Chapter XXIV: Michael Hurst Changes His Lodgings

Not three hours after the interview we have described at the Bloomingdale Cottage, Michael Hurst presented himself at the little house in the vicinity of Chatham Square, a place he had visited frequently of late, much to the satisfaction of the two old ladies, who were always charmed into especial good nature by his presence. Indeed, there was a little jealousy between the ancient dames on his account; and Mrs. Nicholson was constantly making little devices to meet him in the hall and hold a few words with him in private before he entered to the presence of the elder lady. Mrs. Frost was greatly scandalized by these flirty proceedings, and frequently took her dependent to task on the subject. Mrs. Nicholson felt this rather as a compliment than otherwise. It was not every old lady of seventy odd who could boast of reprimands for receiving too much attention from a handsome young fellow like Hurst.

Then there was Hetty Hart, Mrs. Frost’s niece, who always happened to time her visits with that of the young man, which Mrs. Frost considered very indecorous indeed.

Once, and this Mrs. Nicholson told to Mrs. Frost, as a great secret, she had opened the parlor door suddenly, just to see if Miss Hetty Hart had gone, when she detected that lady at the end of the hall, putting some bank-bills into Michael’s hand. It had troubled her greatly to make out where the money came from; but afterward she learned, from Martha Hart, that Aunt Hetty had sold a meadow lot, inherited from her own mother, and no doubt she was instructing Hurst to put the money out at interest. In fact Hetty had hinted as much, when the subject was touched upon by Mrs. Frost, who felt it to be her duty to regulate these matters among the young people, and see that the reputation of her house did not suffer by Hurst’s frequent visits there.

On the day in question the two old ladies had dined, and Mrs. Nicholson was busy putting away the dinner-dishes in a small corner cupboard. First she washed two cups and saucers in an old-fashioned pewter basin, which had belonged to Mrs. Frost’s mother before the Revolution; then followed a couple of china pie-plates, with two knives and forks. At last she disposed of a vegetable dish in which Mrs. Frost had covered up four cold potatoes, which she gave Mary Nicholson especial directions to slice up and fry for dinner the next day. With the exception of this household order, Mrs. Nicholson had not heard the sound of Mrs. Frost’s voice that day; for, having nothing on earth to talk about, the old lady—unlike some others we could mention—kept silence severely.

Thus Mrs. Nicholson, who was naturally a social old lady, felt even the clatter of the saucers and plates as some sort of company, and continued her occupation as long as possible. But work tardily as she would, the clearing of that small dinner-table must terminate.

At last, Mrs. Nicholson seated herself at the window, and, putting on her spectacles, prepared to mend a stocking which she had taken up earlier in the day. In and out went that bright darning-needle stitch, stitch, up and down, forming a basket-work of threads, till at last one vigorous pull settled a row of stitches in its place, and she commenced over again.

The monotony made her stolid, and she was on the verge of a nap, when Mrs. Frost rose up in her chair and asked “if she had been dreaming through her after-dinner sleep, or if somebody had really said that Mr. Bentley was going to give a great party, and that Daniel Hart’s only daughter had been sent for?”

Mrs. Nicholson brightened up at this opening for a little gossip, and replied, “That it was no dream, but the living truth. Hetty Hart had told them all about it the last time she was at the house; and more than that, Michael Hurst had been invited—indeed Mr. Bentley, who thought the world and all of Michael, had given the invitation with his own lips. Mr. Hurst was going beyond a doubt; for he had asked her to do up a fine shirt and some collars for him, the very last time he was at the house.”

Mrs. Frost sat upright in her chair while all this information was innocently imparted by Mary Nicholson, a sure sign that she was interested and not well pleased. She remained quiet till the collars were mentioned, and then her virtuous reprehension broke loose.

“Mary Nicholson, Mary Nicholson, will you never arrive at years of discretion, or are you immoral at heart? I want to know that! Here we are, two lone women, with our yards overlooked by ever so many windows, and you talk of hanging up fine shirts and collars with my wash: what will the world think of proceedings like that? I shouldn’t wonder if we have the police magistrates inquiring after our goings-on next. Mary Nicholson—Mary Nicholson, if you have no respect for your own reputation, remember that I have a character to lose, and ain’t going to have it ruined by men’s garments flaunting in my yard. Why, the very clothes-pins would be scared off the lines. I blush for you, Mary Nicholson.”

If Mrs. Frost spoke the truth, two old women were blushing at once, for Mary Nicholson became red through all her wrinkles, and a tear stole softly down from under her spectacles.

“I’m sure I didn’t mean any harm,” she said, quite meekly; “and I know that Mr. Hurst didn’t.”

“Mr. Hurst—of course he didn’t! Such things never enter a young man’s head till some forward young creature brings up the idea. Mary Nicholson, I’ll be bound you offered to wash out those things first; now own up and shame the Evil One that tempted you.”

“I—I don’t just remember how it came about, Mrs. Frost, but I’m sure it wasn’t him,” murmured Mrs. Nicholson, wiping her eyes with the stocking she was darning. “If there is any blame, of course it belongs to me.”

“And that was what you were slipping the square of yellow soap into your pocket for when I sent you to the closet yesterday. I declare, Mary Nicholson, if it wasn’t for leaving you alone in the world with no one to look after your ways, I wouldn’t keep you in this house another night. Yellow soap and collars indeed!”

Mrs. Nicholson looked a good deal startled, and her hand shook till the darning-needle went quite astray, but she maintained an humble silence; and Mrs. Frost, having relieved her mind, subsided into her chair and fell asleep with a scowl on her face.

Half an hour went by. The old woman of ninety hung her head in sullen sleep; and the old woman of seventy odd wept over her indiscretions, and wondered meekly if she ever would learn how to behave; while her needle went in and out monotonously as before.

A blow on the street-knocker started the one from her doze, and the other from her work.

“It is his knock, I’m sure,” faltered Mrs. Nicholson, looking timidly at her mentor.

“Then I will myself open the door; keep your seat, Mary Nicholson, and don’t look so fluttered. The young gentleman’s visit is doubtless to me; there is no danger of his making improper suggestions regarding clothes when I am the person to be consulted.”

“Ah, Mrs. Frost, you have grown quite young again, and come down-stairs like a girl,” cried young Hurst, with forced gayety. “My dear madam, take my arm: you will not find it quite so easy to mount alone. There, now, fancy me your son and lean heavily.”

Mrs. Frost did lean heavily, and her old face looked the younger by ten years from a consciousness of his care about her. So, having triumphed over Mary Nicholson by presenting herself leaning on the arm of her protégé, the virtuous indignation that had burned within her died out. She forbore to continue her lecture in the presence of the young man, who was rather surprised by the subdued reception which Mrs. Nicholson gave him.

“And you have not been ill, did you say that, my dear grandmother, nor frightened at any thing, and they have distressed me for nothing? Indeed I never should have forgiven myself. In fact, the pain and self-reproach has been so great that I will not run the chance of suffering it again. Grandmother—Mrs. Nicholson, you must find me a bed somewhere, or I shall never be content about you.”

Mrs. Nicholson gave a little start of horror; and Mrs. Frost’s head began to vibrate like a pendulum.

“A bed!” ejaculated Mrs. Frost. “A bed!” echoed Mrs. Nicholson.

“Yes; why not? To own the truth, for it is useless attempting to deceive you even for your own good, there has been a murder and robbery within the week, close in this neighborhood. They have quite terrified me; two elderly ladies living together both murdered in their beds as you might have been. Indeed, my dear grandmother, I cannot leave you unprotected at night after that. Don’t put yourself out; any thing will do for me.”

“There is the little bedroom off the hall,” suggested Mrs. Nicholson, timidly; but she was silenced by the indignant voice of Mrs. Frost.

“Mary Nicholson! The hall bedroom, and on this story! Will you never arrive at years of discretion?”

“No, no. Let it be my old room in the attic; nothing else would seem like home. I will be no trouble, but take my meals out.”

“And your washing?” said Mrs. Frost, anxiously.

“Oh, that of course. I only came for protection, not to encumber you with any thing. If Mrs. Nicholson can manage to make my bed and bring up a little water once a day, it will be all I desire.”

Mrs. Nicholson looked up well pleased with the idea of being made useful; but Mrs. Frost tore her satisfaction up at the roots.

“No, Mr. Hurst, you must allow me to judge of what is proper in my own house. Mary Nicholson is too young.”

“You, my dear grandmother! indeed you shall do no such thing.”

Mrs. Frost arose in her seat, looked steadily first at Hurst, then at the drooping face of her companion.

“Michael Hurst, has there been a private understanding between you and Mary Nicholson about your coming here? Answer me that.”

“A private understanding! No, upon my honor. What an idea!”

“Then you can come, Michael.”

Michael cast a side glance at Mrs. Nicholson. Was it possible that there really was some understanding between them?