THE WIDOW BRETT.
So it came to pass that at the breakfast-table next morning no one was
so bright and gay as Miss Wealthy. She was full of the new plan, and
made one suggestion after another.
"The first thing," she said, "is to find a good housekeeper. There is
nothing more important, especially where children are concerned. Now, I
have thought of precisely the right person,--pre-cisely!" she added,
sipping her tea with an air of great content. "Martha, your cousin
Cynthia Brett is the very woman for the place."
"Truly, Mam, I think she is," said Martha, putting down the buttered
toast on the exact centre of the little round mat where it belonged;
"and I think she would do it too!"
"A widow," Miss Wealthy explained, turning to Hildegarde, her kind eyes
beaming with interest, "fond of children, neat as _wax_, capable, a good
cook, and makes butter equal to Martha's. My dears, Cynthia Brett was
made for this emergency. Zerubbabel, my lad, are you desirous of
attracting attention? We will gladly listen to any suggestion you have
to make."
The unfortunate Bubble, who had been drumming on the table with his
spoon, blushed furiously, muttered an incoherent apology, and wished he
were small enough to dive into his bowl of porridge.
"And this brings me to another plan," continued the dear old lady.
"Bixby, where Cynthia Brett lives, is an extremely pretty little
village, and I should like you all to see it. What do you say to driving
over there, spending the night at Mrs. Brett's, and coming back the next
day, after making the arrangements with her? Zerubbabel could borrow Mr.
Rawson's pony, I am sure, and be your escort. Do you like the plan,
Hilda, my dear?"
"Oh, Cousin Wealthy," cried Hildegarde, "it is too delightful! We should
enjoy it above all things. But--no!" she added, "what would you do
without the Doctor? You would lose your drive. Is there no other way of
sending word to Mrs. Brett?"
But Miss Wealthy would not hear of any other way. It was a pity if she
could not stay at home one day, she said. So when Mr. Brisket, the long
butcher from Bixby, came that morning, and towering in the doorway, six
feet and a half of blue jean, asked if they wanted "a-any ni-ice
mut-ton toda-a-ay," he was intrusted with a note from Martha to her
cousin, telling of the projected expedition, and warning her to expect
the young ladies the next day but one.
The day came,--a day of absolute beauty, and though still very hot, not
unbearable. Dr. Abernethy had had an excellent breakfast, with twice his
usual quantity of oats, so that he actually frisked when he was brought
round to the door. The whole family assembled to see the little party
start. Miss Wealthy stood on the piazza, looking like an ancient Dresden
shepherdess in her pink and white and silver beauty, and gave caution
after caution: they must spare the horse up hill, and _never_ trot down
hill; "and let the good beast drink, dearie, when you come to the
half-way trough,--not too much, but enough moderately to quench his
thirst;" etc.
Martha beamed through her silver-rimmed spectacles, and hoped she'd
given them enough lunch; while Benny, with his hand resting on the head
of his "ole fat kyat," surveyed them with rather a serious air.
The girls had been troubled about Benny. They did not want to leave the
little fellow, who had announced his firm intention of going with them;
yet it was out of the question to take him. The evening before, however,
Bubble had had a long talk with "ve boy of ve house;" and great was the
relief of the ladies when that youthful potentate announced at breakfast
his determination to stay at home and "take care of ve womenfolks,
'cause Jim-Maria [the name by which he persistently called the
melancholy prophet], he's gettin' old, an' somebody has to see to fings;
and I's ve boy of ve house, so _I_ ought to see to vem."
When the final moment came, however, it seemed very dreadful to see his
own Sing-girl drive away, and Posy, and the other boy too; and Benny's
lip began to quiver, and his eyes to grow large and round, to make room
for the tears. At this very moment, however, Jim-Maria, who had
disappeared after bringing the horse to the door, came round the corner,
bringing the most wonderful hobby-horse that ever was seen. It was
painted bright yellow, for that was the color Jeremiah was painting the
barn. Its eyes were large and black, which gave it a dashing and
spirited appearance; and at sight of it the Boy of the House forgot
everything else in heaven and earth. "Mine horse!" he cried, rushing
upon it with outstretched arms,--"all mine, for to wide on! Jim-Maria,
get out ov ve way! Goo-by, Sing-girl! goo-by, ev'ryboggy! Benny's goin'
to ve Norf Pole!" and he cantered away, triumphant.
Then Hildegarde and Rose, seeing that all was well, made their adieus
with a light heart, and Bubble waved his hat, and Miss Wealthy kissed
her hand, and Martha shook her blue checked apron violently up and down,
and off they went.
* * * * *
The little village of Bixby was in its usual condition of somnolent
cheerfulness, that same afternoon. The mail had come in, being brought
in Abner Colt's green wagon from the railway-station two miles away. The
appearance of the green wagon, with its solitary brown bag, not
generally too well filled, and its bundle of newspapers, was the signal
for all the village-loungers to gather about the door of the
post-office. The busy men would come later, when the mail was sorted;
but this was the supreme hour of the loungers. They did not often get
letters themselves, but it was very important that they should see who
_did_ get letters; and most of them had a newspaper to look for. Then
the joy of leaning against the door-posts, and waiting to see if
anything would happen! As a rule, nothing did happen, but there was no
knowing what joyful day might bring a new sensation. Sometimes there was
a dog-fight. Once--thrilling recollection!--Ozias Brisket's horse had
run away ("Think 't 's likely a bumble-bee must ha' stung him; couldn't
nothin' else ha' stirred him out of a walk, haw! haw!") and had
scattered the joints of meat all about the street.
To-day there seemed little chance of any awakening event beyond the
arrival of the green cart. It was very warm; the patient post-supporters
were nearly asleep. Their yellow dogs slumbered at their feet; the
afternoon sun filled the little street with vivid golden light.
Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard,--of unfamiliar wheels. The
post-supporters knew the creak or rattle or jingle of every "team" in
Bixby. There was a general stir, a looking up the street, in the
direction whence the sound came; and then a gaping of mouths, an opening
of eyes, a craning of long necks.
A phaeton, drawn by a comfortable-looking gray horse, was coming slowly
down the street. It approached; it stopped at the post-office door. In
it sat two young girls: one, tall, erect, with flashing gray eyes and
brilliant color, held the reins, and drew the horse up with the air of a
practised whip; the other leaned back among the cushions, with a very
happy, contented look, though she seemed rather tired. Both girls were
dressed alike in simple gowns of blue gingham; but the simplicity was of
a kind unknown to Bixby, and the general effect was very marvellous. The
spectators had not yet shut their mouths, when a clattering of hoofs
was heard, and a boy on a black pony came dashing along the street, and
drew up beside the phaeton.
"No, it wasn't that house," he said, addressing the two girls. "At
least, there was no one there. Say," he added, turning to the nearest
lounger, a sandy person of uncertain age and appearance, "can you tell
us where Mrs. Brett lives?"
"The Widder Brett?" returned the sandy person, cautiously. "Do ye mean
the Widder Brett?"
"Yes, I suppose so," answered the boy. "Is there any other Mrs. Brett?"
"No, there ain't!" was the succinct reply.
"Well, where _does_ she live?" cried the boy, impatiently.
"The Widder Brett lives down yender!" said the sandy person, nodding
down the street. "Ye can't see the house from here, but go clear on to
the eend, and ye'll see it to yer right,--a yaller house, with green
blinds, an' a yard in front. You 'kin to the Widder Brett?"
"No," said the tall young lady, speaking for the first time; "we are no
relations. Thank you very much! Good-morning!" and with a word to the
boy, she gathered up the reins, and drove slowly down the little street.
The post-supporters watched them till the last wheel of the phaeton
disappeared round the turn; then they turned eagerly to one another.
"Who be they? What d'ye s'pose they want o' the Widder Brett?" was the
eager cry. "Says they ain't no blood relation o' Mis' Brett's." "Some o'
Brett's folks, likely!" "I allus heerd his folks was well off."
Meanwhile the phaeton was making its way along slowly, as I said, for
Rose was tired after the long drive.
"But not too tired!" she averred, in answer to Hildegarde's anxious
inquiry. "Oh, no, dear! not a bit too tired, only just enough to make
rest most delightful. What a funny little street!--something like the
street in Glenfield, isn't it? Look! that might be Miss Bean's shop,
before you took hold of it."
"Oh, worse, much worse!" cried Hildegarde, laughing. "These bonnets are
positively mildewed. Rose, I see the mould on that bunch of berries."
"Mould!" cried Rose, in mock indignation. "It is bloom, Hilda,--a fine
purple bloom! City people don't know the difference, perhaps."
"See!" said Hildegarde; "this must be 'the Widder Brett's' house. What a
pretty little place, Rose! I am sure we shall like the good woman
herself. Take the reins, dear, while I go and make sure. No, Bubble, I
will go myself, thank you."
She sprang lightly out, and after patting Dr. Abernethy's head and
bidding him stand still like the best of dears, she opened the white
gate, which stuck a little, as if it were not opened every day. A tidy
little wooden walk, with a border of pinks on either side, led up to the
green door, in front of which was one broad stone doorstep. Beyond the
pinks was a bed of pansies on the one hand; on the other, two
apple-trees and a pleasant little green space; while under the cottage
windows were tiger-lilies and tall white phlox and geraniums, and a
great bush of southernwood; altogether, it was a front yard such as Miss
Jewett would like.
Hildegarde lifted the bright brass knocker,--she was so glad it was a
knocker, and not an odious gong bell; she _could_ not have liked a
house with a gong bell,--and rapped gently. The pause which followed was
not strictly necessary, for the Widow Brett had been reconnoitring every
movement of the new-comers through a crack in the window-blind, and was
now standing in the little entry, not two feet from the door. The good
woman counted twenty, which she thought would occupy just about the time
necessary to come from the kitchen, and then opened the door, with a
proper expression of polite surprise on her face.
"Good-day!" she said, with a rising inflection.
"How do you do?" replied Hildegarde, with a falling one. "Are you Mrs.
Brett, and are you expecting us?"
"My name is Brett," replied the tall, spare woman in the brown stuff
gown; "but I wasn't expectin' any one, as I know of. Pleased to see ye,
though! Step in, won't ye?"
"Oh!" cried Hildegarde, looking distressed. "Didn't you--haven't you had
a letter from Martha? She promised to write, and said she was sure you
would take us in for the night. I don't understand--"
"There!" cried Mrs. Brett. "Step right in now, do! and I'll tell you.
This way, if _you_ please!" and much flurried, she led the way into the
best room, and drew up the hair-cloth rocking-chair, in which our
heroine entombed herself. "I _do_ declare," the widow went on, "I ought
to be shook! There _was_ a letter come last night; and my spectacles was
broken, my dear, and I can't read Martha's small handwriting without
'em. I thought 't was just one of her letters, you know, telling how
they was getting on, and I'd wait till one of the neighbors came in to
read it to me. Well, there! and all the time she was telling me
something, was she? and who might you be, dear, that was thinking of
staying here?"
"I am Hilda Grahame!" said the girl, suppressing an inclination to cry,
as the thought of Rose's tired face came over her. "If you will find the
letter, Mrs. Brett, I will read it to you at once. It was to tell you
that I was coming, with my friend, who is in the carriage now, and her
young brother; and Martha thought there was no doubt about your taking
us in. Perhaps there is some other house--"
"No, there isn't," said the Widow Brett, quickly and kindly,--"not
another one. The idea! Of course I'll take you in, child, and glad
enough of the chance. And you Miss Hildy Grahame, too, that Marthy has
told me so much about! Why, I'm right glad to see ye, right glad!" She
took Hildegarde's hand, and moved it up and down as if it were a
pump-handle, her homely face shining with a cordiality which was
evidently genuine. "Only,"--and here her face clouded again,--"only if
I'd ha' known, I should have had everything ready, and have done some
cleaning, and cooked up a few things. You'll have to take me just as I
am, I expect! However--"
"Oh, we _like_ things just as they are!" cried Hildegarde, in delight.
"You must not make any difference at all for us, Mrs. Brett! We shall
not like it if you do. May I bring my friend in now?"
"Well, I should say so!" cried the good woman. "She's out in the
carriage, you say? I'll go right out and fetch her in."
Rose was warmly welcomed, and brought into the house; while Hilda
fastened Dr. Abernethy to the gate-post, and got the shawls and
hand-bags out from under the seat.
"I expect you'd like to go right upstairs and lay off your things!" was
Mrs. Brett's next remark. "I declare! I do wish 't I'd known! I swep'
the spare chamber yesterday, but I hadn't any _i_dea of its being used.
Well, there! you'll have to take me as I am." She bustled upstairs
before the girls, talking all the way. "I try to keep the house clean,
but I don't often have comp'ny, and the dust doos gather so, this dry
weather, and not keeping any help, you see--well, there! this is the
best I've got, and maybe it'll do to sleep in."
She threw open, with mingled pride and nervousness, the door of a
pleasant, sunny room, rather bare, but in exquisite order. The rag
carpet was brilliant with scarlet, blue, and green; the furniture showed
no smallest speck of dust; the bed looked like a snowdrift.
Nevertheless, the good hostess went peering about, wiping the chairs
with her apron, and repeating, "The dust _doos_ gather so! I wouldn't
set down, if I was you, till I've got the chairs done off!"
"Why, Mrs. Brett," cried Hildegarde, laughing merrily, "it is the chairs
you should be anxious for, not ourselves. We are simply _covered_ with
dust, from head to foot. I think it must be an inch deep on my hat!" she
continued, taking off her round "sailor" and looking at it with
pretended alarm. "I don't dare to put it down in this clean room."
"Oh, _that_'s all right!" cried the widow, beaming. "Land sakes! I don't
care how much dust you bring in, but I _should_ be lawth to have you get
any on you here. Well, there! now you need a proper good rest, I'm sure,
both of you. Wouldn't you like a cup o' tea now?"
[Illustration: "'NOT A THING IN THE HOUSE!'"]
Both girls declined the tea, and declared that an hour's rest was all
they needed; so the good woman bade them "rest good!" and hurried
downstairs, to fling herself into a Berserker fit of cooking. "Not a
thing in the house!" she soliloquized, as she sifted flour and beat eggs
with the energy of desperation, "except cookies and doughnuts; and
Marthy always has everything so nice, let alone what they're used to at
home. I'll make up a sheet of sponge-cake, I guess, first, and while
it's baking I can whip up some chocolate frosting and mix a pan of
biscuit. Le' me see! I might make a jelly-roll, while I'm about it, for
there's some of Marthy's own currant jelly that she sent me last fall.
They'd ought to have some hearty victuals for supper, I suppose; but I
declare,"--she paused, with the egg-beater in her hand,--"stuffed
aigs'll have to do to-night, I guess!" she concluded with a sigh. "There
isn't time to get a chicken ready. Well, there! If I'd ha' known! but
they'll have to take me as I am. I might give 'em some fritters,
though, to eat with maple surrup, just for a relish."
While these formidable preparations were going on against their peace of
body, the two girls were enjoying an hour of perfect rest, each after
her own manner. Rose was curled up on the bed, in a delicious doze which
was fast deepening into sound sleep. Hildegarde sat in a low chair with
a book in her hand, and looked out of the window. She could always rest
better with a book, even if she did not read it; and the very touch of
this little worn morocco volume--it was the "Golden Treasury"--was a
pleasure to her. She looked out dreamily over the pleasant green fields
and strips of woodland; for the house stood at the very end of the
little village, and the country was before and around it. Under the
window lay the back yard, with a white lilac-tree in blossom, and a
well with a long sweep. Such a pleasant place it looked! A low
stone-wall shut it in, the stones all covered with moss and gay red and
yellow lichens. Beside the white lilac, there was a great elm and a
yellow birch. In the latter was an oriole's nest; and presently
Hildegarde heard the bird's clear golden note, and saw his bright wings
flash by. "I like this place!" she said, settling herself comfortably in
the flag-bottomed chair. She dropped her eyes to the book in her lap and
read,--
"Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
While the landscape round it measures:
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The laboring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide."
Then her eyes strayed over the landscape again. "There must be a brook
over there, behind that line of willows!" she thought. "I wonder if
Milton loved willows. There are pines and monumental oaks in 'Il
Penseroso,' but I don't remember any willows. It's a pity we have no
skylarks here! I do want Rose to hear a skylark. Dear Rose! dear Milton!
Oh--I am _so_ comfortable!"
And Hildegarde was asleep.