Summer had come to the country with its bloom and its beauty, its
harvests and its holidays. In town, its fever heat drew noisome smells
from overcharged sewers, and the black, oily paste to which the shower
that should have been refreshing had changed the dust of crowded
thoroughfares. Cleaner pavements, in the higher portions of the city,
burned through shoe-soles; glass radiated heat to polished stone, and
stone radiated, in its turn, to brick, that waited until the evening
to throw off its surplus caloric in hot, suffocating waves that made
yet more oppressive the close nights. The gay procession of fashionable
humming birds had commenced their migrations, steamboats and excursion
craft multiplied at the wharves, and the iron steed put forth all his
tremendous might to bear onward the long train of self-exiled travelers.
The Hunts, too, must leave town; Lucy must, at all events, have a
full season, and a brilliant one, if possible, for it was her second
summer, and much might depend upon it. Her mother would accompany her,
of course; and equally of course her father could not; that is, he
must return after escorting them to Saratoga, and spend the remainder
of the warm months at home. His business would not allow him to take
an extended vacation. The boys were easily disposed of, being boarded
every summer at the farmhouse of an early friend of Mr. Hunt, where
they were acceptable inmates, their clothes as well cared for as they
were at home, and their morals more diligently cultivated. The younger
girls caused that excellent manager, their mother, more perplexity.
This was not the first time she had repented her indiscretion in
allowing Sarah to "come out" before her elder sister had "gone off."
But "Sarah was so tall and so womanly in her appearance that it looked
queer, and would set people to talking if I kept her back," she was
accustomed to excuse her impolitic move to her friends. This summer she
realized, as she had not done before, the inconvenience of having two
full-fledged young ladies upon the carpet at once. Lucy's elegant and
varied wardrobe, and the certain expenses in prospect for her and her
chaperon at Spa, seaside, and en route, left a balance in hand of the
sum allotted for the season's expenditure that was startling in its
meagerness. Mrs. Hunt was a capital financier, a peerless economist,
but the exigency taxed her resources to the utmost.
One morning she arose with a lightened heart and a smoother brow.
"I've settled it!" she exclaimed to her husband, shaking him from his
matutinal doze.
The "Eureka!" of the Syracusan mathematician was not more lofty in its
exultation. Forthwith she unfolded to him her scheme. She was a native
of New Jersey, "the Jarseys" she had heard it called in her father's
house--had probably thus denominated the gallant little state herself
in her girlhood. In and around the pretty, quiet village of Shrewsbury
there were still resident scores of her relatives whose very names she
had sedulously forgotten. One alone she could not, in conscience or in
nature, dismiss to such oblivion. This was her elder and only sister,
long married to a respectable and worthy farmer, and living within a
mile of "the old place," where both sisters had drawn the first breath
of life. Twice since Mrs. Hunt had lived in the city had this kind
friend been summoned on account of the dangerous illness of the former,
and her presence and nursing had restored peace, order, and health to
the household. The earlier of these occasions was that of the second
child's birth, and in the softened mood of her convalescence Mrs. Hunt
had bestowed upon the babe her sister's name--Sarah Benson--a homely
appellative she had ofttimes regretted since. At distant and irregular
intervals, one, two, three years, Mr. or Mrs. Benson visited their
connections in "York;" but the intercourse grew more difficult and
broken as time rolled on and the distance widened between the plain
country folk and their rising relations. Then, again, death had been
busy in the farmhouse; coffin after coffin, of varying lengths, but
all short, was lifted over the threshold and laid away in the village
graveyard, until but one was left to the parents of the seven little
ones that had been given to them, and to that one nature had denied the
gifts of speech and hearing. Grief and the infirmities of approaching
old age disinclined the worthy pair to stir from home, and their
ambitious sister was too busy in building up a "set" of her own, and
paving the way for her daughters' distinction, to hide her light for
ever so short a period in so obscure a corner as her former home.
Aunt Sarah, however, could not forget her nurseling. Every few months
there arrived some simple token of affectionate remembrance to "the
child" she had not seen since she wore short frocks and pinafores. The
reception of a basket of fruit, thus despatched, was the suggestive
power to Mrs. Hunt's present plan. She had made up her mind, so she
informed her husband straightway, to write that very day--yes! that
very forenoon, to "Sister Benson," and inquire whether she would board
Sarah and Jeannie for a couple of months.
"I don't s'pose she will let me pay board for them, but she will be
pleased to have 'em as long as they like to stay. It's never been
exactly convenient for me to let any of the children go there for so
many years, and it's so fur off. But dear me! sometimes I feel real bad
about seeing so little of my only sister!"--a heavy sigh. "And there'll
be the expenses of two saved, out and out, for they won't need a great
variety of clothes in that out-of-the-way place."
"But how will the girls, Sarah and Jeannie, fancy being sent off so?"
inquired Mr. Hunt.
"Oh, as to that, it is late in the day for my children to dispute what
I say shall be done; and Sarah's jest that odd that she'll like this
notion twenty times better than going to Newport or Saratoga. I know
her! As to Jeannie, she is satisfied to be with her sister anywhere.
She is getting thin, too; she looks real peaked, and there's nothing in
creation so good for ailing children as the salt-water bath. They have
first-rate still-water bathing not a quarter of a mile from sister's.
It's jest the thing, I tell you! The wonder is it never came into my
head before."
Mr. Hunt had his sigh now. "Somehow or other he was always down in the
mouth when the family broke up for the summer," his wife frequently
complained, and his lack of sympathy now excited her just ire.
"Upon my word, Mr. H.! anybody would think that I was the poorest
wife in the world to you to see and hear you whenever I talk to you
of my plans and household affairs. You look as if you was about to be
hanged, instead of feeling obliged to me for turning, and twisting,
and contriving, and studying, day and night, how to save your money,
and spend what we must lay out to the best advantage. I can tell you
what--there's few women would make your income go as far as I do."
"I know that, my dear. The question is"--Mr. Hunt paused, cleared his
throat and strained his nerves for a mighty effort, an unprecedented
exercise of moral courage--"the question is, Betsy, whether our income
is stretched in the right direction!" Mistaking the stare of petrified
incredulity he received for fixed attention, the infatuated man went
on: "This doubt is always forced upon me when we separate in July,
some to go to one place, some to another, a broken, wandering family
for months together. I am growing old, and I love to have my children
about me; I begin to feel the want of a home. There is Johnson, in
the ---- Bank, gets five hundred less per annum than I do; yet, after
living quietly here a few years, he bought himself a snug cottage up
the river, and has his family there in their own house, everything
handsome and comfortable about them. I have been in the harness for a
long while; I expect to die in it. I don't mind work--hard work! but
it seems to me sometimes that we would all be better satisfied if we
had more to show, or to hold, for our money; if there were less of this
straining after appearances, this constant study to make both ends
meet."
"And it has come to this!" Mrs. Hunt sank into a chair and began to
cry. "This is my thanks for slaving and toiling for better than twenty
years to get you and your children a stand in the world! It isn't for
myself that I care. I can work my fingers to the bone, and live upon
a crust! I can scrape and save five dollars or so a month! I can bury
myself in the country! But your children! those dear, sweet girls, that
have had the best education money can buy, and that to-day visit such
people as the Murrays, and Sandersons, and Hoopers, and Baylors, and
meet the Castors and Crinnalls at parties--millionaires, all of 'em,
the cream of the upper crust! I don't deny that I have been ambitious
for them, and I did hope that you had something of the same spirit; and
now to think of your complaining, and moping, and groaning over the
money you say I've been and wasted; oh! oh! oh!"
"You misunderstand me, my dear; I merely questioned whether we were
acting wisely in making so much display upon so little substance. We
are not millionaires, whatever may be said of the girls' visiting
acquaintances, and I tremble sometimes to think how all this false show
may end."
Mr. Hunt's borrowed courage had not evaporated entirely.
"That's distrusting Providence, Mr. H.! It's downright sinful, and what
I shouldn't have looked for from you. I can tell you how it will end.
If both of us live ten years longer, you will see your daughters riding
in their own carriages, and leaders of the tong, and your sons among
the first gentlemen of the city. If this does not turn out true, you
needn't ever trust my word again. I've set my head upon getting Lucy
off my hands this summer, and well off; and mark my words, Mr. H., it
shall be done."
One part of her mother's prophecy was fulfilled in Sarah's manner of
receiving the proposition so nearly affecting her comfort during the
summer. Lucy wondered at the cheerful alacrity with which she consented
to be "hidden away in that horrid bore of a farmhouse," and Jeannie
cried as her elder sister "supposed that they would eat in Aunt Sarah's
kitchen, along with the servant men."
"Lucy, be quiet!" interposed her mother. "Your aunt is not a common
poor person. Mr. Benson is a man of independent means, quite rich for
the country. They live very nicely, and I have no doubt but that your
sisters will be happy there."
Sarah had drawn Jeannie to her, and was telling her of the rides and
walks they would take together, the ducks and chickens they would feed,
and the merry plunges in the salt water that were to be daily luxuries.
Ere the recital was concluded, the child was impatient for the hour of
departure, and indignant when she heard that Aunt Sarah must be heard
from before they could venture to present themselves, bag and baggage,
at her door. There was nothing feigned in Sarah's satisfaction; her
preparations were made with far more pleasure than if she were to
accompany Lucy. The seclusion that would have been slow death to the
latter was full of charms for the book-loving sister. Aunt Sarah would
be kind; the novel phases of human nature she would meet would amuse
and interest her; and, besides these, there was Jeannie to love and
pet, and river, field, and grove for studies and society. She panted
for the country and liberty from the tyrannous shackles of city customs.
Aunt Sarah wrote promptly and cordially, rejecting the offered
compensation, and begging for her nieces' company as long as they
could content themselves in so retired a place. Simple-minded as she
was, she knew enough to be sure that the belles and beaux of the
neighborhood would be very unsuitable mates for her expected visitors.
If her own girls had lived, she would have asked nothing higher for
them in this world than to have them grow up respected, beloved, and
happy, among the acquaintances and friends of their parents; but
"Sister Betsy's children had been raised so differently!" she said to
her husband. "I don't know what we will do to amuse them."
"They will find amusement--never fear," was the farmer's response. "Let
city folks alone for seeing wonders where those that have lived among
them all their lives never found anything uncommon. They are welcome
to the pony whenever they've a mind to ride, and Jim or I will find
time to drive them around a'most every day; and what with riding, and
boating, and bathing, I guess they can get rid of the time."
Before the day set for the coming of the guests there appeared upon the
stage an unexpected and welcome ally to Aunt Sarah's benevolent design
of making her nieces' sojourn agreeable. This personage we will let the
good woman herself describe.
"You needn't trouble yourself to fix up for tea, dear," she said to
Sarah, the afternoon of her arrival, as she prepared to remove her
traveling dress. "There's nobody here besides husband, and me, and
Charley, except husband's nephew, Philip Benson, from the South. He
comes North 'most every summer, and never goes back without paying us a
visit. He's been here three days now. But he is just as easy as an old
shoe, and sociable as can be, so you won't mind him."
"Uncle Benson has relatives at the South, then?" said Sarah, seeing
herself called upon to say something.
"One brother--James. He went to Georgy when he wasn't more than sixteen
years old, and has lived there ever since. He married a rich wife, I
believe"--sinking her voice--"and has made money fast, I've heard.
Philip never says a word about their wealth, but his father owns a
great plantation, for husband asked him how many acres they worked.
Then the children--there are four of them--have had fine educations,
and always spend money freely. Philip is not the sort to boast of
anything that belongs to him or his. He is a good-hearted boy. He was
here the August my last daughter--my Betsy--died, and I shall never
forget how kind and tender he was then. I can't look at him without
thinking how my Alick would have been just his age if he had lived. One
was born on the fourth and the other the fifth of the same April."
Keeping up a decent show of interest in these family details, Sarah
divested Jeannie of her sacque and dress, and substituted a cool blue
gingham and a muslin apron. Then, as the child was wild to run out of
doors, she suffered her to go, charging her not to pass the boundary of
the yard fence. Aunt Sarah was dressed in a second mourning delaine,
with a very plain cap, and while the heat obliged Sarah to lay aside
the thick and dusty garment she had worn all day, she had too much
tact to offer a strong contrast in her own attire to her unpretending
surroundings. A neat sprigged lawn, modest and inexpensive, was not
out of place among the old-fashioned furniture of her chamber, nor in
the "best room," to which they presently descended.
Aunt Sarah ushered her into the apartment with some stiffness of
ceremony. In truth, she was not herself there often, or long enough to
feel quite at ease, her property though it was. Alleging the necessity
of "seeing to the tea," she bade her niece "make herself at home,"
threw open a blind that she "might see the river," and left her.
First, Sarah looked around the room. It was large and square, and
had four windows, two in front and two in the rear. The floor was
covered by a well-saved carpet, of a pattern so antique that it was in
itself a curiosity; heavy tables of a mahogany dark with age; upright
chairs, with slippery leathern seats; a ponderous sofa, covered with
haircloth; small mirrors, with twisted frames, between the windows; two
black profiles, of life-size, over the mantel, and in the fireplace a
jar of asparagus boughs, were appointments that might have repelled
the looker-on, but for the scrupulous, shining cleanliness of every
article. It was a scene so strange to Sarah that she could not but
smile as she withdrew her eyes and turned to the landscape commanded by
her window.
The sight changed the gleam of good-humored amusement to one of more
heartfelt pleasure. Beyond the grassy walks and flower-borders of the
garden behind the house lay green meadows, sloping down to the river,
broad and smooth at this point, so placid now that it mirrored every
rope and seam of the sails resting quietly upon its surface, and the
white cottages along the banks, while the banks themselves, with their
tufts and crowns of foliage, drooping willows and lofty elms, found
a faithful yet a beautified counterpart in the stream. The reflected
blush of the crimson west upon its bosom was shot with flickers of
golden light, and faded in the distance into the blue-gray twilight.
The air seemed to grow more deliciously cool as the gazer thought of
the hot, pent-up city, and the beds of thyme and lavender added their
evening incense.
The hum of cheerful voices joined pleasantly with the soothing
influences of the hour, and, changing her position slightly, Sarah
beheld the speakers. Upon a turfy mound, at the foot of an apple tree,
sat Jeannie beside a gentleman, whose hands she watched with pleased
interest, as did also a boy of fifteen or thereabouts, who knelt on the
grass before them. Sarah divined at once that this was her aunt's deaf
and dumb son. The gentleman was apparently interpreting to Jeannie all
that passed between himself and the lad, and her gleeful laugh showed
it to be a lively dialogue. Could this be Mr. Benson's nephew, the
beardless youth Sarah had pictured him to herself from Aunt Sarah's
description? He could not have been less than six-and-twenty, had
dark hair and a close curling beard, an intelligent, handsome face,
and notwithstanding his loose summer sack and lounging attitude, one
discerned plainly traces of uncommon grace and strength in his form.
"What is he, I wonder? A gallant, professional beau, who will entangle
me in my speech, and be an inevitable appendage in the excursions?
I flattered myself I would be safe from all such drawbacks," thought
Sarah, in genuine vexation, as she obeyed her aunt's summons to tea.
Perhaps Mr. Benson read as much in her countenance, for, beyond a few
polite, very unremarkable observations, addressed to her when his hosts
made it necessary for him to do so, he paid her no visible attention
during the whole of the evening. The next day he set off, the minute
breakfast was over, with his gun and game-bag, and was gone until
sunset.
Sarah sat at her chamber window as he came up to the back door; and,
screened by the vine trained over the sash, she watched him as he
tossed his game-bag to Charley and shook hands with Jeannie, who ran up
to him with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.
"What luck?" questioned his uncle.
"Nothing to boast of, sir; yet enough to repay me for my tramp. I have
been down to the shore."
"Philip Benson! Well, you beat everything! I suppose you have walked
as much as ten miles in all!" exclaimed Aunt Sarah, with a sort of
reproachful admiration.
"I dare say, madam, and am none the worse for it to-night. I am getting
used to your sand, uncle; it used to tire me, I confess."
He disappeared into the kitchen, probably to perform the ablutions
needful after his day's walk and work, for it was several minutes
before he returned. Charley had carried the game-bag to the mound under
the tree, and was exhibiting its contents--mostly snipe and red-winged
black birds--to his little cousin.
"It is refreshing to see something in the shape of man that is neither
an effeminate dandy nor a business machine," soliloquized Sarah.
"Ten miles on foot! I would like to set that task for certain of our
Broadway exquisites!"
"She isn't a bit like a city girl!" Aunt Sarah was saying, as she
followed Philip into the outer air.
"I am glad to hear that she is likely to be a nice companion for you,
madam. I thought, from her appearance, that you would suit each other,"
was the reply, certainly respectful enough, but whose lurking accent of
dry indifference sent the blood to Sarah's face.
Hastily withdrawing from the open window, and beyond the reach of
the voices that discussed her merits, she waited to recover her
equanimity before going downstairs. In vain she chided herself for
her sudden heat. Mortified she was, and even more ashamed of herself
than angry with the cool young man who had pronounced her to be a
fitting associate for her excellent but unpolished aunt. While his
every look and intonation bespoke the educated gentleman, a being as
different in mental as in physical muscle from the fops who formed her
sister's train, had he weighed her against the refined woman of his
own class and clime, and adjudged her this place? At heart she felt
the injustice, and, stimulated by the sting, arose the resolve that
he should learn and confess his error. Not tamely or willingly would
she accept an ignoble station at the hands of one whom she inwardly
recognized as capable of a true valuation of what she esteemed worthy.
She looked haughty, not humbled, when she took her seat opposite her
critic at the tea-table. "A nice companion," she was saying over
to herself. The very phrase, borrowed, as it was, from Aunt Sarah's
vocabulary, seemed to her seasoned with contempt. She kept down fire
and scorn, however, when Mr. Benson accosted her with the tritest
of remarks upon the probable heat of the day in town as contrasted
with the invigorating breeze, with its faint, delicious sea flavor,
that rustled the grapevines and fluttered the white curtains at the
dining-room door and windows. Her answer was not exactly gracious, but
it advanced the one tempting step beyond a mere reply.
Thus was the ice broken, and for the rest of the meal, Aunt Sarah and
"Uncle Nathan"--as he requested his nieces to style him--had respite
from the duty of active entertainment, so far as conversation went. To
Sarah's surprise, Mr. Benson talked to her almost as he would have done
to another man. He spoke of notable persons, places, and books--things
of which she had heard and read--without affectation of reserve or a
shade of pretension; and to her rejoinders--brief and constrained for
awhile--then, as she forgot herself in her subject, pertinent, earnest,
salient, he gave more than courteous heed. It was the unaffected
interest of an inquirer; the entire attention of one who felt that he
received more than he gave.
They parted for the night with a bow and a smile that was with each
a mute acknowledgment of pleasure derived from the companionship of
the other; and if neither looked forward to the meeting of the morrow
as a renewal of congenial intercourse, both carried to their rest the
effects of an agreeable surprise in the events of the evening.