It was the last that Peter heard of the maid, except for a mild lecture from Joe. "See here, Pete," he was greeted upon his return, "I'm given to understand that you've been fighting for your lady-love. I just want you to remember one thing, young man, and that is that I won't have no fighting about these premises in business hours. You've laid up Billy for the day, and you can go and do his work."
Three weeks rolled over the head of "Miss Johnsing," and then she, too, departed. It developed that a husband had returned from a vacation on "the island" and wished to settle down to family life again. A week passed at Willowbrook without a parlour-maid, and then one day, as Peter returned from the lower meadow where he had been trying to entice a reluctant colt into putting its head into the halter, he was hailed by Joe with:
"Say, Pete, Mrs. Carter sent out word that you're to go to the station to-night and fetch out a new maid."
"Aw, go on," said Peter.
"That's straight."
"If there's a new maid comin' Billy can get her. I ain't interested in maids."
"Them's orders," said Joe. "'Tell Peter,' she says, 'that he's to drive in with the buckboard and meet the eight-fifteen train from the city. I'm expectin' a new maid,' she says, but she neglected to mention what colour she was expectin' her to be."
Peter grunted by way of answer, and Joe chuckled audibly as he hitched up his trousers and rolled off toward his own house to tell his wife the joke. The subject was covertly alluded to at supper that night, with various speculations as to the colour, nationality, and possible size of the newcomer. Peter emphatically stated his intention of not going near the blame station. When the train hour approached, however, the stables were conspicuously empty, and there was nothing for him to do but swallow his assertion and meet the maid.
As he drove down the hill toward the station he saw that the eight-fifteen train was already in, but he noted the fact without emotion. He was not going to hurry himself for all the maids in creation; she could just wait until he got there. He drew up beside the platform and sat surveying the people with mild curiosity until such time as the maid chose to search him out. But his pulses suddenly quickened as he heard a clear voice, with an adorable suggestion of brogue behind it, inquire of the station-master:
"Will you tell me, sor, how I'll be gettin' to Mr. Jerome B. Carter's?"
"Here's one of the Carter rigs now," said the man.
The girl turned quickly and faced Peter, and all his confused senses told him that she was prettyprettier than Annettepretty beyond all precedent. Her eyes were blue, and her hair was black and her colour was the colour that comes from a childhood spent out of doors in County Cork.
He hastily scrambled out of his seat and touched his hat. "Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am, are ye the new maid? Mrs. Carter sent me to fetch ye out. If ye'll gi' me yer check, ma'am, I'll get yer trunk."
The girl gave up her check silently, quite abashed by this very dressy young groom. She had served during the two years of her American experience as "second girl" in a brown-stone house in a side street, and though she had often watched men of Peter's kind from a bench by the park driveway, she had never in her life come so near to one as this. While he was searching for her trunk, she hastily climbed into the cart and moved to the extreme end of the left side of the seat, lest the apparition should return and offer assistance. She sat up very stiffly, wondering meanwhile, with a beating heart, if he would talk or just stare straight ahead the way they did in the park.
Peter helped the baggage-man lift in her trunk, and as he did it he paused to take a good square look. "Gee, but Billy will want to kick himself!" was his delighted inward comment as he clambered up beside her and gathered the reins in his hands. They drove up the hill without speaking, but once Peter shot a sidewise glance at her at the same moment that she looked at him, and they both turned pink. This was embarrassing, but reassuring. He was, then, nothing but a man in spite of his clothes, and with a man she knew how to deal.
A full moon was rising above the trees and the twilight was fading into dusk. As Billy had justly observed at the supper table, it was a fine night in which to get acquainted. The four miles between the station and Willowbrook suddenly dwindled into insignificance in Peter's sight, and at the top of the hill he turned Trixy's head in exactly the wrong direction.
"If ye have no objections," he observed, "we'll drive the long way by the beach because the roads is better."
The new maid had no objections, or at least she did not voice any, and they rolled along between the fragrant hedgerows in silence. Peter was laboriously framing to himself an opening remark, and he found nothing ludicrous in the situation; but to the girl, whose Irish sense of humour was inordinately developed, it appeared very funny to be riding alone beside a live, breathing groom, in top-hat and shining boots, who turned red when you looked at him.
She suddenly broke into a laugha low, clear, bubbling laugh that lodged itself in Peter's receptive heart. He looked around a moment with a slightly startled air, and then, as his eyes met hers, he too laughed. It instantly cleared the atmosphere. He pulled Trixy to a walk and faced her. His laborious introductory speech was forgotten; he went to the point with a sigh of relief.
"I guess we're goin' to like each otheryou an' me," he said softly.
The moon was shining and the hawthorn flowers were sweet. Annie's eyes looked back at him rather shyly, and her dimples trembled just below the surface. Peter hastily turned his eyes away lest he look too long.
"Me name's Peter," he said, "Peter Malone. Tell me yours, so we'll be feelin' acquainted."
"Annie O'Reilly."
"Annie O'Reilly," he repeated. "There's the right swing to it. 'Tis better than Annette."
"Annette?" inquired Annie.
She had perceived that he was a man; he now perceived that she was a woman, and that Annette's name might better not have been mentioned.
"Ah, Annette," he said carelessly, "a parlour-maid we had a while ago; an' mighty glad we was to be rid of her," he added cannily.
"Why?" asked Annie.
"She was French; she had a temper."
"I'm Irish; I have a temperwill ye be glad to be rid o' me?"
"Oh, an' I'm Irish meself," laughed Peter, with a broader brogue than usual. "'Tis not Irish tempers I'm fearin'. Thim I c'n manage."
When they turned in at the gates of Willowbrooksome half an hour later than they were due, owing to Peter's extemporaneous route by the beachhe slowed Trixy to a walk that he might point out to his companion the interesting features of her new home. As they passed the laurels they were deeply engaged in converse, and a heavy and respectful silence hung about the region.
"Good night, Mr. Malone," said Annie, as he deposited her trunk on the back veranda. "'Tis obliged to ye I am for bringin' me out."
"Oh, drop the Mister Malone!" he grinned. "Peter's me name. Good night, Annie. I hope as ye'll like it. It won't be my fault if ye don't."
He touched his hat, and swinging himself to the seat, drove whistling to the stables. He unhitched Trixy and gave her a handful of salt. "Here, old girl, what are ye tryin' to do?" he asked as she rubbed her nose against his shoulder, and he started her toward her stall with a friendly whack on the back. As he was putting away her harness, Billy lounged in, bent on no errand in particular. Peter threw him a careless nod, and breaking off his whistling in the middle of a bar, he fell to humming softly a familiar tune. "Gervie zame, gervie door," was the song that he sang.
II
THE RUFFLED FROCK
It was the Fourth of July, and Annie was hurrying with her work in order to get out and celebrate. She had no particular form of celebration in view, but she had a strong feeling that holidays, particularly Fourths of July, ought to be celebrated; and she was revolving in her mind several possible projects, in all of which Peter figured largely. Aside from its being the Fourth of July, it was Thursday, and Thursday was Peter's afternoon off. She put away the last of the dishes with a gay little burst of song as she glanced through the window at the beckoning outside world. It was a bright sunshiny day with a refreshing breeze blowing from the sea. The blue waters of the bay, sparkling at the foot of the lower meadow, were dotted over with white sailboats.
"Do ye want anything more of me, Nora?" she asked.
"No, be off with you, child," said Nora, good-naturedly. "I'll finish puttin' to rights meself," and she gathered up the dish-towels and carried them into the laundry.
Annie paused by the screen door leading on to the back veranda, and stood regarding the stables speculatively. She was wondering what would be the most diplomatic way of approaching Peter. Her speculations were suddenly interrupted by the appearance in the kitchen of Miss Ethel, with a very beruffled white muslin frock in her arms.
"Annie," she said, "you'll have to wash this dress. I forgot to have Kate do it yesterday, and I want to wear it to-night. Have it ready by five o'clock and be careful about the lace."
She threw the frock across the back of a chair, and ran on out of doors to join a laughing crowd of young people about the tennis-court. Annie stood in the middle of the floor and watched her with a fast-clouding brow.
"An' never so much as said please!" she muttered to herself. She walked over and picked up the frock. It was very elaborate with ruffles and tucks and lace insertion; its ironing meant a good two hours' work. Ironing muslin gowns on a Fourth of July was not Annie's business. She turned it about slowly and her eyes filled with tearsnot of sorrow for the lost afternoon, but of anger at the injustice of demanding such work from her on such a day.
Presently Nora came in again. She paused in the doorway, her arms akimbo, and regarded Annie.
"What's that you've got?" she inquired.
Then the floodgates of Annie's wrath were opened and she poured out her tale.
"Don't you mind it, Annie darlin'," said Nora, trying to comfort her. "Miss Ethel didn't mean nothin'. She was in a hurry, likely, an' she didn't stop to think."
"Didn't think! Why can't she wear some other dress? She's got a whole room just full o' dresses, an' she has to have that special one ironed at a minute's notice. An' Kate comin' three days in the week! It isn't my place to washthat isn't what Mrs. Carter engaged me forI wouldn't 'a' minded so much if she'd asked it as a favour, but she just ordered me as if washin' was me work. On Fourth o' July, too, an' Mrs. Carter tellin' me I could have the afternoon offan' all those ruffles'have it done by five o'clock,' she says, an' goes out to play."
Annie threw the dress in a fluffy pile in the middle of the floor.
"I shan't do it! I won't be ordered about that way by Miss Ethel or anybody else."
"I'd do it for you meself, Annie, but I couldn't iron that waist no more 'n a kangaroo. But you just get to work on it; you iron beautiful and it won't take you long when you once begin."
"Won't take me long? It'll take me the whole afternoon; it'll take me forever. I shan't touch it!"
Annie's eyes wandered out of doors again. The sunshine seemed brighter, the songs of the birds louder, the glimpse of the bay more enticing. And, as she looked, Peter came sauntering out from the stablesPeter in his town clothes, freshly shaven, with a new red necktie and a flower in his buttonhole. He was coming toward the kitchen.
Annie's lips trembled and she kicked the dress spitefully.
Peter appeared in the doorway. He, too, had been revolving projects for the fitting celebration of the day, and he wished tentatively to broach them to Annie.
"What's up?" he inquired, looking from Annie's flushed cheeks to Nora's troubled eyes.
Annie repeated the story, growing more and more aggrieved as she dwelt upon her wrongs. "An' never so much as said please," she finished.
"That's nothin'ye mustn't mind it, Annie. Miss Ethel ain't used to sayin' please." Peter was gropingly endeavouring to soothe her. "I remember times when she was a little girl she'd be so sassy, that, Lor', me fingers was itchin' to shake her! But I knowed she didn't mean nothin', so I just touches me hat an' swallows it. She's used to orderin', Annie, an' ye mustn't mind her."
"Well, I ain't used to takin' orders like that, an' what's more, I won't! 'Have it done by five o'clock,' she says, an' it's half past two, now. An' all them ruffles! I hate ruffles, an' I won't touch it after the way she talked. Not if she goes down on her knees to me, I won't."
"Aw, Annie," remonstrated Peter, "what's the use in kickin' up a fuss? Miss Ethel's awful kind hearted when she thinks about it."
"Kind hearted!" Annie sniffed. "I guess she can afford to be kind hearted, havin' people wait on her from mornin' to night an' never doin' a thing she doesn't want to do. I wish she had to iron once, an' she could just see how she likes it."
"She gave you a bran' new dress last week," reminded Nora.
"Yes, an' why? 'Cause when I was dustin' her room she happened to be tryin' it on an' it didn't fit, an' she threw it down on the floor an' said: 'I won't wear that thing! You can have it, Annie.'"
"The time you burned your hand with her chafing-dish she 'most cried when she saw how blistered it was, an' wrapped it up herself, an' brought you some stuff in a silver box to put on it."
For a moment Annie showed signs of relenting, but as her glance fell upon the dress again, she hardened. "She tipped the alcohol over me herself an' she'd ought to be sorry. I'd be willin' to do her a favour, but I won't be ordered around. She just pokes it at me as if I was an ironing machine. An' this the Fourth o' July, an' Mrs. Carter tellin' me I could go out. She has enough dresses to last from now till she's gray, an' I just won't touch it!"
"You won't touch what?" asked Mrs. Carter, appearing in the doorway. She glanced from the girl's angry face to the rumpled frock upon the floor. They told their own story. "What's the meaning of this, Annie?" she asked sharply.
Annie looked sulky. She stared at the floor a moment without answering, while Peter's and Nora's eyes anxiously scanned Mrs. Carter's face. Finally she replied:
"You said I could go out this afternoon, ma'am, an' just as I was gettin' ready, Miss Ethel came in an' said I was to wash that dress before five o'clock."
"I am sorry about your afternoon," said Mrs. Carter. "Miss Ethel didn't know about it, but you may go to-morrow afternoon instead."
"I was wantin' to go to-day," said Annie. "I'm willin' enough to do me own work, ma'am, but it isn't me place to wash."
Mrs. Carter's mouth became a straight line.
"Annie, I never allow my servants to dictate as to what is their work and what is not. When I engage you, I expect you to do whatever you are asked. This is a very easy place; you are allowed to go out a great deal, and you have very little work to do. But when something extra comes up outside your regular work, I expect you to do it willingly and as a matter of course. Miss Ethel has been very kind to you; you can do her a favour in return."
"I wouldn't mind doin' it as a favour, but she just walks in an' orders it as if it was me regular place to wash."
"And I order it also," said Mrs. Carter. "You may wash that dress and have it done by five o'clock, or else you may pack your trunk and go." She turned with a firm tread and walked out of the room.