THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL.
Hal's chickens prospered remarkably. Five motherly hens clucked to
families of black-eyed chicks; and, out of fifty-eight eggs, he only
lost seven. So there were fifty-one left. They made some incursions in
his garden, to be sure; but presently every thing grew so large that it
was out of danger.
There was plenty of work to do on Saturdays. Picking cherries and
currants for the neighbors, and the unfailing gardening. It seemed to
Hal that weeds had a hundred lives at least, even if you did pull them
up by the roots. Sometimes he managed to get a little work out of Kit
and Charlie, but they invariably ended by a rough-and-tumble frolic.
Florence succeeded admirably with her embroidering. She managed to earn
some pretty dresses for herself, and added enough to Hal's store to
enable him to purchase a suit of clothes, though they were not as grand
as Joe's.
Hal and Granny took a wonderful sight of comfort sitting on the
doorstep through the summer evenings, and talking over old times.
Granny would tell how they did when his father, her own dear Joe, was
alive, and how pretty his mother had been.
"Flo's a good deal like her," she would always say; "only Flo's
wonderful with her fingers. She can do any thing with a needle."
"Flo's a born genius," Hal would reply admiringly.
"But I'm afraid Charlie'll never learn to sew."
"I can sew better myself," was Hal's usual comment.
And it was true. Hal had a bedquilt nearly pieced, which he had done on
rainy days and by odd spells. I expect you think he was something of a
girl-boy. But then he was very sweet and nice.
Florence stood by the gate one afternoon, looking extremely lovely in
her blue and white gingham, and her curls tied back with a bit of blue
ribbon. Dot had been in the mud-pie business; and, if it had proved
profitable, she would no doubt have made a fortune for the family.
"Go in the house this minute, and get washed," commanded Florence.
"What a naughty, dirty child you are!"
Then a carriage passed by very slowly. A young man was driving, and two
ladies sat on the back seat. They looked as if they were going to halt.
Florence's heart was in her mouth. She drew herself up in her most
stately attitude.
The young man turned; and the lady nearer her beckoned.
Florence stepped out slowly. She thought, with some pride, that, if
they wanted a drink, she _had_ a goblet to offer them.
"My little girl," said the lady, in a soft, clear voice, "can you
direct us to a blacksmith's?"
"There is one on this road, rather more than a quarter of a mile
farther."
"Thank you."
The other lady leaned over, and studied Florence. She had a worn,
faded, and fretful look; but some new expression lighted up her sallow
face.
"Oh," she sighed, "what a beautiful girl! Now, if I had a daughter like
that! I wonder if she lives in that forlorn old rookery?"
"A princess in disguise;" and the young man laughed.
"She was unusually lovely. At her age I had just such hair. But ah, how
one fades!"
The straggling auburn hair, very thin on the top, hardly looked as if
it had once been "like fine spun gold."
"The trial of my life has been _not_ having a daughter."
Mrs. Duncan had heard this plaint very often from her half-sister,
who had married a widower nearly three times her age. He had made a
very liberal provision for her during her life, but at her death the
fortune reverted to his family again. She had always bewailed the fact
of having no children; but boys were her abomination. Mrs. Duncan's
house was too noisy, with its four rollicking boys; but now that George
was growing to manhood he became rather more endurable.
"I do not believe the child could have belonged there," she commenced
again.
"Because she was so pretty?" asked George.
"She doesn't look like a country girl."
"But some country girls are very handsome," said Mrs. Duncan.
"They do not possess this air of refinement generally. And did you
observe that she answered in a correct and ladylike manner?"
"Aunt Sophie is captivated. A clear case of love at first sight. Why
not adopt _her_?"
"It would be a charity to take her out of that hovel, if it is her
home."
"I shouldn't think of such a thing now, Sophie, with your poor health,"
said her sister.
There are some natures on which the least contradiction or opposition
acts instantly, rousing them to a spirit of defiance. For several
years Mrs. Duncan had urged her sister to adopt a child; but she had
never found one that answered her requirements. She was not fond
of the trouble of small children. Now that Mrs. Duncan had advised
contrarywise, Mrs. Osgood was seized with a perverse fit.
"I am sure I need a companion," she returned with martyr-like air.
"Take a young woman then, who can be a companion."
"Here is the blacksmith's," announced George. "I suppose you will have
to find some place of refuge;" and he laughed again gayly.
"Where can we go?"
George held a short conversation with the smith.
"My house is just opposite, and the ladies will be welcome," the latter
said. "It will take me about half an hour to repair your mishap."
George conducted them thither. The good woman would fain have invited
them in; but they preferred sitting on the vine-covered porch. Mrs.
Osgood asked for a glass of water. O Florence! if you had been there!
It happened after a while, that George and his mother walked down the
garden. Mrs. Green felt bound to entertain this stranger cast upon her
care, as she considered it.
Mrs. Osgood made some inquiries presently about the house they had
passed, with a small stream of water just below it.
"Why, that's Granny Kenneth's," said Mrs. Green.
"And who is the child,--almost a young lady?"
"Why, that must be Florence. Did she have long yeller curls? If she was
my gal she should braid 'em up decently. I wouldn't have 'em flyin'
about."
"And who is Florence?"
Mrs. Osgood's curiosity must have been very great to induce her to
listen to the faulty grammar and country pronunciations. But she
listened to the story from beginning to end,--Joe, and Joe's wife, and
all the children, figuring largely in it.
"And if Granny Kenneth'd had any sense, she would a bundled 'em all off
to the poor-house. One of the neighbors here did want to take Florence;
but law! what a time they made! She's a peart, stuck-up thing!"
If Florence had heard this verdict against all her small industries
and neatnesses and ladylike habits, her heart would have been almost
broken. But there are a great many narrow-minded people in this world,
who can see no good except in their own way.
Mrs. Osgood made no comments. Presently the carriage was repaired,
and the accidental guests departed. They had a long ride yet to take.
George asked if there was any nearer way of getting to Seabury.
"There's a narrer road just below Granny Kenneth's,--the little shanty
by the crick. It's ruther hard trav'lin', but it cuts off nigh on ter
three miles."
"I think we had better take it," said George. "Even that will give us a
five-miles drive."
So they passed the cottage again. This time Hal was feeding the
chickens; Kit and Charlie swinging upon an old dilapidated apple-tree;
and Florence sat by the open window, sewing.
"There's your princess!" exclaimed George with a laugh.
Florence colored a little at beholding the party again.
Mrs. Duncan had come to Seabury, a rather mountainous place, remarkable
for its pure air, for the sake of her youngest son, Arthur, who had
been ill with a fever. Mrs. Osgood took an odd fancy to accompany her.
The seven years of her widowhood had not been happy years, though she
had a house like a palace. When she first laid off mourning, she tried
Newport and Saratoga; but somehow she did not succeed in making a belle
of herself, and that rather mortified her.
Then she sank into invalidism; which tried everybody's patience sorely.
Leaning back in the carriage now, she thought to herself, "Yes, if I
only _had_ some one of my own! Sister Duncan never did understand me,
or appreciate the delicacy of my constitution. Her nerves have been
blunted by those great rude boys. And that girl looks so refined and
graceful,--she would make a pleasant companion I am sure. But I should
want to take her away from her family: I never could consent to any
intimacy with them."
She ventured to broach her subject to Mrs. Duncan the next day. Perhaps
Mrs. Duncan had grown rather impatient with her sister's whims and
fancies; and she discouraged the plan on some very sensible grounds.
Mrs. Osgood felt like a martyr.
Yet the opposition roused her to attempt it. One day, a week afterward
perhaps, she hired a carriage, and was driven over to Madison. George
had gone back to the city, so there was no question of having him for
escort.
Granny Kenneth was much surprised at the appearance of so fine a lady.
She seized Dot, and scrubbed her face, her usual employment upon the
entrance of any one.
Mrs. Osgood held up her ruffled skirts as if afraid of contamination.
"Is your granddaughter at home?" was asked in the most languid of
voices.
"Flo, you mean? No: she hasn't come from school yet. Do walk in
and wait--that is--I mean--if you please," said Granny a good deal
flustered, while the little gray curls kept bobbing up and down.
"Here's a clean cheer;" and she gave one a whiff with her apron.
Poor Flossy. She had tried so hard to correct Granny's old-fashioned
words and pronunciations.
"Thank you. Miss Florence embroiders, I believe."
"Yes, she works baby-petticoats, and does 'em splendid."
And then Granny wondered if she, the fine lady, had any work for
Florence.
"How glad Flo'll be, and vacation coming so soon," she thought in the
depth of her tender old soul.
"And she's a genius at crochetin'! The laces and shawls and hoods she's
knit are a real wonder. They didn't do any thing of the kind in my
young days."
"You must find it pretty hard to get along," condescended Mrs. Osgood.
"Yes; but the Lord allers provides some way. Joe's gone in a
store,--Mr. Terry's. He's next to Florence," went on Granny in sublime
disregard of her pronoun.
Mrs. Osgood took an inventory of the little room, and waited rather
impatiently. Then she asked for a glass of water.
O Granny! how could you have been so forgetful! To take that old,
thick, greenish glass tumbler when Flossy's choice goblet stood on the
shelf above! And then to fill it in the pail, and let the water dribble!
Granny wondered whether it would be polite to entertain her or not. But
just then there was a crash and a splash; and Dot and the water-pail
were in the middle of the floor.
"Here's a chance!" exclaimed Kit, pausing in the doorway. "Give us a
hook and line, Granny: Dot's mouth is just at an angle of ten degrees,
good for a bite."
"A wail, sure enough!" said Charlie. "Wring her out, and hang her up to
dry."
"Oh, dear!" and Granny, much disconcerted, sat Dot wrong side up on a
chair, and the result was a fresh tumble.
It was Hal who picked her up tenderly,--poor wet baby, with a big red
lump on her forehead, and dismal cries issuing from the mouth that
seemed to run all round her head.
"Stay out there till I wipe up," said Granny to the others. "Then I'll
get Dot a dry dress. I never did see such an onlucky child--and company
too. What _will_ Flo say!"
For Florence came tripping up the path, knitting her delicate brows in
consternation.
"Never you mind. There's a lady in the parlor who's been waitin'. Oh,
my! what did I do with that floor-cloth?"
"A lady?"
"Yes: run right along."
Luckily the door was shut between. Florence gave her curls a twist and
a smoothing with her fingers, took off her soiled white apron, pulled
her dress out here and there, stepped over the pools of water, and
entered.
Mrs. Osgood admired her self-possession, and pitied the poor child
profoundly. The flush and partial embarrassment were very becoming to
her.
That lady did not mean to rush headlong into her proposal. She broke
the ground delicately by inquiring about the embroidering; and
Florence brought some to show her.
"Who taught you?" she asked in surprise.
"No one;" and Florence colored a little. "I did not do the first as
neatly, but it is quite easy after one is fairly started."
"I really do not see how you find time, with going to school;" and this
persevering industry did touch Mrs. Osgood's heart.
"I cannot do very much," answered Florence with a sigh. "But it will
soon be vacation."
"How old are you?"
"I shall be fifteen the last of this month."
"What a family your grandmother has on her hands!"
"Yes. If my father had lived, it would have been very different."
A touching expression overspread Florence's face, and made her lovelier
than ever in Mrs. Osgood's eyes.
"She certainly _is_ very pretty," that lady thought; "and how
attractive such a daughter would be in my house! I should live my young
life over again in her."
For Mrs. Osgood had found that the days for charming young men were
over, and prosy middle-aged people were little to her taste. No woman
ever clung to youth with a greater longing.
"What do you study at school?" she asked.
"Only the English branches. I have been thinking of--of becoming a
teacher," said Florence hesitatingly.
"You would have a poor opportunity in this little town."
"I might go away;" and Florence sighed again.
"You have never studied music, I suppose."
"No: I have had no opportunity," returned Florence honestly enough.
"Do you sing?"
"Yes. And I love music so very, very much! I do mean to learn by and
by, if it is possible."
"I wish you would sing something for me,--a little school-song, or any
thing you are familiar with."
Florence glanced up in amazement; and for a few moments was awkwardly
silent.
"I should like to hear your voice. It is very pleasant in talking, and
ought to be musical in singing."
Florence was a good deal flattered; and then she had the consciousness
that she was one of the best singers in school. So she ran over the
songs in her own mind, and selected "Natalie, the Maid of the Mill,"
which she was very familiar with.
She sang it beautifully. Florence was one of the children who are
always good in an emergency. She was seldom "flustered," as Granny
expressed it, and always seemed to know how to make the best of
herself. And, as she saw the pleasure in Mrs. Osgood's face, her own
heart beat with satisfaction.
"That is really charming. A little cultivation would make your voice
very fine indeed. What a pity that you should be buried in this little
town!"
"Do you think--that I could--do any thing with it?" asked Florence in a
tremor of delight.
"I suppose your grandmother would not stand in the way of your
advancement?" questioned Mrs. Osgood.
"Oh, no! And then if I _could_ do something"--
Florence felt that she ought to add, "for the others," but somehow
she did not. She wondered if Mrs. Osgood was a music-teacher, or a
professional singer. But she did not like to ask.
"There is my carriage," said Mrs. Osgood, as a man drove slowly round.
"I am spending a few weeks at some distance from here, and wished to
have you do a little flannel embroidery for me. When will your vacation
commence?"
"In about ten days,--the first of July."
"I wish to see you when we can have a longer interview. I will come
over again then."
Mrs. Osgood rose, and shook out her elegant grenadine dress, much
trimmed and ruffled. On her wrists were beautiful bracelets, and her
watch-chain glittered with every movement. Then she really smiled very
sweetly upon the young girl; and Florence was charmed.
Some dim recollection passed over her mind.
"Oh!" she said, "were you not in a carriage that stopped here some days
ago. Another lady and a young gentleman"--
"Yes," answered Mrs. Osgood, pleased at being remembered. "And, my
dear, I took a great fancy to you that day. You are so different from
the majority of country girls, that it is a pity you should have no
better chance."
The longing and eloquent eyes of Florence said more than words.
"Yes. I will see you again; and I may, perhaps, think of something to
your advantage."
There was a mode of egress through this "best-room," though Granny had
brought her guest in by the kitchen way. Florence opened the door now.
"What a lovely, graceful child!" thought Mrs. Osgood; and she
scrutinized her from head to feet.
Florence watched the carriage out of sight in a half-dream. How long
she would have stood in a brown study is uncertain; but Granny came in
to get some dry clothes for Dot.
"What _did_ she want of you?" exclaimed Charlie, all curiosity. "And
what were you singing for? Oh, my! wasn't she splendid?"
"You sang like a bird," said Hal in wide-eyed wonder as well. "Did she
ask you?"
"Of course. You don't suppose I would offer to sing for a stranger,--a
lady too?"
"Did she like it?"
"Yes. She thought I might--that is, if I had any opportunity--oh, I
wish we _were_ a little richer!" and Florence burst into a flood of
hysterical tears.
"I wish we were;" and Hal gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If you could
learn to play on the melodeon at church, and give music-lessons"--
The vision called up a heaven of delight to poor Flossy.
"But what _did_ she want?" asked Granny in a great puzzle, putting
Dot's foot through the sleeve of her dress, and tying the neck-string
in garter fashion.
"I do believe she is a singer herself. Maybe she belongs to a company
who give concerts; but then she was dressed so elegantly."
"They make lots of money," said Kit with a sagacious nod of the head.
"It's what I'm going to be, only I shall have a fiddle."
"And a scalp-lock."
Charlie pulled this ornamentation to its fullest height, which was
considerable, as Kit's hair needed cutting.
"Oh! suppose she was," said Hal. "And suppose she wanted to take
Flossy, and teach her music,--why, it's like your plan, you know, only
it isn't an old gentleman; and I don't believe she has any little
girls,--I mean a little girl who died. Did she ask for a drink, Granny?"
"Yes; and then Dot pulled over the water-pail. Oh, my! if I haven't
put this dress on upside down, and the string's in a hard knot.
Whatever shall I do? And, Flossy, I forgot all about the gobler. I took
the first thing that came to hand."
"Not that old tumbler with a nick in the edge? And it is _goblet_. I
do wish you'd learn to call things by their right names!" exclaimed
Florence in vexation.
"It's the very same, isn't it?" began Charlie, "only, as Hal said, it
isn't an old gentleman. Oh, suppose it _should_ come true! And if Kit
_should_ have a fiddle like black Jake."
"And if you _should_ run away," laughed Hal. "I don't believe you can
find a better time than this present moment. Kit, you had better go
after the cows."
Charlie started too, upon Hal's suggestion. Florence gave a little
sniff, and betook herself to the next room.
Oh, dear! How poor and mean and tumbled about their house always was!
No, not _always_, but if any one ever came. Dot chose just that moment
to be unfortunate; and then that Granny should have used that forlorn
old tumbler. She doubted very much if the lady would ever come again.
So Flossy had a good cry from wounded vanity, and then felt better. Hal
took Dot out with him to feed the chickens, and Granny prepared the
table.
Still Florence's lady was the theme of comment and wonder for several
days, although the child insisted that she only came to get some
embroidering done. All further speculations seemed too wild for sober
brains.
"But it is so odd that she asked you to sing," said Hal. "And I do
believe something will come of it."
Florence gave a little despairing sniff.