Fan heard the sound of the voices without distinguishing the words,
and turned to an inspection of the dresses. There was a dainty apron
overskirt of the muslin, with the same lovely ruffling around it,
and plenty for the waist and sleeves. The others were blue and white
striped, one very narrow, the other about an inch wide, with a kind of
embroidered figure in the stripe. The skirts were long and full, and
with one there was a mantle.
Miss Churchill returned presently.
“You have not mutinied in my absence, have you? My dear girl, I do not
want to place you under any obligation, yet I thought these garments
might be of some use to you and your sister. It would not do to send
them to the sewing society to be cut up for the very poor. Don’t give
yourself an anxious thought. Now go in to Lucy who is waiting for you,
and when she is ready you must come down stairs and see our nephew.”
Miss Lucy was much rested. “I have had three or four naps which did me
a world of good;” she said. “You see I was very tired, and that made me
rest delightfully. All my good things come at once. Winthrop is here.”
She looked bright and cheerful.
“Can I not do something for you?” asked Fanny. “I might brush your
hair, I often do mamma’s.”
“If it would not trouble you—Essie does it in the morning, and I
generally manage it in the afternoon. But I am afraid—”
“No,” returned Fan cordially, divining the delicate fear. She took up
the brush and soon had it in order.
Usually Miss Lucy walked about without any assistance, but being
somewhat weak now, she had to help herself with a cane which she always
kept in her room. Fan tried to anticipate her wants, and she was ready
so soon that she rang the bell for her brother, who came to assist her
down stairs.
“This is our nephew, Mr. Ogden;” announced Miss Churchill, “Miss
Endicott.”
Fan remembered seeing him at church occasionally. He was about
twenty-two, and had matured considerably in a year. He was medium
height, with a rather handsome, rollicking face. There was a laugh in
his hazel eyes, in his curly chestnut hair, and it seemed to play hide
and seek about his mouth, the upper lip being shaded by a soft brown
moustache.
“Ah, Miss Endicott,—though I ought to know you without a formal
presentation, only I could not save your life I suppose if I were not
introduced. How are you, Aunt Lucy? Why you have roses, actually! I
thought from Aunt Essie’s letter that you must be a pale shadow!”
“The roses are in your honor, and not very durable. I am glad to see
you, but oh how you have—changed!”
“For the better allow me to hope!”
She laughed. “But how did you come to take us so by surprise? I thought
you were at Newport.”
“I was yesterday. But I had to dance so much night before last, that
I was afraid of impairing my constitution. I began to sigh for simple
country life, and came hither, thinking of uncle Kenton’s horses.”
“They are in a fine condition;” said Mr. Churchill.
“And I can have only a fortnight’s vacation now, so I mean to make the
most of it. The other two weeks will come in September.”
“Your mother and Helen—?”
“Are delightfully well and charmingly entertained—can you ask more?”
He gave a droll little smile at this.
We heard sometime afterward that Miss Ogden was engaged, and her
lover’s mother being very fond of her, they had gone to Newport
somewhat on her account.
“Come out on the porch. Here is your chair Lucy,” and Mr. Churchill
wheeled it round. “Why you _do_ look quite bright. Miss Endicott, we
must thank you for part of it.”
“I have not done much, I am sure.”
“Oh, Aunt Lucy, have you a protege, or has Miss Endicott kindly
consented to rule you for the nonce? Will my occupation be gone?”
“What nonsense, Winthrop! Miss Endicott came over to spend the day,
taking pity on me. I have been so forlornly lonesome of late.”
“Then I have arrived just in the nick of time, if that word has any
meaning or relation to anything above or under the waters. Let me feel
your pulse. Quite reduced, I must admit. Beef tea and camomile flowers
three times a day. A long walk morning and evening. Cheerful society—a
new bonnet—and—but try that first. My knowledge is not exhausted.”
“Could you take the ride, think, Lucy?” asked Miss Churchill. “Kenton
we will have the large carriage and all go.”
“What conspiracy have you planned?” inquired Winthrop.
“A harmless drive,” returned Miss Lucy mirthfully. “If it looks
suspicious we will leave you at home in Hugo’s charge.”
Hugo was a handsome English hound, as aristocratic as his master.
They all asked and answered questions, drawing Fan within their
beautiful circle by the fine tact of thorough breeding. She was so gay
and charming, and withal natural without any aiming at position or
special notice. Indeed she and Mr. Ogden had two or three passages of
sharpness between them that made their elders laugh.
It came supper time so soon, that Miss Lucy declared gaily she had
been defrauded; the day certainly _was_ shorter than usual.
“Yes,” returned Mr. Churchill, “they are. We have passed the longest
days.”
“Have you? Sometimes I feel as if I were just coming to mine,” and
there was a graver look in her face.
“Aunt Lucy low spirited! Why I thought you were a very princess of
philosophy!”
“One’s heart does fail sometimes.”
“But I am to be married you know, and you are to make me long visits.
I’ll save my buttons for you to sew on, you shall embroider my
initials, and mend my gloves. Will not that be happiness enough?”
“What is your wife to do meanwhile?”
He affected to be puzzled. “Why I suppose she will not _know_ how to do
anything. Is not that the accomplishment of the girl of the period?”
“There may be girls of the semi-colon who do not go quite so far;”
answered Miss Lucy drolly.
Winthrop glanced up at Fan who colored vividly.
“Excuse me, Miss Endicott, I—”
[Illustration: STEPHEN DUNCAN.]
“Winthrop you are not to tease Miss Endicott, nor to classify her,
either. I take her under my especial protection.”
“I lay down my arms at once, Aunt Lucy. I am your most obedient.”
And so it went on with bits of fun and pleasantness cropping out now
and then. Mr. Churchill unbending, Miss Churchill straying from the
little hedge of formalities, sweet as a wild briar blossom. And Lucy
was nearly as bright as Fan.
The carriage came around soon afterwards. Mr. Ogden insisted upon
driving, so the man was dispensed with. The Churchill estate was very
large, including the mountainous track and a good deal of woodland. It
was not a much frequented drive, although Round Hill was one of the
curiosities of the town. But the Churchills and the Garthwaites seemed
to fence it in with their sense of ownership, and it was _not_ common
property like Longmeadow and the Cascades.
But it was very beautiful in the low lying light. Here was a field in
deep gloom, shadowed by yonder trees, here a strip of waving grain,
then long sweeps of grassy hillsides broken by clumps of young cedars
or hemlocks. An irregular wooded chain—the mountains, Wachusetts’
people called them, divided us from the quaint little town lying in the
next valley. Here was the delightful opening that appeared more level
by contrast with the tall trees on both sides, and next, symmetrical
Round Hill, in a flood of golden red light, for the sun was going down
between this and the next eminence.
Fan just turned to Miss Lucy and put out her hand. But the eloquent
words and the intense appreciation were in her fluttering color, her
swelling lip and kindling eye, and the simple gesture.
“I knew you would like it;” said Lucy just as quietly.
Miss Churchill looked over at them. Was she thinking of what Mrs.
Endicott had said—how she kept young in her children’s lives? For
Lucy’s face was like a girl’s again.
“I sometimes think there can be nothing in Europe more beautiful,” Miss
Lucy said at length. “It is my Alps. Ah, if one could paint that glow!”
Winthrop glanced back. “I wish you could have seen some pictures in the
Academy, Aunt Lucy;” and then he went on to describe them in an eager
manner, evincing much genuine love for beauty, and a kind of fitness,
for his tone was low and earnest, without any assumption of manishness.
Meanwhile as they wound slowly along, the sky changed from the crimson
gold, to orange, then to a yellow tint, sending out long rays into the
frost-white, not unlike an Aurora. All the edges of the hills were
purple and blue, with a peculiar velvety softness, losing themselves
presently in hazy indistinctness.
“Kenton,” Lucy said, “this place ought to be re-christened. Sunset Hill
would be more appropriate. There is no such enchanting sunset for miles
around.”
“But it isn’t always that,” in his dry humorous way. “And it _is_
always round.”
“Then mine shall be its holiday name, a kind of golden remembrance.”
“It is beautiful;” Miss Churchill said with deep feeling. “Miss
Fanny, your father preached a good sermon last Sunday morning, about
our longing for loveliness and grandeur which was far away, and not
enjoying that right beside us, and our desiring to do some great thing,
waiting years for the opportunity, when we might have made our lives
rich with the small daily deeds that are at our very finger ends. And
how many of us long for Italy when we have clear skies and glowing
sunsets at home that we know nothing about!”
“Because such lives are crowded full to repletion. I sometimes wonder
if we do not have too much instead of not enough? I find a large world
right around here, because I can’t get out comfortably to any larger
one.”
“And because you see the beauty in every thing,” returned Fanny softly.
“It’s just like daily bread, the now, and here. We need not starve
to-day because of a famine coming a hundred years hence.”
Mr. Churchill raised his grave eyes and smiled, just a little. They
moved on quietly again, the wide glory of the twilight heavens falling
gently over, clasping hands with the indistinct outlines of the
beautiful earth. The creek went rippling and winding around, making a
pleasant stir, and the insects began to chirp in low tones as if not
quite sure the night was coming.
“What a delightful day! Though I have not done half the things that
I meant to,” said Miss Lucy as they were nearing home. “We were to
look over those Russian views this afternoon, and I was to show you my
sketches. It is all Winthrop’s fault. We shall have to take the day
over again, Fanny.”
“I cannot say that I am sorry I came, having a high regard for the
truth. But then I _am_ going; and the world will still last;” he
returned.
“That must be our comfort.”
“I wish you and your sister would come over soon, not merely to tea,
but to spend a good long afternoon;” said Miss Churchill. “And I have a
basket of flowers to send home with you.”
“Does Miss Endicott go alone?” Winthrop asked.
“In the carriage—unless you should have the politeness to accompany
her,” answered Miss Churchill rather inconsequently.
“With pleasure—if Aunt Lucy can spare me.”
“I shall march straight to bed, you saucy boy.”
The ladies were helped out. Fanny thought she had better keep right on.
Miss Churchill brought a great basket of fragrance and beauty, and
said she would send the parcel over the next morning, “that is if you
are quite sure that you will not feel patronized,” she whispered.
“No,” returned Fan frankly. “Rose and I will be most grateful.”
Lucy kissed her good by. Miss Churchill’s farewell was a little more
formal, but full of sweet cordiality. The coachman sprang up in his
seat and turned the horses slowly.
Mr. Churchill assisted Lucy up the steps. “What a pretty behaved girl,”
he said. “She is bright and pleasant without being bold or underbred.
And she enjoys everything so thoroughly.”
“She makes one feel young again. She fairly gives of her own abundant
youth.”
In the meanwhile the two rode home together. There was no moon, but the
stars were out by thousands, shining in all their glory. They talked of
the beauty of the night, of the improvements in the town, and he asked
what was going on in the way of entertainment. This was how Fan came to
mention the picnic, and Mr. Ogden was interested in it immediately.
Nelly and the elders were sitting in the wide, airy hall with the lamp
in the back part, making a golden twilight within. Fan set her flowers
in the midst, and all the air was sweet.
Such a lovely day as it had been! The talk and visiting, the dinner and
tea, the two rides,—Miss Churchill and Miss Lucy—the kindly messages to
mamma,—the invitation to tea, and best of all, the thought about papa’s
sermon. Fan had a way of bringing something home from every place for
every body. It was as good as going yourself.
“So papa, dear, it wasn’t my fascination altogether, but a little pinch
of your good seed. It springs up occasionally where you do not expect
it. And now tell me what you have been doing?”
Our day had proved one of the unsatisfactory days.
Mamma had gone out in the morning to make some calls, and found Mrs.
Day’s baby very sick. Edith started from her nap in affright, and while
I went down to soothe her, Stuart had tormented my patient into a fit
of passion, so that he had a headache and could eat no dinner. Then
there had been a steady stream of visitors all the afternoon.
“I didn’t get much of your trimming done,” I said to Fan, “but the
picnic is not until Tuesday.”
“And I can work like a Trojan to-morrow. Oh! mamma and Rose, there is
something else—I hope you will think I have acted rightly about it.”
Then followed an account of the gift.
“I do not see how you could well have done differently. Miss Churchill
was very kind and delicate.”
“Fan,” exclaimed papa as if waking out of a dream—“I think I _do_ see
the good seed. But some things are best to let grow by themselves. If
you poke about the roots and snip off and tie up, you don’t get half
the bloom and beauty. People like the Churchills might bring forth so
much fruit. Perhaps it will come. The same God who made the gourd, made
the century plant. Mother, couldn’t we have a quiet little hymn?”
It was a trick he had when there was any special thing on his mind.
Mamma’s soft playing seemed to smooth out the tangles.
We sang with her, and then kissed each other good night.
The next day was ever so much better. Mamma had talked to both of the
boys, and I think Louis _did_ try to be patient and pleasant. Fan came
in and helped entertain him while we both sewed. The dresses were sent
with a note from Miss Churchill, and mamma thought them extremely
pretty. We finished Fan’s pique all but the button holes, by night.
Just after tea Mrs. Day sent over. Mamma answered the summons and staid
until ten, then she came home to tell us that the poor little life had
gone out here, to blossom brighter elsewhere. She had washed it and
dressed it for the last time, with her tender hands. Mrs. Downs had
come to stay all night, for Mrs. Day was in violent hysterics.
Early Sunday morning the baby was buried. Three little graves in a row,
and only Betty and Jem left. I stopped in Church just a moment to give
thanks on my knees that our little flock were all alive and well.
“I wonder how you can take such an interest in everybody?” Louis said
as I sat with him awhile that evening. “In one way your father and
mother have a duty towards all in the parish, but—I don’t know as I can
_quite_ explain,—you seem to make their troubles and their pleasures
your very own. And some of the people must be—very common, and quite
ignorant—excuse me, but it is so all over the world.”
“Isn’t that the secret of _true_ sympathy? If you were in great sorrow
and went to a friend, would you not like to have the comfort adapted
to your nature, and wants? The other would be asking for bread and
receiving a stone.”
“It is very good of course, really noble. But it would fret me to do
favors for people who did not interest me one bit. Now I can understand
your sister’s enjoying her day at the Churchills, even if she was asked
partly to entertain an invalid. They were refined, agreeable people.
But that she should give up going to ride with Miss Fairlie yesterday
afternoon, to make a bonnet for that woman who lost her baby, and who
wasn’t a bit thankful—”
“She _was_ thankful,” I interposed.
“Stuart went with your sister, and he said she found fault because it
wasn’t the right shape, and because there was ribbon used instead of
crape. I should have smashed up the thing and thrown it into the fire,
and told her to suit herself.”
I laughed a little, the remark was so characteristic.
“We get used to people’s ways after a while,” I said. “Mrs. Day never
is _quite_ satisfied. If a thing had only been a little different. And
very likely next week she will show the bonnet to some neighbor and
praise Fanny’s thoughtfulness and taste. You see no one happened to
think of a bonnet until it was pretty late.”
“But why could she not have been thankful on the spot? It was
ungracious, to say the least.”
“That is her way.”
“I’d get her out of it, or I wouldn’t do any favors for her.”
“I wonder if _we_ are always thankful on the spot, and when the favor
doesn’t _quite_ suit us?”
There was a silence of some moments, then he said in a low tone: “Do
you mean me, Miss Endicott?”
“No, I am not quite as impolite as that. I made my remark in a general
sense.”
“Suppose some one gave you an article that you did not want?”
“If it was from an equal, and I could decline it, granting that it
was perfectly useless, I should do so. But an inferior, or a poorer
person, who might have taken a great deal of pains, deserves more
consideration.”
“Is it not deceitful to allow them to think they have conferred a
benefit upon you?”
“I do not look at it in that light. This person intended a kindness,
and I take it at his or her appraisal. I am obliged for the labor and
love that went into it, the thought prompting it.”
“Oh,” after a silence.
“And doesn’t that make the good fellowship of the world? When equals
exchange small courtesies there is no special merit in it. No
self-sacrifice is required, no lifting up of any one, or no going down.
The world at large is no better or stronger for the example. It is
when we go out of ourselves, make our own patience and generosity and
sympathy larger, that we begin to enjoy the giving and doing.”
“But you can not really like poor, ignorant people?”
“Better sometimes than I can like rich, ignorant people. When you walk
along the roadside you enjoy the clover blooms, the common daisies and
mallows, and every flowering weed. The way gives you its very best.
These blossoms laugh and nod and twinkle in the glad sunshine, and
you are joyous with them. But if a friend who had a large garden and
gardeners in abundance asked you to come, and took you through weedy
grass-grown paths, and gathered for you a bunch of field flowers, you
would not feel so much obliged.”
“Why no.”
“It is the giving of one’s best. It may also mean the ability to
appreciate, when another gives of the best he has.”
“But _can_ you like the work? Pardon me, but it has always seemed to me
a hint of a second or third rate mind when one can be happy with such
common pleasures. There, no doubt I have offended you.”
“If we were always looking for our own perfect satisfaction, it would
not be. But, ‘No man liveth to himself,’ only.”
“Miss Endicott, I don’t wonder you like my brother Stephen. After all,”
rather doubtfully, “isn’t there a good deal of cant preached?”
“Only believe. All the rest will be added,” I said hurriedly.
The church bell was ringing its middle peal. There was a long pause
then it took up a sweet and rather rapid jangle, subsiding into the
slow swells of tender melody. We always called it the middle peal and
began to get ready, as that gave us just time to go to church. I rose
now, and uttered a pleasant good night.
“Say a little prayer for me, if you don’t think I am too wicked;” he
murmured faintly, turning his face away.
How peculiar he was! When I thought him softening, he was always sure
to draw back into his shell again, and his confidences invariably came
unexpectedly. Then too, they puzzled me, I was not fit to cope with
them. They seemed to jar and jangle with the every day smoothness of my
own life.
Mr. Ogden was at church alone that evening, and though the Maynard
girls were there, walked home in our circle. I was going to stay with
Fannie, but Dick Fairlie was on the other side of her, and George and
Allie West swallowed me up in the narrow path.
“I am coming in to-morrow morning to tell you of the picnic plans,”
said Allie as we were about to separate.
“Can’t I come in the evening and hear?” asked Mr. Ogden. “Or am I the
man on the other side?”
“No indeed,” spoke up Allie, “we shall be glad to have you. I will
leave a special message.”
They were a little acquainted with him, having met him at the Maynards
the summer before. The young ladies of that family had declined
participating in the affair.
We heard all the plans on Monday morn. They were to go out to
Longmeadow in wagons and carriages, taking refreshments and
conveniences. There was just a nice party. “The kind of people
who harmonize,” said Miss West. “I never can endure Tom, Dick and
Harry—everybody and his wife.”
“Of course you wouldn’t want everybody in a small party,” I returned.
“I wish you were going, Rose.”
“The Sunday School picnic comes the week after. I could not go to both.”
“This will be ever so much nicer.”
“O, I am not sure. There will be more enjoyment at that, because there
will be so many more to enjoy everything.”
“Your way of thinking! Well, if I was a clergyman’s daughter I should
have to go I suppose. I am glad that I can choose my pleasures. Fanny
Endicott, if Mr. Ogden calls this evening give him my compliments and a
special invitation.”
Fan colored and made some laughing retort.
He did come over with a message from his aunts, asking us to tea on
Thursday evening if it was convenient. Then he wanted to know about the
picnic, and said that he might be expected, sure.
Dick and Kate came over for Fanny. Mrs. Fairlie was in the wagon and
leaned out to make some inquiries about Mr. Duncan. Stuart had taken a
knapsack and started on foot.
I went a few steps further on to fasten up a spray of clematis. Dick
followed.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t have gone too;” he said rather crossly.
“Should I have added so very much?”
“I suppose that grand chap of the Churchills’ will be there?” he went
on without noticing my remark.
“Yes. He was invited by Allie West, you know.”
He snapped off a piece of honeysuckle. What was the matter with him
this morning?
Fan came down in her new pique dress, her broad sun hat trimmed
with light blue, and her white parasol lined with the same tint. She
was pretty and stylish enough for any lady’s daughter. Kate was in a
silvery, much be-ruffled poplin, and a jaunty round hat that scarcely
shaded her eyes.
Louis was considerably improved that day. He walked into the next room,
arranged some flowers that I brought him, and was quite cheerful. He
wanted very much to go down stairs, but mamma thought he had better
not, so he acquiesced pleasantly.
“If you are no worse to-morrow you may try it,” she promised.
Fan had a royal time, though she declared she was half tired to death.
Up in our room she told me all the particulars.
“Everything was just lovely! Servants to do the work, make fires and
coffee, and spread tables, while we sat, or walked in the shade, or
rambled through the woods. We had the violins and quadrilles and
gallops and laughing, and may be a little flirting. It was absolutely
funny to see young Ogden.”
“Oh, Fan, I hope you didn’t—”
“My dear little grandmother, I am afraid I did, just the least bit. You
see Kate and Allie West tried so hard for Mr. Ogden, and he kept by my
side _so_ easily. I had only to look. And Dick Fairlie was like a bear.
Something has vexed him.”
“I thought he was cross this morning. But, oh, Fan, I wouldn’t have you
do any thing to—to displease the Churchills.”
“And I wouldn’t, honestly Rose. This is nothing beyond summer pastime.
Why can’t we all be bright and nice and social? It is a humbug to think
of everybody’s falling in love. I don’t believe young people _would_
think of it, only some one is afraid and speaks before the time, making
a tangle of it all. I do not expect any one to fall in love with me—at
present.”