sneering at us all the time under his mustache. He knows that there are

other girls and other mothers interested in Dr. Ballard more desirable

than we are. Oh! how easy it is to be more desirable than we are!"



"There isn't one girl in five hundred so pretty as you," returned Mrs.

Evringham stoutly.



"I wish my prettiness could persuade you into my way of thinking."



"What do you mean?" The glance of the older woman was keen and

suspicious.



"We would take a cheap little apartment to-morrow," said the girl

wistfully.



Mrs. Evringham gave an ejaculation of impatience. "And do all our own

work and live like pigs!" she returned petulantly.



Eloise shrugged her shoulders. "I may flatter myself, but I fancy I

should keep it rather clean."



"You wouldn't mind your hands then." Mrs. Evringham regarded the hands

worthy to be imitated by a sculptor's art, and the girl raised them

and inspected the rose-tints of their tips. "I've read something about

rubber gloves," she returned vaguely.



"You'd better read something else then. How do you suppose you would get

on without a carriage?" asked her mother with exasperation. "You have

never had so much as a taste of privation in any form. Your suggestion

is the acme of foolishness."



"I think I could do something if you would let me," rejoined the girl

as calmly as before. "I think I could teach music pretty well, and keep

house charmingly. If I had any false pride when we came out here, the

past six weeks have purified me of it. Will you let me try, mother? I'm

asking it very seriously."



"Certainly not!" hotly. "There are armies of music teachers now, and you

would not have a chance."



"I think I could dress hair well," remarked Eloise, glancing at the

reflection in a mirror of her own graceful coiffure.



"I dare say!" responded Mrs. Evringham with sarcastic heat, "or I'm sure

you could get a position as a waitress. The servant problem is growing

worse every year."



"I'd like to be your waitress, mother." For the first time the girl lost

her perfect poise, and the color fluctuated in her cheek. She clasped

her hands. "It would be heaven compared with the feeling, the sickening,

appalling suspicion, that we are becoming akin to the adventuresses we

read of, the pretty, luxurious women who live by their wits."



"Silence!" commanded Mrs. Evringham, her eyes flashing and her effective

black-clothed figure drawn up.



Eloise sighed again. "I didn't expect to accomplish anything by this

talk," she said, relapsing into listlessness.



"What did you expect then? Merely to be disagreeable? I hope you may be

as successful in worthier undertakings. Now listen. Some of the plans

you have suggested at various times might be sensible if you were a

plain girl. Your beauty is as tangible an asset as money would be; but

beauty requires money. You must have it. Your poor father might have

left it to you, but he didn't; so you will marry it--not unsuitably,"

meeting an ominous look in her child's eyes, "not without love or under

any circumstances to make a martyr of you, but according to common

sense; and as a certain young man is evidently more and more certain of

himself every time he comes"--she paused.



"You think there is no need for him to grow more certain of me?" asked

Eloise.



"You might have saved us the disagreeables of this interview. And

one thing more," impressively, "you evidently are not taking into

consideration, perhaps you never knew, that it was your grandfather's

confidence in a certain course which induced your poor father to take

that last fatal flyer. Your grandfather feels--I'm sure he feels--that

much reparation is due us. The present conditions are easier for him

than a separate suitable home would be, therefore"--Mrs. Evringham waved

her hand. "It is strange," she added, "that so young a girl should not

repose more trust in her mother's judgment. And now that we are on the

subject, I wish you would make more effort with your grandfather. Don't

be so silent at table and leave all the talking to me. A man of his

age likes to have merry young people about. Chat, create a cheerful

atmosphere. He likes to look at you, of course, but you have been so

quiet and lackadaisical of late, it is enough to hurt his feelings as

host."



"He has never shown any symptoms of anxiety," remarked Eloise.



"Well, he is a very self-contained man."



"He is indeed, poor grandfather; I don't know how you will manage,

mother, when you have to play the game of 'pretend' all alone. He is

growing tired of it, I can see. His courtesy is wearing very thin. I'm

sorry to make it harder for you by taking away what must have been a

large prop and support, but I heard papa say to himself more than once

in those last sad days, 'If I had only taken my father's advice.'"



"Eloise," very earnestly, "you misunderstood, you certainly

misunderstood."



The girl shook her head wearily. "No, alas! I neither misunderstand nor

forget, when it would be most convenient to do so."



Mrs. Evringham's fair brow contracted as she regarded her daughter with

exasperation. "And you are only nineteen! One would think it was you

instead of me to whom the next birthday would bring that detested

forty."



The girl looked at her mother, whose youthful face and figure betrayed

the source of her own heritage of physical charm.



"I long ago gave up the hope of ever again being as young as you are,"

she returned sadly. "Oh!" with a rare and piteous burst of feeling,

"if dear papa could have stayed with us, and we could have had a right

somewhere!"



Mrs. Evringham threw her arms about the young creature, welcoming the

softened mood. "You know I took you right to my own people, Eloise," she

said gently. "We stayed as long as I thought was right; they couldn't

afford to keep us." A sound at the door caused her to turn. The erect

form of her father-in-law had just entered the room.



"Ah, good evening, father," she said in tones whose sadness was not

altogether feigned, even though she secretly rejoiced that Eloise should

for once show such opportune emotion. "Pardon this little girl. She was

just feeling overwhelmed with a pang of homesickness for her father."



"Indeed!" returned Mr. Evringham. "Will you walk out? Mrs. Forbes tells

me that dinner is served."



Eloise, hastily drawing her handkerchief across her eyes, passed the

unbending figure, her cheeks stinging. His hard voice was in her ears.



That she was not his son's child hurt her now as often before in the

past two months, but that he should have discovered her weeping at a

moment when he might have been expected to enter was a keen hurt to her

pride, and her heart swelled with a suspicion of his unspoken thoughts.

She had never been effusive, she had never posed. He had no right to

suspect her.



With her small head carried high and her cheeks glowing, she passed

him, following her mother, who floated on before with much satisfaction.

These opportune tears shed by her nonconforming child should make their

stay good for another two months at least.



"You must have had a beautiful ride, father," said Mrs. Evringham as

they seated themselves at table. She spoke in the tone, at once assured

and ingratiating, which she always adopted toward him. "I noticed you

took an earlier start than usual."



The speaker had never had the insight to discover that her father-in-law

was ungrateful for proofs that any of his long-fixed, solitary habits

were now observed by feminine eyes.



"I did take a rather longer ride than usual," he returned. "Mrs. Forbes,

I wish you would speak to the cook about the soup. It has been served

cool for the last two days."



Mrs. Forbes flushed as she stood near his chair in her trim black gown

and white apron.



"Yes, sir," she replied, the flush and quiet words giving little

indication of the tumult aroused within her by her employer's

criticism. To fail to please Mr. Evringham at his meals was the deepest

mortification life held for her.



"I'm sure it tastes very good," said Mrs. Evringham amiably, "although I

like a little more salt than your cook uses."



"You can reach it I hope," remarked the host, casting a glance at the

dainty solitaire salt and pepper beside his daughter's plate.



"But don't you like it cooked in?" she asked sweetly.



"Not when I want to get it out," he answered shortly.



"How can mother, how can mother!" thought Eloise helplessly.



"There is decided spring in the air to-day," said Mrs. Evringham. "I

remember of old how charmingly spring comes in the park."



"You have a good memory," returned Mr. Evringham dryly.



"Why do you say that?" asked the pretty widow, lifting large, innocent

eyes.



"It is some years since you accompanied Lawrence in his calls upon me, I

believe."



"Poor father!" thought Mrs. Evringham, "how unpleasantly blunt he has

grown, living here alone!"



"I scarcely realize it," she returned suavely. "My recollection of the

park is always so clear. It is surprising, isn't it, how relatives can

live as near together as we in New York and you out here and see one

another so seldom! Life in New York," sighing, "was such a rush for

us. Here amid the rustle of the trees it seems to be scarcely the same

world. Lawrence often said his only lucid intervals were during the

rides he took with Eloise in Central Park. Do you always ride alone,

father?"



"Always," was the prompt rejoinder, while Eloise cast a glance full of

appeal at her mother.



The latter continued archly, "If you could see Eloise on a horse you

would not blame me for trying to screw up my courage, as I have been

doing for days past, to ask you if she might take a canter on Essex Maid

in the morning, sometimes, while you are away. Fanshaw assured me that

she would be perfectly safe."



Mr. Evringham's cold eyes stared, and then the enormity of the

proposition appeared to move him humorously.



"Which maid did Fanshaw say would be safe?" he inquired, while Eloise

glowed with mortification.



"Well, if you think Eloise can't ride, try her some time!" exclaimed

the widow gayly. It had been a matter of surprise and afterward of

resentment that Mr. Evringham could remain deaf to her hints so long,

and she had determined to become frank. "Or else ask Dr. Ballard," she

went on; "he has very kindly provided Eloise with a horse several times,

but the child likes a solitary ride, sometimes, as well as you do."



The steely look returned to the host's eyes. "No one rides the Maid but

myself," he returned coldly.



"I beg you to believe, grandfather, that I don't wish to ride her," said

Eloise, her customary languor of manner gone and her voice hard. "Mother

is more ambitious for me than I am for myself. I should be very much

obliged if she would allow me to ask favors when I want them."



Mrs. Forbes's lips were set in a tight line as she filled Mrs.

Evringham's glass.



That lady's heart was beating a little fast from vexation, and also from

the knowledge that a time of reckoning with her child was coming.



"Oh, very well," she said airily. "No wonder you are careful of that

beautiful creature. I caught Eloise with her arms around the mare's neck

the other day, and I couldn't help wishing for a kodak. You feed her

with sugar, don't you Eloise?"



"I hope not, I'm sure!" exclaimed Mr. Evringham sternly.



"I'll not do it again, grandfather," said the girl, her very ears

burning.



Mrs. Evringham sighed and gave one Parthian shot. "The poor child does

love horses so," she murmured softly.



The host scowled and fidgeted in his chair with a brusque gesture to

Mrs. Forbes to remove the course.



"Harry has turned up again," he remarked, to change the subject.



"Really?" returned his daughter-in-law languidly. "For how long I

wonder?"



"He thinks it is permanent."



"He is still in Chicago?"



"Yes, for a day or two. He and his wife sail for Europe immediately."



"Indeed!" with a greater show of interest. Then, curiously, "Are you

sending them, father?"



"Scarcely! They are going on business."



"Oh," relapsing into indifference. "They have a child, I believe."



"Yes, a girl. I should think perhaps you might have remembered it."



"I hardly see why, if Harry didn't--a fact he plainly showed by

deserting the poor creature." The insolence of the speaker's tone was

scarcely veiled. Her extreme disapproval of her father-in-law sometimes

welled to the surface of her suave manner.



Mr. Evringham's thoughts had fled to Chicago. "Harry proposed leaving

the girl here while they are gone," he said.



Mrs. Evringham straightened in her chair and her attention concentrated.

"With you? What assurance! How like Harry!" she exclaimed.



The words were precisely those which her host had been saying to

himself; but proceeding from her lips they had a strange effect upon

him.



"You find it so?" he asked. The clearer the proposition became to Mrs.

Evringham's consciousness the more she resented it. To have the child

in the house not only would menace her ease and comfort, but meant

a possibility that the grandfather might take an interest in Harry's

daughter which would disturb Eloise's chances.



"Of course it does. I call it simply presumptuous," she declared with

emphasis.



"After all, Harry has some rights," rejoined Mr. Evringham slowly.



"His wife is a dressmaker," went on the other. "I had it directly from

a Chicago friend. Harry has scarcely been with the child since she was

born. And to saddle a little stranger like that on you! Now Eloise and

her father were inseparable."



There was an ominous glitter in Mr. Evringham's eyes. "Eloise's father!"

he returned slowly. "I did not know that she remembered him."



The hurt of his tone and words sank deep into the heart of the girl, but

she looked up courageously.



"Your son was my father in every best sense," she said. "We were

inseparable. You must have known it."



"You appeared to be separable when your father made his visits to

Bel-Air Park," was the rejoinder. "Pardon me if I knew very little

of what took place in his household. A telegraph blank, please, Mrs.

Forbes, and tell Zeke to be ready to go to the office."



There was a vital tone in the usually dry voice. Mrs. Evringham looked

apprehensively at her daughter; but Eloise gave her no answering glance;

her eyes were downcast and her pretense of eating continued, while her

pulses beat.