"Araminta," said Miss Mehitable, "go and get your sewing and do your
stent."
"Yes, Aunt Hitty," answered the girl, obediently.
Each year, Araminta made a new patchwork quilt. Seven were neatly
folded and put away in an old trunk in the attic. The eighth was
progressing well, but the young seamstress was becoming sated with
quilts. She had never been to school, but Miss Mehitable had taught
her all she knew. Unkind critics might have intimated that Araminta
had not been taught much, but she could sew nicely, keep house
neatly, and write a stilted letter in a queer, old-fashioned hand
almost exactly like Miss Mehitable's.
That valiant dame saw no practical use in further knowledge. She was
concerned with no books except the Bible and the ancient ledger in
which, with painstaking exactness, she kept her household accounts.
She deemed it wise, moreover, that Araminta should not know too much.
From a drawer in the high, black-walnut bureau in the upper hall,
Araminta drew forth an assortment of red, white, and blue cotton
squares and diamonds. This was to be a "patriotic" quilt, made after
a famous old pattern which Miss Hitty had selfishly refused to give
to any one else, though she had often been asked for it by
contemporary ladies of similar interests.
The younger generation was inclined to scout at quilt-making, and
needlework heresy was rampant in the neighbourhood. Tatting,
crocheting, and knitting were on the wane. An "advanced" woman who
had once spent a Summer in the village had spread abroad the delights
of Battenberg and raised embroidery. At all of these, Miss Hitty
sniffed contemptuously.
"Quilt makin' was good enough for their mas and their grandmas," she
said scornfully, "and I reckon it's good enough for anybody else.
I've no patience with such things."
Araminta knew that. She had never forgotten the vial of wrath which
broke upon her luckless head the day she had timorously suggested
making lace as a pleasing change from unending quilts.
She sat now, in a low rocker by the window, with one foot upon a
wobbly stool. A marvellous cover, of Aunt Hitty's making, which
dated back to her frivolous and girlish days, was underneath. Nobody
ever saw it, however, and the gaudy woollen roses blushed unseen. A
white linen cover, severely plain, was put upon the footstool every
Wednesday and every Saturday, year in and year out.
Unlike most good housewives, Miss Mehitable used her parlour every
day in the week. She was obliged to, in fact, for it was the only
room in her house, except Mr. Thorpe's, which commanded an
unobstructed view of the crossroads. A cover of brown denim
protected the carpet, and the chairs were shrouded in shapeless
habiliments of cambric and calico. For the rest, however, the room
was mildly cheerful, and had a habitable look which was distinctly
uncommon in village parlours.
There was a fireplace, which was dusted and scrubbed at intervals,
but never, under any circumstances, profaned by a fire. It was
curtained by a gay remnant of figured plush, however, so nobody
missed the fire. White and gold china vases stood on the mantel, and
a little china dog, who would never have dared to bark had he been
alive, so chaste and humble of countenance was he, sat forever
between the two vases, keeping faithful guard over Miss Mehitable's
treasures.
The silver coffin plates of the Smiths, matted with black, and deeply
framed, occupied the place of honour over the mantel. On the
marble-topped table in the exact centre of the room was a basket of
wax flowers and fruit, covered by a bell-shaped glass shade. Miss
Hitty's album and her Bible were placed near it with mathematical
precision. On the opposite wall was a hair wreath, made from the
shorn locks of departed Smiths by Miss Hitty's mother. The proud
possessor felt a covert reproach in the fact that she herself was
unable to make hair wreaths. It was a talent for which she had great
admiration.
Araminta rocked back and forth in her low chair by the window. She
hummed a bit of "Sweet Bye and Bye" to herself, for hymns were the
only songs she knew. She could play some of them, with one hand, on
the melodeon in the corner, but she dared not touch the yellow keys
of the venerated instrument except when Miss Hitty was out.
The sunlight shone lovingly on Araminta's brown hair, tightly combed
back, braided, and pinned up, but rippling riotously, none the less.
Her deep, thoughtful eyes were grey and her nose turned up
coquettishly. To a guardian of greater penetration, Araminta's mouth
would have given deep concern. It was a demure, rosy mouth, warning
and tantalising by turns. Mischievous little dimples lurked in the
corners of it, and even Aunt Hitty was not proof against the magic of
Araminta's smile. The girl's face had the creamy softness of a white
rose petal, but her cheeks bloomed with the flush of health and she
had a most disconcerting trick of blushing. With Spartan
thoroughness, Miss Mehitable constantly strove to cure Araminta of
this distressing fault, but as yet she had not succeeded.
The pretty child had grown into an exquisitely lovely woman, to her
stern guardian's secret uneasiness. "It's goin' to be harder to keep
Minty right than 't would be if she was plain," mused Miss Hitty,
"but t guess I'll be given strength to do it. I've done well by her
so far."
"In the Sweet Bye and Bye," sang Araminta, in a piping, girlish
soprano, "we shall meet on that beautiful shore."
"Maybe we shall and maybe we sha'n't," said Miss Hitty, grimly.
"Some folks 'll never see the beautiful shore. They'll go to the bad
place."
Araminta lifted her great, grey, questioning eyes. "Why?" she asked,
simply.
"Because they've been bad," answered Miss Hitty, defiantly.
"But if they didn't know any better?" queried Araminta, threading her
needle. "Would they go to the bad place just because they didn't
know?"
Miss Mehitable squirmed in her chair, for never before had Araminta
spoken thus. "There's no excuse for their not knowin'," she said,
sharply.
"Perhaps not," sighed Araminta, "but it seems dreadful to think of
people being burned up just for ignorance. Do you think I'll be
burned up, Aunt Hitty?" she continued, anxiously. "There's so many
things I don't know!"
Miss Mehitable set herself firmly to her task. "Araminta Lee," she
said, harshly, "don't get to bothering about what you don't know.
That's the sure way to perdition. I've told you time and time again
what's right for you to believe and what's right for you to do. You
walk in that path and turn neither to the right nor the left, and you
won't have no trouble--here or anywheres else."
"Yes, Aunt Hitty," said the girl, dutifully. "It must be awful to be
burned."
Miss Mehitable looked about her furtively, then drew her chair closer
to Araminta's. "That brings to my mind something I wanted to speak
to you about, and I don't know but what this is as good a chance as
any. You know where I told you to go the other day with the tray,
and to set it down at the back door, and rap, and run?"
"Yes." Araminta's eyes were wide open now. She had wondered much at
her mysterious errand, but had not dared to ask questions.
"Well," continued Aunt Hitty, after an aggravating pause, "the woman
that lives in that house has been burnt."
Araminta gasped. "Oh, Aunt Hitty, was she bad? What did she do and
how did she get burned before she was dead?"
Miss Mehitable brushed aside the question as though it were an
annoying fly. "I don't want it talked of," she said, severely.
"Evelina Grey was a friend of mine, and she is yet. If there's
anything on earth I despise, it's a gossip. People who haven't
anything better to do than to go around prying into other folks's
affairs are better off dead, I take it. My mother never permitted me
to gossip, and I've held true to her teachin'." Aunt Hitty smoothed
her skirts with superior virtue and tied a knot in her thread.
"How did she get burned?" asked Araminta, eagerly.
"Gossip," said Miss Mehitable, sententiously, "does a lot of harm and
makes a lot of folks miserable. It's a good thing to keep away from,
and if I ever hear of your gossiping about anybody, I'll shut you up
in your room for two weeks and keep you on bread and water."
Araminta trembled. "What is gossiping, Aunt Hitty?" she asked in a
timid, awe-struck tone.
"Talking about folks," explained Miss Hitty. "Tellin' things about
'em they wouldn't tell themselves."
It occurred to Araminta that much of the conversation at the
crossroads might appropriately be classed under that head, but, of
course, Aunt Hitty knew what she was talking about. She remembered
the last quilting Aunt Hitty had given, when the Ladies' Aid Society
had been invited, en masse, to finish off the quilt Araminta's
rebellious fingers had just completed. One of the ladies had been
obliged to leave earlier than the rest, and----
"I don't believe," thought Araminta, "that Mrs. Gardner would have
told how her son ran away from home, nor that she didn't dust her bed
slats except at house-cleaning time, nor that they ate things other
people would give to the pigs."
"I expect there'll be a lot of questions asked about Evelina,"
observed Miss Mehitable, breaking in rudely upon Araminta's train of
thought, "as soon 's folks finds out she's come back to live here,
and that she has to wear a veil all the time, even when she doesn't
wear her hat. What I'm telling you for is to show you what happens
to women that haven't sense enough to keep away from men. If Evelina
'd kept away from Doctor Dexter, she wouldn't have got burnt."
"Did Doctor Dexter burn her?" asked Araminta, breathlessly. "I
thought it was God."
At the psychological moment, Doctor Dexter drove by, bowing to Miss
Mehitable as he passed. Araminta had observed that this particular
event always flustered her aunt.
"Maybe, it was God and maybe it was Doctor Dexter," answered Miss
Mehitable, quickly. "That's something there don't nobody know except
Evelina and Doctor Dexter, and it's not for me to ask either one of
'em, though I don't doubt some of the sewin' society 'll make an
errand to Evelina's to find out. I've got to keep 'em off 'n her, if
I can, and that's a big job for one woman to tackle.
"Anyhow, she got burnt and got burnt awful, and it was at his house
that it happened. It was shameless, the way Evelina carried on.
Why, if you'll believe me, she'd actually go to his house when there
wa'n't no need of it--nobody sick, nor no medicine to be bought, nor
anything. Some said they was goin' to be married."
The scorn which Miss Mehitable managed to throw into the word
"married" indicated that the state was the crowning ignominy of the
race. The girl's cheek flamed into crimson, for her own mother had
been married, and everybody knew it. Sometimes the deep disgrace
seemed almost too much for Araminta to endure.
"That's what comes of it," explained Miss Hitty, patiently, as a
teacher might point to a demonstration clearly made out on a
blackboard for an eager class. "If she'd stayed at home as a girl
should stay, and hadn't gone to Doctor Dexter's, she wouldn't have
got burnt. Anybody can see that.
"There was so much goin' on at the time that I sorter lost track of
everything, otherwise I'd have known more about it, but I guess I
know as much as anybody ever knew. Evelina was to Doctor
Dexter's--shameless hussy that she was--and she got burnt. She was
there all the afternoon and they took her to the hospital in the city
on the night train and she stayed there until she was well, but she
never came back here until just now. Her mother went with her to
take care of her and before Evelina came out of the hospital, her
mother keeled over and died. Sarah Grey always had a weak heart and
a weak head to match it. If she hadn't have had, she'd have brought
up Evelina different,
"Neither of 'em was ever in the house again. Neither one ever came
back, even for their clothes. They had plenty of money, then, and
they just bought new ones. When the word come that Evelina was
burnt, Sarah Grey just put on her hat and locked her doors and run up
to Doctor Dexter's. Nobody ever heard from them again until Jim
Gardner's second cousin on his father's side sent a paper with Sarah
Grey's obituary in it. And now, after twenty-five years, Evelina's
come back.
"The poor soul's just sittin' there, in all the dust and cobwebs.
When I get time, I aim to go over there and clean up the house for
her--'t ain't decent for a body to live like that. I'll take you
with me, to help scrub, and what I'm telling you all this for is so
's you won't ask any questions, nor act as if you thought it was
queer for a woman to wear a white veil all the time. You'll have to
act as if nothing was out of the way at all, and not look at her any
more than you can help. Just pretend it's the style to wear a veil
pinned to your hair all the time, and you've been wearin' one right
along and have forgot and left it to home. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Aunt Hitty."
"And when people come here to find out about it, you're not to say
anything. Leave it all to me. 'T ain't necessary for you to lie,
but you can keep your mouth shut. And I hope you see now what it
means to a woman to walk straight on her own path that the Lord has
laid out for her, and to let men alone. They're pizen, every one of
'em."
Nun-like, Araminta sat in her chair and sewed steadily at her dainty
seam, but, none the less, she was deeply stirred with pity for women
who so forgot themselves--who had not Aunt Hitty's superior wisdom.
At the end of the prayer which Miss Mehitable had taught the child,
and which the woman still repeated in her nightly devotions, was this
eloquent passage:
"And, Oh Lord, keep me from the contamination of marriage. For Thy
sake. Amen."
"Araminta," said Aunt Hitty, severely, "cover up your foot!"
Modestly, Araminta drew down her skirt. One foot was on the
immaculate footstool and her ankle was exposed to view--a lovely
ankle, in spite of the broad-soled, common-sense shoes which she
always wore.
"How often have I told you to keep your ankles covered ?" demanded
Miss Mehitable. "Suppose the minister had come in suddenly!
Suppose--upon my word! Speakin' of angels--if there ain't the
minister now!"
The Reverend Austin Thorpe came slowly up the brick-bordered path,
his head bowed in thought. He was painfully near-sighted, but he
refused to wear glasses. On the doorstep he paused and wiped his
feet upon the corn-husk mat until even Miss Mehitable, beaming at him
through the window, thought he was overdoing it. Unconsciously, she
took credit to herself for the minister's neatness.
Stepping carefully, lest he profane the hall carpet by wandering off
the rug, the minister entered the parlour, having first taken off his
coat and hat and hung them upon their appointed hooks in the hall.
It was cold, and the cheery warmth of the room beckoned him in. He
did not know that he tried Miss Hitty by trespassing, so to speak,
upon her preserves. She would have been better pleased if he
remained in his room when he was not at the table or out, but, to do
him justice, the reverend gentleman did not often offend her thus.
Araminta, blushing, took her foot from the footstool and pulled
feverishly at her skirts. As Mr. Thorpe entered the room, she did
not look up, but kept her eyes modestly upon her work.
"There ain't no need to tear out the gathers," Miss Hitty said, in a
warning undertone, referring to Aramlnta's skirts. "Why, Mr. Thorpe!
How you surprised me! Come in and set a spell," she added,
grudgingly.
Steering well away from the centre-table with its highly prized
ornament, Thorpe gained the chair in which, if he did not lean
against the tidy, he was permitted to sit. He held himself bolt
upright and warmed his hands at the stove. "It is good to be out,"
he said, cheerfully, "and good to come in again. A day like this
makes one appreciate the blessing of a home."
Miss Hitty watched the white-haired, inoffensive old man with the
keen scrutiny of an eagle guarding its nest. He did not lean upon
the tidy, nor rest his elbows upon the crocheted mats which protected
the arms of the chair. In short, he conducted himself as a gentleman
should when in the parlour of a lady.
His blue, near-sighted eyes rested approvingly upon Araminta. "How
the child grows!" he said, with a friendly smile upon his kindly old
face. "Soon we shall have a young lady on our hands."
Araminta coloured and bent more closely to her sewing.
"I hope I'm not annoying you?" questioned the minister, after an
interval.
"Not at all," said Miss Mehitable, politely.
"I wanted to ask about some one," pursued the Reverend Mr. Thorpe.
"It seems that there is a new tenant in the old house on the hill
that has been empty for so long--the one the village people say is
haunted. It seems a woman is living there, quite alone; and she
always wears a veil, on account of some--some disfigurement."
Miss Hitty's false teeth clicked, sharply, but there was no other
sound except the clock, which, in the pause, struck four. "I
thought--" continued the minister, with a rising inflection.
Hitherto, he had found his hostess of invaluable assistance in his
parish work. It had been necessary to mention only the name. As
upon the turning of a faucet a stream of information gushed forth
from the fountain of her knowledge. Age, date and place of birth,
ancestry on both sides three generations back, with complete and
illuminating biographical details of ancestry and individual;
education, financial standing, manner of living, illnesses in the
family, including dates and durations of said illnesses, accidents,
if any, medical attendance, marriages, births, deaths, opinions,
reverses, present locations and various careers of descendants, list
of misfortunes, festivities, entertainments, church affiliation past
and present, political leanings, and a vast amount of other personal
data had been immediately forthcoming. Tagged to it, like the
postscript of a woman's letter, was Miss Hitty's own concise,
permanent, neatly labelled opinion of the family or individual, the
latter thrown in without extra charge.
"Perhaps you didn't know," remarked the minister, "that such a woman
had come." His tone was inquiring. It seemed to him that something
must be wrong if she did not know.
"Minty," said Miss Hitty, abruptly, "leave the room!"
Araminta rose, gathered up her patchwork, and went out, carefully
closing the door. It was only in moments of great tenderness that
her aunt called her "Minty."
The light footsteps died away upon the stairs. Tactlessly, the
minister persisted. "Don't you know?" he asked.
Miss Mehitable turned upon him. "If I did," she replied, hotly, "I
wouldn't tell any prying, gossiping man. I never knew before it was
part of a minister's business to meddle in folks' private affairs.
You'd better be writing your sermon and studyin' up on hell."
"I--I--" stammered the minister, taken wholly by surprise, "I only
hoped to give her the consolation of the church."
"Consolation nothing!" snorted Miss Hitty. "Let her alone!" She went
out of the room and slammed the door furiously, leaving the Reverend
Austin Thorpe overcome with deep and lasting amazement.