Miss Hannah Grant sat in her room under the eaves darning little
Johnnie’s stocking. Her hair was grey and rippled smoothly over her
finely shaped head. Her sweet face wore a sad, far-away expression. It
had grown habitual with her ever since she had come to live with her
niece Nettie. Perhaps a close observer would see that the sadness was a
shade deeper this afternoon. Her eyes were deep grey and seemed to go
well with her hair. She gave one the impression of being able to see
further with them than most people, and there was a luminousness about
them that lit up her otherwise plain face, and made it truly beautiful.
Her gown was plain and old and grey. She always wore grey dresses. They
had been becoming long ago in the days when it mattered whether she wore
becoming things, and now that she cared no more about the becomingness,
she wore them for sweet association’s sake, and for the sake of one long
gone who used to admire them when she wore them. She did not seem to
know that they still suited her better than any other color, or absence
of color, could have done.
The hole was large and ill-shaped, for Johnnie was hard on his
stockings, but she darned it patiently back and forth, and seemed to be
thinking of something else. Once she laid it down and went to the closet
for her little grey worsted shawl to throw around her shoulders, for the
room was heated only by a drum from the stove downstairs and she felt
chilly. She usually sat in the sitting-room in the afternoon to sew or
mend, but there had been a reason for her coming up here to-day. She had
settled herself as usual by the west window downstairs to get a good
light on her work. She had a large peach basket full of stockings by her
side, and her workbasket on the window. The baby, creeping about the
floor, had upset the peach basket and scattered its contents around, and
Nettie, coming down just then in a new red cashmere shirt waist she had
finished the day before, had jerked him unceremoniously away from among
the stockings and hastily bundled them all into the basket, shoving it
behind aunt Hannah’s chair and out of her reach. As she did so, she
remarked in a disagreeable tone that she wished aunt Hannah wouldn’t
bring that old thing into the sitting-room. Couldn’t she bring a pair of
stockings at a time, and not litter up the whole room? She was expecting
Mrs. Morgan and her sister in with their embroidery and crocheting, and
she did like to have things look a little nice. Aunt Hannah had meekly
disposed of the stocking basket behind her ample apron, and there had
been silence in the room for a few minutes. Then young Mrs. Bartlett
remarked:
“Aunt Hannah, I think you had better go and change your dress, if you
are going to sit there. That old grey thing doesn’t look very well. I
wish to goodness you had a black silk, or something, like other folks.
You always waste your money on grey things when you have to buy
anything. It’s a dreadfully gloomy color. It makes you look sallow, too,
now you’re getting older.”
Nettie had gone out in the kitchen then for a minute and returned just
as aunt Hannah was starting upstairs with the darning basket.
“Aunt Hannah!” she called, “take your shawl and bonnet up with you,
won’t you? I s’pose you’d just as soon keep them up there, wouldn’t you?
Hiram says he hates to see the hall rack cluttered up so.”
Aunt Hannah put down the basket on the stairs, descended swiftly,
gathered her shawl and bonnet and one or two other belongings of hers
which were downstairs, in inconspicuous places, and carried them all
upstairs. She was not in the habit of leaving her bonnet and shawl on
the rack, and had only done so last night when she came in from prayer
meeting, because she had buckwheat cakes to set before going to bed, and
when that was done and she started to take them away, Nettie had asked
her to carry a lamp and two comfortables up for her, and in doing so the
shawl and bonnet had escaped her notice. It was a little thing, and she
realized that the hall rack looked better without her shawl and bonnet,
but somehow it was one of the many little things that gave her the
feeling that she had no home. She had put them all meekly away and sat
down in her little cold room near the drum to darn. She had done what
she was asked to do with one exception. She did not change her dress and
go down again. She saw that Nettie would like to have her out of the way
for the afternoon, and she did not wish to remain where she was not
wanted. She did not sigh as some women would have done. Instead, her
eyes took on that far-away look. She was beginning to long so sorely for
the open gates of her home above where she need never more feel that
desolation of not belonging, and where she would meet loved ones, and
above all her Father, face to face. Yet she knew her heavenly Father was
with her, even in this home where she was treated as a burden, and she
could be content to stay and do his bidding, only sometimes that great
longing for the face to face view grew upon her till her heart ached
with the desire to go.
In her bureau drawer, safe hid in tissue paper in a white box smelling
of rose leaves there were some letters, and an old daguerreotype. The
picture was in an old-fashioned leather frame that closed with a little
brass hook, and was lined with stamped purple velvet. The face inside
was of a young man with sweet, serious eyes, a grave, handsome face,
smoothly shaven, heavy, dark hair tossed back from a high white
forehead, and the dress of the olden time—a high rolling collar and
stock. The letters were from this man to Hannah Grant, written when he
was in the theological seminary, and they contained bright glad plans
for their future, Hannah’s and his. They might not have seemed bright to
some women, for they were planning, so soon as he had finished his
ministerial training, to go to the Foreign Mission field and work
together for the Master they both loved better than anything else. And
next to him they had loved each other. How bright her life had seemed to
her then as she did her daily duties; sang about them; thought of the
future and wrote her happy letters; and thanked the Lord daily that she
was to be permitted to do his work in this honorable way. The time had
gone by rapidly then, and the years of study had been completed.
Hannah’s wedding day was set, her simple lovely wedding gown was
finished, and it was grey. He loved grey. It had little touches of soft
white about the throat and wrists, just enough to bring out the coloring
of Hannah’s delicately cut face. And then,—suddenly there happened one
of those mysteries of the kingdom which we shall understand by and by,
and to which now we can only say “It is the Lord, let him do what
seemeth him best,” and trust. The earnest young missionary was taken up
higher, there to receive his reward. His bride, when she could rally
from the shock of this sudden ending of her life joy, bowed to the will
of him to whose keeping she had long ago given her will and her life,
and was enabled to say with tears of triumph that like that man of God
of old her beloved had “walked with God and was not, for God took him.”
She had thought even then to go alone, and take the message of Jesus to
those who knew him not, and bear her sorrow more easily by thinking she
could do some of the work which they would have done together. But God
opened another door for her and showed her plainly that he had called
her to a duty at home, and so she took her saddened heart, her sweet
face and her tender ways to her sister’s motherless little children and
had lived there ever since. Sometimes now, when she thought how she was
not wanted in this home, and yet could not go anywhere else by force of
circumstances, she would take out that pictured face and wonder if James
could know how she was being treated what he would think and feel about
it, and think how he would guard her from the world and shield her if he
were only here. And then she would be glad that he could not know, or
that if he could, he was where he knew it would not any of it be for
long, and that she would soon come home to be with Jesus and with him
forevermore, and that time to him was only a brief space. It was at such
times that her eyes would take on their far-away look.
So she sat and worked and thought that afternoon. In due course of time
the expected visitors arrived. The woman upstairs heard their voices,
and presently they drew nearer to the stove in the sitting-room. Their
talk could be quite distinctly heard now, but Hannah was absorbed in her
own thoughts, and she paid no attention as they gossiped on about this
one and that, with “You don’t say sos,” and “Well, I always thought as
muchs,” and “Did-she-say thats,” until she heard Nettie say, “Yes, she
will stay with us this winter anyway. No, it isn’t quite as pleasant as
to be alone you know, but then what could we do? She had no home to go
to. My husband wanted my cousin to come, too, though it was more than we
really could afford to do to feed and clothe two more, but she was very
ungrateful, and wanted to have her own way and see the world a little. I
expect she’ll come back humbly enough when she’s been away a couple of
weeks longer, and if she does I’m sure I don’t know what in the world we
shall do with her. Oh yes, aunt Hannah helps me a little here and there,
but you can’t ask much of people that are getting on in years. (Aunt
Hannah was forty-nine.) My father always kept her in luxury as she was
my mother’s only sister. Yes, people do get spoiled sometimes that way.
But, dear me, all she can do wouldn’t make up for the outgo. Yes, she
was a sort of acting housekeeper in our home after mother died, but you
know no one can ever take a mother’s place. (Johnnie, shut that door and
go away and stop your coaxing, or I’ll take you upstairs and give you a
good spanking. No, you _can’t_ go down by the pond to play to-day.) No,
I never had so much to do with her as the younger children. I was the
elder daughter, you know.”
Aunt Hannah quickly and noiselessly moved away from her position by the
drum to the other side of the room. And this from the little girl she
had so carefully mothered, and tended, and tried to train! And had
loved, too, for Hannah Grant loved all that God loved and placed in her
way. Ah, this was hard! And must she go on living here and knowing that
she was not wanted, that she was a burden, and that lies—yes, actually
lies, for there was no use trying to call them by a softer name—were
being told to the people in the village about her? How could she? She
could see just how it would go on from year to year. Hiram would come in
cross at night and either ignore her altogether, or else contradict
every word she spoke, and find fault with anything he knew she had done,
in a surly, impersonal way, which he knew and she knew he meant for her.
The children would grow up to disrespect her, as they were beginning to
do already. And her dear Celia! She was toiling bravely far away from
her! There was no prospect of anything better for years to come, perhaps
never so long as she lived. She knelt down by her bed, and prayed for a
long time. Then she arose quietly and went back to her window, a
chastened look upon her face. This was not more than he had helped her
to bear before. Indeed, it was not nearly so much. It was what Jesus had
himself borne, being despised and rejected of men. She darned on till
the room grew dark, and then she sat in the twilight and thought. She
could not bring herself to go downstairs yet, not till she must to get
supper. She thanked the Lord she had a room to herself where she might
take refuge alone and think of him. It was seldom that aunt Hannah had
had even this privilege in the daytime since she had come to live with
Nettie, there was always so much to be done, and Nettie seemed to expect
it to be done quickly.
The company below had departed, but Miss Grant took no heed. She sat and
watched the grey sky grow into night. There was no sunset. It had been a
grey day. There was not even a point of light to make the sky lovely. It
sank into darkness quietly, soberly, unnoticed and unlovely. She thought
it was like herself. But then there had been some reason why God had not
made a bright sunset to-night, and there surely was some reason why he
had wanted her life grey instead of rose-colored. She sighed just a
little, and now that the darkness had stolen softly upon her, she let a
tear have its way down her cheek.
Downstairs Nettie was growing restless. Hiram came in a little earlier
than usual with a sour look and asked how long it would be before
supper. Nettie said it would not be long, and wondered why aunt Hannah
did not come downstairs. Hiram remarked that if the old woman was
getting lazy and taking on fine-lady airs they had better give her a
warning, for he couldn’t support her for nothing. He threw a letter for
her upon the table while Nettie was lighting the lamp. Nettie took it
up, glanced at the writing, and then sent Johnnie up with it and told
him to tell aunt Hannah his father had come and wanted his supper right
away.
“It’s from Celia again,” she said, in a contemptuous tone. “She wastes
more money on postage. I don’t think it’s right to do that in her
position. If she has any extra money she better save it up and help with
supporting aunt Hannah. A great fat letter, too. I don’t see what she
finds to write about. This is the third one this week. It’s perfectly
absurd!”
But aunt Hannah did not hear what they said, she was not sitting near
the drum, and would not again, even if she was cold.
Johnnie came down and reported that aunt Hannah had a light in her room
and Nettie rattled the stove with all her might, and slammed the dishes
around more than was necessary, but still aunt Hannah did not come, and
finally Nettie began to get supper herself. She sent Johnnie up again
pretty soon to tell aunt Hannah she wished she would come downstairs,
that she needed her, and Johnnie came back and said aunt Hannah told him
to tell mamma she would be down pretty soon, she could not come just
now.
“Well, really!” said Hiram, looking up from his paper, “seems to me she
is putting on airs at a great rate. If I were you, Nettie, I would just
sit down and wait till she comes. I wouldn’t get supper at all. If you
haven’t the grit to tell her to come down now when you send for her,
I’ll do it for you.”
But Nettie rattled the stove and the dishes and managed to get supper
ready pretty soon. She did not quite understand her aunt. This was a new
development. Never in all the years she had known her and been cared for
by her had aunt Hannah ever refused a request for help. It must be
something serious. Was she sick? Nettie had some little heart left in
her, and it irritated her to have her husband speak so of her relatives,
so she bristled up at him, while she made the coffee.
“You’ll not do any such thing, Hiram Bartlett. I guess she has a right
to stay in her room once in a while. I’m sure I never knew her to do the
like before in the whole of her life. If she was your aunt, you wouldn’t
speak of her in that way. I think you ought to be a little grateful for
the way she took care of you last week when you were so sick, and me
with the baby sick, too. If she hadn’t been here I should have had my
hands more than full. I don’t know what I should have done. Johnnie,
make that baby stop crying! Lillie, pick that doll up off the floor! I
keep walking over something of yours all the time. I s’pose Celia’s got
into some trouble and aunt Hannah’s worried about her. I expected as
much. That girl hadn’t experience enough of the world to go off to the
city alone. Somebody ought to have taken her home to live. If one of the
boys had been married she could have gone with them, but the boys are so
selfish they never think of other people. If you had any sense of the
fitness of things you’d have done it yourself.”
They talked on in a wrangling way until supper was ready, but it was not
until they had nearly finished the evening meal that the hall door
opened and aunt Hannah walked in.