BEFORE THE FEAST.
THEO'S garden was brave with chrysanthemums, great yellow blooms swung
from their stalks, or shot out rays from glowing centres like golden
suns. Atop the branches, little buttons showed what might be expected
later on; here a mass of snowy white fringes, springing from a whorl
of incurled petals, invited the eye; there, red and yellow splendor
flaunted, or in ragged pink disorder some splendid beauty held its own
as biggest of them all.
Theo, walking among this late blossoming, fingered the buds lovingly,
while Posie-Cossie, close at her heels, watched her with bright eyes.
"I declare, Posie-Cossie, this chrysanthemum looks just like you," and
Theo shook a big, wild-looking blossom at the little dog.
And truly, there was a resemblance to the fly-away hair of the
little fellow, which now made a dart forward, to snap in play at the
temptation offered.
"No! No!" reproved Theo. "You can't have it. Every one will be needed.
Every one, do you hear, Posie-Cossie? It does seem rather mean, too,"
she continued, "to strip the garden just for me. No, for Jack and me.
But after all, they wouldn't last always, and auntie wants me to have
them."
Then, kneeling down, she took the little dog's head between her
hands. "Who do you think is coming home to-day?" she said. "Who?
Why, Posie-Cossie, Val,—dear little, funny little, cunning little
Val. Shall you know her in all her young lady-hood? She is grown up,
you know, as much as she will ever be. She is a real righty woman,
twenty-three years old. Think of that. Oh, how old we are all getting
to be. Even you, Posie-Cossie, have outgrown your puppyish, babyish
ways; and Ishmael,—think of Ishmael,—here he comes now. Why, he is
quite a middle-aged gentleman. No, no, you are entirely too frisky this
morning, but you cannot impose upon me, who have known you since you
were a baby: that is not dignified behavior. Ishmael doesn't want to
play," for Posie-Cossie had made a sudden spring forward towards Theo's
cat, which was approaching them with deliberate tread.
Theo took Ishmael up in her arms and began to stroke the sleek, furry
coat. "Dear little fellow," she said, caressingly. "How will Mitty's
boy like his new home? I say you will be just as contented as you are
here, and Jack says you will turn about and trot home. I don't believe
that. But we didn't quarrel about it, for that would have been very
foolish until one of us was proved wrong; in a very little while we
will know. Oh, how strange it seems!" And Theo gave a little quick
sigh, half from regret, half from emotion, and turned to go into the
house.
"Jes' slip in hyar, honey," said Mammy, coming to the kitchen-door with
anxious countenance. "I boun' ter hav' dis yer cake fus' class, an' hit
'pears like hit want jes' a drap mo' sugar; but, law, honey, I done
tas' an' tas' so much, I cyarnt tell ef hit do er no; jes' yuh gimme yo
druthers on de subjick."
A spicy odor pervaded the kitchen, with it mixed the scent of burning
wood and hot pans. Mammy was in her element. She had officiated at no
such important event since the days of Miss Nelson's girlhood. "Miss
Theo's weddin' cake" was the all-absorbing theme; that it should
fail of absolute perfection would be a catastrophe too dreadful to
contemplate. And so Mammy mixed and stirred, offering Theo tastes from
the end of a spoon, while Tatty stood by with some of Mammy's anxiety
reflected upon her own countenance.
Theo, with critical air, expressed her "druthers," and Mammy, having
her own decisions thus reinforced, was quite content to proceed with
the baking.
"Yuh know dis yer kin' o' black cake 'bleedged to stan' a couple o'
weeks 'fore it tas'es jes' 'zac'ly right," she explained. "But de rale
white bride-cake dat diff'unt; de whites of de aigs dey dries up fas',
an' dat bride-cake 'bleedged to be fresher."
"What do you think of my taking Tatty away from you?" asked Theo,
sitting down by the table to watch Mammy put the cake in the pans.
Mammy cast a sidelong glance at Tatty, being divided between her real
appreciation of Tatty's usefulness and her fear of adding to that young
person's self-esteem; so she parried the question by saying: "Tatty
done been promuss ter yuh long ago, Miss Theo. Aun' Pris she tell me
dat huse'f, dem days fo' Miss Betty 'ceasted." When referring to any
of the family connection, Mammy always rose to a certain elegance of
speech.
"Dat so," spoke up Tatty. "My Mammy tell me so when I ain't no bigger'n
a grasshopper, an' I allus say I gwine ter live with Miss Theo; ain't
I, Miss Theo?"
"Yes," responded Theo; "and you will go back to Preston. We didn't
expect that."
"'Deed den I respected it," declared Mammy. "I allus mek dis demark to
Aun' Pris, Miss Theo; she gwine ter be mist'es' hyar yet, sho's yuh
bo'n. An' Aun' Pris she tell me huccome I think so, an' I tell her,
'bleeged to think so long o' Miss Betty, she set such sto' by Miss
Theo. I say, Aun' Pris, yuh see, hit'll be acco'din' to de kes." And
Mammy gave a final swing of the spoon around the bowl to emphasize her
concluding sentence.
"Acco'din' to de kes" was one of Mammy's favorite phrases, borrowed
from a letter she had once received, beginning, "According to request,
I take my pen in hand." And this form of expression impressed Mammy so
forcibly, that she insisted upon Theo's using it invariably whenever
Mammy herself wanted a letter written; and it was also used by the old
woman very variously and uniquely upon other occasions.
"Never mind," resumed Theo; "if I do rob you of Tatty, you are going to
have Ary in her place. How old is Ary, Tatty?"
"'Deed, Miss, I 'clar I forgits; she come nex ter me, dat all I kin
tell."
"Then she is fifteen or sixteen, and will be ever so much help to you,
Mammy. How nice that looks. I am almost tempted to scrape the pan, just
as I used to do when I was a little bit of a girl."
But after seeing the cake safely in the oven, Theo left the kitchen and
proceeded to hunt up auntie.
She found her among the old chests and trunks in the packing-room.
"What are you doing here, auntie?" she asked.
Miss Nelson looked up at the tall, slender figure of the girl before
her, and her lips trembled slightly. Theo saw the emotion, and was
beside her in a moment.
"My dear blessed!" she exclaimed. "Don't: please leave these musty
old boxes and come down-stairs into the sunshine with me. I have been
watching Mammy make my wedding-cake,—my wedding-cake! Doesn't that
sound funny? There, I shouldn't have said that, either. Oh, auntie,
dear, it isn't going away altogether. You'll come to me some day when
Archie marries. Oh, dear, there I go again. I am very obtuse this
morning, I know. Oh, yes, I know that this has always been home to you;
it is hard. Oh, dear! Nothing can make it easy for my darling auntie;
and yet you have done more than the whole world for me." And Theo put
her head against auntie's shoulder, while two little tears trickled
down and dropped on her dress.
And this turned the tide of auntie's thoughts. "There, dear child,"
she said; "you mustn't grieve, for you know I am so very happy and
content when I think how it has all turned out. I feel as if I had been
considered and comforted more than I could ever have expected. If Jack
had remained a wealthy man, for example, and you had married and gone
to New York to live, how forlorn I should have been; or if you had
married some one else and have gone far away, to Europe, perhaps—"
"Don't suggest nay marrying that 'somebody else;' it makes me jealous
for Jack," said Theo, putting her hand softly on her aunt's lips. "But
it is Jack, my Jack. I'm afraid I'm a little wicked in being glad that
Jack has no family to claim him; he belongs so much the more to me—to
us. As I was saying, it is Jack, and we are going to live at Preston;
and any time you can see us, and we can see you and Archie, too. And
Archie, he has chosen the old home. And Val, oh, yes, Val is coming!
Aren't you crazy to see her? I can scarcely wait. Come, come, auntie,
leave these cobwebs. You will take cold up here."
"I wanted to look over these boxes belonging to your father and
mother," returned auntie.
"Oh, never mind, now. Why, auntie, dear, we can do that any time. Don't
make such a business of this. It is just that Jack and I are going to
Preston to live, and you'll have us always, just the same; and you'll
have Val back again; and Jack will be another nephew to love you, and
think for you; so come, come, it isn't so dreadful. You'll be richer
than ever."
So auntie put back the boxes, and suffered herself to be led
down-stairs and out into the October sunshine to see the
chrysanthemums, while nearer and nearer them the train was bringing
the little figure, who sat eagerly looking out at the landscape whose
landmarks grew more and more familiar to her.
Val was very quiet after the train left Washington; so much so, that
her companion, Colonel Smith, to whom she had been chattering, watched
her interestedly as they sped along.
Val's thoughts were travelling at as fast a rate as the train. She was
thinking of her first going to Roseville a little foolish school-girl,
with false ideas of life and its duties; of her first meeting with
Theo, whose loving loyalty had shielded her from her first careless,
imprudent follies; of dear auntie, who had always dealt so fairly and
tenderly with her faults. Then her thoughts wandered from city to
city,—to New York, to Paris, to London, to Florence; how much she had
seen, how many places she had visited: it would really be a relief to
rest at home, she thought, to settle down quietly under auntie's wing.
"But, oh, I shall miss Theo," she said, half aloud.
"Eh? Did you speak to me, Val?" came from Mr. Smith, nearly asleep in
his place by her side.
"No," replied Val; "but I think I would better speak or you will be
sound asleep, and I could never reach up to the rack for our luggage,
and we are nearly there, Colonel. Oh, do you see? Why, there,—yes,
those must be the buildings of the factory; and there is Jack—he sees
us—he is coming aboard the train. Oh, Colonel, we are at home!"
"Next station, Roseville."
"Oh, I know it, I know it," Val half protested, as the brakeman's voice
made the announcement.
"Oh, Jack, it is really you!"—as Jack reached them, and Val put out her
little gloved hand eagerly. "You were watching for us, weren't you?
It was so nice of you. Do I look much older, Jack?" she asked, with
concern. "It has been three years, remember."
"You have aged fearfully," replied Jack, with good-humored irony.
"We'll have to call you old Miss Le Moyne, sure enough."
"Now, Jack. However, I don't care. That makes me feel at home at
once, it does sound so natural. How is dear old Archie? And they are
all well, aren't they? Wasn't it funny that Archie should get Nan's
picture, after all? Theo wrote me about it. And, Jack,—oh, Jack, are
you really going to be married this month?"
Jack smiled exultantly. "Really and truly," he replied; "the
wedding-cake is made."
"Oh, bless your heart!" said Val, fervently. "I am just as glad as I
can be, though you are going to rob me of Theo."
"Not rob you; just share, you know."
"That is very nice for you to say. I believe you're a pretty good
fellow, Jack."
"And this after your travels. How flattered I feel. Come, here we are.
I'll look after the luggage. Colonel, just see that Miss Le Moyne is
able to make that step."
"Now you aren't nice," objected Val. "I wouldn't be as tall as you for
anything."
"I should think not," laughed Jack. "There is Archie, looking
everywhere but in the right place. Here, Arch."
And Archie sprang forward to help his cousin, while Mr. Smith and Jack
followed. Such a daintily small woman met Archie's eye, with a pretty
little dignity of her own, and a charming ease of manner. Archie stood
off and regarded her with pleased surprise.
"Why, Val, you actually look tall," he exclaimed,—"that is, for you."
"Now, don't spoil it," laughed Val. "Leave off the last clause. Do I
really, Archie? Should you have known me?"
"Known you! In Africa. You haven't changed a bit. Yes, you have, too.
There is something, I don't know what. There little Val comes back
again. You're just grown up, I suppose, but your little tricks of
manner and speech prove you are Val."
"Well, you were grown up before I went away," said Val. "You're a
trifle stouter, though," viewing him critically, "but you haven't
changed otherwise. Oh; there is Theo!" as a figure came flying towards
the gate. And the two girls were in each other's arms in an instant.
"Now we'll not be able to get in a word edgewise," remarked Archie,
filling behind with Jack and Mr. Smith. "How those girls will talk!
I'll venture to say they'll keep it up half the night."
"You'd do the same thing," sharply broke in Mr. Smith. "I'd like to
know how long you and Jack talked when he came back from the South.
'All' night, I'll warrant."
"I believe we did, come to think of it," admitted Archie.
It is entirely true that the girls did talk half the night, and then
"didn't begin to get through," Val declared.
"You're such a dear, stylish-looking thing," complimented Theo. "Oh,
Val, you don't know how nice you look. You always did, of course; but I
mean, somehow there is an air about you that is entirely new."
"Travel, my dear; travel has done it," replied Val, settling back in
her chair.
They were in Theo's room, and were discussing the wedding-garments.
"I did want to bring you everything from Paris," said Val, "but I
couldn't, of course, though I did get some little things. But it would
be so nice if you could have had all your gowns from there, and your
hats."
Theo laughed. "Imagine me in a Paris gown feeding my chickens, or in a
French hat weeding my flower-beds."
"That is true. I suppose they wouldn't be very appropriate."
"I'll show you my things to-morrow," said Theo. "Things" being a
pleasantly general term usually employed upon such occasions. "I
haven't made elaborate preparations, for I think it is silly to get
dozens and dozens, and to have to wear out-of-date costumes for years
after one is married, just because they are too good to cast aside.
I've learned that from seeing so many trying to eke out a style dating
five years earlier with something that didn't match, and producing only
a failure; so I shall not do it."
"And your wedding-gown, tell me of that, Theo."
"I'm going to wear my great-grandmother's wedding-gown. Do you remember
the time I put it on at Preston? Jack wants me to wear it."
"And of course that is quite reason enough."
"Quite enough; and I have some beautiful lace Cousin Betty gave me,
and mamma's veil, so I shall be very fine. And I like the feeling of
wearing those dear old familiar things instead of something new."
"And oh, tell me, is it all arranged,—everything?"
"Not quite. We are now in a great state of uncertainty as to who shall
give me away: Jack is so anxious that Archie shall be best man. He is
nearer to him than any one else in the world,—except me," she added;
"and if Archie is best man, he cannot give me away. And then comes the
question whom to ask, Uncle Tom Nelson or Cousin Ned Preston. Cousin
Ned is the nearest neighbor and was a dear friend of papa's, but Uncle
Tom is a great-uncle and his years should give him precedence, so we
are in a quandary. Each will be offended if the other is asked. That is
the only point to be settled."
Val was thoughtful for a few moments. Then she said, "Why don't you ask
the Colonel? He will be your guest; he stands in very close relation to
us all. Then that will settle the whole matter."
"So it will. I never thought of it. I will speak to auntie. I should
like it of all things, and so would Jack."
"You know you might never have married Jack if it hadn't been for the
Colonel," continued Val.
"Don't say that; you don't know anything about it," was Theo's reply.
And Val laughed at having so easily teased her cousin.
Then she contritely put her arms around Theo. "You darling!" she said.
"How glad I am to have you again! You don't half know how I love you,
Theo."
Theo returned the little loving caress, and Val continued: "The thought
of you has kept me up many a time. I am a little sinner, Theo, and it
has been awfully hard sometimes to do just what I knew was right. But
somehow, when I felt inclined to be very naughty, I could see that
steadfast, searching look of yours. A hurt, disappointed expression you
always had, as if you wondered how I could do so, and how sorry you
were that I should want to; and I'd brace up and turn my back on—on—oh,
things—and people, you know—just people."
"What kind of things? What kind of people?"
"Why—oh, I don't know," returned Val, then, a little irrelevantly. "I
tell you, Theo, there is one thing I have discovered: you cannot always
judge the individual by the type. It is ridiculous to say a man must be
so or so because he is a Frenchman, or an Englishman, or an Italian.
Of course, I don't mean there are not national traits; but to make a
cast-iron character and pour all of a certain nationality into the
mould is ridiculous. You can only judge the individual by himself. This
wholesale way of criticising a person according to the country in which
he happens to be born is all nonsense. I made a number of mistakes
before I found that out."
"And you turned your back on—what then?"
"Why, men, some men. I couldn't help having a little attention, you
know."
Theo knew there had been a great deal of attention from a great many
men.
"But," continued Val, sitting up very straight and looking
unflinchingly at Theo, "I can solemnly assure you, Theo, I have never
been so dishonorable as to try to attract from another girl a man of
whom I thought she was fond, nor have I ever allowed, if I could help
it, a man to offer himself to me if I foresaw I must refuse him. You
made me do so, and you do love me as much as ever, don't you, Theo?"
"Of course I do. I love you very dearly," answered Theo, putting out
her hand. "But oh, Val, you mustn't pretend that I am so good. I am
not; I am not."
"But you have never done the horrid things other girls so often
do,—real vulgar things, I call them. Why, I met a girl somewhere, who
had a belt from which quantities of little silver hearts were hanging.
And what do you suppose they were supposed to mean? Each was engraved
with the initials of some probable victim of the young woman's charms."
"Val! I can scarcely believe it. How unrefined! How unwomanly!"
"Yes, really. She quite gloated over it, and counted them as an Indian
does his scalps."
"With just as little real glory in it," returned Theo. "Such things
make me sorry I am a woman. Don't let's talk of them."
"I just want to say this," said Val: "that a girl never knows how far
her influence may extend, nor how many her behavior may affect; for
that girl had her followers. Of course, there are girls to be found,
always, who are silly enough to follow anything original, no matter how
reprehensible it may be. And so you see, you dear, that if you helped
me, I might have helped some one else, and so your influence widens
and widens. There! It is striking one o'clock. Let us go to bed, and
to-morrow we will talk to our hearts' content."
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