The next thing that happened to us was—though to be exact, it was two
events. In the morning papa had a long, lovely letter from Stephen
Duncan, enclosing a check for two hundred dollars on the boys’ account,
and one for fifty to mamma, to fill up the chinks made by the sickness,
he said. The Doctor’s bill he would settle when he came home. Papa read
most of it aloud, and I saw mamma’s sweet, dark eyes fill with tears.
We were beginning a new week, and alone by ourselves. That always
reminds me of the story papa used to tell of a traveler who passed a
house where there were seven children sitting on the stoop, and seven
on the fence, all crying as hard as they could cry, so he paused to ask
what dreadful thing had happened.
“Oh,” said they with one voice, “our mother has gone away and left us
all alone!”
It was pretty much the same with us, only we did not cry for any one
gone away. It was delightful to have our house by ourselves.—Though it
seemed so queer that we lounged around and amused each other making
wonderful plans.
In the afternoon Mrs. Whitcomb arrived with her large basket. We all
rushed out and kissed her, and almost distracted her with our avalanche
of news. Fan untied her bonnet, I took her shawl and mamma turned one
glove into the other after her own careful fashion.
“The wear seems to have told most upon you, Mrs. Endicott,” she said
with sweet solicitude. “First of all, girls, your mother must have a
holiday!”
We looked at each other blankly, then laughed.
“She shall have whatever is best;” returned Fan with much dignity.
“Then she must go away. Let me see—among the mountains somewhere, to
an old farm-house where she can have milk, and sweet corn, and sleep
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. She must not take a stitch of
sewing.”
“Splendid!” I declared, clapping my hands.
“Oh,” exclaimed Nelly, “won’t you go to Auntie Vandevere’s, mamma?
They want you to come so much.”
“Now there is a place provided,” said Mrs. Whitcomb. “You know you were
going all last summer and did not get started. It is just the season to
enjoy yourself. The girls and I can keep house. We will have everything
bright as a new gilt button on your return.—And Edith is so good, or
you might take one of the children to mind her. Children come in so
handy.”
“O mamma, me!” and Tim jumped up and down as incoherently as her
sentence.
“The house cleaning—” protested mamma faintly, Tim’s arms being around
her neck in a strangling fashion by this time.
“We will clean house, mend the stockings, weed the flower beds, and
keep matters straight. You will hardly know the place when you return.”
“Here, Tim, look after your village! Baby has commenced to devour the
cows, and I think them a rather heavy article of diet for her just yet.”
“What is one little make-believe cow?” said Tim disdainfully.
“Well, pick up the fragments. And here is Miss Dolly looking tired and
sleepy. Then run out and play.”
“We don’t want to;” cried the younger ones in chorus.
“Well, have your own way;” and Fan sat down in mock despair. “I am
determined to be obeyed in some respect.”
After we had them all snugly tucked in bed that evening, the elders
discussed the plan again. Papa approved of it so strongly that he wrote
the letter immediately.
“But there is so much to do,” declared mamma. “I intended to change the
girls to the front chamber and put Nelly and Daisy in theirs. And we
want a new carpet for the study, and—oh, I don’t believe I can go!”
“There is always some path out of the woods;” said Mrs. Whitcomb when
our laugh had subsided. “You need the rest—that is the strongest
argument. And I have come to help. You cannot make me company if you
try.”
On the following day we had it all out straight. The three seniors were
to go to Westburg on Thursday and buy everything they could lay their
hands upon. Friday afternoon mamma was to take her journey. The next
week on Wednesday or Thursday papa was to go up after her, the two to
come home on Saturday. There it was all as plain and easy as “twice
two” in the multiplication table.
They started bright and early in the morning. Fan and I went at the
front chamber. There was not much to do, for the walls were papered.
Ann cleaned the paint, we washed windows and rubbed the paper with a
soft cloth, then she shook the carpet for us and we tacked it down.
“It seems odd to move over to this side of the house,” said Fan, “but I
shall like it ever so much. And Nell will be so pleased. She hates to
be packed like pins in a paper. But now comes the tug of war—clothes,
bureau drawers, odds and ends, and the plagues of Egypt.”
“O no;” I returned laughingly.
“Well—flies, anyhow. They are not all gone.”
There was a large old-fashioned chest of drawers in the room. We
brought in our dainty bureau with its pretty glass, and I gave up all
the drawers to Fan, taking the other. There was a nice wardrobe for
our dresses and boxes. When Nelly returned from school she helped with
our pictures and brackets, and we had ourselves as well as our room in
order before the travelers returned. Baby had been good as an angel all
day. I dressed her clean and put on one of the pretty bibs that Daisy
had crocheted, and Ann had the supper table in readiness.
They were all tired, enough, though we had bound them by solemn
promises not to do any of our fall shopping. They had made a few calls,
selected the carpet and made arrangements to have papa’s study chair
covered with Russia leather. So we kissed them and made them welcome,
both ladies being somewhat surprised by our day’s work.
It was beautiful on Friday, and there was not the least shadow of an
excuse for mamma to stay. Not that we were so very glad to have her go,
after all, but we knew it would bring forth good fruit in the end. Tim
was about half crazy and brought all her play-things to be packed up,
but mamma compromised by taking her large rag doll, as the baby could
play with that.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Whitcomb on Saturday morning, “suppose we begin
at the other rooms. Nelly and Daisy can do a good deal in the way
of helping. I want to get the house all in order before your mother
returns. And there will be the carpet to make the first of the week.”
“Agreed;” we all said, and went at it with a good will. Daisy declared
“that it was almost as splendid as moving, and she hoped sometime we
would move.” She was too young to remember the discomforts of our
coming to Wachusett.
This was a regular frolic. Mrs. Whitcomb was so charming with her ways
of quiet fun and odd bits of wisdom. Like mamma, she knew how to begin
at the right end, and make matters go on smoothly. There is such a
difference in that. She kept the children good-natured and we were all
as busy as bees.
Just as we were hurrying our utmost, about mid-afternoon a carriage
stopped. Daisy ran to the side window to reconnoitre.
“It is the Maynards,” she announced, “and a whole load of ladies.”
“Some one must go—Rose!”
“O, dear, no, not—”
“For Joe, to be slangy,” and Fan laughed. “But you have just finished
the carpet, and you are the eldest, and you can brush up your hair so
quickly. Here, wash your face and I’ll get out your dress.”
I washed and brushed, or rather just ran the comb through my hair
and twisted it in a great knot, put on some tidy slippers and a blue
cambric with ruffles at the wrist and throat. While I was fastening my
brooch Fan tied a pale blue ribbon in my hair.
“There, you look as sweet as a pink, only I never saw any blue pinks.
Don’t say you are just out of the soap-suds. Remember to uphold the
family credit.”
It was “all of the Maynards,” and a very elegant young gentleman. Mrs.
Silverthorne and the Misses Maynards were going West next week, and had
come to make a farewell call. They were very sorry to miss mamma—how
could we get along without her?
I said Mrs. Whitcomb was here taking charge of us.
“There;” began Mrs. Silverthorne, “Matilda, I don’t see why you can’t
get her to come and stay with grandma this winter, and you go to the
City for two months or so. I am sure if Mrs. Endicott feels it safe to
leave all of her children, you might leave just one person.”
“Mamma has the baby and my youngest sister with her,” I returned. “And
she only expects to stay a week.”
I could not see that the cases were at all parallel.
“Well, this Mrs. Whitcomb is a nice, trusty sort of person, is she not?
Doesn’t she take care of sick people?”
“Yes; she is very lovely.”
“_That_ is only for your equals, my child;” she returned patronizingly.
I flushed but made no answer.
“Whose crayon drawing?” asked Miss Maynard, making a tour of inspection
through the room.
“My sister Fanny’s.”
“O—the one with that lovely golden hair—is it not? Miss Lucy Churchill
raves about her. Why she has quite a talent. Does she think of
studying?”
“Not at present;” I replied.
“She is very young;” said Mrs. Maynard.
“If I were not going away I should be pleased to give her some lessons.
I think one ought to foster talent when one is in a position to do it.”
“Thank you;” I returned with a little pride. “Miss Churchill intends to
give her lessons.”
“Indeed! Well, I have some friends connected with the School of Design
in New York. I might do something for her there.”
I simply thanked her again.
They left regrets and kind messages, and swept through the hall in a
complacent fashion.
I ran up stairs and took off my dress in a hurry.
“It wasn’t worth the trouble;” I declared with some disgust. “I really
think I could find more intellectual enjoyment in tacking down carpets.
I am sure I could in hanging pictures.”
“What a depraved taste! And West Side people, too!”
“I can’t help it, Miss Churchill would have been charming.” Then I
repeated Miss Maynard’s offers.
“Very thoughtful of her;” said Fan dryly.—“People in her position can
do many nice things if they try. I would not have hung that picture in
the parlor if it had not been for papa.”
“Our parlor is our own,” replied I.
“No, it belongs in part to the parish.”
Mrs. Whitcomb laughed at that.
“Oh, won’t this room be lovely,” said Nelly. “Why, I could swing Tabby
around in it without hitting the children!”
“Let me catch you swinging Tabby! She has passed through purgatory.”
“And these book-shelves are just the thing. Daisy, they are mine, do
you understand? If I find one of your books here I shall put it in the
middle of the floor.”
“That will have one merit at least, I can see it there.”
We finished the two rooms by night, and then had callers all the
evening. But Sunday without mamma seemed quite out of the order of
things. I knew papa felt lost, though we all tried to do our best.
Once it came into my mind what the house would be without her forever,
and my eyes filled with tears. We sat together an hour after church,
talking about her.
We went to work again the first of the week. The carpet had come and
was very pretty. A mossy, fine figured vine in two shades of green,
with a dash of crimson here and there. The lounge had been covered the
year before with green reps and still looked bright.
“How pretty it will be!” I said, “I am all impatience to see it down
and the room in order. The carpet comes just like a present, doesn’t
it?”
“We have forgotten the work and the worry.”
“Perhaps it was a good thing for us. And somehow I do believe it will
prove good for Louis Duncan.”
“When will we go at the study, Mrs. Whitcomb?”
“Not until your father is out of the house.”
A ring at the bell startled us.
“West Side again;” said Mrs. Whitcomb;—“Miss Churchill.”
“O, please come in here;” exclaimed Fanny with a laugh. “It is only a
step from—dress-making to carpets.”
“Is it?” and she smiled. “Who is going to be so pretty?”
“Papa. Our study carpet was a thing of—shreds and patches, rather than
beauty. And we feel as if we had earned this money ourselves. When papa
goes to the mountains we shall have a thorough renovating.”
“I wish I could add something,” said Miss Churchill. “Let me take a
peep, perhaps I can discover a new need.”
She glanced around. Fanny explained about the chair.
“There is one thing girls, and I shall do it. This paper is soiled and
dingy, and a new one must be put on.”
“It is pretty nearly covered with the books and pictures,” returned
Fanny.
“But it is not nice. Wednesday, you said, Mr. Endicott was going. I
will send you over some help to get the furniture and the books out,
and on Thursday the man shall come to do it. It will not take long.”
“We can do the removing, please;” and Fan smiled archly.
“If you are saucy I will come myself. Here is a basket of pears. I
suppose I dare not ask you to visit me until you have all your fortune
spent, and are bankrupt.”
“You will be very good to take us in then,” I answered.
“I can make allowance for the pernicious influence of wealth;” she
returned gaily.
She was as good as her word. The coachman come over to help us lift, he
said. One end of the room and one side of the chimney had been put in
book-shelves. Mrs. Whitcomb thoughtfully made out a list so we could
tell where they belonged.
The paper and the man were according to promise. The first was a
delicate French gray with quite wide, rich bordering that gave the room
the effect of being frescoed. It was as pretty as a picture. When the
carpet was down, and the chair came home, which it did, Saturday noon,
we were happy as larks.
But the best of all was mamma and the baby. We kissed them and cried
over them a little out of pure joy. The old tired look had gone out of
mamma’s sweet face, and her voice was bright and cheery. And, oh, how
surprised and pleased they both were! Papa declared that it was as good
as a Christmas feast.
It was only a little after all. Some of the ladies in town spent as
much on one dress and then were dissatisfied. I begin to think it is
a rare art to get a good deal of happiness out of a small amount of
material. When you work for it yourself it does seem sweeter, if the
work is not too hard. Hunger is a good thing if one does not pass the
point of appetite, and faint.
Mamma thought we had accomplished wonders. Truly the pictures did
look better on the new paper, and the bright border gave a glow and
richness. The carpet proved just the thing. Papa called it his Castle
of Indolence, because it had such a dreamy, comfortable appearance.
“There is half of our fortune gone;” said Fanny, “but I don’t grudge a
penny of it. Indeed I feel like spending the rest on dear papa.”
“Papa has had his share, fully. Now I must do some shopping for you
girls. And I have a surprise in my mind for Mrs. Whitcomb.”
“A present, I know. O mamma, tell us at once.”
“She would not take any pay for her services in the summer, so I shall
spend part of my gift upon her. It is one of the chinks, and I think it
can best be filled with a new dress.”
“Just the thing. She has a nice black silk dress, so let this be a
poplin, a beautiful dark wine color. You know how pretty she looked in
the neck tie,” said Fan.
“I had been puzzling on a color. You and Rose and Nelly must have a new
winter dress apiece.”
“And mine shall be wine color. _Can_ we afford poplin, mamma, real
pretty, I mean?”
“Hardly, I think. You will want a walking suit and what with overskirt
and jacket—”
Fan made a mental calculation.
“No, mamma _mia_, it will never do. A dollar and a half a yard will
be our utmost limit. Well, there are lovely empress cloths. We will be
neat if we cannot be gorgeous. And if I could have velvet like it for a
hat, and a tiny real lace collar.”
“I will give you each thirty-five dollars. Will that answer?”
“We will make it, little mother;” I replied cheerfully.
We enjoyed shopping with our own money exceedingly. My dress was a dark
green with a bronze tint; and a felt hat to match, with trimmings a
shade lighter. Mamma gave us our gloves and some ribbons, and we felt
very grand. Nelly’s dress was a gold and black waterproof.
We bought Mrs. Whitcomb’s under her very eyes, and smiled over her
comments. But when she saw it the next morning with her name pinned
on it, and “her dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Endicott” as donors, her
surprise and delight were good to witness. Fan declared that it was the
most satisfactory of all.
Afterward we had a regular dress-making “bee.” Mamma cut, Mrs. Whitcomb
and I basted, and Fan sewed on the machine. Miss Oldways insisted upon
coming one day, and we had a bright, cheerful time. We made Mrs.
Whitcomb’s too, though she said at first that we should not.
By this time it was the middle of October. We felt as if we had gained
a march upon the season, shopping and sewing so early, and we were
quite proud not to have taken papa’s money. The salary was not very
large, and sometimes it required considerable planning to make it do.
Mamma used to say it was the five loaves and the two small fishes among
many, but we _did_ often find a few fragments.
Mrs. Whitcomb had to say good-bye to us again. We fell back into our
old routine. Fanny being at home regularly gave me much more leisure.
We took up a course of reading with papa, and practiced our music
daily. There were walks and calls and parish visiting, so we were not
likely to be idle. The Churchills were very kind to us. Mr. Churchill
took the office of church warden, left vacant by Mr. Fairlie’s death.
He came over now and then to discuss church matters, and he did get a
great deal interested in the children.
Miss Helen Ogden was married early in December and went abroad. Mrs.
Ogden tried to persuade Miss Lucy to go to Florida with her, but she
confessed that she had not the courage. Mrs. Fairlie and Kate found
their loneliness insupportable, and were quite elated when she asked
them to join her. They wanted Dick to accompany them, but he would not,
declaring that he could not leave everything at loose ends.
Oddly enough, we rarely heard a word about Winthrop Ogden. He was in
a Bank in New York. He had not made his second visit as proposed.
We never said anything to each other concerning the love episode,
mamma thought it best not to be talked about. And though through all
the trouble and grief it had been impossible not to see Dick Fairlie
frequently, he and Fan fell into pleasantly fraternal ways.—Mamma
managed that there should be no awkwardness and but little chance for a
repetition. She used to sit with us evenings and make Dick talk to her.
Presently he became quite confidential with her. He had missed this
peculiar mother love and interest in his own life, and it seemed as if
he was hungering for it.
He improved unconsciously. He grew more manly and self-reliant. People
began to call him Mr. Richard Fairlie, as they had called his father.
He made little visits to cousins and one or two school friends, though
he kept his house open with the aid of an excellent servant.
It is strange how the roots of things all get together after a while,
as they stretch out feelers hither and thither. I used to think if
there was one woman in the parish who resembled mamma in the sweet
family interest that she managed to create about those who came within
her circle it was Mrs. Ryder. Their house was just lovely. The parlor
opened into the sitting-room, that into the dining-room, at the end
of the hall, and from thence into the kitchen. They lived all the way
through, as we did. You commenced in the parlor but you found every
place just as good. Flowers were everywhere, pictures everywhere, even
in the kitchen where hung “The Gossips,” a laughable engraving of
“Moving Day,” a pretty rustic catch-all wall-pocket, and a shelf of
geraniums across one window. It wasn’t much larger than a hall bedroom,
but it was always neat and picturesque, the more so when Jennie was in
it with her sleeves tucked up, baking or washing dishes.
I believe Dick recognized the resemblance between mamma and Mrs. Ryder
in this peculiar motherliness. He took her to ride now and then, and
began to bring odd specimens of ferns and dried leaves to them, and
sent them some nice fruit and vegetables from the farm. We went with
him quite often to spend the evening, but mamma had cautioned us about
dragging Jennie injudiciously forward.
One day Fan and mamma were talking about him quite confidentially, when
the latter said—
“You do not feel inclined to repent your decision, my dear?”
“No, mamma;” she answered with a little fitful color.
“You have only to go on then in this manner, and remain very cordial
friends. I shall be glad to have you. But if you should wish to repent,
now would be the auspicious time. He is a very worthy young man.”
“Would you like me to, mamma?” Fan asked in a tremor of alarm.
“Not unless you wish it above all things, then you would be wrong to
let a little false pride stand in the way.”
“I do not wish it above all things.”
“My darling, we should be sorry to give you away so soon,” and mamma
kissed her fondly. “We are a trifle selfish, you see.”
“May be I shall never go away,” Fan made answer slowly. “Perhaps I
shall be the old maid sister instead of Rose.”
Mamma laughed and said she should not mind.
But we could all understand that Richard Fairlie was considered a
most eligible young man. Allie West and Sue Barstow were very cordial
with him. He was asked to tea as he could not join the gay little
neighborhood parties, and the mothers took a great interest in him.