It was a bright June morning. The windows were all open; the birds were
singing, and the air was sweet with out-of-door smells. Waving grasses,
hosts of flowers, rose and honeysuckle out on the porch in the very
height of riotous living, each trying to outbloom the other.
We were at breakfast. We never had this meal very early at the Rectory.
On summer mornings papa loved to get up and take a stroll, and botanize
a little. Mamma rose, looked after Becky, and took a quiet supervision
of us all. I helped dress the three younger children, for Fan usually
had some lessons on hand, as she was still in school. By the time we
were ready papa would be back. Then we sang a verse or two of a hymn,
said the Lord’s prayer together, and papa pronounced the greater
benediction over us. It was so short, simple, and enjoyable! Somehow
I do not think children take naturally to prayers, unless they are
rendered very sweet and attractive. We were allowed sufficient time to
get wide awake before coming to breakfast. Mamma was at the head of
the table again, looking as sweet as a new pink. Papa’s place was at
the foot. Fan and I sat opposite each other, about half way down. She
poured the water and the milk. I had the three younger children on my
side, and spread their bread or biscuits for them. I used to think of
Goethe’s Charlotte, only she had brothers as well as sisters.
It was nearly eight o’clock. Lemmy Collins came up with the mail. There
had been a shower the evening before, and none of us had gone for it.
“Ah!” exclaimed papa, “we are bountifully supplied this morning. One
for Nelly, two for mamma, and two for me.”
“O, what elegant writing!” said Nell, leaning over to look at papa’s.
“Yes;” slowly. “I cannot think;” and papa fell into a brown study.
“Why don’t you open it?” asked bright-eyed Daisy; “then you won’t have
to think.”
“To be sure, little wisdom!” and papa smiled. “I will look over this
thin one first, though.”
That was only an invitation to a meeting of the clergy. We were all
watching to see him open the letter par excellence. He took out his
penknife and cut round the seal, which he handed to Tim.
“W—h—y!” lengthening the word out indefinitely. “From Stephen Duncan!”
Then he read on in thoughtful silence, now and then knitting his brows.
Mamma’s letters were from an aunt and a cousin, with some kindly
messages for us all.
“Girls,” said father, with a sudden start, “would you like to have some
brothers large enough to keep their hands and faces clean, and strong
enough to help you garden?”
“Boys are a nuisance!” declared Nell.
“Well, I have an offer of two. One is something of an invalid, though.
My wards, I suppose, for that matter; though I have never considered
myself much of a guardian, since Stephen was old enough to look after
the boys. Then I always thought their uncle, James Duncan, _was_
annoyed at my being put in at all. It seems he died very suddenly, a
month ago, in London. Stephen has to go over and settle his affairs,
and he wants me to keep the boys. Rose, pass this letter up to your
mother.”
“How old are they?” asked Fan.
“Well, I can’t say. Louis is ready to enter college, but has studied
himself out, and will have to go to the country. Stuart is—a boy, I
suppose. I have not seen them since their father died.”
“Poor boys!” said mamma. “And Stephen is coming. Why, he will be here
to-morrow afternoon. This letter has been delayed on its way;” and
mamma glanced at the date and the postmark.
The children were through, and we rose from the table. There was a
perfect hubbub of questions then. Lily swung on father’s arm, while Tim
took a leg, and they were all eagerness to know about the brothers.
“Mamma will have to consider the subject,” he said. “Come, let us go
out and look at the flower-beds. I dare say the rain brought up a
regiment of weeds last night.”
Fanny went to put her room in order; Nelly had some buttons to sew on
her school dress, and followed mamma to the nursery. Becky came in and
helped take the dishes to the kitchen; while I went to my chambers up
stairs.
I hurried a little, I must confess. Then I bundled the youngsters off
to school, and ran into the nursery. Mamma was washing and dressing
baby.
“What about the boys?” I asked. “Will they really come? Should you like
to have them?”
“Perhaps it would be as well for you to read the letter, Rose. You are
old enough to be taken into family council. It seems so odd, too! Only
last evening papa and I were talking about—”
Mamma made so long a pause that I glanced up from the letter, having
only read the preface, as one might say. There was a perplexed look on
the sweet face.
“What is it, mamma?” and I knelt beside her, kissing baby’s fat cheek.
“My dear, I resolved long ago never to burden my girls with cares
and worries before their time. And yet, it would be so delightful to
have you for a friend! A clergyman’s wife has to be doubly discreet
on some points. Now, if I was to say to two or three good friends in
the parish, ‘Our circumstances are somewhat straightened by the recent
expenses,’ they would, no doubt, seek to make it up in some way. But I
have a horror of anything that looks like begging.”
“O, yes, mamma. Aunt Letty Perkins wondered, the day after the baby was
born, if there would not be a donation visit.”
Mamma’s sweet face flushed.
“We have managed so far,” she said; “and everything has gone very
pleasantly. Papa is well loved, and we have a delightful home. This
great old house and garden are worth a good deal. But I am wandering
from my text into byways and highways. I feel that I should sometimes
like to have a friend to talk to who would be a sort of second self—”
“O, mamma take me!” I cried.
“I have always wanted to be like an elder sister to my girls as they
grew to womanhood.”
I wanted to cry, and I was resolved not to. Mamma’s tone was so sweet
that it went to my heart. But to stop myself, I laughed, and exclaimed,—
“Fan would say that your hands would be pretty full if you were going
to be a sister to each one of us. Or you would have to be divided into
infinitesimal pieces.”
“And fourteen girls might not be desirable, if their father was a
clergyman,” she answered, smilingly.
“So, let us be the best of friends, mamma, dearest, and you shall tell
me your troubles. It is being so poor, for one, I know.”
“Yes, dear. Poverty is not always a delightful guest. Last evening
we were resolving ways and means, and papa proposed to give up the
magazines, and be very careful about his journeys. But I cannot bear to
have _him_ pinch. And, you see, if we took these boys, the extra living
would not cost us anything to speak of. Ten weeks would be—two hundred
dollars.”
“O, mamma!”
“It is right that I should consult you about the work. It will make
your duties more arduous. Then taking strangers into your family is
never _quite_ so pleasant. But go on with the letter. We will discuss
it afterwards.”
I felt drawn so near to mamma by the talk and the confidence, that at
first I could hardly take the sense of what I was reading. But I will
tell you the story more briefly.
Papa and Mr. Duncan had been very dear friends for many years; in fact,
I believe, since papa’s boyhood. When Mr. Duncan died he left papa a
small legacy, and some valuable books and pictures, besides associating
him with his brother in the guardianship of his three boys. Mr. James
Duncan, who was an exceedingly proud and exclusive man, seemed to
resent this, and treated papa rather coolly. Their business was done in
writing, and papa had never seen his wards since their father’s funeral.
Stephen had spent one summer at our house when he was quite a boy. It
seemed now that he preserved the liveliest recollection of my mother’s
kindness and care, and desired very much to see my father. The taking
of the boys he asked as a great favor, since he would have to spend all
the summer in England; and he appeared to feel the responsibility of
his brothers very keenly. It was such a nice, kind, gentlemanly letter,
evincing a good deal of thoughtfulness, and respect for papa; and even
where he spoke of the terms, he did it with so much delicacy, as if he
were fearful that it would not be sufficient compensation, and proposed
to come and talk the matter over, as he should, no doubt, need a good
deal of advice from papa in the course of the next few years.
“What a good, sweet letter this is, mamma!” I said. “It makes me think
of papa.”
“Yes; I liked it exceedingly. Papa is greatly interested with the plan.
He thinks it will help us to straighten up matters, so that we can
begin next fall quite easy in our minds. The only other thing he could
do would be to take some boys to prepare for college. That is very
wearing. In this we could all help.”
“I hope the boys will be nice,” I said, with a little misgiving.
“They will be out of doors a great deal, and certainly ought to behave
like gentlemen, since they have been at the best of schools. You will
have to keep their room in order; there will be rather more in the way
of cooking and deserts; but Fanny must help a little during vacation.
You see, baby is going to take up much of my time. But if I thought it
would be uncomfortable for you girls—”
“O, mamma, it will only last such a little while, after all! And the
two hundred dollars—”
“We must not be mercenary, little one.”
Before we had finished, papa came in again. We were all on the boys’
side, I could plainly see.
The next morning I aired the large spare room, brought out fresh
towels, and arranged some flowers in the vases. There was matting on
the floor, a maple bureau, wash-stand, and bedstead. The curtains were
thin white muslin, with green blinds outside, which gave the apartment
a pretty, pale tint.
I didn’t mean to put the two boys in this room when they came. There
was another, opposite, not _quite_ so nice, plenty good enough for
rollicking boys.
Papa went over to the station for Stephen.—Mr. Duncan, I mean. I
wondered why I should have such an inclination to call him by his
Christian name—a perfect stranger, too. But when I saw him I was as
formal as you please.
As tall as papa, and somewhat stouter, with a grave and rather
impressive air, eyes that _could_ look you through, a firm mouth,
that, somehow, seemed to me, _might_ be very stern and pitiless. He
had a broad forehead, with a good deal of fine, dark hair; but, what I
thought very singular, blue eyes, which reminded you of a lake in the
shade. His side-whiskers and mustache gave him a very stylish look, and
he was dressed elegantly. Poor papa looked shabby beside him.
Mamma and the baby, Fanny and I, were on the wide porch, while the
children were playing croquet on the grassy lawn, though I do so much
like the old-fashioned name of “door-yard.” Papa introduced him in his
homelike, cordial fashion, and he shook hands in a kind of stately
manner that didn’t seem a bit like his letter.
He came to me last. I knew he did not like me. I think you can always
tell when any one is pleased with you. He studied me rather sharply,
and almost frowned a little. I felt that it was my red hair. And then I
colored all over, put out my hand awkwardly, and wished I was anywhere
out of sight.
“And all the small crowd out there,” said papa, in so gay a voice that
it quite restored me to composure.
“Really, friend Endicott, I was not prepared for this.—Why, Mrs.
Endicott, how have you kept your youth and bloom? Why, I am suddenly
conscience-smitten that I have proposed to add to your cares.”
“You will feel easy when you see the inside of the house. There is
plenty of room, plenty;” and papa laughed.
“You had only a small nest when I visited you before,” Mr. Duncan said
to mother. “But how very lovely the whole village is! I am so glad
to find such a place for Louis. I hope my boys will not worry you to
death, Mrs. Endicott, for, somehow, I do not know as I can give up
the idea of sending them here, especially as Mr. Endicott is their
guardian. I think it will do them both good to be acquainted intimately
with such a man.”
It was all settled then.
“I have wished a great many times that we had a sister for Louis’s
sake. Oddly enough, my uncle James’s children were all boys, and Louis
is very peculiar in some respects. It is asking a great deal of you. I
understand that well, and shall appreciate it.”
I knew that I ought to look after Becky and the supper; so I rose and
slipped away.
“Two boys,” I said to myself. “I do not believe that I shall like
them;” and I shook my head solemnly.