Master of the Vineyard Part 46

[Sidenote: Where to Eat]

"'If, owing to circ.u.mstances, it is impossible to carry a luncheon and one must either leave the train for one's meals or go into the dining-car, there are a few very simple rules to remember. In case the meal is to be taken at a wayside station, and, as often happens, there is more than one eating-house which offers refreshment, the lady traveller should wait quietly by her own car until she sees into which place the train officials go. Remember that they have been over the road before and know where the most comfortable and reasonable meal is to be had.

"'Upon the other hand, if one goes into the dining-car, the same rules apply as at any well-regulated hotel. From the list of dishes which will be offered her upon a printed card, the lady traveller may select such as seem attractive, and, in case of doubt, she may with perfect propriety ask the waiter to make a selection for her, as he has been placed there by the company for that purpose.

"'Having eaten to her satisfaction, she will carefully compare the check which is brought her with the list of prices given upon the printed card, add them up mentally without seeming to do so, and if all is right, pay the bill, giving to the waiter ten per cent of the total amount for a tip. That is, if the check calls for one dollar, the waiter will receive a dollar and ten cents.'"

[Sidenote: Ten Per Cent]

"What for?" queried Matilda.

"That's his tip," explained the old lady. "That's what I've been tellin'

you all along."

"Does it cost ten dollars to go to the city?"

"Not as I know of. The fare used to be four dollars and somethin'. Why?"

"Then why did young Marsh give the station agent a dollar? That's what I want to know."

"You can't find out from me," Grandmother answered, with all evidence of having told the literal truth. "Shall I go on with this piece I'm tryin'

to read, or don't you want your mind improved none?"

"I'm willing to have my mind improved, but I'd like the privilege of askin' a question occasionally while it's being done."

"Last week's paper said there was no way of improvin' the mind that was to be compared with readin'. Shall I go on?"

"Yes--go on."

"'If the check calls for a dollar and a half, the waiter will receive an extra fifteen cents for his tip, and so on. In case of any disagreement, always refer to the train officials, who are usually courteous and well-mannered. Should they not be so, however, a threat to write to the President of the railroad will usually be found all sufficient to produce a change of demeanour.

[Sidenote: Avoid Making Acquaintances]

"'The lady traveller should bear in mind the fact that it is impossible to confine the pleasures and privileges of travel to entirely reputable persons, and should hence keep upon the safe side by making no chance acquaintances, whatever the provocation may be.

"'By wearing dark clothes, preferably her old ones, an una.s.suming hat, and no jewelry, the lady traveller may render herself inconspicuous and not likely to attract masculine attention. In case of accident it is allowable to accept a.s.sistance from anyone, though the train officials are at all times to be preferred. If one desires to know what time it is, how late the train is, how long the train will stop at the next meal station, or when one is due at one's destination, the train officials are the ones to ask.

"'Upon a long and tedious journey, however, or in case of many prolonged delays, it is quite permissible to exchange a few words upon the weather or some other topic of mutual interest with a fellow-pa.s.senger of the same s.e.x, whether she be travelling alone, or accompanied by her husband.

"'Pleasant acquaintances are sometimes formed in this way, and it may be entirely safe and proper, under certain circ.u.mstances, to accept small courtesies from a gentleman who is travelling with his wife, such as the brief loan of a newspaper or magazine, or information regarding the scenery through which the train is pa.s.sing when none of the train officials are at hand.

[Sidenote: At the End of the Journey]

"'It is best, however, to be very careful, for it is much easier not to begin friendly relations with one's fellow pa.s.sengers than it is to discontinue such relations after they have been once begun.

"'It is seldom necessary, or even advisable, to give one's name to anyone except the officials of the train, but there can be no objection to showing a fellow-pa.s.senger of the same s.e.x one's name upon one's ticket if polite relations have been established. This is better than speaking the name aloud, which might cause embarra.s.sment if it were overheard, and carries with it no such social obligation as the exchange of cards would do.

"'Arriving at her destination, the lady traveller should proceed at once to her hotel or lodging-house, if no friend is to meet her, regardless of the plans of her fellow pa.s.sengers. If one should chance to meet any of them afterward, a courteous inclination of the head, accompanied by a bright smile, is sufficient recognition, or, if for any reason one prefers not to recognise those with whom one has travelled, all that is necessary is to appear not to see them.

[Sidenote: Appeal to the Conductor]

"'In case a gentleman should attempt to converse with the lady traveller while the train is in motion or at rest, this same conduct meets the exigencies of the situation admirably: simply do not appear to see him.

If, however, he continues to converse, turn to him, and say in a low, well-controlled voice: "Sir, if you persist further in forcing your unwelcome attentions upon me, I shall summon the conductor at once."

"'In most cases, the objectionable party will at once leave and the interference of the conductor will not be required.

"'The next article in this series will deal with "The Lady Traveller by Water," where conditions are entirely different and require a different line of conduct.'"

"There," said Grandmother, clearing her throat and folding up the paper.

"I hope you understand now what a tip is."

"It seems to be one tenth of all you've got," observed Matilda, staring out of the window, "like those religious sects that believes in givin' a tenth of everything to the church."

"Travellin' must be terribly exciting," remarked Grandmother, pensively.

"So 'tis," Matilda agreed after a pause. "I reckon it's better to stay at home."

XXI

The Weaving of the Tapestry

[Sidenote: A Bunch of Grapes]

Alden threw himself into his work with feverish energy, instinctively relieving his mind by wearying his body. All day he toiled in the vineyard, returning at night white-faced and exhausted, but content.

One morning when Madame came down to breakfast, she found at her plate a single bunch of grapes, wet with dew and still cool with the chill of the night. She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never, within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marsh vineyards.

She held the heavy cl.u.s.ter to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape of the fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-like bloom, more delicate even than the dust on the b.u.t.terfly's wing. Pride and thankfulness filled her heart, for, to her, it was not only their one source of income but a trust imposed upon them by those who had laid out the vineyard, and, more than all else, the standard by which her son was to succeed or fail.

[Sidenote: Night after Night]

The tribal sense was strong in Madame, last though she was of a long and n.o.ble line. Uninterruptedly the blood of the Marshs had coursed through generation after generation, carrying with it the high dower of courage, of strength to do the allotted task hopefully and well. And now--Madame's face saddened, remembering Edith.

Since her one attempt to cross the silence that lay like a two-edged sword between them, Madame had said nothing to Alden. Nor had he even mentioned Edith's name since she went away, though his face, to the loving eyes of his mother, bore its own message.

Night after night, when they sat in the living-room after dinner, no word would be spoken by either until bedtime, when Madame would say "Good-night," and, in pity, slip away, leaving him to follow when he chose. Sometimes he would answer, but, more frequently, he did not even hear his mother leave the room. Yearning over him as only a mother may, Madame would lie awake with her door ajar, listening for his step upon the stairs.

While the night waxed and waned, Alden sat alone, his eyes fixed unalterably upon Edith's empty chair, in which, by common consent, neither of them sat. The soft outlines of her figure seemed yet to lie upon the faded tapestry; the high, carved back seemed still to bear the remembered splendour of her beautiful head.

[Sidenote: Balm for Alden]

After Madame had gone, Alden would sometimes light the candle that stood upon the piano, mute now save for the fingers of Memory. Moving the bench out a little and turning it slightly toward the end of the room, he would go back to his own far corner, where he used to sit while Edith played.

Conjuring her gracious image out of the dreamy shadows, he found balm for his sore heart in the white gown that fell softly around her, the small white foot that now and then pressed the pedal, the long, graceful line that swept from her shoulder to her finger-tips, the faint hollow where her gown, with the softness of a caress, melted into the ivory whiteness of her neck, the thick, creamy skin, in some way suggesting white rose-leaves, the scarlet, wistful mouth, the deep brown eyes reflecting golden lights, and the crown of wonderful hair that shimmered and shone and gleamed like burnished gold.