“O mamma, wonders will never cease!” exclaimed Fan. “To think that I
should be singled out for such favors! Why, Kate Fairlie would die of
envy this blessed moment, if she knew it!”
“And how charming Miss Churchill was!” I said.
“She is a very lovely woman, and she was unusually cordial to-day.”
“Do you suppose it was that she—wanted a favor?” asked Fanny, slowly.
“No my dear. I think she told the simple truth. They were lonesome at
home, and the unsocial element at the Maynards’ jarred upon her. Our
homelikeness, if I may use the word, just fitted in with her longing.
It always appeared to me such an unwise fashion of the members of a
family meeting only at meals. I am not willing to be shut out of your
lives, my girls.”
“And you shall not be, mamma _mia_. We will share our sorrows, and
joys, and new dresses. I’ll talk of sublime resignation to poverty, and
then make visits in aristocratic circles.”
“And in the meanwhile we might try on this garment. But, my dear, do
not let your spirits run away with you. Flippancy is not brightness.”
“How we all sat and sewed!” exclaimed Fan. “It did not seem the least
bit awkward. At all events, I cut and Rose crocheted. All that trimming
is ready. Oh, Rose, it is mean for me to take all the good things of
life.”
I thought my head would go off in that rapturous hug. And I was glad
that I was not a bit jealous.
Mamma gave a pinch here, and a pull there, and, behold Fan’s dress
fitted after the similitude of a glove.
“It is just lovely!” was Fan’s ecstatic comment. “Kate Fairlie and Sue
Barstow will die of envy when they see it. Now I shall have just time
enough to run up the seams. Of course, mamma, you wouldn’t think of
taking it?” and Fan gave an inquiring glance.
“No, indeed, though it was kind in Miss Churchill to say it, since your
time was more precious than hers.”
We began to pick up the pieces and restore order. Just then papa came
in, and baby Edith woke and cried. Fan rushed at papa and kissed him
rapturously, telling over the whole story in an instant. She had such a
remarkable way of going to the point of anything without loss of time.
“Really!” he exclaimed; “I am glad she asked you. You can do a little
work for the good cause to-morrow, Fanny.”
“O, papa, it is to be a whole long holiday!”
“You lazy little girl!”
“Papa, if you do not treat me real handsomely, I will go over to the
strong-minded ‘sisteren,’ and write a book, or lecture, or something.”
“I am willing you should lecture. I will give you a subject: ‘The rich
and poor meet together, and the Lord is Maker of them all.’”
“There, Fan!” And it was my turn to laugh.
Fan shook her head solemnly.
“It did not frighten him a bit,” she said.
“No, my dear; since there is room for so much work in the world. I
have often wished the Churchills and several others would come out of
their shells, or their beautiful Edens, and go at some of the thistles
beyond their gates.”
“Poor people have such splendid ideas—don’t they, papa? But then rich
people have all the money.”
“There is something needed besides money. If rich people could only
see how many nice and pleasant gifts and favors they could bestow
without lowering themselves, which so many people are afraid of, ladies
especially. The majority of the poor and ignorant are no more anxious
to come up to their level, than they are to have them.”
“We are lucky to be on the middle ground,” said Fan. “We cannot be
accused of undue ambition, or be snubbed very severely. And yet I do
think it just lovely to be rich, and I always shall.”
“My dear, so do I,” returned papa, gravely. “And we should endeavor
not to array wealth against us. We may in time soften some of the
prejudices on both sides. People need to see soul to soul, and not stop
at the burr outside.”
The tinkle of a small bell reached me. I rose, sorely against my will,
not daring to linger in the family bosom of temptation. The young man
up stairs was continually interfering in some way. Just when you were
having a nice talk, you were compelled to leave off in the middle and
run away, or some one ran away from you. Why, it was as bad as parish
visiting. But there _was_ the money at the end of it—mercenary little
wretch that I had become!
Yet you cannot live in the world superior to all such considerations,
if you are poor. I know the lilies are gorgeously arrayed, and the
ravens fed; but, when you are _not_ a lily, or not a raven, and the
wants and the work come, you must endure the one, and go courageously
at the other.
At this point in my reflections I entered the room and encountered the
wan, eager eyes.
“Did I interrupt you, or call you away from something pleasant? I am so
sorry. I was so lonesome, and—”
It was a good deal for him to say. Had we changed places and was _I_
ungracious?
“It was not anything special. Have you been long awake?”
“More than an hour.”
“Then it is I who ought to apologize,” I said, cheerfully. “Can I get
you anything?—Are you not hungry?”
“I would like to have a drink of good, cold water. I am a deal of
trouble, am I not?”
“If I were sick I would like some one to wait upon me,” I said, and ran
down stairs.—Ann was at the end of the garden, picking berries; so I
drew the water myself; and as I brought the bucket up to the curb, the
woman of Samaria came into my mind. If I could give any such comfort of
living water! Did I really desire to? So far I had done barely what was
required of me. It did not look half as enchanting as reading to and
amusing Miss Lucy Churchill. But wasn’t there a good work in it as well?
I entered the room with a glass pitcher, through which the water shone
and sparkled. There was such a thirsty, longing look in his eyes that I
was glad to minister to him.
“Thank you a thousand times. I have been wanting that for the last half
hour.”
“Why did you not ring sooner?”
[Illustration: ROSE’S VISIT TO THE INVALID. Page 121.]
“You had a visitor; and I call for so many things. There appears to be
no end to my wants. I am ashamed of myself. But it is so tiresome to
lie here helpless.”
“What would be the next thing, if I were a fairy?” I asked, laughingly.
Was it my mood that made him smile?
“There is a tantalizing smell of honeysuckle somewhere about. Nay,
don’t run down stairs again.”
“It is just on the porch.”
Mamma was emptying Miss Churchill’s basket. A bowl of custard, a jar of
wine jelly, fresh eggs, a great, creamy pot-cheese, and the pears. I
just took a whiff of the fragrance and passed on.
“Let me have a piece of it here in my hand.”
“How odd that you should be so fond of flowers!”
“Is it? Sweet blooms only. May be you would not approve of such a love.
I like to crush them and have them about me. Not but what I admire them
in vases, too, but then they do not come into my very life.”
“Or die for you.”
I had said it, and then I paused in a great tremble, thinking of the
other death that came through love, greater than which hath no man.
“Miss Endicott,” he said, slowly, “are you very religious?”
I colored, and turned my face away; then I thought of “confessing
before men.” What should make me afraid here, except the sense of
personal unworthiness?
“I try a little. I have not gone very far in the way.”
“I know some people who are _very_ religious,” he went on, “and
I—dislike them. That was another reason why I did not want to come
here—because your father was a clergyman. But you always appear to have
such nice, enjoyable times. You talk over everything with him and your
mother.”
“Why should we not? It would be strange if they were not interested
in all that concerns us. And bringing home a bit of pleasant talk or
some bright and amusing incident is like adding a sheaf to the general
granary. Does it not seem as if each one ought to contribute to the
fund of happiness?”
“I suppose it is a good deal in the way you look at it. And the having
a home, may be.”
“Yes,” I said, “that is the great thing, or next to the having a
mother.”
“What if I were seized with a fit of confessing my sins? Would that be
added to the ‘general fund?’”
“I think we have all been brought up to respect a confidence,” I
answered, a trifle wounded. “But it would be better to confess them to
papa.”
“I might not want to;” and he gave a short laugh that did not seem
at all natural. “In fact, there are very few people who suit me, or
attract me—the same can, doubtless, be said of me. Do you know—and I
have never owned it before in my life—I am sometimes jealous of Stuart?
Every one takes to him, likes him; and he is no better than—other
people. He is not always truthful; he _is_ awfully selfish, and
heartless, too. Only he has that sunny, glowing way with him; and most
people are such fools that they cannot see through it. So he gets
credit for sweetness, when it is only—”
“A matter of temperament,” I returned, filling up the long pause.
“Exactly. Why cannot others understand that it is so?”
“Because nearly every one likes roses better than thorns. We naturally
shrink from a rough, prickly outside. No matter if the kernel is sweet,
every one, you know, cannot wait years and years for it to open. And
you seem to shut yourself up—”
“There is nothing to show, so I make no pretence,” he answered, in a
dry, hard tone.—“I hate froth, and all that.”
“Yet I suppose the waterfall is much prettier for the spray and
bubbles. Frail as they are, they reflect many beautiful tints. And I
suppose God could have made apples just as well without such showers of
fragrant blooms, and He may put some people in the world for the sake
of the blossom and the sweetness rather than the fruit.”
“What an idea! I should think you would be educated to consider the
strictly useful.”
“But all things that God has made have their uses.”
“You keep to the text—that God does it all. It is a woman’s province to
believe, I fancy.”
There was a little sneer in that.
“Does unbelief render men so much happier that they love to cling to
it?” I asked.
“Oh, they are dipping into science and philosophy, and see so much more
of the world,” he replied, loftily.
I turned to the window—and was silent.
“There!” he exclaimed, “I have vexed you.”
“No.” I returned, “I am not vexed. I only wish I knew the right words
to say to you; mamma might.”
“You are all very kind. I wonder that you were so good, when the
beginning was so unpromising. You must have thought us a couple of
brutes.”
“Stuart apologized handsomely to papa.”
“O, I dare say. He is up to that sort of dodge;” and a smile of scorn
curled his thin lip.
“I wish you loved your brothers better,” I could not forbear saying.
“It is their loss, no doubt.”
What could I do with him in such a mood? “Preaching,” as Fan called it,
was useless. Then I bethought myself of Miss Churchill’s call, and told
him what she had brought for him.
“And now,” I said, “it is time you had your supper. You must be nearly
starved.”
With that I ran down stairs. Yes, I did like bright, pleasant people.
Mamma’s cheery ways and papa’s sweetness were worth more than doses of
science and philosophy, since we have to live in a work-day world, and
cannot soar up to the clouds. It is just the every-day being that is
life, not the grand dreams that never come to pass.
I prepared the tray and took it, standing it on a table at the bed’s
side. When I returned the little group were in their accustomed places,
with papa ready to ask the blessing. I slipped quietly into the circle.
When I went to bring the dishes down I remarked a peculiar expression
upon Louis’ face.
“Miss Rose,” he began, “I want to know how it feels to be generous;
therefore I shall give you a holiday this evening. I must resolve to
stay alone now and then.”
“Are you quite sure—?”
“Quite;” and he waved his hand, smilingly.
I did want to go down to the store with Fan; so I was glad of the
permission. Stuart started to accompany us but two of the village boys
came to call on him. I was relieved, for I wanted to stop on the way
and see one of my Sunday School children.
Fan bought her braid, and we found the baby at the Day’s was sick, and
Betty had to stay at home to help take care of it. Poor thing, how wild
and wan it looked, so different from our rosy Edith.
Mrs. Day’s house was generally in disorder. She was a hard-working
woman in some respects, for she was always at it. Her husband was a
gardener and day-laborer, earning his twelve dollars a week pretty
regularly, and they owned a small cottage and garden, that Mrs. Day
senior had left them. Yet they always looked very poor.
“Yes,” Mrs. Day was saying, “I couldn’t spare Betty on Sunday. Husband
went over the river to see his cousin, and took little Jem. I’d been
hard at work all the week, and was clear beat out, up half the night,
too. And I don’t see as the baby gets a bit better. You don’t know what
it is to look after a baby all alone by yourself, and not have a soul
to raise a finger for you.”
“But Betty helps a good deal.” I returned, for I could not bear to have
the child so underrated.
“A girl like that can’t do much at the best. Now, if I had one or two
grown up, as your mother has!”
She always thought if she only had something another person possessed,
she should be happier. I wondered a little how she would get along with
mamma’s cares and worries, and sewing, to say nothing of the demands
from outside.
“Ask your ma if she cannot come over. Hardly a soul has been in, and I
can’t go anywhere for a bit of change. But poor people have to do the
best they can in trouble.”
I promised, and spoke a few words of cheer to sad-eyed Betty.
“That woman always does try me!” declared Fan. “If I was a minister’s
wife she would be a thorn in my side. How many poor, inefficient people
there are in this world, and the worst feature appears to be their
inability to learn anything! I do not believe they try in good earnest.”
“Yet I feel sorry for her.”
“Well, yes, and the poor sick baby. But if her room had been swept, her
dishes taken to the kitchen, and her hair combed, and a collar on, how
it would have altered the aspect of the place! And she seems to think
every one else in the world has it so much easier.”
“This is one of the places where one must not weary in well-doing, papa
would say,” was my rejoinder.
“You are a good little girl, Rose. I have not half your faith or
patience. I wonder if I shall be of any real and sensible use in this
world?”
“You can try to-morrow. The house will be clean.”
“I am afraid I should not want to go, otherwise,” she returned,
laughingly.
The man came over for her the next morning, quite early, having been
to the village on business. We felt that she was going off in state,
but I suppose it was on account of its being the West Side and the
Churchills, for Fan somehow was fortunate in having plenty of rides
fall to her share. She uttered a laughing good-bye and they drove away.
It seems odd how one event comes out of another, like the wonderful
Chinese transformations. You open a ball and the article inside is one
you would never have guessed at. You go to some place, and one trifling
incident changes the course of one’s whole life, or a few words that
some person utters carelessly brings about a new train of thought and
action, and your life is not quite the same afterward.
The Churchill mansion had a look of the old nobility. It was two
stories, with a great, double pitched roof, and wide, overhanging
eaves. Just the old fashion of white and green. But the blinds were
never faded, and the exterior never soiled. A porch on the front and
one side, upheld by square, white columns, and on the other side the
graveled roadway to the barn. A lawn in front, terraced twice, with
clumps of blossoming shrubs, or dainty beds cut out sharply in the
grass. For the house stood on a slight hill which gave it a still more
commanding appearance.
But around, just a trifle removed, to let in the sunshine, stood the
glory of it all. Great trees, elms, maples, a giant black-walnut,
hemlocks that must have grown nearly a hundred years, firs, spruce and
larches waving their long fringy arms. No modern sacrilegious hands had
come near to disturb them. Birds built in their branches year after
year, and the sunshine sifted through on the grass.
It was a warm morning and Miss Lucy’s reclining chair had been wheeled
out to the shady side of the porch. She was dressed in white with pale
pink roses in her hair and at her throat. Just turned of thirty she had
the Churchill maturity with a certain delicate girlishness. You could
imagine Miss Esther being a handsome and stately old woman, but it
seemed as if Miss Lucy must always stay where she was.
Mr. Churchill came to help her out, Miss Esther welcomed her warmly,
and Lucy put forth her hand with a smile.
“I was afraid we might be too early, but Abner had to go over on
business, and we told him to wait if you were not ready. Did you have a
pleasant ride?”
“It is very kind of you to come. I hope I shall not tire you out before
the day is over,” said Miss Lucy.
“O, you will not, I am sure,” Fanny returned with her bright smile. “I
am delighted to come.”
“And the sewing?” Miss Churchill exclaimed.
“I did all the long seams last evening, and Rose is to bind my trimming
for me, but I am much obliged.”
“What industrious girls you are. I am almost conscience smitten. Are
you quite sure you could be spared?”
“Yes, indeed. Don’t think of that please, Miss Churchill.”
“Will you sit here awhile? The air is so fresh and fragrant. The
greater part of my going out amounts to this only, so I am thankful for
the beautiful prospect. Look at those woods over there.”
Another knoll dark with evergreens as tall as those around the house.
At a little distance an adjoining hill, but in the level opening
between, there was a field of ripening wheat which looked like a golden
sea. Fan spoke of it.
“How odd,” returned Miss Lucy, “I have had the same thought dozens of
times in the last fortnight. I sometimes imagine that there is a lovely
undiscovered country just beyond, and what it is like. I am glad that I
cannot go out to discover it, that would take away half the charm.”
Fanny smiled at the quaint conceit, so satisfying.
“And now tell me all about the children at home, and the sick young
man? What do you think Dr. Hawley said to me a few days ago?—Miss Lucy,
you need some one to bring you a good dish of gossip.”
“Good gossip at that;” laughed Mr. Churchill with a humorous twinkle in
his eye. “If Miss Endicott does not acquit herself well, I’ll go for
some of the village cronies.”
“I’ll begin with the baby then,” and Fanny moved her seat a trifle.
“She is just the cunningest baby you ever saw. We were all smart
children, but she is a prodigy. She sits alone, and creeps a little
sideways, and when she gets in a glee, flaps her wings, i. e. her arms,
and crows.”
Mr. Churchill shook his head solemnly. “That will hardly do for a
girl,” he said, “and a clergyman’s daughter.”
“We think it best for her to do her crowing while she is small,” was
Fannie’s playful answer.
She talked about the others—Fan had a way of brightening up everything
that was very amusing. Not that she ever made it out better or worse—it
was only the quaint touches of harmless pleasantry.
Miss Lucy laughed softly and a pink tint came to her pale cheeks.
Miss Esther in the meanwhile made several journeys to and fro. Mr.
Churchill took up his paper and pretended to read, but his eyes
wandered to the fair young girl whose simple homelikeness was her
greatest charm. Presently the sun came around, and Miss Lucy’s chair
was wheeled to the sitting room, which was cool and shady.
All their entertainments were not kept for the great drawing-room.
Here were pictures, a well filled book-case, articles of _virtu_, a
cabinet of shells, minerals and precious stones, and portfolios of
fine engravings. Here an album filled with notable authors, artists
and musical people, another with eminent men of Europe, and remarkable
women. Fan had enough to entertain her there.
Suddenly a bell rang.
“This is the shortest morning that I have known for some time,”
exclaimed Miss Lucy. “It hardly seems possible that is the dinner bell.
We are old fashioned in our hour, you see.”
Fan was astonished as well. Mr. Churchill gave Lucy his arm, as she
could walk with a little assistance. Miss Esther led Fanny.
The dinner table was like a picture. The quaint old china, delicately
flowered, and the antique silver was set off by the snowy cloth and the
brilliant bouquets with trailing stems that looked as if they might
have grown in the vases. Fan enjoyed it all to the uttermost, and was
too happy to envy aught of it.
“You have been sitting up all the morning;” said Miss Churchill, “and
you do not look a bit tired now! Shall we give Miss Fanny the credit?”
“I think she deserves it. Indeed I hardly noticed how the time passed.
You see I get so tired of staying alone, or talking over the same old
subjects with Essie.”
“You are a grateful young woman I must say!” and Miss Churchill laughed.
“Kenton, couldn’t we have a drive to Round Hill about sunset? I think I
could go.”
“What, more dissipation?”
“Please don’t undertake too much,” said Fanny. “I am well content to
stay here.”
“But the sunset is so lovely there.”
“You must have a good long rest;” said her sister, “and we will see how
you feel then.”
“I dare say Miss Endicott will be glad for I have kept her talking
steadily.”
“I am used to it,” laughed Fan, “and somehow I never understood the
charms of solitude, or perhaps was born incapable of appreciating them.”
“There is no doubt of that;” Mr. Churchill returned with a quiet smile.
They sat over their desert a long while, talking of various subjects
that were exceedingly entertaining. The quiet and air of formal
courtesy that was far removed from stiffness, pleased and interested
Fanny greatly.
But Miss Churchill was inexorable afterward, and would not even consent
to Fan’s going up stairs with Lucy. Instead she took charge of her and
they inspected the house and the clean, fragrant dairy, and lastly
found themselves in Miss Churchill’s room. This was large and airy,
looking cool in its summer dress of matting and furniture of cane or
delicate chintz covers.
The visit was so different from the formal little calls that we had
been in the habit of making with either of our parents. Indeed, Fan
always declared that this day’s experience took her right into the
Churchills’ lives, and I think it did.
A dress of fine white India muslin lay on Miss Churchill’s bed.
At least, the skirt which had three ruffles edged with delicate
needlework. The rest had been ripped apart and ironed out.
“Do you think it pretty?” asked Miss Churchill.
“It is lovely. What exquisite muslin! I wonder what makes these old
things so much more beautiful than what we have now?”
“They are neater and not so showy.”
“But this would be noticeable anywhere.”
“Yes, yet it has an air of quiet refinement. Twenty or thirty years ago
ladies bought dresses to keep, now they are unpardonably old after one
or two seasons, therefore it does not pay to make them so elegant. My
dear Miss Fanny, I may as well confess to a conspiracy. I brought out a
lot of old dresses yesterday—too pretty to give to the absolute poor. I
selected this and altered the skirt. It is all done but the band. I did
not know precisely what to do with the waist, so I shall have to give
you the material. And if you will accept these for yourself and your
sister—there is a great quantity in them, and you will find it a nice,
serviceable fabric, as it will save washing. Please do not consider me
officious.”
“Oh, Miss Churchill!” was all that Fan could say.
“This pine-apple will be good for afternoon wear, and I believe to some
extent in useful gifts. The other I wanted you to have because it was
so pretty. I have two more, which will last me my life time.”
“You are too generous! Oh, Miss Churchill, how can I thank you?”
“By wearing and enjoying them, my dear, and not having any fussy
feeling over them. Just as if they had come from an aunt, for instance.
I do not believe your mother will object. She is too truly a lady to
fancy that I desire to place you under any obligation.”
I should have stood silent and abashed. Fan did the best thing of all,
just clasped her arms around Miss Churchill’s neck and kissed her for
thanks.
The stage came lumbering along at that moment. Miss Churchill glanced
out of the window with one arm still around Fanny.
“Of all things! Here is Winthrop Ogden looking too merry for any
misfortune. It is like him to take us so by surprise. My dear, I will
run down a moment.”