It was a hot afternoon in August. Amanda Pratt had set all her
windows wide open, but no breeze came in, only the fervid breath of
the fields and the white road outside.
She sat at a front window and darned a white stocking; her long, thin
arms and her neck showed faintly through her old loose muslin sacque.
The muslin was white, with a close-set lavender sprig, and she wore a
cameo brooch at her throat. The blinds were closed, and she had to
bend low over her mending in order to see in the green gloom.
Mrs. Babcock came toiling up the bank to the house, but Amanda did
not notice her until she reached the front door. Then she fetched a
great laboring sigh.
"Oh, hum!" said she, audibly, in a wrathful voice; "if I'd had any
idea of it, I wouldn't have come a step."
Then Amanda looked out with a start. "Is that you, Mis' Babcock?" she
called hospitably through the blind.
"Yes, it's me--what's left of me. Oh, hum! Oh, hum!"
Amanda ran and opened the door, and Mrs. Babcock entered, panting.
She had a green umbrella, which she furled with difficulty at the
door, and a palm-leaf fan. Her face, in the depths of her scooping
green barege bonnet, was dank with perspiration, and scowling with
indignant misery. She sank into a chair, and fanned herself with a
desperate air.
Amanda set her umbrella in the corner, then she stood looking
sympathetically at her. "It's a pretty hot day, ain't it?" said she.
"I should think 'twas hot. Oh, hum!"
"Don't you want me to get you a tumbler of water?"
"I dunno. I don't drink much cold water; it don't agree with me very
well. Oh, dear! You ain't got any of your beer made, I s'pose?"
"Oh, no, I ain't. I'm dreadful sorry. Don't you want a swaller of
cold tea?"
"Well, I dunno but I'll have jest a swaller, if you've got some. Oh,
dear me, hum!"
Amanda went out hurriedly, and returned with a britannia teapot and a
tumbler. She poured out some tea, and Mrs. Babcock drank with
desperate gulps.
"I think cold tea is better for anybody than cold water in hot
weather," said Amanda. "Won't you have another swaller, Mis'
Babcock?"
Mrs. Babcock shook her head, and Amanda carried the teapot and
tumbler back to the kitchen, then she seated herself again, and
resumed her mending. Mrs. Babcock fanned and panted, and eyed Amanda.
"You look cool enough in that old muslin sacque," said she, in a tone
of vicious injury.
"Yes, it is real cool. I've kept this sacque on purpose for a real
hot day."
"Well, it's dreadful long in the shoulder seams, 'cordin' to the way
they make 'em now, but I s'pose it's cool. Oh, hum! I ruther guess I
shouldn't have come out of the house, if I'd any idea how hot 'twas
in the sun. Seems to me it's hot as an oven here. I should think
you'd air off your house early in the mornin', an' then shut your
windows tight, an' keep the heat out."
"I know some folks do that way," said Amanda.
"Well, I always do, an' I guess 'most everybody does that's good
housekeepers. It makes a sight of difference."
Amanda said nothing, but she sat straighter.
"I s'pose you don't have to make any fire from mornin' till night;
seems as if you might keep cool."
"No, I don't have to."
"Well, I do. There I had to go to work to-day an' cook squash an'
beans an' green corn. The men folks ain't satisfied if they don't
have 'em in the time of 'em. I wish sometimes there wasn't no such
thing as garden sauce. I tell 'em sometimes I guess if they had to
get the things ready an' cook 'em themselves, they'd go without.
Seems sometimes as if the whole creation was like a kitchen without
any pump in it, specially contrived to make women folks extra work.
Looks to me as if pease without pods could have been contrived pretty
easy, and it does seem as if there wasn't any need of havin' strings
on the beans."
"Mis' Green has got a kind of beans without any strings," said
Amanda. "She brought me over some the other day, an' they were about
the best I ever eat."
"Well, I know there is a kind without strings," returned Mrs.
Babcock; "but I ain't got none in my garden, an' I never shall have.
It ain't my lot to have things come easy. Seems as if it got hotter
an' hotter. Why don't you open your front door?"
"Jest as sure as I do, the house will be swarmin' with flies."
"You'd ought to have a screen-door. I made Adoniram make me one five
years ago, an' it's a real nice one; but I know, of course, you ain't
got nobody to make one for you. Once in a while it seems as if men
folks come in kinder handy, an' they'd ought to, when women work an'
slave the way I do to fill 'em up. Mebbe some time when Adoniram
ain't drove, I could get him to make a door for you. Mebbe some time
next winter."
"I s'pose it would be nice," replied Amanda. "You're real kind to
offer, Mis' Babcock."
"Well, I s'pose women that have men folks to do for 'em ought to be
kind of obligin' sometimes to them that ain't. I'll see if I can get
Adoniram to make you a screen-door next winter. Seems to me it does
get hotter an' hotter. For the land sakes, Amanda Pratt! what are you
cuttin' that great hole in that stockin' heel for? Are you crazy?"
Amanda colored. "The other stockin's got a hole in it," said she,
"an' I'm makin' 'em match."
"Cuttin' a great big hole in a stockin' heel on purpose to darn?
Mandy Pratt, you ain't?"
"I am," replied Amanda, with dignity.
"Well, if you ain't a double and twisted old maid!" gasped Mrs.
Babcock.
Amanda's long face and her neck were a delicate red.
Mrs. Babcock laughed a loud, sarcastic cackle. "I never--did!" she
giggled.
Amanda opened her mouth as if to speak, then she shut it tightly,
remembering the offer of the screen-door. She had had so few gifts in
her whole life that she had a meek impulse of gratitude even if one
were thrust into her hand hard enough to hurt her.
"Well," Mrs. Babcock continued, still sniggering unpleasantly, "I
don't want to hurt your feelin's, Mandy; you needn't color up so; but
I can't help laughin'."
"Laugh, then, if you want to," said Amanda, with a quick flash. She
forgot the screen-door.
Mrs. Babcock drew her face down quickly. "Land, Mandy," said she,
"don't get mad. I didn't mean anything. Anybody knows that old maids
is jest as good as them that gets married. I ain't told you what I
come over here for. I declare I got so terrible heated up, I couldn't
think of nothin'. Look here, Mandy."
Amanda mended on the stocking foot drawn tightly over her left hand,
and did not raise her eyes.
"Mandy, you ain't mad, be you? You know I didn't mean nothin'."
"I ain't mad," replied Amanda, in a constrained tone.
"Well, there ain't nothin' to be mad about. Look here, Mandy, how
long is it since Mis' Field and Lois went?"
"About three months."
"Look here! I dunno what you'll say, but I think Mis' Green thought
real favorable of it. Do you know how cheap you can go down to Boston
an' back now?"
Amanda looked up. "No. Why?" said she.
Mrs. Babcock stopped fanning and leaned forward. "Amanda Pratt, you
can go down to Boston an' back, an' be gone a week, for--three
dollars an' sixty cents."
Amanda stared back at her in a startled way.
"Let's you an' me an' Mis' Green go down an' see Mis' Field an'
Lois," said Mrs. Babcock, in a tragic voice.
Amanda turned pale. "They don't live in Boston," she said, with a
bewildered air.
"We can go down to Boston on the early train," replied Mrs. Babcock,
importantly. "Then we can have all the afternoon to go round Boston
an' see the sights, an' then, toward night, we can go out to Mis'
Field's. Land, here's Mis' Green now! She said she'd come over as
soon as Abby got home from school. I'm jest tellin' her about it,
Mis' Green."
Mrs. Green stood in the doorway, smiling half-shamefacedly. "I s'pose
you think it's a dreadful silly plan, Mandy," said she deprecatingly.
Amanda got up and pushed the rocking-chair in which she had been
sitting toward the new-comer.
"Set down, do," said she. "I dunno, Mis' Green. I ain't had time to
think it over, it's come so sudden." Amanda's face was collected,
but her voice was full of agitation.
"Well," said Mrs. Green, "I ain't known which end my head is on since
Mis' Babcock come in an' spoke of it. First I thought I couldn't go
nohow, an' I dunno as I can now. Still, it does seem dreadful cheap
to go down to Boston an' back, an' I ain't been down more'n four
times in the last twenty years. I ain't been out gaddin' much, an'
that's a fact."
"The longer you set down in one corner, the longer you can," remarked
Mrs. Babcock. "I believe in goin' while you've got a chance, for my
part."
"I ain't ever been to Boston," said Amanda, and her face had the
wishful, far-away look that her grandfather's might have had when he
thought of the sea.
"It does seem as if you'd ought to go once," said Mrs. Green.
"I say, let's start up an' go!" cried Mrs. Babcock, in an intense
voice.
The three women looked at each other.
"Abby could keep house for father a few days," said Mrs. Green, as if
to some carping judge; "an' it ain't goin' to cost much, an' I know
father'd say go."
"Well, I guess I can cook up enough victuals to last Adoniram and the
boys whilst I'm gone," said Mrs. Babcock defiantly; "I guess they can
get along. Adoniram can make rye puddin', an' they can fill up on rye
puddin' an' molasses. I'm a-goin'."
"I dunno," said Amanda, trembling. "I'm dreadful afraid I hadn't
ought to."
"Well, I should think you could go, if Mis' Green an' I could," said
Mrs. Babcock. "Here you ain't got nobody but jest yourself, an' ain't
got to leave a thing cooked up nor nothin'."
"I would like to see Mis' Field an' Lois again, but it seems like a
great undertakin'," sighed Amanda. "Then it's goin' to cost
something."
"It ain't goin' to cost but jest three dollars an' sixty cents," said
Mrs. Babcock. "I guess you can afford that, Mandy. There your
tenement didn't stay vacant two weeks after the Fields went; the
Simmonses came right in. I guess if I had rent-money, an' nobody but
myself, I could afford to travel once in a while."
"Now you'd better make up your mind to go, Mandy," Mrs. Green said.
"I think Mis' Field would be more pleased to see you than anybody in
Green River. That's one thing I think about goin'. I know she'll be
tickled almost to death to see us comin' in. Mis' Field's a real good
woman. There wa'n't anybody in town I set more by than I did by her."
"When did you hear from her last, Mandy?" interposed Mrs. Babcock.
"About a month ago."
"I s'pose Lois is a good deal better?"
"Yes, I guess she is. Her mother said she seemed pretty well for her.
I s'pose it agrees with her better down there."
"I s'pose there was a good deal more fuss made about her when she was
here than there was any need of," said Mrs. Babcock, her whole face
wrinkled upward contemptuously; "a great deal more fuss. There wa'n't
nothin' ailed the girl if folks had let her alone, talkin' an'
scarin' her mother to death. She was jest kind of run down with the
spring weather. Young girls wilt down dreadful easy, an' spring up
again. I've seen 'em. 'Twa'n't nothin'."
"Well, I dunno; she looked dreadfully," Mrs. Green said, with mild
opposition.
"Well, you can see how much it amounted to," returned Mrs. Babcock,
with a triumphant sniff. "Folks ought to have been ashamed of
themselves, scarin' Mis' Field the way they did about her. Seemed as
if they was determined to have Lois go into consumption whether or
no, an' was goin' to push her in, if they couldn't manage it in no
other way. I s'pose you've sent all Mis' Field's things down there,
Mandy?"
"The furniture is all up garret," said Amanda. "All I've sent down
was their clothes. Mis' Field had me pack 'em up in their two trunks,
an' send 'em down to Lois. I didn't see why she didn't have me mark
'em to her."
"I should think it was kind of queer," said Mrs. Green. "Now s'pose
we go, what had we better carry for clothes? We don't need no trunk."
"Of course we don't," said Mrs. Babcock promptly. "We can each carry
a bag. We ain't going to need much."
"I guess, if I went," said Amanda, "that I should carry this sacque
to slip on, if it's as hot weather as 'tis now. I should have to do
it up, but that ain't much work."
Mrs. Babcock eyed it. "Well, I dunno," said she; "it's pretty long in
the shoulders seams. I dunno how much they dress down there where
Mis' Field lives. Mebbe 'twould do."
"There's one thing I've been thinkin' about," Mrs. Green said, with
an anxious air. "If we go down on that early train, an' stay all day
in Boston, we shall have to buy us something to eat; we should get
dreadful faint before we got out to Mis' Field's, and things are
dreadful high in those places."
"Oh, land!" cried Mrs. Babcock in a superior tone. "All we've got to
do is to carry some luncheon with us. I'll make some pies, and you
can bake some cookies, an' then we'll set down in Boston Common an'
eat it. That's the way lots of folks do. That ain't nothin' to worry
about. Well, now, I think it's about time for us to decide whether or
no we're goin'. I've got to go home an' git supper."
"I'll do jest as the rest say," said Mrs. Green. "I s'pose I can go.
I s'pose father'll say I'd better. An' Abby she was all for it, when
I spoke about it to her. She thinks she can have the Fay girl over to
stay with her, an' she wants me to buy her a dress in Boston, instead
of gettin' it here."
"Well," said Amanda, with a sigh--she was quite pale--"I'll think of
it."
"We've got to make up our minds," said Mrs. Babcock sharply. "There
ain't time for much thinkin'. The excursion starts a day after
to-morrow."
"I'll have my mind made up to-morrow mornin'," said Amanda. "I've got
to think of it over-night, anyhow. I can't start right up an' say
I'll go, without a minute to think about it." Her voice trembled
nervously, but decision underlay it.
"I don't see why it ain't time enough if we decide to-morrow morning.
I'd ruther like to think of it a little while longer," said Mrs.
Green.
Mrs. Babcock got up. "Well," said she, "I'll send Adoniram round
to-morrow mornin', an' you tell him what you've decided. I guess I
shall go whether or no. I've got three men folks to leave, an' it's a
good deal more of an undertakin' for me than some, but I ain't easy
scart. I b'lieve in goin' once in a while."
"Well, I'll let you know in the mornin'. I jest want to think of it
over-night," repeated Amanda, with dignified apology.
She went to the door with her guests. Mrs. Babcock spread her green
umbrella, and descended the steps with a stiff side-wise motion.
"It is hotter than ever, I do believe," she groaned.
"Well, now, I was jest thinkin' it was a little grain cooler,"
returned Mrs. Green, following in her wake. Her back was meekly bent;
her face, shaded by a black sun-hat, was thrust forward with patient
persistency. "There, I feel a little breeze now," she added.
"I guess all the breeze there is, is in your own motion," retorted
Mrs. Babcock. Her green umbrella bobbed energetically. She fanned at
every step.
"Mebbe it's your fan," said the other woman.
Amanda went into the house and shut the door. She stood in the middle
of the parlor and looked around. There was a certain amaze in her
eyes, as if everything wore a new aspect. "They can talk all they've
a mind to," she muttered, "it's a great undertakin'. S'pose anything
happened? If anything happened to them whilst they were gone, there's
folks enough to home to see to things. S'pose anything happened to
me, there ain't anybody. If I go, I've got to leave this house jest
so. I've got to be sure the bureau drawers are all packed up, an'
things swept an' dusted, so folks won't make remarks. There's other
things, too. Everything's got to be thought of. There's the cat. I
s'pose I could get Abby Green to come over an' feed her, but I
dassen't trust her. Young girls ain't to be depended on. Ten chances
to one she'd get to carryin' on with that Fay girl an' forgit all
about that cat. She won't lap her milk out of anything but a clean
saucer, neither, and I don't believe Abby would look out for that.
She always seemed to me kind of heedless. I dunno about the whole of
it."
Amanda shook her head; her eyes were dilated; there was an anxious
and eager expression in her face. She went into the kitchen, kindled
the fire, and made herself a cup of tea, which she drank absently.
She could not eat anything.
The cat came mewing at the door, and she let her in and fed her. "I
dunno how she'd manage," she said, as she watched her lap the milk
from the clean saucer beside the cooking-stove.
After she had put away the cat's saucer and her own tea-cup, she
stood hesitating.
"Well, I don't care," said she, in a decisive tone; "I'm goin' to do
it. It's got to be done, anyhow, whether I go or not. It's been on my
mind for some time."
Amanda got out her best black dress from the closet, and sat down to
alter the shoulder seams. "I don't care nothin' about this muslin
sacque," said she, "but I ain't goin' to have Mis' Babcock measurin'
my shoulder seams every single minute if I do go, an' they may be
real dressy down where Mis' Field is."
Amanda sewed until ten o'clock; then she went to bed, but she slept
little. She was up early the next morning. Adoniram Babcock came over
about eight o'clock; the windows and blinds were all flung wide open,
the braided rugs lay out in the yard. He put his gentle grizzled face
in at one of the windows. There was a dusty odor. Amanda was sweeping
vigorously, with a white handkerchief tied over her head. Her
delicate face was all of a deep pink color.
"Ann Lizy sent over to see if you'd made up your mind," said
Adoniram.
Amanda started. "Good-mornin', Mr. Babcock. Yes, you can tell her I
have. I'm a-goin'."
There was a reckless defiance of faith in Amanda's voice. She had a
wild air as she stood there with the broom in a faint swirl of dust.
"Well, Ann Lizy'll be glad you've made up your mind to. She's gone to
bakin'," said the old man in the window.
"I've got to bake some, too," said Amanda. She began sweeping again.
"I've jest been over to Mis' Green's, an' she says she's goin' if you
do," said Mr. Babcock.
"Well, you tell her I'm goin'," said Amanda, with a long breath.
"I guess you'll have a good time," said the old man, turning away. "I
tell Ann Lizy she can stay a month if she wants to. Me an' the boys
can git along." He laughed a pleasant chuckle as he went off.
Amanda glanced after him. "I shouldn't care if I had a man to leave
to look after the house," said she.
Amanda toiled all day; she swept and dusted every room in her little
domicile. She put all her bureau drawers and closets in exquisite
order. She did not neglect even the cellar and the garret. Mrs.
Babcock, looking in at night, found her rolling out sugar
gingerbread.
"For the land sakes, Mandy!" said she, "what are you cookin' by
lamp-light for this awful hot night?"
"I'm makin' a little short gingerbread for luncheon."
"I don't see what you left it till this time of day for. What you got
them irons on the stove for?"
"I've got to iron my muslin sacque. I've got it all washed and
starched."
"Ironin' this time of day! I'd like to know what you've been doin'
ever since you got up?"
"I've been getting everything in order, in case anything happened,"
replied Amanda. She tried to speak with cool composure, but her voice
trembled. Her dignity failed her in this unwonted excitement.
"What's goin' to happen, for the land sake?" cried Mrs. Babcock.
"I dunno. None of us know. Things do happen sometimes."
Mrs. Babcock stared at her, half in contempt, half in alarm. "I hope
you ain't had no forewarnin' that you ain't goin' to live nor
anything," said she. "If you have, I should think you'd better stay
to home."
"I ain't had no more forewarnin' than anybody," said Amanda. "All is,
there ain't nobody in the other part of the house. The Simmonses all
went yesterday to make a visit at her mother's, and in case anything
should happen, I'm goin' to leave things lookin' so I'm willin'
anybody should see 'em."
"Well," said Mrs. Babcock, "I guess you couldn't leave things so
you'd be willin' anybody'd see 'em if you had three men folks afoul
of 'em for three days. I've got to be goin' if I git up for that
four-o'clock train in the mornin'. I've made fifteen pies an' five
loaves of bread, besides bakin' beans, to say nothin' of a great
panful of doughnuts an' some cake. I ain't been up garret nor down
cellar cleanin', an' if anything happens to me, I s'pose folks'll see
some dust and cobwebs, but I've done considerable. Adoniram's goin'
to take us all down in the covered wagon; he'll be round about
half-past four."
Amanda lighted Mrs. Babcock out the front door; then she returned to
her tasks. She did not go to bed that night. She had put her bedroom
in perfect order, and would not disturb it. She lay down on her hard
parlor sofa awhile, but she slept very little. At two o'clock she
kindled a fire, made some tea, and cooked an egg for her breakfast.
Then she arrayed herself in her best dress. She was all ready, her
bag and basket of luncheon packed and her bonnet on, at three
o'clock. She sat down and folded her hands to wait, but presently
started up. "I'm going to do it," said she. "I don't care, I am. I
can't feel easy unless I do."
She got some writing-paper and pen and ink from the chimney cupboard
and sat down at the table. She wrote rapidly, her lips pursed, her
head to one side. Then she folded the paper, wrote on the outside,
and arranged it conspicuously on the top of a leather-covered Bible
on the centre of the table. "There!" said she. "It ain't regular, I
s'pose, an' I ain't had any lawyer, but I guess they'd carry out my
wishes if anything happened to me. I ain't got nobody but Cousin
Rhoda Hill, an' Cousin Maria Bennet; an' Rhoda don't need a cent, an'
Maria'd ought to have it all. This house will make her real
comfortable, an' my clothes will fit her. I s'pose I'd have this
dress on, but my black alpaca's pretty good. I s'pose Mis' Babcock
would laugh, but I feel a good deal easier about goin'."
Amanda waited again; she blew out her lamp, for the early dawnlight
strengthened. She listened intently for wheels, and looked anxiously
at the clock. "It would be dreadful if we got left, after all," she
said.
Suddenly the covered wagon came in sight; the white horse trotted at
a good pace. Adoniram held the reins and his wife sat beside him.
Mrs. Green peered out from the back seat. "Mandy! Mandy!" Mrs.
Babcock called, before they reached the gate. But Amanda was already
on the front door-step, fitting the key in the lock.
"I'm all ready," she answered, "jest as soon as I can get the door
locked."
"We ain't got any too much time," cried Mrs. Babcock.
Amanda went down the path with her basket and black valise and
parasol. Adoniram got out and helped her into the wagon. She had to
climb over the front seat. As they drove off she leaned out and gazed
back at the house. Her tortoise-shell cat was coming around the
corner. "I do hope the cat will get along all right," she said
agitatedly. "I've fed her this mornin', an' I've left her enough milk
till I get back--a saucerful for each day--an' Abby said she'd give
her all the scraps off the table, you know, Mis' Green."
Mrs. Babcock turned around. "Now, Amanda Pratt," said she, "I'd like
to know how in creation you've left a saucerful of milk for that cat
for every day till you get back."
"I set ten saucers full of milk down cellar," replied Amanda, still
staring back anxiously at the cat--"one for each day. I got extra
milk last night on purpose. She likes it jest as well if it's sour,
if the saucer's clean."
Amanda looked up with serious wonder at Mrs. Babcock, who was
laughing shrilly. Mrs. Green, too, was smiling, and Adoniram
chuckled.
"For the land sakes, Amanda Pratt!" gasped Mrs. Babcock, "you don't
s'pose that cat is goin' to stint herself to a saucer a day? Why,
she'll eat half of it all up before night."
Amanda stood up in the carriage. "I've got to go back, that's all,"
said she. "I ain't goin' to have that cat starve."
"Land sakes, set down!" cried Mrs. Babcock. "She won't starve. She
can hunt."
"Abby'll feed her, I know," said Mrs. Green, pulling gently at her
companion's arm. "Don't you worry, Mandy."
"Well, I guess I shouldn't worry about a cat with claws to catch mice
in warm weather," said Mrs. Babcock, with a sarcastic titter. "It's
goin' to be a dreadful hot day. Set down, Mandy. There ain't no use
talkin' about goin' back. There ain't any time. Mis' Green an' me
ain't goin' to stay to home on account of a cat."
Amanda subsided weakly. She felt strange, and not like herself. Mrs.
Babcock seemed to recognize it by some subtle intuition. She would
never have dared use such a tone toward her without subsequent
concessions. Amanda had always had a certain dignity and persistency
which had served to intimidate too presuming people; now she had lost
it all.
"I'll write to Abby, jest as soon as I get down there, to give the
cat her milk," whispered Mrs. Green soothingly; and Amanda was
comforted.
The covered wagon rolled along the country road toward the railroad
station. Adoniram drove, and the three women sat up straight, and
looked out with a strange interest, as if they had never seen the
landscape before. The meadows were all filmy with cobwebs; there were
patches of corn in the midst of them, and the long blades drooped
limply. The flies swarmed thickly over the horse's back. The air was
scalding; there was a slight current of cool freshness from the dewy
ground, but it would soon be gone.
"It ain't goin' to rain," said Mrs. Babcock, "there's cobwebs on the
grass, but it's goin' to be terrible hot."
They reached the station fifteen minutes before the train. After
Adoniram had driven away, they sat in a row on a bench on the
platform, with their baggage around them. They did not talk much;
even Mrs. Babcock looked serious and contemplative in this momentary
lull. Their thoughts reached past and beyond them to the homes they
had left, and the new scenes ahead.
When the whistle of the train sounded they all stood up, and grasped
their valises tightly. Mrs. Green looked toward the coming train; her
worn face under her black bonnet, between its smooth curves of gray
hair, had all the sensitive earnestness which comes from generations
of high breeding. She was, on her father's side, of a race of old New
England ministers.
"Well, I dunno but I've been pretty faithful, an' minded my household
the way women are enjoined to in the Scriptures; mebbe it's right for
me to take this little vacation," she said, and her serious eyes were
full of tears.