I went out to the kitchen and advised a few moments with our maid of
all work, and then began to arrange the supper table. The visitor must
sit next to papa, of course, but not on my side of the table. I did not
mean to have him any nearer than I could help; for, if he disliked red
hair, I would not flirt it under his eyes. Or, suppose I placed him
next to Fan! She was so carelessly good natured that he would not be
likely to disturb her thoughts.
Mamma took the baby to the nursery, and then came in to give an
approving look. I placed the two tall vases of flowers on the table,
and it did present a very pretty appearance.
“We are all ready now,” she said. “Call papa.”
I rang the bell, and the children came trooping in, papa and Mr. Duncan
bringing up the rear. Fan glanced at the places, and looked pleased, I
thought.
“Here Mr. Duncan,” she said, with a pretty wave of her hand; and he
took the proffered seat, giving me a quick glance, that brought the
warm blood to my cheeks.
We had a merry time; for, after all, strangers were no great rarity;
and we were always merry in our snug little nest. It was said through
the parish that every one had a good time at our house; and Mr. Duncan
appeared to be no exception. When we were almost through, we began to
say verses, each one repeating a passage of Scripture commencing with
the same letter. We caught Mr. Duncan right away. He commenced two or
three before he could hit upon the right beginning.
“You see, I am not very ready with my wits,” he said, laughingly.
Lily, Daisy, and Tim always had a romp with papa afterwards; but my
duties were not ended until they were snugly tucked in bed. You see,
we could not afford nurse-maids and all that on papa’s salary. But
then, frolicking with them in bed was such a delight that I never
minded the knots in their shoestrings, and the loads of trash that
had to be emptied out of their pockets, to say nothing of mischief and
dawdling, and the heaps of dresses and skirts lying round in little
pyramids. Now and then I would make some stringent rules: every child
must hang up her clothes, take care of her shoes and stockings, and
put her comb and hair-ribbon just where they could be found in the
morning. But, somehow, the rules were never kept. I suppose I was a
poor disciplinarian.
I went down stairs at length. Mr. Duncan was pacing the porch alone.
Papa had been called to see a sick neighbor. Mamma was listening to
poor old Mrs. Hairdsley’s troubles, told over for the hundredth time, I
am sure. She was a mild, inoffensive, weak-eyed old lady, living with
rather a sharp-tempered daughter-in-law. Fan was out on an errand of
mercy also.
“What a busy little woman you are!” he said. “I am glad to see you at
last; and I hope no one will fall sick, or want broth, or be in trouble
for the next fifteen minutes. I suppose clergymen’s houses are always
houses of mercy. I begin to feel conscience-smitten to think that I am
adding to the general burden. What will you do with two boys?”
“I cannot exactly tell,” I answered slowly, at which he appeared a good
deal amused, though I did not see anything particularly funny in it.
“I think I would like to come myself, if I were not going ‘over the
seas.’ What would I be good for? Could I do parish visiting?”
“Yes; and teach the Sunday school, and go around with a subscription
list, and—”
“O, the subscription list finishes me. I should stop at every gate, and
put down a certain amount, and pay it out of my own pocket. Begging I
utterly abhor.”
“But if you had nothing in your pocket? If your neighbors were richer
than you, and if you were trying to teach people that it was their duty
to provide for the sick and the needy?”
“Why, what a little preacher you are! Let us go out in the moonlight.
What a lovely night! Suppose we walk down to meet your father. He said
he should not stay long.”
I could think of no good excuse to offer; so we sauntered slowly
through the little yard and out to the street, both keeping silent for
some time.
“Miss Endicott,” he began presently, “I wish I could interest you in my
brothers. You have such a quaint, elder-sister air, that I know you
would have a good influence over them; though they may not prove so
very interesting,” he went on, doubtfully. “Louis is nervous, and has
been ill; and boys are—well, different from girls.”
I was not such a great ignoramus. I suppose he thought, because we had
a houseful of girls, we knew nothing whatever of boys; so I answered,
warmly,—
“The parishioners sometimes come to tea with two or three boys, who
think they ought to demolish the furniture as well as the supper. Then
there are the Sunday schools, and the picnics, and the children’s
festivals—”
“So you do see boys in abundance.”
“They are no great rarity,” I replied, drily.
“And you do not like them very much?”
“I do not exactly know.”
He laughed there. It vexed me, and I was silent.
“I think it a mistake when the girls are put in one family and the boys
in another. Sisters generally soften boys, tone them down, and give
them a tender grace.”
“And what are the brothers’ graces?” I asked.
“Boys have numberless virtues, we must concede,” he returned
laughingly. “I think they perfect your patience, broaden your ideas,
and add a general symmetry. They keep you from getting too set in your
ways.”
I saw him smile down into my face in the soft moonlight, and it _did_
annoy me. Men are always thinking themselves so superior!
“Our mother died when Stuart was a baby. She was always an invalid. But
the summer I spent with your mother is such a sunny little oasis in my
life, that I wanted the boys to have at least one pleasant memory. I
suppose I _am_ selfish—one of the strong points of the sex.”
“O,” I said, “I thought you were all virtues.”
“We have just about enough faults to preserve ballast. But perhaps you
do not like the idea of their coming.”
He studied my face intently for a moment, from my round chin up to my
hair. I remembered, in great confusion, that red-haired people were
suspected of being quick-tempered.
“I am sorry. They _will_ be an annoyance. I ought to have thought—”
“You misunderstood me, Mr. Duncan,” I began, with a tremble in my
voice. “I should not have objected to their coming, even if I
considered that I had a right. It will ease papa’s burdens in another
way, and I am quite ready to do my part.”
“Little girl, there are a good many things that money cannot buy,” he
said gravely.
I had surely done it now! How mercenary he would think us! I could have
cried with vexation.
There was a silence of some minutes. I had an inward consciousness that
we were not foreordained to get on nicely together.
“It is of some of these things that I would like to speak,” he began,
slowly. “The boys have been to a good school, to be sure; but they
never have had a home, or home training. And on some of the higher
points of morals, a woman’s influence does more by its silent grace
than hundreds of lectures. Will you be a little patient with their
rough ways and want of consideration? I am offering you a part of my
burden, to be sure; but then, with your father’s permission, I am to
share part of yours. I am to stand with you to-morrow at your little
sister’s christening. Believe me, that I am very glad to be here.”
Papa had intended to ask Mr. Searle, his senior warden. I was surprised
at the change.
“Do you not like that, either?” and there was a tinge of disappointment
in his tone.
“Excuse me. It was only the suddenness.”
“I like the claim it gives me upon all your remembrances. Then your
interest need only last a little while, if you so elect, while mine
stretches over a whole life.”
“There is papa!” I exclaimed, with a great breath of relief, and
sprang towards him. He put his dear arm around me, and I felt as if my
perplexities had come to a sudden end.
On the porch we found Fanny and mamma, and the conversation became very
bright and general. Indeed, we sat up past our usual hour.
When Fan and I were up stairs she began at once.
“Mr. Duncan is just splendid! I envied you your walk, and I came back
so soon that I had half a mind to run after you.”
“I wish you had been in my place. We did not get on at all. I wonder if
we shall like the boys.”
“I shall not worry about them until they come.”
“But a fortnight soon passes, and then good-by to our quiet house.”
“A quiet house, with seven children in it!” and Fan laughed merrily.
“Well they are not—”
“Boys! of course. But then, boys grow to be men. And men like Stephen
Duncan are charming. One can afford to have a little trouble.”
“O, Fan! how can you talk so?”
“I wasn’t born blind or dumb. I cannot account for it in any other way.
Now, I dare say, Miss Prim, you are thinking of the two hundred dollars
at the end of the summer, and all that it is to buy.”
“It has to be earned first.”
“We will take Mrs. Green’s cheerful view of boarders. ‘They are not
much trouble in the summer, when you only eat ’em and sleep ’em.’”
I could not help smiling at the quotation.
“I wish it were Stephen instead. And how he talks of running over to
England! Not making as much of it as we should of going to New York. It
is just royal to be rich. Rose, I think I shall marry for money, and
set a good example to the five girls coming after me; for, my dear, I
have a strong suspicion that you will be an old maid.”
“O, Fanny, to-morrow will be Sunday, and the baby’s christening.”
“Dear little Tot! yes. And we must set her a pattern of sweetness, so
that she may see the manifest duty of all women. So, good-night, Mother
Hubbard of many troubles.”
Fan gave me two or three smothering kisses, and subsided. I tried to
do a little serious thinking, but was too sleepy; and, in spite of my
efforts, I went off in a dream about her and Mr. Duncan walking up the
church aisle together, Fan in a trailing white dress. I awoke with the
thought in my mind. But it _was_ foolish, and I tried to get it out.
Sunday was beautiful. The air was full of fragrance; bloom of tree and
shrub, pungent odors of growing evergreens, and the freshening breath
of grassy fields. After a pleasant breakfast, the children were made
ready for church. Sundays were always such enjoyable days with us! I
don’t know quite what the charm was; but they seemed restful, and full
of tender talking and sweet singing.
After Sunday school, in the afternoon, the children were catechized,
and there was a short service.
Very few knew of the baby’s christening; so the congregation was not
larger than usual. After the lesson, we went forward, mamma, Mrs.
Whitcomb, baby, Mr. Duncan, and I. A sweet solemn service it was, baby
being very good and quiet. Edith Duncan. The second name had been
agreed upon in the morning, at Stephen’s request.
The children crowded around papa afterwards.
“I do not wonder that everybody loves him,” Mr. Duncan said, as we
walked homeward. “And I feel as if I had a small claim upon him myself.
I am a sort of brother to you now, Nelly.”
“Are you?” answered Nelly, with a roguish laugh. “I did not think it
was so near a relation as that.”
“Perhaps it may be a grandfather, then,” was the grave reply.
“O, that’s splendid!” declared Tiny Tim, who had big ears. “For we
never had a grandfather, you know, only—”
“Only what?”
“Your hair is not very white,” commented Tim, as if suspicious of so
near a relationship with a young man.
He laughed gayly.
“I mean to be adopted into the family, nevertheless. My hair may turn
white some day.”
“There is no hurry,” returned Fanny. “I doubt if Tim would be the more
cordial on that account.”
“Perhaps not;” with a shrewd smile. “But you will have to give me a
sort of elder brother’s place.”
“Will you really be our brother?” asked Daisy.
“I shall be delighted to, if every one will consent. Ask Miss Rose if I
may.”
“You like him—don’t you, Rose?” Papa said—
“We will take him for a brother,” I returned, gaspingly, my cheeks
scarlet, for fear of some indiscreet revelation.
“I have never had any sisters; so I am very glad to get you all. I hope
you will treat me well, and bring me home something nice when you go
abroad.”
“But we are not going,” said Tim; “and I don’t believe I could hem a
handkerchief nicely enough for you.”
“Then it will have to be the other way. Let me see: seven sisters.
Well, I shall not forget you while I am gone.”
Mr. Duncan went to church that evening with Fan and Nelly, and, after
he came home, had a long talk with papa out on the porch. Papa had
enjoyed his guest very much and I was glad of that. It had been quite a
holiday time.
After breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan went away. He took little
Edith in his arms, and walked up and down the room with her.
“I feel as if I did not want to go away,” he said, turning to mamma.
“I think you must spoil everybody in this house. I almost envy the
boys their summer vacation.—Ah, Miss Fanny, you see I am by no means
perfect.”
Fan nodded her head rather approvingly. I am not sure but she liked a
spice of wickedness.
“I shall remember your promise,” he said to me, with his good-by.
What had I promised? About the boys—was it? Well I would do my best. I
should have done it without his asking.
“And in three months or so I shall see you again. Good by, little
flock.”
Ah, little did we guess then how many things were to happen before we
saw him again!
But the house seemed quite lonesome without him. I made the children
ready for school, and then went at my rooms. If the boys _should_ be
like Stephen, it would not be so very bad after all.
There was a deal of work to be done in the next fortnight. Our maid, as
usual, was called away, providentially, as Fan used to say of them at
any new disappearance, and we succeeded in getting a middle-aged Irish
woman, who could wash and iron excellently, but who knew very little
about cooking. But mamma said there was always something lacking; and,
since she was good and strong, it would do. All these matters were
barely settled, when a note came, saying that Louis and Stuart Duncan
would be at the station on Friday at four.
Nelly walked over with papa. I had relented a little, and made their
apartment bright and sweet with flowers. I had a fancy that I should
like Louis the better; he, being an invalid, was, doubtless, gentle;
and I wheeled the easy-chair to a view of the most enchanting prospect
out of the south window. Then, as usual, I went back to the work of
getting supper. There is always so much eating going on in this world,
and you need so many dishes to eat it off of! We are not flowers of the
field, or fairies, to sup on dew.
“O, there they come—in a carriage!”
Tiny Tim clapped her hands at that, whereupon the baby crowed and
laughed.
A hack with two trunks. A bright, curly-haired boy sprang out, and
assisted Nelly in the most approved style. Then papa, and a tall,
slender young man, looking old for his eighteen years.
It did not seem a prepossessing face to me. The lips were thin, the
brow contracted with a fretful expression, the nose undeniably haughty,
and the cheeks sunken and sallow. Stuart was so different! red and
white, with glittering chestnut hair, and laughing eyes, that were
hazel, with a kind of yellowish tint in them, that gave his whole face
a sunny look. One warmed to him immediately.
Mamma went to the hall, and we followed; and the introductions took
place there.
“Take the trunks up to the room, Mat,” said my father.
The boys bowed, and followed, Stuart casting back a gay glance. Papa
took off his hat, kissed the baby, and sat down.
“I was quite shocked to see Louis,” he said, in an anxious tone. “He
looks very poorly indeed. We must try our best to nurse him back to
health and strength. Rose, there is some more work to do.”
The voices up stairs were raised quite high in dispute. Louis gave a
tantalizing laugh.
We never quarrelled. I do not know that we were so much more amiable by
nature; but our disputes were of small importance, and never reached
any great height. So we all started rather nervously.
“Boys!” said Fan, sententiously. “O, papa, dearest, I am so glad that
you came into the world a full-grown, evenly-tempered man, and that we
all could not help being sweet if we tried, seeing that we follow your
example.”
“Do you?” returned papa, archly. “I hope you do not use it all up, and
that there is a little left for the parish.”
“And the stranger within our gates.”
There seemed to be no cessation in the discussion up stairs; so,
presently, papa asked that the bell might be rung. Stuart answered the
summons, coming down two steps at a bound, and shaking the house.
“Louis begs you to excuse him,” he said, with a graceful inclination.
“He is knocked up completely. He made such a muff of himself at the
examinations, that he has been cross as a bear ever since. He has a
lovely temper.”
There was a droll light in his eyes as he uttered this.
“Your brother said he was in poor health. So he—failed then?” and
papa’s voice dropped softly.
“Yes. Steve did not want him to try. He said there was no hurry about
his getting into college. I only wish somebody would coddle me up,
and tell me that I needn’t study. I think the whole world is in a
conspiracy against me.”
“You seem to thrive on it,” returned papa.
“O, there is no use of worrying one’s self into the grave, so far as I
can see. I believe in enjoying everything that I can squeeze a bit of
fun out of. So I laugh at Louis, and he gets angry.”
“It is just possible that he may not see the fun,” said papa, soberly.
“That is his lookout.”
“Is he really ill?” asked mamma.
“Not much, I guess. But he is as full of whims as any old granny! He
should have been a girl.”
“Keep him on your side of the house,” retorted Fan. “It is a good thing
that boys do not monopolize all the virtues.”
He looked at her with a peculiar stare, then laughed. He did seem
brimming over with merriment, and rather pleased that Fanny had shown
her colors. So they had a little gay sparring.
“Do you not think your brother would like a cup of tea?” asked mamma.
“When he gets in a fit like this, he generally sulks it out,” returned
Stuart carelessly, rising and sauntering out on the porch.
Mamma could not resist, and presently went up stairs, tapping lightly
at the half-open door.
“I wish you would go away,” said a voice, crossly.
“It is I,” exclaimed mamma, in her soft, yet firm, tones, that always
commanded respect.
“O! excuse me;” and Louis half raised his head.
“Will you not have a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you;” rather ungraciously.
“Can I not do something for you? Does your head ache?”
“Yes. I do not want anything but quiet.”
“Very well; you shall have that,” she said, softly.
She came down stairs, with a little sigh.
“Is the bear still on exhibition, Mrs. Endicott?” asked Stuart.
“I am afraid you, in your perfect health, do not realize how hard some
things are to endure,” she said, with a touch of reproof in her voice.
“I am glad I have not such a fearful temper.—Miss Endicott, you play
croquet, of course. I challenge you to a game.”
Fanny tripped gayly down the path. But mamma, I noticed, looked very
grave.