Of all the places in the county “The Towers” was the favorite with the young people. There even before Margaret was installed the Major kept open house with his major domo and factotum “George Washington”; and when Margaret came from school, of course it was popular. Only one class of persons was excluded.
There were few people in the county who did not know of the Major’s antipathy to “old women,” as he called them. Years no more entered into his definition of this class than celibacy did into his idea of an “old bachelor.” The state of single blessedness continued in the female sex beyond the bloom of youth was in his eyes the sole basis of this unpardonable condition. He made certain concessions to the few individuals among his neighbors who had remained in the state of spinsterhood, because, as he declared, neighborliness was a greater virtue than consistency; but he drew the line at these few, and it was his boast that no old woman had ever been able to get into his Eden. “One of them,” he used to say, “would close paradise just as readily now as Eve did six thousand years ago.” Thus, although as Margaret grew up she had any other friends she desired to visit her as often as she chose, her wish being the supreme law at Rock Towers, she had never even thought of inviting one of the class against whom her uncle’s ruddy face was so steadfastly set. The first time it ever occurred to her to invite any one among the proscribed was when she asked Rose Endicott to pay her a visit. Rose, she knew, was living with her old aunt, Miss Jemima Bridges, whom she had once met in R——-, and she had some apprehension that in Miss Jemima’s opinion, the condition of the South was so much like that of the Sandwich Islands that the old lady would not permit Rose to come without her personal escort. Accordingly, one evening after tea, when the Major was in a particularly gracious humor, and had told her several of his oldest and best stories, Margaret fell upon him unawares, and before he had recovered from the shock of the encounter, had captured his consent. Then, in order to secure the leverage of a dispatched invitation, she had immediately written Rose, asking her and her aunt to come and spend a month or two with her, and had without delay handed it to George Washington to deliver to Lazarus to give Luke to carry to the post-office. The next evening, therefore, when the Major, after twenty-four hours of serious apprehension, reopened the matter with a fixed determination to coax or buy her out of the notion, because, as he used to say, “women can’t be reasoned out of a thing, sir, not having been reasoned in,” Margaret was able to meet him with the announcement that it was “too late,” as the letter had already been mailed.
Seated in one of the high-backed arm-chairs, with one white hand shading her laughing eyes from the light, and with her evening dress daintily spread out about her, Margaret was amused at the look of desperation on the old gentleman’s ruddy face. He squared his round body before the fire, braced himself with his plump legs well apart, as if he were preparing to sustain the shock of a blow, and taking a deep inspiration, gave a loud and prolonged “Whew!”
This was too much for her.
Margaret rose, and, going up to him, took his arm and looked into his face cajolingly.
“Uncle, I was bound to have Rose, and Miss Jemima would not have let her come alone.”
The tone was the low, almost plaintive key, the effectiveness of which Margaret knew so well.
“‘Not let her!’” The Major faced her quickly. “Margaret, she is one of those strong-minded women!”
Margaret nodded brightly.
“I bet my horse she wears iron-gray curls, caught on the side of her head with tucking combs!”
“She does,” declared Margaret, her eyes dancing.
“And has a long nose—red at the end.”
“Uncle, you have seen her. I know you have seen her,” asserted Margaret, laughing up at him. “You have her very picture.”
The Major groaned, and vowed that he would never survive it, and that Margaret would go down to history as the slayer of her uncle.
“I have selected my place in the graveyard,” he said, with a mournful shake of the head. “Put me close to the fence behind the raspberry thicket, where I shall be secure. Tell her there are snakes there.”
“But, uncle, she is as good as gold,” declared Margaret; “she is always doing good,—I believe she thinks it her mission to save the world.”
The Major burst out, “That’s part of this modern devilment of substituting humanitarianism for Christianity. Next thing they’ll be wanting to abolish hell!”
The Major was so impressed with his peril that when Jeff, who had galloped over “for a little while,” entered, announced with great ceremony by George Washington, he poured out all his apprehensions into his sympathetic ear, and it was only when he began to rally Jeff on the chance of his becoming a victim to Miss Endicott’s charms, that Margaret interfered so far as to say, that Rose had any number of lovers, and one of them was “an awfully nice fellow, handsome and rich and all that.” She wished “some one” would invite him down to pay a visit in the neighborhood, for she was “afraid Rose would find it dreadfully dull in the country.” The Major announced that he would himself make love to her; but both Margaret and Jeff declared that Providence manifestly intended him for Miss Jemima. He then suggested that Miss Endicott’s friend be invited to come with her, but Margaret did not think that would do.
“What is the name of this Paragon?” inquired Jeff.
Margaret gave his name. “Mr. Lawrence—Pickering Lawrence.”
“Why, I know him, ‘Pick Lawrence.’ We were college-mates, class-mates. He used to be in love with somebody up at his home then; but I never identified her with your friend. We were great cronies at the University. He was going to be a lawyer; but I believe somebody died and he came into a fortune.” This history did not appear to surprise Margaret as much as might have been expected, and she said nothing more about him.
About a week later Jeff took occasion to ride over to tea, and announced that his friend Mr. Lawrence had promised to run down and spend a few weeks with him. Margaret looked so pleased and dwelt so much on the alleged charms of the expected guest that Jeff, with a pang of jealousy, suddenly asserted that he “didn’t think so much of Lawrence,” that he was one of those fellows who always pretended to be very much in love with somebody, and was “always changing his clothes.”
“That’s what girls like,” said Margaret, decisively; and this was all the thanks Jeff received.