SUNDRIES.
Meanwhile the days moved on; the time fixed for Ester's return home
had long passed, and yet she tarried in New York. Abbie clung to her,
wanted her for various reasons; and the unselfish, pitying mother, far
away, full of tender sympathy for the stricken bride, smothered a sigh
of weariness, buried in her heart the thought of her own need of her
eldest daughter's presence and help, and wrote a long, loving letter,
jointly to the daughter and niece, wherein she gave her full consent
to Ester's remaining away, so long as she could be a comfort to her
cousin.
Two items worthy of record occurred during these days. The first time
the family gathered at the dinner table, after the one who had been
so nearly a son of the house had been carried to his rest in that
wonderful and treasured city of Greenwood, Ralph, being helped by
John, as usual, to his glass of wine, refused it with a short, sharp,
almost angry "_No_. Take it away and never offer me the accursed stuff
again. We should have had him with us to-day but for that. I'll never
touch another drop of it as long as I live."
Which startling words Mr. and Mrs. Ried listened to without comment,
other than a half-frightened look bestowed on Abbie, to see how she
would bear this mention of her dead; and she bore it this way. Turning
her eyes, glistening with tears, full on her brother's face, she said,
with a little quiver of tender gladness in her voice:
"Oh, Ralph, I knew it had a silver lining, but I did not think God
would let me see it so soon."
Then Mr. and Mrs. Ried concluded that both their children were queer,
and that they did not understand them. The other item was productive
of a dissertation on propriety from Mrs. Ried.
Ralph and his father were in the back parlor, the former standing with
one arm resting on the mantel while he talked with his father, who was
half buried in a great easy chair--that easy chair in his own elegant
parlor, and his handsome son standing before him in that graceful
attitude, were Mr. Ried's synonyms for perfect satisfaction; and his
face took on a little frown of disappointment, as the door opened
somewhat noisily, and Mrs. Ried came in wearing a look expressive
of thoroughly-defined vexation. Ralph paused in the midst of his
sentence, and wheeled forward a second easy chair for his mother, then
returned to his former position and waited patiently for the gathered
frown to break into words, which event instantly occurred.
"I really do not think, Mr. Ried, that this nonsense ought to be
allowed; besides being a very strange, unfeeling thing to do, it is in
my opinion positively indecent--and I _do_ think, Mr. Ried, that you
ought to exercise your authority for once."
"If you would kindly inform me what you are supposed to be talking
about, and where my authority is specially needed at this time, I
might be induced to consider the matter."
This, from the depths of the easy chair, in its owner's most
provokingly indifferent tone, which fortunately Mrs. Ried was too much
preoccupied to take special note of, and continued her storm of words.
"Here, it is not actually quite a week since he was buried, and Abbie
must needs make herself and her family appear perfectly ridiculous by
making her advent in public."
Mr. Ried came to an upright posture, and even Ralph asked a startled
question:
"Where is she going?"
"Why, where do you suppose, but to that absurd little prayer-meeting,
where she always would insist upon going every Thursday evening. I
used to think it was for the pleasure of a walk home with Mr. Foster;
but why she should go to-night is incomprehensible to me."
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Ried, settling back into the cushions. "A large
public that will be. I thought at the very least she was going to the
opera. If the child finds any comfort in such an atmosphere, where's
the harm? Let her go."
"Where's the harm! Now, Mr. Ried, that is just as much as you care
for appearances _sometimes_, and at other times you can be quite as
particular as _I_ am; though I certainly believe there is nothing that
Abbie might take a fancy to do that you would not uphold her in."
Mr. Ried's reply was uttered in a tone that impressed one with the
belief that he was uttering a deliberate conviction.
"You are quite right as regards that, I suspect. At least I find
myself quite unable to conceive of any thing connected with her that
could by any twisting be made other than just the thing."
Mrs. Ried's exasperated answer was cut short by the entrance of Abbie,
attired as for a walk or ride, the extreme pallor of her face and the
largeness of her soft eyes enhanced by the deep mourning robes which
fell around her like the night.
"Now, Abbie," said Mrs. Ried, turning promptly to her, "I did hope
you had given up this strangest of all your strange whims. What _will_
people think?"
"People are quite accustomed to see me there, dear mother, at least
all the people who will see me to-night; and if _ever_ I needed help I
do just now."
"I should think it would be much more appropriate to stay at home and
find help in the society of your own family. That is the way other
people do who are in affliction."
Mrs. Ried had the benefit of a full, steady look from Abbie's great
solemn eyes now, as she said:
"Mother, I want God's help. No other will do me any good."
"Well," answered Mrs. Ried, after just a moment of rather awe-struck
silence, "can't you find that help any where but in that plain,
common little meeting-house? I thought people with your peculiar views
believed that God was every-where."
An expression not unlike that of a hunted deer shone for a moment in
Abbie's eyes. Then she spoke, in tones almost despairing:
"O mother, _mother_, you _can not_ understand."
Tone, or words, or both, vexed Mrs. Ried afresh, and she spoke with
added sharpness.
"At least I can understand this much, that my daughter is very anxious
to do a thing utterly unheard of in its propriety, and I am thoroughly
ashamed of you. If I were Ester I should not like to uphold you in
such a singularly conspicuous parade. Remember, you have no one _now_
but John to depend upon as an escort."
Ralph had remained a silent, immovable listener to this strange, sad
conversation up to this moment. Now he came suddenly forward with a
quick, firm tread, and encircled Abbie's trembling form with his arm,
while with eyes and voice he addressed his mother.
"In that last proposition you are quite mistaken, my dear mother.
Abbie chances to have a brother, who considers himself honored by
being permitted to accompany her any where she may choose to go."
Mrs. Ried looked up at her tall, haughty son in unfeigned
astonishment, and for an instant was silent.
"Oh," she said at last, "if you have chosen to rank yourself on this
ridiculous fanatical side, I have nothing more to say."
As for Mr. Ried, he had long before this shadded his eyes with his
hand, and was looking through half-closed fingers with mournful eyes
at the sable robes and pallid face of his golden-haired darling,
apparently utterly unconscious of or indifferent to the talk that was
going on.
But will Ralph ever forget the little sweet smile which illumined for
a moment the pure young face, as she turned confiding eyes on him?
Thenceforth there dawned a new era in Abbie's life. Ralph, for
reasons best known to himself, chose to be released from his vacation
engagements in a neighboring city, and remained closely at home. And
Abbie went as usual to her mission-class, to her Bible-class, to
the teacher's prayer-meeting, to the regular church prayer-meeting,
every-where she had been wont to go, and she was always and
every-where accompanied and sustained by her brother.
As for Ester, these were days of great opportunity and spiritual
growth to her.
So we bridge the weeks between and reach the afternoon of a September
day, bright and beautiful, as the month draws toward its closing; and
Ester is sitting alone in her room in the low, easy chair by the
open window, and in her lap lies an open letter, while she, with
thoughtful, earnest eyes seems reading, not it, but the future, or
else her own heart. The letter is from Sadie, and she has written
thus:
"MY DEAR CITY SISTER,--Mother said to-night, as we were promenading
the dining-room for the sake of exercise, and also to clear off the
table (Maggie had the toothache and was off duty): 'Sadie, my dear
child, haven't you written to Ester yet? Do you think it is quite
right to neglect her so, when she must be very anxious to hear from
home?' Now, you know, when mother says, 'Sadie, my dear child,' and
looks at me from out those reproachful eyes of hers, there is nothing
short of mixing a mess of bread that I would not do for her. So here I
am--place, third story front; time, 11:30 P.M.; position, foot of the
bed (Julia being soundly sleeping at the head), one gaiter off and one
gaiter on, somewhat after the manner of 'my son John' so renowned in
history. Speaking of bread, how abominably that article can act. I had
a solemn conflict with a batch of it this morning. Firstly, you must
know, I forgot it. Mother assured me it was ready to be mixed before
I awakened, so it must have been before that event took place that
the forgetfulness occurred; however, be that as it may, after I was
thoroughly awake, and up, and _down_, I still forgot it. The fried
potatoes were frying themselves fast to that abominable black dish
in which they are put to sizzle, and which, by the way, is the most
nefarious article in the entire kitchen list to get clean (save
and excepting the dish-cloth). Well, as I was saying, they burned
themselves, and I ran to the rescue. Then Minie wanted me to go to
the yard with her, to see a 'dear cunning little brown and gray
thing, with some greenish spots, that walked and spoke to her.' The
interesting stranger proved to be a fair-sized frog! While examining
into, and explaining minutely the nature and character and occupations
of the entire frog family, the mixture in the tin pail, behind the
kitchen stove, took that opportunity to _sour_. My! what a bubble
it was in, and what an interesting odor it emitted, when at last I
returned from frogdom to the ordinary walks of life, and gave it my
attention. Maggie was above her elbows in the wash-tub, so I seized
the pail, and in dire haste and dismay ran up two flights of stairs
in search of mother. I suppose you know what followed. I assure you,
I think mothers and soda are splendid! What a remarkable institution
that ingredient is. While I made sour into sweet with the aid of its
soothing proclivities, I moralized; the result of which was that after
I had squeezed and mushed and rolled over, and thumped and patted my
dough the requisite number of times, I tucked it away under blankets
in a corner, and went out to the piazza to ask Dr. Douglass if he knew
of an article in the entire round of Materia Medica which could be
given to human beings when they were sour and disagreeable, and which,
after the manner of soda in dough, would immediately work a reform.
On his acknowledging his utter ignorance of any such principle, I
advanced the idea that cooking was a much more developed science than
medicine; thence followed an animated discussion.
"But in the meantime what do you suppose that bread was doing? Just
spreading itself in the most remarkable manner over the nice blanket
under which I had cuddled it! Then I had an amazing time. Mother
said the patting process must all be done over again; and there was
abundant opportunity for more moralizing. That bread developed the
most remarkable stick-to-a-tive-ness that I ever beheld. I assure you,
if total depravity is a mark of humanity, then I believe my dough is
human.
"Well, we are all still alive, though poor Mr. Holland is, I fear,
very little more than that. He was thrown from his carriage one
evening last week, and brought home insensible. He is now in a raging
fever, and very ill indeed. For once in their lives both doctors
agree. He is delirious most of the time; and his delirium takes the
very trying form which leads him to imagine that only mother can do
any thing for him. The doctors think he fancies she is his own mother,
and that he is a boy again. All this makes matters rather hard on
mother. She is frequently with him half the night; and often Maggie
and I are left to reign supreme in the kitchen for the entire day.
Those are the days that 'try men's souls,' especially women's.
"I am sometimes tempted to think that all the book knowledge the world
contains is not to be compared to knowing just what, and how, and
when, to do in the kitchen. I quite think so for a few hours when
mother, after a night of watching in a sick room, comes down to undo
some of my blundering. She is the patientest, dearest, lovingest,
kindest mother that ever a mortal had, and just because she is so
patient shall I rejoice over the day when she can give a little sigh
of relief and leave the kitchen, calm in the assurance that it will
be right-side up when she returns. Ester, how _did_ you make things
go right? I'm sure I try harder than I ever knew you to, and yet salt
will get into cakes and puddings, and sugar into potatoes. Just here
I'm conscience smitten. I beg you will not construe one of the above
sentences as having the remotest allusion to your being sadly missed
at home. Mother said I was not even to _hint_ such a thing, and I'm
sure I haven't. I'm a _remarkable_ housekeeper. The fall term at the
academy opened week before last. I have hidden my school-books behind
that old barrel in the north-east corner of the attic. I thought they
would be safer there than below stairs. At least I was sure the bread
would do better in the oven because of their ascent.
"To return to the scene of our present trials: Mr. Holland is, I
suppose, very dangerously sick; and poor Mrs. Holland is the very
embodiment of despair. When I look at her in prospective misery, I
am reminded of poor, dear cousin Abbie (to whom I would write if it
didn't seem a sacrilege), and I conclude there is really more misery
in this world of ours than I had any idea of. I've discovered why
the world was made round. It must be to typify our lives--sort of a
tread-mill existence, you know; coming constantly around to the things
which you thought you had done yesterday and put away; living over
again to-day the sorrows which you thought were vanquished last week.
I'm sleepy, and it is nearly time to bake cakes for breakfast. 'The
tip of the morning to you,' as Patrick O'Brien greets Maggie.
"Yours nonsensically; SADIE."