"No," answered Hesse. "He died in Madeira, and was buried there; and
quite a long time afterward, Grandmamma married my grandfather. I'm so
fond of that queer old brooch, I like to wear it sometimes."
"How _does_ it look?" demanded Pauline.
"You shall see for yourself, for I'll wear it to-night," said Hesse.
And when Hesse came down to dinner with the quaint ornament shining
against her white neck on a bit of black velvet ribbon, even Pauline
owned that the effect was not bad,--queer, of course, and unlike other
people's things, but certainly not bad.
Mrs. De Lancey had a quick eye for character, and she noted with
satisfaction that her young cousin was neither vexed at, nor affected
by, her cousins' criticisms on her outfit. Hesse saw for herself that
her things were unusual, and not in the prevailing style, but she knew
them to be handsome of their kind, and she loved them as a part of her
old home. There was, too, in her blood a little of the family pride
which had made Aunt say, "The Reinikes know what is proper, I hope." So
she wore her odd fur and made-over silks and the old laces with no sense
of being ill-dressed, and that very fact "carried it off," and made her
seem well dressed. Cousin Julia saw that her wardrobe was sufficiently
modernized not to look absurd, or attract too much attention, and there
was something in Hesse's face and figure which suited the character of
her clothes. People took notice of this or that, now and again,--said it
was pretty, and where could they get such a thing?--and, flattery of
flatteries, some of the girls copied her effects!
"Estelle Morgan says, if you don't mind, she means to have a ball-dress
exactly like that blue one of yours," Pauline told her one day.
"Oh, how funny! Aunt's wedding-gown made up with surah!" cried Hesse.
"Do you remember how you laughed at the idea, Polly, and said it would
be horrid?"
"Yes, and I did think so," said Polly; "but somehow it looks very nice
on you. When it is hanging up in the closet, I don't care much for it."
"Well, luckily, no one need look at it when it is hanging up in the
closet," retorted Hesse, laughing.
Her freshness, her sweet temper, and bright capacity for enjoyment had
speedily made Hesse a success among the young people of her cousins'
set. Girls liked her, and ran after her as a social favorite; and she
had flowers and german favors and flatteries enough to spoil her, had
she been spoilable. But she kept a steady head through all these
distractions, and never forgot, however busy she might be, to send off
the long journal-letter, which was the chief weekly event to Uncle and
Aunt.
Three months had been the time fixed for Hesse's stay in New York, but,
without her knowledge, Mrs. De Lancey had written to beg for a little
extension. Gayeties thickened as Lent drew near, and there was one
special fancy dress ball, at Mrs. Shuttleworth's, about which Hesse had
heard a great deal, and which she had secretly regretted to lose. She
was, therefore, greatly delighted at a letter from Aunt, giving her
leave to stay a fortnight longer.
"Uncle will come for you on Shrove-Tuesday," wrote her Aunt. "He has
some business to attend to, so he will stay over till Thursday, and you
can take your pleasure till the last possible moment."
"How lovely!" cried Hesse. "How good of you to write, Cousin Julia, and
I _am_ so pleased to go to Mrs. Shuttleworth's ball!"
"What will you wear?" asked Pauline.
"Oh, I haven't thought of that, yet. I must invent something, for I
don't wish to buy another dress, I have had so many things already."
"Now, Hesse, you can't invent anything. It's impossible to make a fancy
dress out of the ragbag," said Pauline, whose ideas were all of an
expensive kind.
"We shall see," said Hesse. "I think I shall keep my costume as a
surprise,--except from you, Cousin Julia. I shall want you to help me,
but none of the others shall know anything about it till I come
down-stairs."
This was a politic move on the part of Hesse. She was resolved to spend
no money, for she knew that her winter had cost more than Uncle had
expected, and more than it might be convenient for him to spare; yet she
wished to avert discussion and remonstrance, and at the same time to
prevent Mrs. De Lancey from giving her a new dress, which was very often
that lady's easy way of helping Hesse out of her toilet difficulties. So
a little seamstress was procured, and Cousin Julia taken into counsel.
Hesse kept her door carefully locked for a day or two; and when, on the
evening of the party, she came down attired as "My great-grandmother,"
in a short-waisted, straight-skirted white satin; with a big
ante-revolutionary hat tied under her dimpled chin; a fichu of mull,
embroidered in colored silks, knotted across her breast; long white silk
mittens, and a reticule of pearl beads hanging from her girdle,--even
Pauline could find no fault. The costume was as becoming as it was
queer; and all the girls told Hesse that she had never looked so well in
her life.
Eight or ten particular friends of Pauline and Grace had arranged to
meet at the De Lanceys', and all start together for the ball. The room
was quite full of gay figures as "My great-grandmother" came down; it
was one of those little moments of triumph which girls prize. The
door-bell rang as she slowly turned before the throng, to exhibit the
back of the wonderful gored and plaited skirt. There was a little
colloquy in the hall, the butler opened the door, and in walked a figure
which looked singularly out of place among the pretty, fantastic,
girlish forms,--a tall, spare, elderly figure, in a coat of
old-fashioned cut. A carpet-bag was in his hand. He was no other than
Uncle, come a day before he was expected.
His entrance made a little pause.
"What an extraordinary-looking person!" whispered Maud Ashurst to
Pauline, who colored, hesitated, and did not, for a moment, know what to
do. Hesse, standing with her back to the door, had seen nothing; but,
struck by the silence, she turned. A meaner nature than hers might have
shared Pauline's momentary embarrassment, but there was not a mean fibre
in the whole of Hesse's frank, generous being.
"Uncle! dear Uncle!" she cried; and, running forward, she threw her arms
around the lean old neck, and gave him half a dozen of her warmest
kisses.
"It is my uncle," she explained to the others. "We didn't expect him
till to-morrow; and isn't it too delightful that he should come in time
to see us all in our dresses!"
Then she drew him this way and that, introducing him to all her
particular friends, chattering, dimpling, laughing with such evident
enjoyment, such an assured sense that it was the pleasantest thing
possible to have her uncle there, that every one else began to share it.
The other girls, who, with a little encouragement, a little reserve and
annoyed embarrassment on the part of Hesse, would have voted Uncle "a
countrified old quiz," and, while keeping up the outward forms of
civility, would have despised him in their hearts, infected by Hesse's
sweet happiness, began to talk to him with the wish to please, and
presently to discover how pleasant his face was, and how shrewd and
droll his ideas and comments; and it ended by all pronouncing him an
"old dear,"--so true it is that genuine and unaffected love and respect
carry weight with them for all the rest of the world.
Uncle was immensely amused by the costumes. He recalled the fancy balls
of his youth, and gave the party some ideas on dress which had never
occurred to any of them before. He could not at all understand the
principle of selection on which the different girls had chosen their
various characters.
"That gypsy queen looked as if she ought to be teaching a
Sunday-school," he told Hesse afterward. "Little Red Riding Hood was too
big for her wolf; and as for that scampish little nun of yours, I don't
believe the stoutest convent ever built could hold her in for half a
day."
"Come with us to Mrs. Shuttleworth's. It will be a pretty scene, and
something for you to tell Cousin Marianne about when you go back," urged
Mrs. De Lancey.
"Oh, do, do!" chimed in Hesse. "It will be twice as much fun if you are
there, Uncle!"
But Uncle was tired by his journey, and would not consent; and I am
afraid that Pauline and Grace were a little relieved by his decision.
False shame and the fear of "people" are powerful influences.
Three days later, Hesse's long, delightful visit ended, and she was
speeding home under Uncle's care.
"You must write and invite some of those fine young folk to come up to
see you in June," he told her.
"That will be delightful," said Hesse. But when she came to think about
it later, she was not so sure about its being delightful.
There is nothing like a long absence from home to open one's eyes to the
real aspect of familiar things. The Sparlings-Neck house looked wofully
plain and old-fashioned, even to Hesse, when contrasted with the
elegance of Madison Avenue; how much more so, she reflected, would it
look to the girls!
She thought of Uncle's after-dinner pipe; of the queer little chamber,
opening from the dining-room, where he and Aunt chose to sleep; of the
green-painted woodwork of the spare bedrooms, and the blue paper-shades,
tied up with a cord, which Aunt clung to because they were in fashion
when she was a girl; and for a few foolish moments she felt that she
would rather not have her friends come at all, than have them come to
see all this, and perhaps make fun of it. Only for a few moments; then
her more generous nature asserted itself with a bound.
"How mean of me to even think of such a thing!" she told herself,
indignantly,--"to feel ashamed to have people know what my own home is
like, and Uncle and Aunt, who are so good to me! Hesse Reinike, I should
like to hire some one to give you a good whipping! The girls _shall_
come, and I'll make the old house look just as sweet as I can, and they
shall like it, and have a beautiful time from the moment they come till
they go away, if I can possibly give it to them."
To punish herself for what she considered an unworthy feeling, she
resolved not to ask Aunt to let her change the blue paper-shades for
white curtains, but to have everything exactly as it usually was. But
Aunt had her own ideas and her pride of housekeeping to consider. As the
time of the visit drew near, laundering and bleaching seemed to be
constantly going on, and Jane, the old housemaid, was kept busy tacking
dimity valances and fringed hangings on the substantial four-post
bedsteads, and arranging fresh muslin covers over the toilet-tables.
Treasures unknown to Hesse were drawn out of their receptacles,--bits of
old embroidery, tamboured tablecloths and "crazy quilts," vases and
bow-pots of pretty old china for the bureaus and chimney-pieces. Hesse
took a long drive to the woods, and brought back great masses of ferns,
pink azalea, and wild laurel. All the neighbors' gardens were laid under
contribution. When all was in order, with ginger-jars full of cool white
daisies and golden buttercups standing on the shining mahogany tables,
bunches of blue lupines on the mantel, the looking-glasses wreathed with
traveller's joy, a great bowl full of early roses and quantities of
lilies-of-the-valley, the old house looked cosey enough and smelt sweet
enough to satisfy the most fastidious taste.
Hesse drove over with Uncle to the station to meet her guests. They took
the big carryall, which, with squeezing, would hold seven; and a wagon
followed for the luggage. There were five girls coming; for, besides
Pauline and Grace, Hesse had invited Georgie Berrian, Maud Ashurst, and
Ella Waring, who were the three special favorites among her New York
friends.
The five flocked out of the train, looking so dainty and stylish that
they made the old carryall seem shabbier than ever by contrast. Maud
Ashurst cast one surprised look at it and at the old white mare,--she
had never seen just such a carriage before; but the quality of the
equipage was soon forgotten, as Uncle twitched the reins, and they
started down the long lane-like road which led to Sparlings-Neck and was
Hesse's particular delight.
The station and the dusty railroad were forgotten almost
immediately,--lost in the sense of complete country freshness. On either
hand rose tangled banks of laurel and barberries, sweet-ferns and
budding grapevines, overarched by tall trees, and sending out delicious
odors; while mingling with and blending all came, borne on a shoreward
wind, the strong salt fragrance of the sea.
"What is it? What can it be? I never smelt anything like it!" cried the
girls from the city.
"Now, girls," cried Hesse, turning her bright face around from the
driver's seat, "this is real, absolute country, you know,--none of the
make-believes which you get at Newport or up the Hudson. Everything we
have is just as queer and old-fashioned as it can be. You won't be asked
to a single party while you are here, and there isn't the ghost of a
young man in the neighborhood. Well, yes, there may be a ghost, but
there is no young man. You must just make up your minds, all of you, to
a dull time, and then you'll find that it's lovely."
"It's sure to be lovely wherever you are, you dear thing!" declared Ella
Waring, with a little rapturous squeeze.
I fancy that, just at first, the city girls did think the place very
queer. None of them had ever seen just such an old house as the
Reinikes' before. The white wainscots with their toothed mouldings
matched by the cornices above, the droll little cupboards in the walls,
the fire-boards pasted with gay pictures, the queer closets and
clothes-presses occurring just where no one would naturally have looked
for them, and having, each and all, an odd shut-up odor, as of by-gone
days,--all seemed very strange to them. But the flowers and the green
elms and Hesse's warm welcome were delightful; so were Aunt's waffles
and wonderful tarts, the strawberries smothered in country cream, and
the cove oysters and clams which came in, deliciously stewed, for tea;
and they soon pronounced the visit "a lark," and Sparlings-Neck a
paradise.
There were long drives in the woods, picnics in the pine groves,
bathing-parties on the beach, morning sittings under the trees with an
interesting book; and when a northeaster came, and brought with it what
seemed a brief return of winter, there was a crackling fire, a
candy-pull, and a charming evening spent in sitting on the floor
telling ghost-stories, with the room only lighted by the fitfully
blazing wood, and with cold creeps running down their backs! Altogether,
the fortnight was a complete success, and every one saw its end with
reluctance.
"I wish we were going to stay all summer!" said Georgie Berrian.
"Newport will seem stiff and tiresome after this."
"I never had so good a time,--never!" declared Ella. "And, Hesse, I do
think your aunt and uncle are the dearest old people I ever saw!" That
pleased Hesse most of all. But what pleased her still more was when,
after the guests were gone, and the house restored to its old order, and
the regular home life begun again, Uncle put his arm around her, and
gave her a kiss,--not a bedtime kiss, or one called for by any special
occasion, but an extra kiss, all of his own accord.
"A dear child," he said; "not a bit ashamed of the old folks, was she?
I liked that, Hesse."
"Ashamed of you and Aunt? I should think not!" answered Hesse, with a
flush.
Uncle gave a dry little chuckle.
"Well, well," he said, "some girls would have been; you weren't,--that's
all the difference. You're a good child, Hesse."
THE CORN-BALL MONEY, AND WHAT BECAME OF IT.
Dotty and Dimple were two little sisters, who looked so much alike that
most people took them for twins. They both had round faces, blue eyes,
straight brown hair, cut short in the neck, and cheeks as firm and pink
as fall apples; and, though Dotty was eleven months the oldest, Dimple
was the taller by half an inch, so that altogether it was very
confusing.
I don't believe any twins could love each other better than did these
little girls. Nobody ever heard them utter a quarrelsome word from the
time they waked in the morning, and began to chatter and giggle in bed
like two little squirrels, to the moment when they fell asleep at night,
with arms tight clasped round each other's necks. They liked the same
things, did the same things, and played together all day long without
being tired. Their father's farm was two miles from the nearest
neighbor, and three from the schoolhouse; so they didn't go to school,
and no little boys and girls ever came to see them.
Should you think it would be lonely to live so? Dotty and Dimple didn't.
They had each other for playmates, and all outdoors to play in, and that
was enough.
The farm was a wild, beautiful spot. A river ran round two sides of it;
and quite near the house it "met with an accident," as Dotty said; that
is, it tumbled over some high rocks in a waterfall, and then, picking
itself up, took another jump, and landed, all white and foaming, in a
deep wooded glen.
The water where it fell was dazzling with rainbows, like soap-bubbles;
and the pool at the bottom had the color of a green emerald, only that
all over the top little flakes of sparkling spray swam and glittered in
the sun. Altogether it was a wonderful place, and the children were
never tired of watching the cascade or hearing the rush and roar of its
leap.
All summer long city people, boarding in the village, six miles off,
would drive over to see the fall. This was very interesting, indeed!
Carryalls and big wagons would stop at the gate, and ladies get out,
with pretty round hats and parasols; and gentlemen, carrying canes; and
dear little children, in flounced and braided frocks. And they would all
come trooping up close by the house, on their way to see the view.
Sometimes, but not often, one would stop to get a drink of water or ask
the way. Dotty and Dimple liked very much to have them come. They would
hide, and peep out at the strangers, and make up all kinds of stories
about them; but they were too shy to come forward or let themselves be
seen. So the people from the city never guessed what bright eyes were
looking at them from behind the door or on the other side of the bushes.
But all the same, it was great fun for the children to have them come,
and they were always pleased when wheels were heard and wagons drove up
to the gate.
It was early last summer that a droll idea popped into Dotty's head. It
all came from a man who, walking past, and stopping to see the fall, sat
down a while to rest, and said to the farmer:--
"I should think you'd charge people something for looking at that ere
place, stranger."
"No," replied Dotty's father. "I don't calculate on asking folks nothing
for the use of their eyes."
"Well," said the man, getting up to go, "you might as well. It's what
folks is doing all over the country. If 't was mine, I'd fix up a lunch
or something, and fetch 'em that way."
But the farmer only laughed. That night, when Dotty and Dimple were in
bed, they began to whisper to each other about the man.
"Wasn't it funny," giggled Dimple, "his telling Pa to fix a lunch?"
"Yes," said Dotty. "But I'll tell you what, Dimple! when he said that, I
had such a nice plan come into my head. You know you and me can make
real nice corn-balls."
"'Course we can."
"Well, let's get Pa, or else Zach, to make us a little table,--out of
boards, you know; and let's put it on the bank, close to the place where
folks go to see the fall; and every day let's pop a lot of corn, and
make some balls, and set them on the table for the folks to eat. Don't
you think that would be nice?"
"I'm afraid Mother wouldn't let us have so much molasses," said the
practical Dimple.
"Oh, but don't you see I mean to have the folks _pay_ for 'em! We'll put
a paper on the table, with 'two cents apiece,' or something like that,
on it. And then they'll put the money on the table, and when they're
gone away we'll go and fetch it. Won't that be fun? Perhaps there'd be a
great, great deal,--most as much as a dollar!"
"Oh, no," cried Dimple, "not so much as _that_! But we might get a
greenback. How much is a greenback, Dot?"
"Oh, I don't know," replied Dotty. "A good deal, I know, but I guess it
isn't so much as a dollar."
The little sisters could hardly sleep that night, they were so excited
over their plan. Next morning they were up with the birds; and before
breakfast Mother, Father, and Zach, the hired man, had heard all about
the wonderful scheme.
Mother said she didn't mind letting them try; and Zach, who was very
fond of the children, promised to make the table the very first thing
after the big field was ploughed. And so he did; and a very nice table
it was, with four legs and a good stout top. Dotty and Dimple laughed
with pleasure when they saw it.
Zach set it on the bank just at the place where the people stood to look
at the view; and he drove a stake at each corner; and found some old
sheeting, and made a sort of tent over the table, so that the sun should
not shine under and melt the corn-balls. When it was all arranged, and
the table set out, with the corn-balls on one plate and maple-sugar
cakes on another, it looked very tempting, and the children were
extremely proud of it. Dotty cut a sheet of paper, and printed upon it
the following notice:
"Corn bals 2 sents apece.
Sugar 1 sent apece.
Plese help yure selfs and put the munney
on the table."
This was pinned to the tent, right over the table.
The first day four people came to visit the waterfall; and when the
children ran down to look, after they had driven away, half the
provisions were gone, and there on the table lay four shining five-cent
pieces! The next day was not so good; they only made four cents. And so
it went on all summer. Some days a good many people would come, and a
good many pennies be left on the table; and other days nobody would
come, and the wasps would eat the maple-sugar, and fly away without
paying anything at all. But little by little the tin box in Mother's
drawer got heavier and heavier, until at last, early in October, Dotty
declared that she was tired of making corn-balls, and she guessed the
city-folks were all gone home; and now wouldn't Mother please to count
the money, and see how much they had got?
So Mother emptied the tin box into her lap, with a great jingle of
pennies and rustling of fractional currency. And how much do you think
there was? Three dollars and seventy-eight cents! The seventy-eight
cents Mother said would just about pay for the molasses; so there were
three dollars all their own,--for Dotty and Dimple to spend as they
liked!
You should have seen them dance about the kitchen! Three dollars! Why,
it was a fortune! It would buy everything in the world! They had fifty
plans, at least, for spending it; and sat up so late talking them over,
and had such red cheeks and excited eyes, that Mother said she was
afraid they wouldn't sleep one wink all night. But, bless you! they did,
and were as bright as buttons in the morning.
For a week there was nothing talked about but the wonderful three
dollars. And then one evening Father, who had been over to the village,
came home with a very grave face, and, drawing a newspaper from his
pocket, read them all about the great fire in Chicago.
He read how the flames, spreading like wind, swept from one house to
another, and how people had just time to run out of their homes, leaving
everything to burn; how women, with babies in their arms, and frightened
children crouched all that dreadful night out on the cold, wet prairie,
without food or clothes or shelter; how little boys and girls ran
through the burning streets, crying for the parents whom they could not
find; how everybody had lost everything.
"Oh," said Dimple, almost crying, as she listened to the piteous story,
"how dreadful those little girls must feel! And I suppose all their
dollies are burned up too. I wouldn't have Nancy burned in a fire for
anything!" and, picking up an old doll, of whom she was very fond, she
hugged her with unspeakable affection.
That night there was another long, mysterious confabulation in the
children's bed; and, coming down in the morning, hand in hand, Dotty and
Dimple announced that they had made up their minds what to do with the
corn-ball money.