Excitements and engagements multiplied with us. One and another had
visitors from the city and we were sent for to tea or to spend the
evening. Stuart was asked every where as well. Louis came down the next
day and sat in the hall with us, where we were sewing as usual. Then on
Thursday we went to the Churchills. They sent the carriage over early,
before we were ready, indeed. Louis eyed the soft cushions wistfully.
“Oh,” I spoke out before I thought, but I was glad an instant
after,—“if you would spare a few moments,—if you would take an invalid
a short drive—”
“With pleasure Miss. The sick young man, I suppose?”
“Yes,” and I ran to beg papa to help him out. Louis was delighted, I
could see.
They drove down the quiet street, where the trees met overhead. Quaint
and old fashioned, with great gardens, many of the houses being owned
by widows, or elderly people whose children were married and gone.
Less than a quarter of a mile away the road curved, and in this little
three-cornered space stood our pretty gray stone church, the shady side
covered with ivy.
“It was delightful;” said Louis on his return. “But I never thought of
the great liberty we were taking.”
“Do not fret about that,” I made answer gaily. “Be just as good as you
can, while I am gone.”
I was glad they had asked no one else at the Churchills. The Maynards
had been over the day before. Miss Churchill received us very
cordially. I explained what I had done, and made a small apology.
“My dear child, I am pleased that you thought of it,” returned Miss
Churchill. “Why, we might send over almost every day. I am glad he is
improving so nicely.”
“It would be a charitable work for me, Aunt Esther. Such a little
satisfies Aunt Lu that I do not keep half busy,” said Mr. Ogden.
“I never knew you to have such an industrious fit;” replied his aunt.
“But I have been in business for a year you see, and have ceased to be
an idler;” and he made a comical face.
Miss Lucy came down soon after. Then we had a nice cordial time talking
about books and looking over pictures.
Sometimes two or three voices sounded at once, not from any ill
breeding, but because we all had so much to say. Then we would laugh
and subside, and begin again. I almost wondered how we dared feel so
much at home, and utter our every day thoughts unreservedly.
Mr. Churchill joined us, and the conversation, asking about church
matters, and if we were going to take the Sunday School to the cascade
again? Were there many sick in the parish?
“Not very many for this season of the year,” I made answer.
“Our town is about as healthy as any location I know. Why people must
be running off to watering places and leaving comfortable houses, I can
not understand.”
“The grand thing is change. Most of us do get tired of running along in
one groove.”
“Why Esther! I thought you considered the doctrine of change a great
heresy!” and Mr. Churchill looked surprised.
“I have been thinking lately that we might make our lives too narrow,
too self-satisfying. So if we get outside we may have our ideas
broadened, and find something new to do, or if we are dissatisfied with
our surroundings, we may come back quite content.”
“Do you want to go any where?”
“Not just now.”
Fan and Lucy had been talking over the picnic.
“Can’t we drive there in the afternoon?” she asked of her brother, “I
should like to see a crowd of happy children.”
“Are you going, Winthrop?”
“I expect to be field marshal. Miss Endicott has engaged my services at
an enormous salary. You will be able to tell me by a blue ribbon around
my left arm, and a primrose in the lappel of my coat. I am to see that
the rear guard is prompt at dinner.”
He looked at me very soberly, and the others glanced in the same
direction. I could not help blushing to the roots of my hair, and
exclaiming:
“Why Mr. Ogden!”
“Aunt Lucy will tell you that I have a great deal of executive
ability.”
They all laughed.
The tea-table was exquisite as usual. Afterward we had music, Fan and
I singing duets, or Mr. Ogden joining us with a very promising tenor
voice.
“Can we not all sing?” asked Fanny presently. “Let me play some
familiar hymns.”
Mr. Churchill came and stood behind her watching the graceful fingers
that dropped such soft, sweet notes. As if he could not resist he added
his bass voice, and then we had quite a choir.
“Young ladies, you have given me an exceedingly pleasant evening;” he
said as we were preparing to leave. “I hope it may soon be repeated.”
Winthrop and Fanny laughed at each other all the way home. They were
not a bit sentimental, and I felt quite relieved. Since the Churchills
were so cordial about it, why should I worry?
He came over the next morning with the barouche and two horses to take
out Mr. Duncan.
“You didn’t ask such a favor for me?” and Louis’ eyes almost flashed.
“I did not ask anything, or even hint. Why can you not go and enjoy
it?”
“I don’t choose to be patronized.”
“I think this was Mr. Ogden’s own planning. You will like him I am
sure. Oh please go,” I entreated.
In the meanwhile Winthrop had been admiring the baby and bantering some
one else to fill up the carriage. Oddly enough mamma consented to take
Edith. When Louis heard that he made no further objection.
The result of this was that Winthrop came back and staid to dinner. We
were all going to the Fairlie’s to tea and croquet. And Fan absolutely
sent him home or I believe he would have staid until we started.
Mamma liked him. Stuart pronounced him jolly, but Louis withheld his
verdict. I must confess that I admired him ever so much. You could get
on with him so nicely.
I was very glad that Fan did not monopolize him during the evening.
Dick appeared quite elated with her notice of him. It was moonlight and
we walked home together, but somehow then Dick fell to my share.
The next week we hardly had a moment to breathe. What with our
engagements and getting everything in train for the picnic we were as
busy as bees. The aristocratic part seldom joined us, but papa always
obeyed the scriptural injunction. The lame, and the halt, and the blind
were hunted up, the whimsical old people who would not go without a
special invitation, the poor who were sure they had nothing to wear,
and the children who were always ready, but needed getting in order.
Mamma remained behind with baby and Louis. I was to act for her as well
as I could. The stronger portion of the community were to meet on the
church green and march in regular order. Fan had beguiled Dick Fairlie
into taking Jennie Ryder and her mother, who was quite disabled from
a stroke of paralysis two years before. All the others were to go in
wagons or stages or wheel-barrows, she said.
Winthrop came over and helped us manage the children. At nine we took
up our line of march under the shady trees. There was a shorter way
in the sun, but we had time enough. This road wound round the hilly
district, crossed the river once, and then seemed to lose itself in the
woods. At least there was the hill and the trees on one side. Here a
craggy declivity stood out bold and brown amid the waving green, ferns
and wild flowers grew in the clefts, or shrubs with precarious footing.
A spur of the creek ran along the height, and presently began to find
its way down through a sort of sloping river, purling over rocks and
stones and fallen trees, and in two places pouring down a precipitous
pathway, making very pretty falls, the larger one at least ten feet
high. Then it ran off and joined the river.
There was one lovely nook, though art had assisted nature here. A
clearing had been made years ago, and now the turf of clover and grass
was like velvet.
It was a small basin between the mountains. Down one side of it came
the cascade, wandering off through the woods in curves that made a
picturesque way. The place was used considerably for pleasure parties,
and kept in tolerable order. The committee had been down the day
before, put up swings, made some long tables and seats, and given the
place quite a homelike air.
The walk was beautiful with varied scenery, fresh, crisp air, and
clearest of skies. Mr. Ogden made acquaintance with Mr. Trafton, our
superintendent, in about five minutes, and they marshalled the children
in a jolly fashion. All heavy baskets and bundles were put in a great
farm wagon, and we had nothing to do but march along triumphantly to
the carol of the birds.
The youngsters were wild, of course. They shouted at a little gray
squirrel which ran along the path, they gave sundry shrill whistles
that exceeded the birds, they laughed and chattered, stepped out of
line to gather wild flowers or pick up some uncommon pebble, beginning
their day’s pleasure at the very outset. But papa did not care. Indeed
he was as merry as any of them.
I thought several times how Stephen Duncan would have liked it. I
wondered what should have brought him so plainly before my mind on this
particular day!
Through winding ways we trooped. Over beyond there were broad meadows
and waving corn-fields, scattered farm buildings and cottages, with a
bit of road, gleaming dusty white in the sunshine, the river broadening
into lakes or bending abruptly; and nearer, the changing glooms and
shadows, the points of the hills in blue and purple and bronze. All the
air was so clear and sweet, it sent the rushes of warm blood to heart
and brain, and then to very finger ends.
The infantry, as Winthrop called it, reached the ground a long while
first. We had to disband and the children ran around as if they had
never seen a bit of country before. Shawls and baskets were stowed in
out-of-the-way corners or suspended from trees. Some of the hardier
boys pulled off shoes and stockings, preparatory to having a good time.
As for us elders, we began to straighten out our affairs and set up
for house-keeping. There were so many lovely people. Miss Oldways,—who
taught the bible-class of larger girls,—in her soft, pearl gray dress,
and ribbon of the same shade on her bonnet, with a bit of pale blue
inside. She was always so sweet and lady-like. She and her widowed
sister, Mrs. Bromley, kept a little thread and needle store in the
village, and, though they were business women, I did not see that it
detracted in the least from their refinement.
Annie and Chris Fellows were with us, and Mrs. Elsden, though she had
four children in the Sunday School, but I think she would have enjoyed
herself any way. Mrs. Fairlie and Kate had gone to the sea-shore the
day before, with the Wests and some others. Then there were Mothers and
Aunts of the children, and several of the farmer families near by.
We had stowed our luggage in a cool, shady place and sent the wagon
home when the caravan arrived. Old ladies who could not have walked,
but were in holiday white apron and kerchief, or best gingham dress,
and some with their knitting. We placed shawls on the mossy rocks or
benches, and seated them.
“Here is your precious cargo,” said Dick to Fannie. “Come and welcome
them.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ryder, I am so glad you _could_ come.”
“I couldn’t if it had not been for you, dear. You are always thinking
of something pleasant. I was so surprised when Dick told me—”
He was Dick to almost everybody, for his father was a plain, sociable
farmer, and the son had grown up with the village boys. It was a great
mortification to Mrs. Fairlie that he did not want to go to college and
liked farming. But then Kate kindly took “cultivation” enough for two.
“What will you do with her?” asked Dick, lifting her out in his strong
arms.
“Right here. O Jennie!” and she went on making a soft corner.
Dick put Mrs. Ryder in it. The neighbors crowded round, glad to see
her out. A pale, sweet, motherly looking woman, who had been very
handsome in her day, and now her cordial thankfulness was good to
behold.
“You are just splendid;” Fan whispered to Dick.
We all liked Jennie Ryder ever so much, and felt a peculiar interest in
her, beside. Two years ago,—or it would be in September,—after Jennie
had graduated with honors she obtained a situation in an excellent
school some twenty miles away, where she could only come home every
Friday, but then the salary was too good to be declined. Just after she
had taught two months, the stroke had fallen upon her mother. A cousin
who had always lived with them was taken ill with a fever and died.
For weeks Mrs. Ryder lay between life and death. Jennie was compelled
to relinquish her school. It was a sore disappointment, for she loved
teaching. But by spring Mrs. Ryder had partially recovered her health,
yet her limbs were well nigh useless. She would hobble around a little
with crutches, but Jennie knew that it would never do to leave her
alone.
They owned a small cottage and garden, but the sickness had made sad
inroads in the little fortune. Jennie felt compelled to earn something
at home, so she bought a sewing machine and did fine work. I suppose
every town or village thinks it _must_ draw a line somewhere. There
were the exclusive West Side people, who only expected to exchange
calls with each other, there were the rich people who had been poor
thirty or forty years ago, and then there was the circle who wanted to
get on and up, by pushing others down and clinging to the skirts of
those just above them. Somehow Jennie Ryder was pushed down. The richer
girls who were at the Academy with her dropped her by degrees when she
sewed for their mothers. One and another left off inviting her out to
little sociables, or croquet. I think she felt it keenly, but she made
no complaint.
She had so many pretty refined ways and accomplishments. If she had
been in a city she could have made them useful, but here all the places
were filled. She painted in water colors, drew in crayons, that were
almost equal to chromos, made moss baskets and ferneries and picture
scrap-books, and had their house looking like a little fairy nest. And
she was so sunny and cheery, and really charming when her true self
had a chance to peep out from the fence that circumstances and ignorant
people built about her.
“Oh,” she said glancing around; “it is like a bit of heaven framed in,
isn’t it? just look at the sky over head and the tree tops and mountain
tops holding it up, as it were. And a whole long, lovely day! I did not
expect on Sunday that I _could_ come.”
“It’s the daily bread for this day;” said papa softly, as he was
shaking hands with her mother.
“And cake and cream and fruit off of the twelve trees. And the seventy
palms with their shade and beauty.”
“You have brought some sunshine,—you seldom go empty-handed, Jennie,”
said papa.
Dick turned and looked at her just then. She had such a clear, sweet,
tender expression, the nameless something better than beauty. A
slender, graceful figure, white and peachy-pink tints with brown hair
and eyes. Her dress was white and a marvel of workmanship, with its
bias tucking and straight tucking and bands of embroidery that she had
done herself. Fan once quoted her, but mamma reminded her that there
were seven of us, and that tucks must be divided by that number.
“And I am going to have a splendid time. Mother, here is your book. Are
you quite comfortable? If you don’t mind, I will take a ramble with the
girls. You and Mrs. Conklin can have a nice talk.”
“No dear, go on.”
Mrs. Conklin had taken out her knitting. She was from one of the farms
over the river, a healthy, happy, rosy-cheeked grandmother, her fingers
flying fondly in and out of the tiny red clouded stocking.
“Where will you go first?” asked Dick of the group of girls.
“To the Cascade,” replied Mr. Ogden.
“You are not girls,” said Fan saucily.
“But you know you wouldn’t that one of us were left behind;” he quoted
sentimentally.
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Modesty is becoming to young people.”
“Do you expect to find the old ones sitting on the steps of time, with
faces grimly uncovered?”
They all laughed. Fan took Jennie Ryder’s arm, and Dick filled up the
path beside them, so Winthrop fell back with me. Stuart was right
behind with the prettiest girl he could find, as usual. On we started,
but ere we had reached the first ascent we saw numerous followers in
our wake.
“It is like a picture,” exclaimed Winthrop. “Or better still, a series
of pictures. Oh, look at this moss! and these tiny ferns!”
They all stopped. How beautiful it was in this wide, glowing, redundant
life, the trailing riotous vines, the long streamers of last year’s
Aaron’s beard, the rustling of the leaves and the rippling, tinkling
sound of the water.
“How curious;” said Jennie. “That is a walking fern.”
“Ah, you know it?” and Winthrop glanced up in a pleased fashion.
“I have a fern bed at home. I like them so much. And these grow in such
a peculiar manner.”
“And she has the cunningest winter ferneries that you ever saw, Mr.
Ogden,” declared Fan.
“I like them too. They always give me a peculiar sensation of the
quiet and shade in which they grew. They are like the Quakers, never
surprising you by any gaudy freaks of blossoming. Oh, were any of you
here a month ago?”
“I came for rhododendrons one day;” Jennie answered.
“That was what entered my mind. What crowds and crowds of trees! I am
generally here in August, so I miss that. How perfectly glorious they
must be. What colors?”
“Pure white and pale, blossomy pink.”
“Those are my favorites. I sometimes think I was meant for a country
life. I like the growing and blossoming, the ripening and the fruit.
Autumn rounds everything so perfectly.”
“Yes,” said Dick, “there is always a great richness in Autumn. The
smells of the drying fields, of the stacked corn, the apples and pears
and grapes. And the leaves all aglow, the chestnuts full of yellow
burrs. You ought to come then, Mr. Ogden!”
“I believe I will. Can we all go nutting? That is after the frosts,
though.”
“Yes, late in October.”
“Oh, look!”
We had been going on for a few moments, now we paused again. It was so
all the way up. Something to see and to feel, to pause and drink in
with all one’s soul. Here a rock sculptured and set as if by an artist
hand. Richest moss, great, feathery fronds, pellucid waters, breaks
of sunshine, and haunts of deep gloom. Now we were serious, then we
laughed gaily at some quick jest. It takes so little to amuse when one
is young and happy.
We passed the stream at length and went on to the mountain-top. What a
fair outlying prospect! There was the village below, the church spires,
some tall factory chimneys, and beyond it all mountains again. I
thought of the hills standing about Jerusalem, and the Lord everywhere,
standing about his people.
“O,” exclaimed Fan at length, “we must go back, who will get our
dinner?”
“Who will eat it? is a subject for our more serious consideration;”
said Winthrop.
“And if—
‘When we get there
The cupboard is bare?’”
“That would be a dire misfortune. By the time we reach the bottom
again, we shall be as hungry as bears.”
“You might comfort yourself like the old man of Kilkenny.”
“How was that?” inquired Winthrop.
Stuart’s eyes twinkled with their fun-loving light as he began:
“There was an old man of Kilkenny.
Who never had more than a penny.
He spent all that money in onions and honey,
This wayward old man of Kilkenny.”
They all laughed heartily. We began our descent but were changed about
somehow. Every body helped the one who came to hand. Now it was Dick,
then Mr. Ogden or Stuart. We slipped and scrambled and uttered small
shrieks, making the way very lively.
“See here!” exclaimed Winthrop—“a wild rose and buds, I think them so
especially beautiful. Who is queen of the May to be crowned?”
“You are too late;” laughed Fan, “May has gone.”
“Queen of Midsummer, then. Miss Endicott accept this late treasure. Let
it blossom and wither on your heart—sweets to the sweet.”
This was to Fan. Her blue eyes laughed saucily.
“The sweet in both cases being about alike,” she made answer.
He gave it to her in a mock sentimental fashion just as his speech had
been. She fastened it in the bosom of her dress, making a sweeping
courtesy.
A strange flash glowed over Dick Fairlie’s face. I do not think any one
else observed it, but it sent my heart up to my throat in a moment.
I understood with a kind of secret sense that it was both love and
jealousy. Then I glanced at gay laughing Fan. Did she mistrust?
I felt strangely, sadly wise, as if in five minutes I had grown years
older. A thing like this coming into our very midst! Well, among so
many girls there would probably be one or two marriages, and who more
likely than winsome, beguiling Fanny.
In the valley they were at work. A fire had been kindled and a great
tea kettle was swinging in the blaze. Baskets were being unpacked.
Table cloths and dishes laid out, and everybody talked at once.
“Rose,” said papa, “I have been looking for you. Miss Oldways wants you
to help with the table. Where are Daisy, Lil and Tim?”
“Nelly promised to keep watch and ward to-day;” and with that I shook
out my large white kitchen apron which nearly covered the skirt of my
dress, and went to work in good earnest.
“I suppose we _do_ enjoy things better when we have to work for them,”
said old Mrs. Granby. “We rush round helter skelter, get our puddings
shaken up and our nice crisp pie-crust jammed and broken, and eat
biscuits that have been spread for three hours, and a bite of cold
meat, and after we have gone home to think it over it seems ever so
much better than a great dinner.”
“The good-fellowship adds. I never go on a picnic but I think of the
Apostles having all things in common;” returned Miss Oldways.
“Yes,” said papa, “they gave of their time and interest, and love,
as well. It was not merely a little money. They brought in the whole
family and bestowed with the open-handed tenderness that blesses the
giver as well.”
I heard snatches of their talk as I ran onward, and snatches of other
talk. Here were sandwiches dripping with jelly, that had somehow been
upturned in the basket.
“Jelly is fashionable with meats,” suggested some one.
“There! I haven’t put in a single spoon. And I took the trouble to tie
red threads around each handle, then left them on the dresser. That was
smart!”
“We will reverse the order of things and have two creams with one
spoon, the second to wait until the first is served.”
“Is every plate used? Let’s count. All the elders must come
first—thirty, thirty-one, and the young girls wait on the
table—thirty-eight—it is but fair that their mothers should have the
best once in a while. Sixty-one! Now ring the bell.”
They filled up the first table, putting a little child in here and
there. The tea and coffee steamed out their appetizing fragrance, and
as we had no vases, we placed mounds of fern, grasses and wild flowers
on the table. Every body ate and drank and had a good time. The dishes
were washed, wiped, and put on again, the children summoned, and after
a while all had been feasted. Then there was a general clearing away,
except at one end of the long table where the fragments were collected
for those who might get hungry by and by.
[Illustration: “SWEETS TO THE SWEET.” Page 181.]