NEWS.
November had come. It was early in the month still; yet, as often
happens, the season was thoroughly defined already. Later, perhaps,
some sweet relics or reminders of October would come in, or days of the
soberer charm which October's successor often brings; but just now, a
grey sky and a brown earth and a wind with no tenderness in it banished
all thought of such pleasant times. The day was dark and gloomy. So the
fire which burned bright in the kitchen of Mrs. Armadale's house showed
particularly bright, and its warm reflections were exceedingly welcome
both to the eye and to the mind. It was a wood fire, in an open
chimney, for Mrs. Armadale would sit by no other; and I call the place
the kitchen, for really a large portion of the work of the kitchen was
done there; however, there was a stove in an adjoining room, which
accommodated most of the boilers and kettles in use, while the room
itself was used for all the "mussy" work. Nevertheless, it was only
upon occasion that fire was kindled in that outer room, economy in fuel
forbidding that two fires should be all the while kept going.
In the sitting-room kitchen, then, this November afternoon, the whole
family were assembled. The place was as nice as a pin, and as neat as
if no work were ever done there. All the work of the day, indeed, was
over; and even Miss Charity had come to sit down with the rest,
knitting in hand. They had all changed their dresses and put off their
big aprons, and looked unexceptionably nice and proper; only, it is
needless to say, with no attempt at a fashionable appearance. Their
gowns were calico; collars and cuffs of plain linen; and the white
aprons they all wore were not fine nor ornamented. Only the old lady,
who did no housework any longer, was dressed in a stuff gown, and wore
an apron of black silk. Charity, as I said, was knitting; so was her
grandmother. Madge was making more linen collars. Lois sat by her
grandmother's chair, for the minute doing nothing.
"What do you expect to do for a bonnet, Lois?" Charity broke the
silence.
"Or I either?" put in Madge. "Or you yourself, Charity? We are all in
the same box."
"I wish our hats were!" said the elder sister.
"I have not thought much about it," Lois answered. "I suppose, if
necessary, I shall wear my straw."
"Then you'll have nothing to wear in the summer! It's robbing Peter to
pay Paul."
"Well," said Lois, smiling,--"if Paul's turn comes first. I cannot look
so long ahead as next summer."
"It'll be here before you can turn round," said Charity, whose knitting
needles flew without her having any occasion to watch them. "And then,
straw is cold in winter."
"I can tie a comforter over my ears."
"That would look poverty-stricken."
"I suppose," said Madge slowly, "that is what we are. It looks like it,
just now."
"'The Lord maketh poor and maketh rich,'" Mrs. Armadale said.
"Yes, mother," said Charity; "but our cow died because she was tethered
carelessly."
"And our hay failed because there was no rain," Madge added. "And our
apples gave out because they killed themselves with bearing last year."
"You forget, child, it is the Lord 'that giveth rain, both the former
and the latter, in his season.'"
"But he _didn't_ give it, mother; that's what I'm talking about;
neither the former _nor_ the latter; though what that means, I'm sure I
don't know; we have it all the year round, most years."
"Then be contented if a year comes when he does not send it."
"Grandmother, it'll do for you to talk; but what are we girls going to
do without bonnets?"
"Do without," said Lois archly, with the gleam of her eye and the arch
of her pretty brow which used now and then to bewitch poor Tom
Caruthers.
"We have hardly apples to make sauce of," Charity went on. "If it had
been a good year, we could have got our bonnets with our apples,
nicely. Now, I don't see where they are to come from."
"Don't wish for what the Lord don't send, child," said Mrs. Armadale.
"O mother! that's a good deal to ask," cried Charity. "It's very well
for you, sitting in your arm-chair all the year round; but we have to
put our heads out; and for one, I'd rather have something on them.
Lois, haven't you got anything to do, that you sit there with your
hands in your lap?"
"I am going to the post-office," said Lois, rising; "the train's in. I
heard the whistle."
The village street lay very empty, this brown November day; and so, to
Lois's fancy, lay the prospect of the winter. Even so; brown and
lightless, with a chill nip in the air that dampened rather than
encouraged energy. She was young and cheery-tempered; but perhaps there
was a shimmer yet in her memory of the colours on the Isles of Shoals;
at any rate the village street seemed dull to her and the day
forbidding. She walked fast, to stir her spirits. The country around
Shampuashuh is flat; never a hill or lofty object of any kind rose upon
her horizon to suggest wider look-outs and higher standing-points than
her present footing gave her. The best she could see was a glimpse of
the distant Connecticut, a little light blue thread afar off; and I
cannot tell why, what she thought of when she saw it was Tom Caruthers.
I suppose Tom was associated in her mind with any wider horizon than
Shampuashuh street afforded. Anyhow, Mr. Caruthers' handsome face came
be fore her; and a little, a very little, breath of regret escaped her,
because it was a face she would see no more. Yet why should she wish to
see it? she asked herself. Mr. Caruthers could be nothing to her; he
_never_ could be anything to her; for he knew not and cared not to know
either the joys or the obligations of religion, in which Lois's whole
life was bound up. However, though he could be nothing to her, Lois had
a woman's instinctive perception that she herself was, or had been,
something to him; and that is an experience a simple girl does not
easily forget. She had a kindness for him, and she was pretty sure he
had more than a kindness for her, or would have had, if his sister had
let him alone. Lois went back to her Appledore experiences, revolving
and studying them, and understanding them a little better now, she
thought, than at the time. At the time she had not understood them at
all. It was just as well! she said to herself. She could never have
married him. But why did his friends not want him to marry her? She was
in the depths of this problem when she arrived at the post-office.
The post-office was in the further end of a grocery store, or rather a
store of varieties, such as country villages find convenient. From
behind a little lattice the grocer's boy handed her a letter, with the
remark that she was in luck to-day. Lois recognized Mrs. Wishart's
hand, and half questioned the assertion. What was this? a new
invitation? That cannot be, thought Lois; I was with her so long last
winter, and now this summer again for weeks and weeks-- And, anyhow, I
could not go if she asked me. I could not even get a bonnet to go in;
and I could not afford the money for the journey.
She hoped it was not an invitation. It is hard to have the cup set to
your lips, if you are not to drink it; any cup; and a visit to Mrs.
Wishart was a very sweet cup to Lois. The letter filled her thoughts
all the way home; and she took it to her own room at once, to have the
pleasure, or the pain, mastered before she told of it to the rest of
the family. But in a very few minutes Lois came flying down-stairs,
with light in her eyes and a sudden colour in her cheeks.
"Girls, I've got some news for you!" she burst in.
Charity dropped her knitting in her lap. Madge, who was setting the
table for tea, stood still with a plate in her hand. All eyes were on
Lois.
"Don't say news never comes! We've got it to-day."
"What? Who is the letter from?" said Charity.
"The letter is from Mrs. Wishart, but that does not tell you anything."
"O, if it is from Mrs. Wishart, I suppose the news only concerns you,"
said Madge, setting down her plate.
"Mistaken!" cried Lois. "It concerns us all. Madge, don't go off. It is
such a big piece of news that I do not know how to begin to give it to
you; it seems as if every side of it was too big to take hold of for a
handle. Mother, listen, for it concerns you specially."
"I hear, child." And Mrs. Armadale looked interested and curious.
"It's delightful to have you all looking like that," said Lois, "and to
know it's not for nothing. You'll look more 'like that' when I've told
you--if ever I can begin."
"My dear, you are quite excited," said the old lady.
"Yes, grandmother, a little. It's so seldom that anything happens,
here."
"The days are very good, when nothing happens. I think," said the old
lady softly.
"And now something has really happened--for once. Prick up your ears,
Charity! Ah, I see they are pricked up already," Lois went on merrily.
"Now listen. This letter is from Mrs. Wishart."
"She wants you again!" cried Madge.
"Nothing of the sort. She asks--"
"Why don't you read the letter?"
"I will; but I want to tell you first. She says there is a certain
friend of a friend of hers--a very nice person, a widow lady, who would
like to live in the country if she could find a good place; and Mrs.
Wishart wants to know, if _we_ would like to have her in our house."
"To board?" cried Madge.
Lois nodded, and watched the faces around her.
"We never did that before," said Madge.
"No. The question is, whether we will do it now."
"Take her to board!" repeated Charity. "It would be a great bother.
What room would you give her?"
"Rooms. She wants two. One for a sitting-room."
"Two! We couldn't, unless we gave her our best parlour, and had none
for ourselves. _That_ wouldn't do."
"Unless she would pay for it," Lois suggested.
"How much would she pay? Does Mrs. Wishart say?"
"Guess, girls! She would pay--twelve dollars a week."
Charity almost jumped from her chair. Madge stood leaning with her
hands upon the table and stared at her sister. Only the old grandmother
went on now quietly with her knitting. The words were re-echoed by both
sisters.
"Twelve dollars a week! Fifty dollars a month!" cried Madge, and
clapped her hands. "We can have bonnets all round; and the hay and the
apples won't matter. Fifty dollars a month! Why, Lois!--"
"It would be an awful bother," said Charity.
"Mrs. Wishart says not. At least she says this lady--this Mrs.
Barclay--is a delightful person, and we shall like her so much we shall
not mind the trouble. Besides, I do not think it will be so much
trouble. And we do not use our parlour much. I'll read you the letter
now."
So she did; and then followed an eager talk.
"She is a city body, of course. Do you suppose she will be contented
with our ways of going on?" Charity queried.
"What ways do you mean?"
"Well--will our table suit her?"
"We can make it suit her," said Madge. "Just think--with fifty dollars
a month--"
"But we're not going to keep a cook," Charity went on. "I won't do
that. I can do _all_ the work of the house, but I can't do half of it.
And if I do the cooking, I shall do it just as I have always done it. I
can't go to fussing. It'll be country ways she'll be treated to; and
the question is, how she'll like 'em?"
"She can try," said Lois.
"And then, maybe she'll be somebody that'll take airs."
"Perhaps," said Lois, laughing; "but not likely. What if she did,
Charity? That would be her affair."
"It would be my affair to bear it," said Charity grimly.
"Daughters," said Mrs. Armadale gently, "suppose we have some tea."
This suggestion brought all to their bearings. Madge set the table
briskly, Charity made the tea, Lois cut bread and made toast; and
presently talking and eating went on in the harmonious combination
which is so agreeable.
"If she comes," said Lois, "there must be curtains to the parlour
windows. I can make some of chintz, that will look pretty and not cost
much. And there must be a cover for the table."
"Why must there? The table is nice mahogany," said Charity.
"It looks cold and bare so. All tables in use have covers, at Mrs.
Wishart's."
"I don't see any sense in that. What's the good of it?"
"Looks pretty and comfortable."
"That's nothing but a notion. I don't believe in notions. You'll tell
me next our steel forks won't do."
"Well, I do tell you that. Certainly they will not do, to a person
always accustomed to silver."
"That's nothing but uppishness, Lois. I can't stand that sort of thing.
Steel's _just_ as good as silver, only it don't cost so much; that's
all."
"It don't taste as well."
"You don't need to eat your fork."
"No, but you have to touch your lips to it."
"How does that hurt you, I want to know?"
"It hurts my taste," said Lois; "and so it is uncomfortable. If Mrs.
Barclay comes, I should certainly get some plated forks. Half a dozen
would not cost much."
"Mother," said Charity, "speak to Lois! She's getting right worldly, I
think. Set her right, mother!"
"It is something I don't understand," said the old lady gravely. "Steel
forks were good enough for anybody in the land, when I was young. I
don't see, for my part, why they ain't just as good now."
Lois wisely left this question unanswered.
"But you think we ought to let this lady come, mother, don't you?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Armadale, "I think it's a providence!"
"And it won't worry you, grandmother, will it?"
"I hope not. If she's agreeable, she may do us good; and if she's
disagreeable, we may do her good."
"That's grandma all over!" exclaimed Charity; "but if she's
disagreeable, I'll tell you what, girls, I'd rather scrub floors.
'Tain't my vocation to do ugly folks good."
"Charity," said Mrs. Armadale, "it _is_ your vocation. It is what
everybody is called to do."
"It's what you've been trying to do to me all my life, ain't it?" said
Charity, laughing. "But you've got to keep on, mother; it ain't done
yet. But I declare! there ought to be somebody in a house who can be
disagreeable by spells, or the rest of the world'd grow rampant."