MISS WEALTHY.
It was the 17th of June, and Miss Wealthy Bond was expecting her young
visitors. Twice she had gone over the house, with Martha trotting at her
heels, to see that everything was in order, and now she was making a
third tour of inspection; not because she expected to find anything
wrong, but because it was a pleasure to see that everything was right.
Miss Wealthy Bond was a very pretty old lady, and was very well aware of
the fact, having been told so during seventy years. "The Lord made me
pleasant to look at," she was wont to say, "and it is a great
privilege, my dear; but it is also a responsibility." She had lovely,
rippling silver hair, and soft blue eyes, and a complexion like a
girl's. She had put on to-day, for the first time, her summer
costume,--a skirt and jacket of striped white dimity, open a little at
the neck, with a kerchief of soft white net inside. This kerchief was
fastened with quite the prettiest brooch that ever was,--a pansy, made
of five deep, clear amethysts, set in a narrow rim of chased gold. Miss
Wealthy always wore this brooch; for in winter it harmonized as well
with her gown of lilac cashmere as it did in summer with the white
dimity. At her elbow stood Martha; it was her place in life. She seldom
had to be called; but was always there when Miss Wealthy wanted
anything, standing a step back, but close beside her beloved mistress.
Martha carried her aureole in her pocket, or somewhere else out of
sight; but she was a saint all the same. Her gray hair was smooth, and
she wore spectacles with silver rims, and a gray print gown, with the
sleeves invariably rolled up to the elbows, except on Sundays, when she
put on her black cashmere, and spent the afternoon in uneasy state.
"I think the room looks very pretty, Martha," said Miss Wealthy, for the
tenth time.
"It does, Mam," replied Martha, as heartily as if she had not heard the
remark before. "Proper nice it looks, I'm sure."
"You mended that little place in the curtain, did you, Martha?"
"I did, Mam. I don't think as you could find it now, unless you looked
very close."
"And you put lavender and orange-flower water in the bottles? Very well;
then that's all, I think."
[Illustration: "'AND EVERYTHING IS RIGHT FOR SUPPER, MARTHA?'"]
Miss Wealthy gave one more contented look round the pretty room, with
its gay rose-flowering chintz, its cool straw matting, and
comfortable cushioned window-seats, and then drew the blinds exactly
half-way down, and left the room, Martha carefully closing the door.
In the cool, shady drawing-room all was in perfect order too. There were
flowers in the tall Indian vases on the mantelpiece, a great bowl of
roses on the mosaic centre-table, and, as usual, a bunch of pansies on
the little round table by the armchair in which Miss Wealthy always sat.
She established herself there now, and took up her knitting with a
little sigh of contentment.
"And everything is right for supper, Martha?" she asked.
"Yes, Mam," said Martha. "A little chicken-pie, Mam, and French
potatoes, and honey. I should be making the biscuit now, Mam, if you
didn't need me."
"Oh no, Martha," said the old lady, "I don't need anything. We shall
hear the wheels when they come."
She looked out of the window, across the pleasant lawn, at the blue
river, and seemed for a moment as if she were going to ask Martha
whether that were all right. But she said nothing, and the saint in gray
print trotted away to her kitchen.
"Dear Martha!" said Miss Wealthy, settling herself comfortably among her
cushions. "It is a great privilege to have Martha. I do hope these dear
girls will not put her out. She grows a little set in her ways as she
grows older, my good Martha. I don't think that blind is _quite_
half-way down. It makes the whole room look askew, doesn't it?"
She rose, and pulled the blind straight, patted a tidy on the back of a
chair, and settled herself among her cushions again, with another
critical glance at the river. A pause ensued, during which the old
lady's needles clicked steadily; then, at last, the sound of wheels was
heard, and putting her work down in exactly the same spot from which she
had taken it up, Miss Wealthy went out on the piazza to welcome her
young guests.
Hildegarde sprang lightly from the carriage, and gave her hand to her
companion to help her out.
"Dear Cousin Wealthy," she cried, "here we are, safe and sound. I am
coming to kiss you in one moment. Carefully, Rose dear! Lean on me, so!
_there_ you are! now take my arm. Slowly, slowly! See, Cousin Wealthy!
see how well she walks! Isn't it delightful?"
"It is, indeed!" said the old lady, heartily, kissing first the glowing
cheek and then the pale one, as the girls came up to her. "And how do
you do, my dears? I am very glad indeed to see you. Rose, you look so
much better, I should hardly have known you; and you, Hilda, look like
June itself. I must call Martha--" But Martha was there, at her elbow.
"Oh, Martha! here are the young ladies."
Hildegarde shook hands warmly with Martha, and Rose gave one of her shy,
sweet smiles.
"This is Miss Hildegarde," said the old lady; "and this is Miss Rose.
Perhaps you will take them up to their rooms now, Martha, and Jeremiah
can take the trunks up. We will have supper, my dears, as soon as you
are ready; for I am sure you must be hungry."
"Yes, we are as hungry as hunters, Cousin Wealthy!" cried Hildegarde.
"We shall frighten you with our appetites, I fear. This way, Martha?
Yes, in one minute. Rose dear, I will put my arm round you, and you can
take hold of the stair-rail. Slowly now!"
They ascended the stairs slowly, and Hildegarde did not loose her hold
of her friend until she had seated her in a comfortable easy-chair in
the pretty chintz bedroom.
"There, dear!" she said anxiously, stooping to unfasten her cloak. "Are
you very dreadfully tired?"
"Oh no!" replied Rose, cheerfully; "not at all _dreadfully_ tired, only
comfortably. I ache a little, of course, but--Oh, what a pleasant room!
And this chair is comfort itself."
"The window-seat for me!" cried Hildegarde, tossing her hat on the bed,
and then leaning out of the window with both arms on the sill. "Rose,
don't move! I forbid you to stir hand or foot. I will tell you while you
are resting. There is a river,--a great, wide, beautiful river, just
across the lawn."
"Well, dear," said quiet Rose, smiling, "you knew there was a river;
your mother told us so."
"Yes, Goose, I did know it," cried Hildegarde; "but I had not seen it,
and didn't know what it was like. It is all blue, with sparkles all over
it, and little brown flurries where the wind strikes it. There are
willows all along the edge--"
"To hang our harps on?" inquired Rose.
"Precisely!" replied Hildegarde. "And I think--Rose, I _do_ see a
boat-house! My dear, this is bliss! We will bathe every morning. You
have never seen me dive, Rose."
"I have not," said Rose; "and it would be a pity to do it out of the
window, dear, because in the first place I should only see your heels as
you went out, and in the second--"
"Peace, paltry soul!" cried Hilda. "Here comes a scow, loaded with wood.
The wood has been wet, and is all yellow and gleaming. 'Scow,'--what an
absurd word! 'Barge' is prettier."
"It sounds so like Shalott," said Rose; "I must come and look too.
"'By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges, trailed
By slow horses.'"
"Yes, it is just like it!" cried Hildegarde. "It is really a redeeming
feature in you, Rose, that you are so apt in your quotations. Say the
part about the river; that is exactly like what I am looking at."
"Do you say it!" said Rose, coming softly forward, and taking her seat
beside her friend. "I like best to hear you."
And Hildegarde repeated in a low tone,--
"Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot."
The two girls squeezed each other's hand a little, and looked at the
shining river, and straightway forgot that there was anything else to be
done, till a sharp little tinkle roused them from their dream.
"Oh!" cried Hildegarde. "Rose, how _could_ you let me go
a-woolgathering? Just look at my hair!"
"And my hands!" said Rose, in dismay. "And we said we were as hungry as
hunters, and would be down in a minute. What will Miss Bond say?"
"Well, it is all the river's fault," said Hildegarde, splashing
vigorously in the basin. "It shouldn't be so lovely! Here, dear, here is
fresh water for you. Now the brush! Let me just wobble your hair up for
you, so. There! now you are my pinkest Rose, and I am all right too; so
down we go."
Miss Wealthy had been seriously disturbed when the girls did not appear
promptly at sound of the tea-bell. She took her seat at the tea-table
and looked it over carefully. "Punctuality is so important," she said,
half to herself and half to Martha, who had just set down the
teapot,--"That mat is not _quite_ straight, is it, Martha?--especially
in young people. I know it makes you nervous, Martha,"--Martha did not
look in the least nervous,--"but it will probably not happen again. If
the butter were a _little_ farther this way! Thank you, Martha. Oh, here
you are, my dears! Sit down, pray! You must be very hungry after--But
probably you felt the need of resting a little, and to-morrow you will
be quite fresh."
"No, it wasn't that, Cousin Wealthy," said Hildegarde, frankly. "I am
ashamed to say that we were looking out of the window, and the river was
so lovely that we forgot all about supper. Please forgive us this once,
for really we are pretty punctual generally. It is part of Papa's
military code, you know."
"True, my dear, true!" said Miss Wealthy, brightening up at once. "Your
father is very wise. Regular habits are a great privilege, really. Will
you have tea, Hilda dear, or milk?"
"Oh, milk, please!" said Hilda. "I am not to take tea till I am
twenty-one, Cousin Wealthy, nor coffee either."
"And a very good plan," said Miss Wealthy, approvingly. "Milk is the
natural beverage--will you cut that pie, dear, and help Rose, and
yourself?--for the young. When one is older, however, a cup of tea is
very comforting. None for me, thank you, dear. I have my little dish of
milk-toast, but I thought the pie would be just right for you young
people. Martha's pastry is so _very_ light that a small quantity of it
is not injurious."
"Rose!" said Hildegarde, in tones of hushed rapture, "it is a
chicken-pie, and it is all for us. Hold your plate, favored one of the
gods! A river, a boat-house, and chicken-pie! Cousin Wealthy, I am so
glad you asked us to come!"
"Are you, dear?" said Miss Wealthy, looking up placidly from her
milk-toast, "Well, so am I!"