Part 62

“Don't you feel well, Annie?” her father asked again, a golden bit of omelet poised on his fork, as she was leaving the room.

“Quite well, father dear.”

“But you are eating no supper.”

“I have always heard that people who cook don't need so much to eat,” said Imogen. “They say the essence of the food soaks in through the pores.”

“I am quite well,” Annie repeated, and the door closed behind her.

“Dear Annie! She is always doing odd things like this,” remarked Jane.

“Yes, she is, things that one cannot account for, but Annie is a dear,” said Susan.

“I hope she is well,” said Annie's father.

“Oh, she is well enough. Don't worry, father,” said Imogen. “Dear Annie is always doing the unexpected. She looks very well.”

“Yes, dear Annie is quite stout, for her,” said Jane.

“I think she is thinner than I have ever seen her, and the rest of you look like stuffed geese,” said Benny, rudely.

Imogen turned upon him in dignified wrath. “Benny, you insult your sisters,” said she. “Father, you should really tell Benny that he should bridle his tongue a little.”

“You ought to bridle yours, every one of you,” retorted Benny. “You girls nag poor Annie every single minute. You let her do all the work, then you pick at her for it.”

There was a chorus of treble voices. “We nag dear Annie! We pick at dear Annie! We make her do everything! Father, you should remonstrate with Benjamin. You know how we all love dear Annie!”

“Benjamin,” began Silas Hempstead, but Benny, with a smothered exclamation, was up and out of the room.

Benny quite frankly disliked his sisters, with the exception of Annie. For his father he had a sort of respectful tolerance. He could not see why he should have anything else. His father had never done anything for him except to admonish him. His scanty revenue for his support and college expenses came from his maternal grandmother, who had been a woman of parts and who had openly scorned her son-in-law.

Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occasioned much comment. By its terms she had provided sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's education and living until he should graduate; and her house, with all her personal property, and the bulk of the sum from which she had derived her own income, fell to her granddaughter Annie. Annie had always been her grandmother's favorite. There had been covert dismay when the contents of the will were made known, then one and all had congratulated the beneficiary, and said abroad that they were glad dear Annie was so well provided for. It was intimated by Imogen and Eliza that probably dear Annie would not marry, and in that case Grandmother Loomis's bequest was so fortunate. She had probably taken that into consideration. Grandmother Loomis had now been dead four years, and her deserted home had been for rent, furnished, but it had remained vacant.

Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after she had cleared away the supper-table and washed the dishes she went up to her room, carefully rearranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she sat down beside a window and waited and watched, her pointed chin in a cup of one little thin hand, her soft muslin skirts circling around her, and the scent of queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon of her grandmother's which she had tied around her waist. The ancient scent always clung to the ribbon, suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and roses and violets of some old summer-time.

Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, which was silvered over with moonlight. Annie's four sisters all sat out there. They had spread a rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs. There were five chairs, although there were only four girls. Annie gazed over the yard and down the street. She heard the chatter of the girls, which was inconsequent and absent, as if their minds were on other things than their conversation. Then suddenly she saw a small red gleam far down the street, evidently that of a cigar, and also a dark, moving figure. Then there ensued a subdued wrangle in the yard. Imogen insisted that her sisters should go into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most vehemently. Imogen was arrogant and compelling. Finally she drove them all into the house except Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of yielding. Imogen was obliged to speak very softly lest the approaching man hear, but Annie, in the window above her, heard every word.

“You know he is coming to see me,” said Imogen, passionately. “You know--you know, Eliza, and yet every single time he comes, here are you girls, spying and listening.”

“He comes to see Annie, I believe,” said Eliza, in her stubborn voice, which yet had indecision in it.

“He never asks for her.”

“He never has a chance. We all tell him, the minute he comes in, that she is out. But now I am going to stay, anyway.”

“Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot. If you girls can't have a beau yourselves, you begrudge one to me. I never saw such a house as this for a man to come courting in.”

“I will stay,” said Eliza, and this time her voice was wholly firm. “There is no use in my going, anyway, for the others are coming back.”

It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by that time Tom Reed had reached the gate, and his cigar was going out in a shower of sparks on the gravel walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and urging upon his acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, watching, saw that the young man seemed to hesitate. Then her heart leaped and she heard him speak quite plainly, with a note of defiance and irritation, albeit with embarrassment.

“Is Miss Annie in?” asked Tom Reed.

Imogen answered first, and her harsh voice was honey-sweet.