NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS.
"WELL," said Aunt Betsy as she finished buttering her biscuit, and
began stirring up her tea, "well, and how do you like your school?"
"Very well, so far," answered Miss Armstrong, "but these are early
times, you know."
"Yes, I know," said Aunt Betsy, with a solemn shake of the head. "New
brooms sweep clean. There was Malvina Spencer: she was going to do
great things, but she almost broke up the school with her nonsense. And
there was that Miss O'Hara. But what could any one expect of 'her?'"
added Aunt Betsy with scornful emphasis. "Any one might have known how
it would turn out."
"Yes, it was easy to see how it would turn out," said Mr. Weston
dryly. "So long as so many were prejudiced against her beforehand, and
determined not to see any good in her, whatever she did, it was no
great wonder she failed."
"Why were they prejudiced against her?" asked Miss Armstrong. "She had
a pretty name in her favor, and a distinguished one, if that is any
thing."
"Pretty, indeed!" said Aunt Betsy with a sniff. "Why, her father was an
Irishman,—just a regular Irishman,—who came here, and hired out to old
Judge Davis down at the cross-roads. No, it was to Abner Davis, up at
the Corners, he went first, come to think. When he had saved a little
money, he bought the Mudge place, and mended up the old house so it was
quite smart. But he was a regular Irishman, for all that, and came from
Ireland, for I heard him say so. And he said he wasn't ashamed of it,
that's more!" And Aunt Betsy looked triumphantly at her host, as if to
defy him to dispute her position.
"He was a Protestant, and very regular at church and communion; and he
was a clever man, too," said Mr. Weston, using the word "clever" in its
New England sense. "I remember how he used to do your chores for you,
Aunt Betsy, when Uncle Jonathan had the fever."
Aunt Betsy became suddenly busy with her tea.
"But what had the fact of Miss O'Hara's being Irish to do with her
success in the school?" asked Miss Armstrong.
"Well, you see, it rather set people against her," answered Miss Celia,
a mild elderly lady, who had not yet spoken. "We think a great deal
of descent in these parts, Miss Armstrong; and though I had nothing
against Miss O'Hara myself,—indeed, I always thought her a very nice
girl,—yet it did 'not' seem as if she were a fit person to be set over
children whose ancestors are buried all over Oldfield County,—the
daughter of a new-come-over Irish man."
"According to that, our first teachers in this country must all have
been very unsuitable persons," said Mrs. Weston. "They were all
new-come-over then, you know."
"To be sure," said Miss Celia. "Really, cousin Abby, I don't know
that I ever looked upon it in that light. Certainly, we were all
new-come-over once,—at least, our ancestors were, unless they were
Indians like old Abner Kettle."
"Indians, indeed! I wonder at you, Celia Claxton," said Aunt Betsy
indignantly. "You, whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers are buried
in this very graveyard, to compare yourself to old Abner Kettle, whose
daughter married a Feejee Islander or something like that! But, as to
the school, I am glad Miss Armstrong likes it, though these are new
times, as I said. There are some dreadful wild girls in the district.
There's—"
"Excuse me, Aunt Betsy, but suppose we leave Miss Armstrong to find out
for herself," interposed Mr. Weston. "What is this I hear about the
stone house? It seems we are to have new neighbors before long."
Aunt Betsy tossed her head, but the bait was too tempting not to be
taken.
"Why, yes, haven't you heard? Of course you know all about it, Celia.
You have a right if any one has; for that place ought to belong to you
and Delia, if every one had their dues."
"We have never laid the least claim to it," said Miss Celia calmly.
"Richard Van Zandt was only a very distant relation, and we had no
expectations whatever from him."
"Not in 'that' line, perhaps," said Aunt Betsy with an ill-natured
laugh.
Miss Celia's fair old face flushed a little, but she took no notice of
the remark.
"Anyhow, Dick was your mother's own second cousin, if you call that
very distant. I don't."
"It is not very near, at any rate," said Miss Celia. "We were always
friendly with Richard, but we saw nothing of him for many years. His
sister-in-law, Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt, was very kind to him, and he
died at her house; so it is no wonder he left his property to her.
Delia and myself would hardly have known what to do with such a house.
It would have been a great trouble to us."
"You would have known what to do with the money, though."
"We have enough," said Miss Celia with dignity, "and that is as good as
a feast."
"I don't suppose there was much money in the case," observed Mr.
Weston. "Dick Van Zandt was never rich, and he was one who gave away
with both hands whatever he had. I understand from Squire Davis that
the place was left to Mrs. Van Zandt, who is very wealthy, on condition
that it should be kept up, and that some member of the family should
now and then spend a summer there."
"Yes: the old lady and two or three of her nieces or grand-nieces are
coming pretty soon, so Aunt Aggy told me," said Mrs. Weston. "I was
up there yesterday, and found her sweeping and clearing up at a great
rate. She took me through the house, and it was quite a wonder to see
the order it was in. I would not have believed it had stood empty so
long. Even the carpets looked as good as new."
"The house was handsomely furnished, to begin with. And was Aggy
pleased with the prospect?" asked Miss Celia, much interested.
"Oh, yes! She says she and Mrs. Van Zandt were girls together."
"Mrs. Van Zandt's father was a Butler, I know, but her mother was
a Bogardus, and connected with all the Dutch folks over there in
Rockvale," said Aunt Betsy, who was very strong in the matter of
genealogy.
"I have heard that Mrs. Van Zandt is a very nice lady," observed Mrs.
Weston.
"She is," said Miss Armstrong. "I know her well. And I am glad she is
coming here: she is as blessing wherever she goes."
"Do tell!" exclaimed Aunt Betsy. "Real liberal with her money, I
expect."
"Yes, and better than that,—very kind and judicious with it."
"She won't have very nice neighbors on one side, at any rate," said
Aunt Betsy. "I shouldn't like to live next to those Mallorys."
"I don't suppose they will trouble her very much, unless the poor woman
gets one of her screaming fits," said Miss Celia. "Is it true that
the little girl—Kitty, or whatever her name is—comes to school, Miss
Armstrong?"
"Yes, she was at school to-day; and a very bright, interesting child
she seems."
"Well, I don't think it ought to be allowed," said Aunt Betsy: "her
folks are regular infidels."
"So she tells me."
"She doesn't know the Lord's Prayer: she said so to-day," observed
Selina. "She said her folks didn't believe in such things."
"Just so. Who knows what mischief the children may learn of her?"
"I do not think there is much danger in that direction," said Miss
Armstrong. "From what little talk I had with her to-day, I should say
Kitty is rather a heathen than an unbeliever: she is as ignorant of the
Christian religion as any little South-sea Islander. But she seemed
much interested in what I told her. It would be a great pity to deprive
her of any chance, when she has so few. How does it happen that a
family like the Mallorys should be found, in such a place as this?"
"Well, as to that, you know there are heathen everywhere," replied Mr.
Weston. "Tom Mallory, the grandfather, was a great disciple and admirer
of Tom Paine. Phin was always a wild fellow. But the women of the
family were communicants of the Church, and old Tom never interfered
with them; he said religion was a safe plaything for women. And to do
him justice, he was really kind to his daughter-in-law and her boy, for
Phin's father was killed before he was born. Phin went away West, and
nobody heard any thing about him till he came back and took possession
of the place last fall, when the old man died. There was another
grandson, who was a favorite with old Tom, and some say the farm was
left to him, but he has never turned up, and Phin says he died out
West."
"Maybe Phin murdered him, to get the property," said Aunt Betsy. "Who
knows?"
"Nobody knows, and therefore we won't suppose so," said Mr. Weston
somewhat sharply. "He and Phin were always good friends. I always
supposed Kit was his child, but Phin says she is not related to them at
all. He says Symantha took a fancy to her, and adopted her."
"Yes, that is very likely, that she would go adopting a child," said
Aunt Betsy. "Depend upon it, there's more than that about it."
"Melissa says they took her out of the poorhouse," said Selina.
"I wouldn't have much to say to Melissa if I were you," observed Mrs.
Weston. "Well, ladies, if you have finished your tea, we will go into
the other room, where it is cooler.—You may clear the table, and put
away the things, Selina; and I will help you with the dishes by and by."
"Yes, that is always the way," muttered Selina: "always something to
remind me that I am not one of the family."
It did not occur to Selina that if she had been one of the family, the
same work would naturally have fallen to her share. She had lately
taken to looking out for affronts; and affronts are like the spooks of
the old Dutch proverb,—those who go to look for them can always find
them.
"You are going to have other neighbors this summer," remarked Miss
Celia as she took out her company knitting, a child's fine white
stocking. "The Richmonds are coming back to Mrs. Gleason's."
Mr. and Mrs. Weston exchanged looks which were not by any means
expressive of joy.
"I thought they said last summer they would not come again," said Mrs.
Weston.
"It seems they have changed their minds; for Agnes Gleason told me she
had just taken from the office a letter from Miss Amelia Richmond,
in which she announced her mother's intention of passing the summer
months in this neighborhood, and entering into negotiations for Mrs.
Gleason's rooms. I confess I was sorry to hear it. I do not consider
the influence of that family a very desirable one in this neighborhood."
"I quite agree with you, cousin Celia," said Mrs. Weston. "I am sorry
they are coming back. I do not think the rush of summer boarders we
have had of late years has been any special advantage, as you say."
"They bring a deal of money with them, if that is all," said Aunt
Betsy, clicking her needles in a very different style from Miss Celia's
rapid, noiseless manner of working.
"That is not quite all."
"And I don't think they have done Agnes Gleason any harm," continued
Aunt Betsy: "she perfectly hates Milly Richmond."
"It is not very good for us to perfectly hate people," said Mrs.
Weston, smiling. "I hope Mrs. Van Zandt's family will not be like the
Richmonds."
"'Tain't likely we shall have a chance to see what they are like," said
Aunt Betsy. "I hear they hold their heads very high. The pride of those
Dutch folks in their families is perfectly ridiculous."
"For the matter of that, we think a good deal of our families in these
parts," said Mrs. Weston, smiling.
"That is different," returned Aunt Betsy.
"From what I know of Mrs. Van Zandt and her nieces, I venture to
predict that you will see them in Sunday school the very first Sunday,"
said Miss Armstrong.
"Then I think they might just as well wait till they are asked,"
retorted Aunt Betsy. "We don't want city folks poking in their noses,
and finding fault with their betters, and with folks old enough to
be their mothers." All of which Aunt Betsy delivered with a vengeful
rattle of her knitting-needles, and a glance at Miss Armstrong which
seemed to include her in the number of obnoxious "city folks."
"Mrs. Van Zandt is a Christian woman, then?" asked Miss Celia.
"That she is, and a very excellent and energetic one," answered
Miss Armstrong. "It is the delight of her life to fit up boxes for
missionaries and their families. I have known her to buy four or five
dozen each of napkins, towels, sheets, and so forth, have them all
hemmed by hand by some poor old ladies she knows (for she has never
become reconciled to machine work), and within a month send them all to
different missionaries' wives in the West and South, or in the city. My
only wonder is, that she can make up her mind to remove so far from her
beloved shops."
"Well, I didn't suppose there were many people of that kind in New
York," said Aunt Betsy. "I supposed they were all given up to dress and
fashion and frivolity."
"There are as many good Christian people in New York as in any place
in the world," said Miss Armstrong with some emphasis. "Why, Mrs.
Burr, who do you suppose keeps up and manages all the charities,—the
hospitals, and missions, and schools, and orphan-asylums, and
nurseries, and all the rest?"
Not having any answer at hand, Aunt Betsy took a pinch of snuff,—a
practice not desirable in itself, but a convenience in such cases.
"I am glad to hear such an account of Mrs. Van Zandt," said Miss Celia,
busily binding off her heel. "I felt disposed to like her, from what I
heard of her kindness to Richard Van Zandt in his last days. But does
not Mrs. Van Zandt work at all, herself?"
"She hems napkins, and knits," replied Miss Armstrong. "I should say
she must use up a hundred weight or so of wool every year, in one way
or another."
"That is a great deal, almost two pounds a week," said Miss Celia, who
took every thing literally. "To be sure, she may use double wool."
"Double, treble, and single, and every other kind. She is sure to wish
to convert you to the Welsh fashion of shaping heels, Miss Celia."
"There I 'cannot' agree with her," said Miss Celia with emphasis, and
yet with a little apology in her tone, as if she felt it a liberty to
disagree even with an unknown Mrs. Van Zandt. "I do 'not' like the
Welsh heel: it is much harder to run and to mend, and it wears no
better."
"I wonder what has become of Selina," said Mrs. Weston, rising.
She went into the wide, airy kitchen, which served as a dining-room in
summer, and found Selina just finishing the last of the dishes.
"Why, my dear, you need not have washed the dishes," said she. "I told
you to put them together and leave them, and I would help you."
"Oh, I could do them well enough: it is the hired girl's place, I
suppose," said Selina in a voice which trembled in spite of her.
Mrs. Weston took no notice of this speech for the present.
When the company was gone, and family prayers were over,—a custom never
omitted in the family in the busiest season,—she followed Selina to her
own neat, pretty room.
"Selina," said she gravely, "you have two or three times lately used
the expression 'hired girl.' I want to know what you mean by it."
Selina was already growing ashamed of her ill humor. Perhaps it would
be more correct to say she was growing tired of it, more especially as
its exercise had deprived her of the pleasure of hearing the remainder
of Aunt Betsy's news. She twisted her handkerchief, and answered in a
somewhat embarrassed tone,—
"Oh, well, every one knows what a hired girl is."
"A hired girl, as I understand it, is a woman who works for money in
a place which is not her home. It is a very useful calling, and, when
faithfully fulfilled, worthy of the highest respect," said Mrs. Weston,
who had been a "school-ma'am" herself, and was habitually choice in her
use of words. "Is that your condition? Do you work for wages? And are
you in a strange family?"
"No, mother," answered Selina in a low tone. Her better self was
getting the upper hand, but she was not quite ready to give way.
"Do you think you have more work put upon you than usually falls to the
eldest daughter? More than Agnes Gleason, for instance?"
"I don't have so much to do as Agnes," replied Selina frankly. "She
never gets to school before half-past nine when the Richmonds are
staying there."
"And do you think that the things provided for you are given you as
wages? Is this room, for instance, such as people usually give to
servants?"
"No, mother," replied Selina. She paused a moment, and then added
frankly, "I was cross, I suppose. Something happened at school which
put me out."
"And so you came home and revenged that annoyance on me by saying
something untrue to hurt my feelings. Was that right?"
"No, mother. But I did not think it was as bad as that. I am a wicked
girl, and I always shall be," said Selina, bursting into tears. "I wish
I had never been born."
"You will not mend matters by looking at them in that way," said Mrs.
Weston. "A little sober, honest self-examination and repentance will do
you more good than any amount of that sort of passion." She paused a
moment, and then added very seriously,—
"Selina, Mr. Weston and myself have treated you as a dear daughter ever
since you came to us. We have tried our best to make you happy and
good. But for the last year, you have made us both very uncomfortable."
"I don't see how," murmured Selina.
"You can see well enough if you choose," replied Mrs. Weston. "Your
father is very much displeased with you; and though we shall never cast
you off, more than if you were our own, I fear, unless you turn over
a new leaf, we shall have to make some different arrangement. My dear
girl, why won't you trust your best friends, and try to be what they
would have you?"
Selina sobbed that she was very sorry.
And Mrs. Weston, thinking she had said enough, kissed her good-night,
and left her.
Selina, left alone, cried for some time longer, told herself how hard
it was to be an orphan cast on the cold charities of the world, and
shed a great many tears, as she imagined to the memory of the mother
she had never seen. Then, growing tired of this mood, she said to
herself that no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Weston meant to be kind to her in
their way, and that it was her duty to be grateful. She would show that
she was so, by being amiable and affectionate, and bearing the trials
of her lot patiently. If her own dear mother had lived, it would have
been very different, but, as it was, she must be resigned. And feeling
by this time very virtuous indeed, she went to bed.