|ON the next morning, and, indeed, on all of those left of their stay,
the six housekeepers were up at an alarmingly early hour, so that the
sun, accustomed to being the earliest of all risers, felt himself quite
behindhand and outshone.
In vain he clambered up over the hillside in a desperate hurry; the
girls were always before him with lighted candles. As for the clock, it
held up its hands with astonishment, and struck five shrill exclamation
points of surprise to see six wide-awake young persons tumbling out of
their warm nests before the world was lighted or heated.
The day's hours were hardly enough for the day's plans, for there were
farewell coasting, skating, and sleighing parties, besides active daily
preparations for the pantomime. The costumes of the hoys were gorgeous
to behold, and were fashioned entirely by the girls' clever fingers.
They consisted of scarlet or blue flannel shirts, short plaid kilts,
colored stockings striped with braid, sashes worn over shoulders, and
jaunty little caps with bobbing quills.
On the last happy evening of their stay, the eventful evening of “Young
Lochinvar,” the guests gathered from all the surrounding country to see
the frolic. There were people from North Edgewood, South Edgewood, East
Edge-wood, and West Edgewood; from Edgewood Upper Corner, Edgewood Lower
Corner, and Edgewood Four Corners, and everybody had brought his uncles
and cousins.
In the big dressing-room the young actors were assembled,--and
fortunately in a high state of exuberance and excitement, else they
would have been decidedly frightened at the ordeal before them. Jo,
mirror in hand, was trying to make herself look seventy; and, though she
had not succeeded, she had transformed herself into a very presentable
Scottish dame, with her short satin gown and apron, lace kerchief and
spectacles. Edith was giving a pair of pointed burnt-cork eyebrows to
Hugh, that he might wear a sufficiently dashing and defiant countenance
for Lochinvar, while Jack stood before the glass practicing his meek
expression for the jilted bridegroom.
[Illustration: 0145]
Bell had sunk into a chair, and folded her hands to “get up” her
courage. As to her dress, nobody knew whether it was the proper one
for a Scottish bride or not; but it was the only available thing, and
certainly she looked in it a very bewitching and sufficient excuse for
Lochinvar's rash folly. It was of some shining white material, and came
below the ankle, just showing a pair of jaunty high-heeled slippers;
the skirt was 'broidered and flounced to the belt, the waist simple and
full,' with short puffed sleeves; while a bridal veil and dainty crown
of flowers made her as winsome and bonny as a white Scottish rose. Emma
Jane Perkins stood in one corner paralyzed by her own good looks. Her
red hair was waved and hanging in her neck, and her dress was white.
She hoped she could be trusted to bring in this overpowering weight of
beauty at the right moment, but felt a little doubtful.
Uncle Harry stumbled in at the low door.
“Are you ready, young fry?” asked he. “It is half-past seven, and we
ought to begin.”
“Put out the footlights, give the people back their money, and tell
them the prima donna is dangerously ill!” gasped Bell, faintly, fanning
herself with a box-cover. “I don't believe I can ever do it. Hugh,
are you perfectly sure our horse won't break down on the stage when we
elope?”
“Calm yourself, 'fair Ellen,' and trust to my horsemanship. Doesn't the
poem say:=
```Through all the wide Border his steed
`````was the best?=
“And doesn't this exactly embody Scott's idea?”--pointing to a wild and
cross-eyed wooden effigy mounted on a pair of trucks.
*****
You have all read Sir Walter Scott's poem of “Young Lochinvar,” and many
a time, I hope, for they are brave old verses:=
```Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the
`````West,
```Through all the wide Border his steed
`````was the best,
```And, save his good broadsword, he
`````weapons had none;
```He rode all unarmed, and he rode all
`````alone.
```So faithful in love, and so dauntless in
`````war,
```There never was knight like the young
`````Lochinvar.=
And then, you remember, the young knight rode fast and far, stayed not
for brakes, stopped not for stones, but all in vain; for ere he alighted
at Netherby Gate, the fair Ellen, overcome by parental authority, had
consented to be married to another:=
```For a laggard in love and a dastard in
`````war
```Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave
`````Lochinvar.=
But he, nothing daunted, boldly entered the bridal hall among bridemen
and bridemaids and kinsmen, thereby raising so general a commotion
that the bride's father cried at once, the poor craven bridegroom being
struck quite dumb:=
```“Oh, come ye in peace here, or coyne ye
`````inivar,
```Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord
`````Lochinvar?"
The lover answers with apparent indifference that though he has in past
times been exceedingly fond of the young person called Ellen, he has now
merely come to tread a measure and drink one cup of wine with her, for
although love swells like the tide, it ebbs like it also. So he drinks
her health, while she sighs and blushes, weeps and smiles, alternately;
then he takes her soft hand, her parents fretting and fuming the while,
and leads the dance with her,--he so stately, she so lovely, that they
are the subject of much envy, admiration, and sympathy. But while thus
treading the measure, he whispers in her ear something to which she
apparently consents without much unwillingness, and at the right moment
they dance out from the crowd of kinsmen to the door of the great hall,
where in the darkness the charger stands ready saddled. Quick as thought
the dauntless lover swings his fair Ellen lightly up, springs before her
on the saddle, and they dash furiously away:=
```“She is won! We are gone, over ban,
`````bush, and scaur;
```They'll have fleet steeds that follow
`````quoth young Lochinvar.
As soon as their flight is discovered, there is wild excitement and
hasty mounting of all the Netherby Clan; there is racing and chasing
over the fields, but “the laggard in love and the dastard in war” never
recovers his lost Ellen.=
```So daring in love, and so dauntless in
`````war,
```Have ye e'er heard of gallant like
`````young Lochinvar?=
Uncle Harry read the poem through in such a stirring way that the
audience was fairly warmed into interest; then, standing by the side of
the stage with the curtain rolled up, he read it again, line by line, or
verse by verse, to explain the action.
During the first stanza, Lochinvar made his triumphal entrance, riding a
prancing hobby-horse with a sweeping tail of raveled rope, and a mane to
match, gorgeous trappings adorned with sleigh-bells and ornamental paper
designs, and bunches of cotton tacked on for flecks of foam.
Lochinvar himself wore gray pasteboard armor, a pair of carpet slippers
with ferocious spurs, red mittens, and carried a huge carving-knife.
His costume alone was food for amusement, but the manner in which he
careered wildly about the stage, displaying his valorous horsemanship as
he rode to the wedding, was perfectly irresistible.
The next scene opened in Netherby Hall, showing the bridal party all
assembled in gala dress. Into this family gathering presently strode the
determined lover, with his carving-knife sheathed for politeness'
sake. Then followed a comical pantomime between the angry parents, who
demanded his intentions, and the adroit Lochinvar, who declared them to
be peaceful. The father (Geoffrey Strong) at last gave him unwilling
permission to drink one cup of wine and tread one measure with the
bride. She kissed the goblet (a tin quart measure), he quaffed off the
spirit, and threw down the cup. Pair Ellen bridled with pleasure, and
promenaded about the room on his arm, while the bridegroom looked on
wretchedly, the parents quarreled, and the bride-maidens whispered:=
`````“'Twere better by far
```To have matched our fair cousin with
````young Lochinvar."=
At the first opportunity, the guests walked leisurely out, and young
Lochinvar seized an imaginary chance to draw Ellen hastily back into the
supper room. He whispered the magic word into her ear, she started in
horror and drew back; he urged; she demurred; he pleaded; she showed
signs of surrender; he begged on his bended knees; she yielded at
length to the plan of the elopement, with all its delightful risks. Then
Lochinvar darted to the outside door and brought in his charger,--rather
an unique proceeding, perhaps, but necessary under the circumstances,
inasmuch as the audience could not be transported to the proper scene of
the mounting. As the flight was to be made on horseback, much ingenuity
and labor were needed to arrange it artistically. The horse's head was
the work of Geoff's hand, and for meekness of expression, jadedness,
utterly-cast-down-and-worn-out-ness, it stood absolutely unrivalled. A
pair of trucks were secreted beneath the horse-blankets, and the front
legs of the animal pranced gaily out in front, taking that startling and
decided curve only seen in pictures of mowing-machines and horseraces.
Lochinvar quieted his fiery beast, and swung Ellen into the saddle,
leaped up after her, waved his tall hat in triumph, and started off at a
snail's pace, the horse being dragged by a rope from behind the scenes.
When half way across the stage, Ellen clasped her lover's arm and seemed
to have forgotten something. Everybody in the room at once guessed
it must be some part of her trousseau. She explained earnestly in
pantomime; Lochinvar refused to return; she insisted; he remained firm;
she pouted and seemingly said that she wouldn't elope at all unless she
could have her own way. He relented, they went back to Netherby Hall,
and Ellen ran up a secret stairway and came down laden with maidenly
traps. Greatly to the merriment of the observers, she loaded them on
the docile horse in the very face of Lochinvar's displeasure--two small
looking-glasses, a bird-cage, and a French bonnet. She then leisurely
drew on a pair of huge India rubbers, unfurled a yellow linen umbrella,
and just as her lover's patience was ebbing, suffered herself to be
remounted. The second trip across the stage was accomplished in safety,
though with anything but the fleetness common to elopements either in
life or in poetry.
Then came the pursuit--a most graphic and stirring scene, giving large
opportunities to the supernumerary characters. Four bridemen on dashing
hobbyhorses, jumping fences, leaping bars and ditches in hot excitement;
four bride-maids, with handkerchiefs tied over their heads, running
hither and thither in confusion; the old mother and father, limping in
and straining their eyes for a sight of their refractory daughter; and
last of all, poor Jack, the deserted bridegroom, on foot, with never a
horse left to him, puffing and panting in his angry chase.
It was done! How people laughed till they cried, how they continued
to laugh for five minutes afterward, I cannot begin to tell you. The
performance had been the perfection of fun from first to last, and
seemed all the more inspiring because it was original with the bright
bevy of young folks who had enacted the poem. Uncle Harry had renewed
his youth, and received the plaudits of the crowd with unconcealed
pleasure. The hero and heroine, Lochinvar and fair Ellen, had so
generously provided dramatic opportunities for the minor actors that
all had enjoyed an equal chance in the favor of the audience. There was
neither envy, jealousy, nor heartburning; each of the girls gloried
in the achievements of the others, and confessed that the mechanical
ingenuity of the boys had made the triumph possible.
At length the lights were all out, the finery bundled up, the many
farewells said, and as the girls, escorted by their faithful young
squires, trudged along the path through the orchard for the last time,
sad thoughts would come, although the party was much too youthful and
cheery to be gloomy.
“Depart, fun and frolic!” sighed Lilia, in mournful tones. “Depart,
breakfasts at any hour and other delights of laziness! Enter,
boarding-school, books, bells, and other banes of existence!”
“It is really too awful to think or to speak about,” sighed Jo. “Now
I know how Eve must have felt when she had to pack up and leave the
garden; only she went because she insisted upon eating of the tree of
knowledge, while I must go and eat, whether I will or not.”
“Your appetite for that special fruit isn't so great that you'll ever
be troubled with indigestion,” dryly rejoined Patty, the student of the
“Jolly Six.”
“Fancy starting off at half-past ten to-morrow morning; fancy reaching
school at one, and sitting down stupidly to a dinner of broth, fried
liver, and cracker-pudding! Ugh! it makes me shiver,” said Alice.
“Think of us,” cried Geoff, “going back to college, and settling into
regular 'digs.'”
“If 'digs' is a contraction of dignitaries,” said Edith, saucily,
“you'll never be those; if you mean you are to delve into the mines
of learning, that's doubtful, too; but if it's a corruption of Digger
Indian, I should say there might be some force in your remark. Oh, what
matchless war-whoops you gave in the pursuit to-night. Every separate
hair in Betty Bean's head stood on end, and the Misses Sawyer sat close
together and trembled visibly!”
“It was a wonderful evening,” remarked Hugh. “There were persons there
who said that Bell was beautiful and I was clever.”
“I don't want to annoy you,” laughed Jo, “but I heard exactly the
opposite.”
“Which only goes to show that both of us are both,” retorted Bell.
“And that sentence goes to show that a week's absence from the class in
parsing and analysis has had its effect,” said Patty. “Look at our angel
cottage, girls! Doesn't it look like a marble night-lamp with the hall
light shining through all its sweet little windows'?”
“The fire isn't out, that's fortunate,” observed Alice, as she saw a
small cloud of smoke issuing from the chimney.
“Good night and sweet dreams,” called the hoys, when Geoffrey had
unlocked the door of the cottage.
“Sweet dreams, indeed!” the girls answered in chorus. “The kitchen
closet to put in order, also the shed, two trunks to pack, twenty-four
hours' dishes to wash, and a million 'odd jobs' more or less.”
“Don't forget the borrowed articles to be returned,” reminded Hugh.
“We'll take the pung and do that for you, also attend to the cleaning
of the shed, which is more in our line than yours. Boys, let us give
one rousing cheer for Dr. and Mrs. Winship, the model parents of the
century!”
The welkin rang with hurrahs, in which the girls joined with hearty
vigor.
“Now another rousing one for the model daughter of the century,” cried
Bell, modestly; “the model daughter who had the bright idea and begged
the model parents to assent to it. Of what use would have been the model
parents, pray, unless they had had the model daughter with the bright
idea?”
More cheers, lustier than ever, floated out into the orchard.
“The model daughter would have had a dull house-party with nothing but
her bright idea to keep her company,” said Jo Fenton, suggestively.
“Three cheers for the house party! Three cheers for the 'Jolly Six!'
Hip, hip, hurrah!” and at this moment Uncle Harry's window opened and
across the breadth of the orchard came the warning note of a conch
shell, an instrument of much power, with which Uncle Harry called his
men to dinner in haying time. Had it not been for this message of
correction it is possible the enthusiastic young people might have
cheered one another till midnight.
*****
It was afternoon of the next day. The six little housekeepers were gone,
and the dejected hoys went into the garden to take a last look at the
empty cottage. On the door was a long piece of fluttering white paper,
tied with black ribbon. It proved to be the parting words of the “Jolly
Six."=
```How dear to our hearts are the scenes of
`````vacation,
```When fond recollection presents them
`````to view!
```The coasting, the sleigh-rides, and--chief
`````recreation--
```That gayest of picnics with squires so
`````true!=
```And note, torn away from the loved situ-
`````ation,
```The hump of conceit will explosively
`````swell,
```As proudly we think, never since the
`````creation,
```Did any young housekeepers keep
`````house so well!=
```Think not our great genius too highly
`````we've rated,
```For all that belongs to the kitchen we
`````know;
```And feel that from infancy we have been
`````fated
```For scrubbing and cooking, far more
`````than for show.=
```The cook-stove and dish-pan to us are so
`````charming,
```So toothsome the compounds we often
`````have mixed,
```That though you would think the news
`````somewhat alarming,
```On housekeeping ever our minds are
`````quite fixed.=
```Good-by to all hope of a fame uni-
`````versal!
```Farewell, vain ambition,--that way
`````madness lies!
```The rest of our youth shall be one long
`````rehearsal
```For life in six cottages, all of this
`````size!=
B. W.
J. F.
P. W.
A. F.
E. L.
L. P.
X=
``Their joint mark.
``Witnessed by me this morning,
``Jack Frost, Notary Public.
``Sealed with a snow flake.=
The boys read this nonsense with hearty laughter, and latching the gate
behind them, they went off, leaving the place deserted.
“They are awfully jolly girls,” said Jack.
“Better than jolly,” added Geoffrey, thoughtfully.
“You're right, Geoff; miles better and miles more than jolly,” agreed
Hugh. “None like'em in Brunswick.”
“Or in Portland.”
“Or in Bath.”
“Or in Augusta.”
And with this outburst of respectful admiration the lads passed out of
view.
The setting sun shone rosily in at the piazza window that afternoon,
but fell blankly against a gray curtain, instead of smiling into six
laughing faces as before.
A noisy crowd of sparrows settled on the bare branches over the
door-step, twittering as if they expected the supper of bread-crumbs
which girlish hands had been wont to throw them, and at last flew
away disappointed. In the old house opposite, Miss Miranda sat in her
high-backed chair, knitting as fiercely as ever, while Miss Jane was at
her post by the window, drearily watching the sun go down.
She turned away with the glow of a new thought in her wrinkled face.
“Mi-randy!” called she, sharply.
No answer but the sharp click of knitting-needles.
“Mirandy Sawyer! What do you say to invitin' our niece, Hannah, down
here from the farm, and givin' her a couple of terms' schoolin'? Aurelia
has her hands full raisin' that great family of children. She'd be glad
one of 'em should have some advantages. We ain't seen Hannah since she
was ten, but she was a nice appearin', pretty behavin' girl.”
Miranda glanced ont of the window without speaking.
“It seems like a streak of sunshine had gone out o' the place with them
young creeters, and I think we've lived here alone about long enough!”
continued Miss Jane. “I should like to give one girl a chance of being
a brighter, livelier woman than I am. Yes, you may drop your knittin',
Mirandy, but you know it as well as I do!”
No wonder that Miss Miranda looked very much as if she had been struck
by lightning; the more wonder that the quiet old house didn't shake to
its foundation, when this proposal was made. Indeed, old Tabby, on the
hearth-rug, did wake up, startled, no doubt by the consciousness that a
child's hand might pull her tail in days to come.
“It does seem dreadful lonesome,” Miss Miranda agreed, after a long
pause. “Hear Topsy howling in the kitchen; she's missin' the young life
that's gone, and she'll have to git used to us all over again, jest as
I said. Hannah would be considerable expense to us, and make a sight o'
work, too. Of course, you've thought o' that?”
“We take about so many steps, anyway,” argued Miss Jane, “and if the
child's spry and handy, she may save us a few now and then. Tabitha
ain't so much care, nor near so confinin', sence Topsy came to keep her
comp'ny--even two cats is better'n one.”
“There goes Emma Jane Perkins,” exclaimed Miss Miranda, from her post
of observation. “She looks different somehow. I've always said I should
think her face would ache, it's so hombly, but I guess she's passed her
hombliest, and is going to improve. Mebbe Mis' Perkins has been givin'
her spring medicine.”
“I guess the 'spring medicine' has been two weeks' good time with that
trainin' and careerin' houseful of girls,” rejoined Miss Jane, wisely.
“Everybody in the village sits up kind o' smart and looks as if they'd
taken a tonic. Maybe I'd better write to Aurelia on Sunday, Mirandy.”
“Mebbe you had, Jane, and if she can't spare Hannah, say we'll take
Rebecca, though I always thought she was a self-willed child, too full
of her own fancies to be easy managed.”
This is not the time for Rebecca's story; but, as a matter of
fact, Mrs. Aurelia Randall could not spare Hannah, who was docile,
industrious, and of much assistance with the house-work, and as a
matter of fact it was the somewhat dreaded Rebecca who did come from
the far-away farm to live in the dull old house with Miss Jane and Miss
Miranda. And all that befell this new family circle, formed almost by
accident, and all that Rebecca did, or became, as well as everything
that happened during the gradual beautifying of Emma Jane Perkins, was,
as you see, the indirect result of Bell Winship's madcap experiment in
housekeeping.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Half-A-Dozen Housekeepers, by Kate Douglas Wiggin