was a lawyer, came into possession some years before of an enormous
tract of land, some thousands of acres in extent, in the western part of
the State. It became necessary for him to spend some months there every
year to look after it. First he built a small law office and a couple of
bedrooms for use on these occasions. Then Aunt Emma wanted to go with
him, and another room or two was added for her; and so it went on till
the little law office had grown into a big, rambling country house of
the most irregular shape, with small chambers opening out of large ones,
doors, cupboards, entries, and staircases where you least expected them,
little flights of steps leading up into rooms and down into rooms--just
the sort of house, in short, which boys and girls delight in. Aunt Emma,
who was a woman of admirable sense, made no attempt to introduce the
elegances of the city into the woods, not even when it grew to be her
home for the greater part of the year. Air, space, and freedom to do as
you liked were the luxuries of the place. All the bedrooms were
furnished with the same small-patterned blue ingrain carpet and little
sets of oak-painted furniture precisely alike. The big parlor and
dining-room had wicker chairs and willow tables, roomy sofas and couches
covered with well-washed chintz, and skins and rugs on the matted
floors. Deer's antlers in the hall held hats, whips, and coats. There
was a garden of sweet common flowers to supply the summer vases,
crackling wood-fires for cool evenings, and a bookcase of light reading
for rainy days. The table was deliciously supplied with game and trout,
wild fruits and country cream, and you might sit on the floor and tell
ghost-stories till midnight if you cared to do so. In the big stables a
little troop of Indian ponies, broken to saddle or harness, were kept.
Most of them had Indian names, in honor of the half-civilized tribe
which lived close by on their reservation. There was Chief Blacksnake
and Lady Blacksnake and Young Blacksnake, Uncas and Pottomet and
"Xantego," commonly pronounced "Want-to-go," and riding and driving went
on the summer through among the visitors who filled the ample,
hospitable house. There seemed to be a pony for everybody, and everybody
liked to have a pony, and the ponies themselves enjoyed it.
Emmy Gale was her aunt Emma's namesake, but, as it happened, she had
never been at Elliott's Mills, though her elder sisters, Bess and Jean,
had made many visits there. This was partly accidental, for twice it had
been arranged that she should go, and twice illness had prevented. Once,
her cousin Lena had measles, and the other time Emmy herself had scarlet
fever. Nobody was in fault either time, still it rankled in Emmy's mind
that she should never have seen the place about which Bess and Jean were
forever raving. And now her time was come; she was actually packing her
trunk. No wonder she was pleased.
I must just say one word about Emmy before I start her on her journey.
She was very tall of her age, thin, and rather awkward, as overgrown
girls are apt to be. A passionate desire to be liked was one of the
ruling motives of her nature, but she was very apt to fancy that people
did not like her, and to worry and grieve over it in a morbid manner.
When quite at her ease, she was an attractive girl, loving and bright
and funny, but poor Emmy was seldom quite at ease. She could only be
that when she forgot herself, and that was not often; for what with
wondering if people would approve of her, and vexing herself with the
idea that they did not, and fidgeting as to _why_ they did not, she
contrived to be the subject of her own thoughts for a considerable part
of the time.
Her escort was an old gentleman, a friend of her father's. He did not
say much to Emmy, but he was very polite as old gentlemen go, and in the
course of the long day's journey bought for her three illustrated
papers, half a dozen beautiful red apples, and a "prize package of
pop-corn," which, had it chosen to live up to its label, _might_ have
had a gold bracelet in it, but in reality contained nothing better than
a brass ring. Emmy liked the apples, and did not at all resent her
escort's lack of conversation. In fact, she scarcely noticed it, so busy
was she in thinking of the joys to come. With her eyes fixed on the long
reaches of soft red and yellow woods which seemed to be running past
the train as the train ran by them, she made pictures to herself of what
was going to happen. Lena would come down at the carriage to meet her,
she was quite sure. And perhaps Bess or Jean, who had been at Elliott's
Mills for the past month, would come too. It would be about half-past
five when the train was due, so they could reach the house just before
supper, which is always a pleasant time to arrive anywhere. It all
seemed most promising as she thought it over.
The first bit of ill luck which befell Emmy was that the train proved to
be behind time. There were tiresome stops and unaccountable delays. At
noon the conductor owned to being two hours late, so they kept on losing
time. Railroads are like a dissected puzzle--if one piece gets out of
its place it makes the other pieces wrong. They had to wait for all the
other trains, and telegraph and stand still. Tired and vexed, Emmy sat
with her nose pressed against the window, looking out into the
deepening dusk as the engine puffed and snorted and ran the train slowly
back and forward, on to sidings and off them. Her impatience grew and
grew, till it seemed as if she _must_ jump out and push something, the
locomotive or the conductor--she didn't care which--anything to make
them go on; and when eight o'clock came and nine, with the Mills station
still far ahead, she felt so worn out and discouraged that she could
easily have cried, except that girls of fourteen do not like to cry in
public. The only thing that diverted her from her woes was watching two
girls of her own age who sat in front of her, and were "capping verses"
to pass away the time. The train made a great deal of noise, so that
they had to scream to make themselves heard; then the roar and rumble
ceased suddenly in that queer way which is common to all railroads, and
a very high-pitched voice was heard to shriek out the following
extraordinary question,--
"Pray how was the Devil dressed? D--" Everybody jumped, and Emmy's old
gentleman put on his spectacles and gazed long and solemnly at the young
ladies who seemed to be conversing on such extraordinary topics, while
they hid their faces and giggled violently for two miles.
It was exactly ten when they finally reached the Mills station. The old
gentleman helped Emmy out, the train rushed on, and she found herself
standing alone on a wet platform beside her trunk. Her aunt's man
William came to meet her, swinging a lantern.
"Didn't any one come down to meet me?" she asked.
"No, miss. Mr. Tom drove down for the two o'clock express, and sent back
word that your train would be late, and I must be sure to fetch a big
lantern, for the road is all washed away by the freshet. Is that your
box, miss? We'd better start at once, for it's going to take us two
hours and a half to get over to the village."
"Two hours and a half!" gasped Emmy.
"Yes, miss, because of the roads. They're almost dangerous. We'll have
to walk nearly the whole way, for it's so dark that we can't see where
we're going."
It was quite two hours and a half before they reached the house. Emmy
had fallen asleep half a dozen times, and waked up to be conscious that
she was stiff, chilled, and aching in every bone, and that William was
walking at the horses' heads, holding the lantern up high to make sure
of the road. At last they turned in at a gate and he came to the window
to say encouragingly, "Just there, miss."
"What time is it?" asked Emmy.
"Nigh on to one, miss."
"Oh dear, and they will all be in bed!" thought Emmy; but she was really
too tired to care much about it. A sleepy-looking maid was sitting up to
receive her. Mrs. Elliott had left her love, she said, and the young
lady must take some hot soup and get to bed as fast as possible. It was
not at all the reception which Emmy had dreamed of, but she was so worn
out with fatigue that bed seemed the only thing in the world worth
thinking of just then, and there, with the assistance of the maid, she
soon found herself.
When she woke, the room was bright with sun, which streamed into the
window with such an "up a long time ago" expression, that Emmy knew she
must have slept late. She was still tired, and lay quietly looking about
her and recognizing all the little conveniences and devices of which she
had heard from her sisters, till a little tap sounded, the door softly
opened, and Aunt Emma's kind, handsome face looked in.
"Good morning, my dear; I hope you are rested," she said, with a kiss.
"I would not let any one wake you, for you must have been tired out. Now
you must have some breakfast." And in another moment, with the ease
which seemed to characterize all arrangements in which Aunt Emma had a
share, in came a napkin-covered tray borne by a neat little maid, with
_such_ a nice breakfast! A big pink-and-white cup full of hot cocoa,
broiled chicken, delicious potato stewed with cream, two white rolls,
and a baked pear in a saucer. Nothing could have been more tempting to
hungry Emmy, but even as she sipped the first spoonful of cocoa, the
question at her heart found its way to her lips: "Aunty, where are the
girls?"
"The girls," said aunty in her pleasant, decided voice, "are gone to
Niagara for two or three days. A party was made up for some friends of
your cousin May's who are staying with us, and Bess and Jean and Lena
went too. They will be back day after to-morrow, and meanwhile you will
have a chance to get thoroughly rested."
"Gone to Niagara!" exclaimed Emmy. "Oh, why didn't they wait till I
came!"
"That would not have been possible, my dear," said her aunt. "The
Jarvises, for whom the party was made, only stay with us till next
Thursday, and May expects other guests early in the week, so she could
not be away later." Then some one called her, and Aunt Emma went away,
just saying kindly as she walked off, "Make a good breakfast, dear!"
Poor Emmy! she was too hungry not to eat, but the meal was literally
mingled with tears. She sobbed with each mouthful, and more than one
salt drop hopped down her nose to flavor the baked pear. It was foolish
of her, I admit, but disappointments are hard to bear when one is only
fourteen years old and very tired into the bargain, and this was a
really great disappointment. Three whole days all alone with aunty, and
the others away enjoying themselves at Niagara without her! She was
rather afraid of her aunt, and, though very desirous to win her good
opinion, this hidden fear made Emmy so shy and awkward that she never
appeared at her best when in her company.
Sadly and languidly she got up and began to dress, feeling as if the
heart was taken out of everything. Raising the lid of the soap-dish,
there on the nice little pink cake of soap lay a note with "Emmy"
written on it. Much wondering, she opened. It was from her sister Bess,
and it read:--
"DEAR EMMY,--Don't be poky because you find us
gone. It's only for a day or two, and we shall be
back almost before you miss us." ("Not much chance
of that!" reflected Emmy, dolorously.) "Be a good
girl, laugh and talk with aunty, pet Uncle Tom,
_don't poke_, and be glad to see us on Saturday
night.
"Your loving
"BESS."
"How can I help poking, and what does she mean anyway?" thought Emmy.
However, this proof that she had been remembered cheered her a little,
and she went on with her dressing in better spirits. A long folded slip
of paper was pinned round the handle of the water-jug. Another note!
from Jean this time.
"DEAR LITTLE EMMY," (Emmy was half a head taller
than Jean!)--"We hate to go away and leave you,
and we wouldn't if it were not so perfectly
splendid to see Niagara. It won't be long before
we come back, and you mustn't be lonely. Aunty is
so nice, and, dear, if only you wouldn't be afraid
of her! She doesn't like shy people, so don't be
shy. There's a lovely story-book in the bookcase
in the dining-room: 'The Dove in the Eagle's
Nest.' It's on the third shelf from the top. Do
read it while we are away! You will like it, I am
sure.
"Your affectionate
"JEAN."
Jean was the kindest little soul in the world, but this hint about Aunt
Emma's not liking shy people was a mistake. It made Emmy more frightened
and ill at ease than ever.
Washing over, she went to the dressing-table to braid her hair. Behold!
another billet on the pincushion. This was in rhyme:--
"O Emmy tall, O Emmy fair,
Don't forget to brush your hair.
Pin your ruffle neat and straight,
Be down to breakfast at half-past eight;
Don't crook your shoulders when you sit down,
Don't rip the gathers of your gown,
Don't set up to be lonesome, pray,
Because we girls are gone away,
But cheer up auntie and Uncle Tom,
And we'll be back anon, anon!"
"ANON-Y-MOUS."
This made Emmy smile, and she did her hair quite cheerfully. When she
opened the top drawer to put away her comb and brush, she spied a small
parcel directed to herself, and laid there to catch her eye. She gave a
little laugh. How nice in the girls to do this for her!
The parcel was from Lena. It contained a very pretty velvet pincushion,
mounted on a fluted shell, and a note.
"DEAR EMMY,--We are _so_ sorry not to be here when
you come, but we shall only be gone a little
while. Marian Jarvis is such a nice girl! She
wants to see you _dreadfully_. I do hope you will
like her. You must do everything pleasant that you
can think of till we come back.
"Your loving
"LENA."
One more surprise awaited Emmy. She was just leaving the room when she
spied a large piece of brown paper pinned to the wall. On it was the
following mysterious inscription,--
"N. E. corner of room, under edge of carpet. Search rewarded."
It took her some time to make out which was the northeast corner; when
at last she identified it, all that appeared from under the carpet was a
similar bit of paper with another mysterious inscription,--
"S. W. corner of room, under edge of carpet. Search rewarded."
The reward of search in this instance was a long narrow parcel
containing two brand-new hair-pins and a single line of writing,--
"Behind looking-glass on bureau."
Highly diverted, Emmy hastened to tip the glass, and there, stored away
behind it, she beheld a small white jam-pot. A label tucked in between
lid and jar said succinctly,--
"Plum jam at bedtime eaten with a hair-pin is _goloptious_! Try it!"
All these jokes and surprises raised Emmy's spirits so that she ran
down-stairs quite gleefully. But there things went wrong again. Aunt
Emma was deep in household accounts. She nodded kindly to Emmy and said
a few pleasant words; then she became absorbed in her reckonings and
forgot her for the moment. Emmy was by no means one of those children
who can be trusted to entertain themselves _in the room where any one
else is sitting_. She was too self-conscious, too apt to imagine that
people were criticising what she did or said. She wanted to ramble about
the house and identify the things and places she had heard described,
and if she had done this simply and naturally as Jean would, or Bess, no
one would have been disturbed, least of all Aunt Emma. But a sense of
shy awkwardness prevented, and what she did was to wait till her aunt
was in the very middle of a long column of figures, and then say
timidly,--
"Aunt Emma, may I--may I--go into the dining-room?"
Mrs. Elliott stopped, lost her count, and after trying in vain to
recover it, said with a little natural impatience,--
"My dear, never interrupt any one who is adding up a sum, if you can
help it. You have lost me all my last ten minutes' work. What did you
say? go into the dining-room? why, of course, go just where you like."
Then she began to cipher again.
This was quite enough to make Emmy miserable. She had done wrong. She
had put Aunt Emma out. Aunt Emma did not love her. She never would love
her as she loved the other girls! These reflections passed through her
mind as she sat before the glass door of the bookcase, not even trying
to look up the story which Jean had recommended. Uncle Tom coming into
the room noticed her melancholy attitude, and said in his hearty voice,
"Well, my little maid, you look dumpy. All your contemporaries gone,
heh! Never mind; they will all be back soon, and meanwhile you must
cheer up the old folks." Jean or Bess would have dimpled and giggled at
such an address, and perhaps run across the room and given Uncle Tom a
kiss; but Emmy only shrank a little and said nothing; so that her uncle,
as he drank his glass of Apollinaris water, said to himself, "A sulky
child, I'm afraid." So easy it is to be misjudged in this world.
At dinner, Emmy's evil angel took possession of her again. She answered
in monosyllables when her uncle and aunt spoke to her, and poked her
food into her mouth with a nervous haste which brought on a fit of
choking. This mortified her deeply, for she imagined that Aunt Emma was
thinking, "What an ill-mannered girl she is!" whereas Aunt Emma was
really thinking, "Poor thing! what can I do to make her feel more
comfortable?" It would be a convenience, sometimes, if we might have
glass panes in our hearts, so that people could look in and see what we
are really feeling.
The evening seemed dreadfully long. Emmy pretended to read "The Dove in
the Eagle's Nest," but a sort of spell of stiff misery was over her all
the while. She was conscious of her knees and elbows, her upper lip kept
twitching, she neither acted nor spoke naturally. Mrs. Elliott pitied
her, but she could not help saying to herself, "What a self-conscious
child she is; how different from Jean and Bess!" And what was worse,
Emmy suspected that aunty was thinking exactly that, and suffered
accordingly.
Tom came home next day. He was an immensely tall, handsome, good-natured
young man. Bess and Jean adored him, and were always telling stories
about the things he said and did, but to Emmy he seemed a formidable
person. He was fond of teasing and of banter, and it was another of his
peculiarities to be particularly observant about a lady's dress. He
noticed at once that the braid was ripped off the edge of Emmy's skirt
so as to form a dangerous little loop, and told her of it. She went away
at once, and sewed it fast, but she felt disgraced somehow, and marked
out as a slattern, and could not help shedding a few tears as she
worked. Then Tom, who saw everything, observed the red marks under her
eyes, and the melancholy droop of her mouth, and he too set her down as
sulky, and, supposing that she had taken offence at some of his harmless
pleasantries, forbore to joke with her thenceforward. This made her sure
that Tom did not like her either, which was another affliction, for
Emmy was most anxious to be taken into the circle of his pets and
favorites.
In the afternoon she had another mishap. Aunt Emma sent her to get a
paper out of her writing-desk, and Emmy somehow managed to hamper the
lock so that the key could not be turned. Nobody scolded her, but Mrs.
Elliott looked sorry and perplexed, as well she might, with the nearest
locksmith twenty miles distant, and Emmy felt that her cup of misfortune
was full. That night she cried herself to sleep.
On the third day the party from Niagara came back, and the house all in
a moment seemed to fill with bright life and gayety. Cousin May's
friends, the Jarvises, were handsome, well-bred girls, with a great deal
of air and style about all their appointments. Cousin May herself was a
belle and beauty, and had always been the object of Emmy's wildest
admiration. Several gentlemen were of the party, and there were Jean and
Bess running about with the rest, on the friendliest terms with
everybody, and as much at home as Lena. It made Emmy feel left out and
lonely, for her shyness was by no means lessened by the arrival of all
these strangers, and she had the painful sensation of being separated
from the others by a sort of invisible wall, which she could not, and
they would not, pass over. Jean and Bess did what they could to cheer
her, but a great deal was going on in the large gay household, and they
had not much time to spare for the little sister who could not explain
even to herself why she felt so forlorn.
Lady Blacksnake was supposed to be Lena's own particular pony. Lena had
a little wagon of her own too; and on Monday she took Emmy out with her.
This went delightfully till, as they were coming home late in the
afternoon, Emmy coaxed Lena to let her drive. What she did to Lady
Blacksnake no one ever knew, but all in one minute that excellent animal
put her head down and ran away.
"Oh," screamed Emmy, "shall we jump out?"
"No," said Lena, perfectly calm, though her face was very white. "Saw
her mouth."
So she took one rein, and Emmy the other, and they sawed Lady
Blacksnake's mouth with hard, regular pulls, till the wild pace
slackened first to a gallop and then to a trot, and they were going
along at their old rate, only Lady Blacksnake's heaving flanks and their
own frightened countenances telling the tale of their late danger. It
was real danger, for once during the run the hind wheel absolutely
grazed the edge of a sharp bank, and had they met another carriage they
could scarcely have escaped a collision; but they both agreed to make as
light of the incident as they could when they got home, lest they should
be forbidden to go out again by themselves. Their account of the
accident therefore was given with a levity which quite angered Uncle
Tom.
"Upon my word, young ladies," he said severely, "you seem to think it a
fine thing to have been in danger of your lives. If you had really
broken all your bones it would have been funnier still, I suppose. What
on earth _are_ you laughing at?" for somehow this address tickled the
girls' half-hysterical mood into paroxysms of giggling which continued
till they cried, and the more Uncle Tom frowned the more they giggled.
Aunt Emma saw how it was, and ordered them off to bed, and next morning
the reaction had come, and they were pale and nervous and depressed
enough to please the most exacting friend who might be anxious to make
them "sensible of their escape."
Wednesday, the day before the Jarvises were to leave, had been set aside
for a picnic. Emmy had looked forward eagerly to this; so you can
imagine her feelings when on Tuesday a hard toothache set in which kept
her awake all night, and left her next morning still in such pain and
with such a swollen face that it was manifestly impossible for her to
leave the house. Kind little Jean offered to give up the picnic and stay
at home with her; but neither Emmy nor Aunt Emma would hear of this,
and it ended in everybody's going and leaving her in the care of old
Eliza, aunty's housekeeper, who had been nurse to all the children in
turn, from Tom to Lena, and liked nothing better than a chance to cuddle
and cosset any one who was ill.
Her warm fomentations and roasted raisins and pettings and pattings were
so effectual that by afternoon Emmy felt quite comfortable again. She
grew very fond of kind old Eliza, and her heart being opened by the
situation, she ended by telling her how miserable and "unlucky" she had
been all the week.
"And indeed I can't see any reason for it, though I'm sorry enough it is
so, Miss Emmy," declared Eliza when she had listened to the tale. "Never
any young person came here before who didn't look upon this house as a
kind of a paradise."
"I know. That's just the way Jean and Bess feel. But then they are
different from me. Everybody likes them," said Emmy.
"And pray why shouldn't they like yourself, miss, I'd like to ask?"
"I--don't--know," slowly. "I'm always getting into scrapes and making
mistakes, and things don't happen nicely with me as they do with them.
Just think of all the misfortunes I've had this week since I came! My
train was late, and I was all tired out, and the girls went to Niagara
without me, and I broke Aunt Emma's lock, and the horse ran away, and
now this toothache! I am _very_ unfortunate."
"Well, I _have_ heard of other people's trains being late afore now,"
replied Eliza, dryly. "And though I'm sorry you didn't have the trip
with the rest, miss, it wasn't nobody's fault that you didn't come in
time. It was a pity about the lock, to be sure--the Madam hasn't got it
open yet, I know--but so far as the horse goes, it's no more than I'm
always expecting, letting Miss Lena drive out by herself with them
vicious little rats of ponies. And God sent your toothache, miss, I
suppose you know that."
"Well, God made me shy, too, I suppose, and that's my worst misfortune
of all," declared Emmy.