It seemed so strange the next day to look at Fan and think what had
happened to her. I was glad to have it Sunday. The very church bells
appeared to have caught a deeper tone, an awe and sacredness, a being
set apart as it were from the ordinary uses. It was sweet and beautiful
to me, and I was filled with a kind of quiet excitement, a great
throbbing and trembling in every nerve, as if I stood on the threshold
of a new life. Other girls had been engaged or had lovers, but it did
not enter into my soul like this.
She was sweet and dreamy, saying very little. When she sang in Church
her voice had a peculiar tremulousness in it, as if it swept through
great waves of feeling. Mamma was very tender to her. When their eyes
met it was with a mutual understanding made manifest in the simplest
glance. I did not feel jealous. She and papa surely had the first right
to the mystery and blessedness of the new relation. Papa watched her
with wistful eyes, as if he could hardly resolve to relinquish her.
Thus two or three days passed. We were up in our room, I dusting, and
Fan folding some clothes, and laying ribbons orderly in a pretty box.
“That is so lovely,” and she shook out a delicate blonde blue. “Mr.
Duncan chose it for me. We went shopping one day with Mrs. Whitcomb, to
buy some table linen. It was such fun! I told him he wasted his money
in riotous living, the fine linen being a sure sign.”
Just then our heads met, mine going down and hers coming up. We laughed
and looked at each other in great confusion.
“O Fan,” I said just under my breath.
“My dear old darling! I want to tell you—”
“I have guessed,” I said quickly with conscious color. “It is just
right, you and Stephen will be so happy.”
“Stephen!” and she looked at me in surprise. “And papa thought so too!”
at which she laughed gayly.
“Isn’t it Stephen?” in blank amazement.
“Why, no, and mamma has not even hinted?”
“It cannot be Dick Fairlie,” I said wonderingly. “I am sure Jennie—”
“O you little goose! Now as there is just one other man left in the
world you can surely guess.”
I looked at her with that peculiar mental blindness where one may see,
but the thought is shaped to nothing.
“It is not—Winthrop Ogden.”
A great rift of scarlet rushed over her face. Her eyes were luminous
with the dewiness of joy that misses tears, and her lips trembled.
“Oh Fanny!”
I could only take her in my arms and kiss her.
“He wrote to papa. He cared more than we thought. And there was—I did
not tell you about the rose then. I felt afraid that he _was_ trifling
with me. And somehow—”
I understood it all when she did tell me in her sweet halting way. A
faint glimmering of love, or what might be love if there was truth for
a foundation stone.
“Are you quite certain that Stephen—?”
“Oh you dear, tender heart! Yes, quite sure that he does not love me
only in a friendly fashion. We suit, and can talk of everything. He
will not be so with the woman he loves—at first.”
“But it is so—queer;” and I smiled reflectively.
“Yes. We are not engaged, you know. He only asked for the privilege of
coming honorably. I thought he would wait a year—but he has not.”
“He is earnest, if impatient.”
“Yes. I believe I like the imperiousness.”
We went down stairs presently, Papa came in with a letter.
“For you, little woman;” he said, looking curiously at me.
I did not wonder at that. It was in Mr. Duncan’s hand, and of course he
was surprised at Mr. Duncan writing to _me_. But I knew all about it
and broke open the seal hurriedly. It was very brief.
“MY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND.
Louis came to me on Sunday evening. I understand how much of the good
work has been yours, and have no words to thank you as I ought. God
bless you, always. Louis is quite ill. With love to you and yours.
S. DUNCAN.”
I handed it to papa, saying—
“I shall have to tell you the story, first. I have had a secret since
last week, but I could not help it.”
“God be thanked for restoring this last son. Now what is it, Rose?”
I related the particulars of our meeting, and how I had urged Louis to
return, but that being bound by a promise of secrecy, I could only wait
the result.
“You were quite right;” replied papa. “The good seed has not been
utterly wasted. I have great hopes for this young man, after all.
Perhaps just this shock was needed to bring him to his senses. Peculiar
natures need peculiar discipline.”
“How brave and good you are in your quiet way Rose.” Fan said with her
arms around my neck.
I could not see what particular bravery there was in it. It had just
happened. The work had come to my hand, and I could not have turned
away.
“I am so glad Mrs. Whitcomb is there;” began mamma thoughtfully. “It
seems a special providence. She has so much wisdom and patience, she
can look beyond the little to-day, to the great end. She does not show
you how weak and miserable you are, but raises you up to her strength,
lends it to you, as it were, until you have some of your own.”
Then we went our ways again a shade more grave, perhaps, but with a
secret joy in our hearts over the “one sinner.” Just now we did not
need to remember the ninety and nine just ones.
The next event was a letter from Mr. Ogden to papa. He expected to
make a flying visit at the West Side, and would take great pleasure in
calling.
He reached the village late Saturday afternoon, and came over in the
evening. He and papa and Fan had a talk in the study, and then they
spent an hour by themselves. Fan looked bright and funny when she came
up stairs.
“Oh, you dear little grandmother;” she began, “how nice it is to have
some one to confess to, when you feel foolish and half sentimental. If
you want to laugh at me you can, there is no law in the Constitution to
forbid it. I am not very far gone in love yet, but I expect to be some
day. Meanwhile, let us be sensible.”
“I have not the slightest objection;” said I gayly.
“I will make my last will and testament while I am of sound mind, then.
Or rather part of this is papa’s. We are not to be really engaged
before Autumn, and in the meanwhile we are to find out on how many
points we agree. But Mr. Ogden is in desperate earnest.”
“You do not seem to be.”
“I really don’t know what I am. I have been tumbled up and down in my
mind and lost my mental equilibrium. But Rose, to think of Winthrop
that very evening telling his Aunt Lucy! And I have been there time and
again, never suspecting it. She has been very sweet to me.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot tell, only they are rich, and grand as people say, and I
feel quite small beside them. He doesn’t mean to tell his mother just
yet, but the rest of the family are—glad that it is so. But when his
Aunt Lucy wrote about Mr. Duncan being here he was in a flame at once.
He spoke last summer because he was jealous of Dick Fairlie, and now
because he was jealous of Mr. Duncan.”
“Do you like that?” I inquired gravely.
“Well—” reflectively, tying her hair ribbon around the pin-cushion,
and going off a step to view it, as if the becomingness of that was
the great point for consideration—“yes, I suppose it _is_ best. He
thinks so. I do believe I have a slight penchant for—flirting. It is
abominable in a clergyman’s daughter! Somehow I do not believe the old
Adam has been entirely eradicated in my case. I shall have to go on
fighting it awhile longer. And so—if I _know_ he is watching me and
will be made miserable over it, I _shall_ be more thoughtful.”
“But if you love him—?”
“It isn’t the love—it is the bits of fun that crop out now and then,
and when I laugh, somebody thinks it means something, when it does not.
I could not help about Dick, and I was very sorry. I am so glad he has
taken to Jennie Ryder. And I _know_ Mr. Duncan never had a thought
about marrying me. But it _is_ best to be careful, since there are men
in the world.”
“I think you had better come to bed,” I rejoined, much amused at her.
“I suppose I had. Good-bye, moralizing. ‘Be good and you will be
happy.’”
But she came and kissed me with rare tenderness.
Mr. Ogden walked home from church with us on Sunday, and came to tea in
the evening. He was very bright and gracious and made the children like
him.
After this they were to correspond until midsummer, when they would
meet again.
There was another embarrassment to be gone through with. A few days
afterward Miss Churchill came over. Obeying her first impulse, Fan ran
away with blushing cheeks. Mamma and Miss Churchill had a good long
talk to themselves. But after awhile Fan was compelled to make her
appearance.
“My dear child;” and Miss Churchill just took her in her arms and
kissed her. “We all think it very delightful to have a claim upon you.”
The tears sprang to Fan’s eyes. It was sweet indeed to be so warmly
welcomed. Mamma was a little touched by it, too.
“I was very much surprised, and I scolded Lucy roundly for keeping the
secret from me. But if we had chosen we could not have suited ourselves
better. And now, my dear, go get yourself ready, for I am going to take
you home with me and keep you all night. Lucy is wild to see you.”
Fanny looked at mamma who nodded assent, so she left us rather
lingeringly.
“My dear Mrs. Endicott,” and Miss Churchill came around, laying her
hand on mamma’s shoulder, “I think if I have ever envied any one in
the world, it is you, since I have come to know you thoroughly. These
charming girls growing up beside you should be a crown of content to
any woman.”
“I have been very happy with my husband and children;” and mamma’s eyes
glistened.
“Circumstances shut me out of such hopes. I suppose we all have our
little romances in youth. I too have had a pleasant life, and my sister
has needed my care, so that I do not feel wasted;” and she smiled. “But
I think I was in danger of making my life rather too narrow. We need
something fresh and different from ourselves. Even we who have the
strength to stand alone, like the sweet, tender sense of a trailing
vine reaching towards our hearts. A breath out of some other living
which enters into or demands our sympathy makes us so much more of kin
to the whole world.”
“Indeed it does,” replied mamma warmly. “When you learn to give and to
take out of each other’s sphere and experience, the actual richness and
breadth of existence is made manifest.”
“You have managed to get so much of real sympathy and heartiness
into your girls’ souls. They are natural. There is no aiming at any
superiority. They will always go into beautiful places because they fit
just like a statue in some niche. I cannot tell you what a pleasure
Fanny has been to us. I do not think Kenton is as fond of Helen, way
down in the depths of his heart, though we always had to coax her into
our lives, and alter the niches a little. So we are doubly glad to have
her.”
It was such a sweet, heart-felt welcome that the tears positively did
come to mamma’s eyes this time.
“Thank you a thousand times for your cordiality;” she murmured with a
great tremble in her voice.
“Winthrop is very young, but the Churchill blood is loyal to the last
drop. I think he will be true as steel through any probation. And since
they can have only one spring-time, one glad season of bright, eager,
joyous youth, we will all try to keep out the thorns and let them
ramble to the very mountain tops if they so elect. I dare say you fancy
me a foolish old woman!”
I thought her just splendid! Fan would be rich in love on every side.
“They are both young,” returned mamma. “Mr. Endicott considers it best
that there should be no formal engagement for the present, but I feel
as if it was quite a settled matter.”
“You must not become jealous if we should monopolize her a great deal.
She is such a comfort to Lucy, with her bright engaging ways. And I
seem to be almost sharing your bliss of motherhood.”
Fan returned just then fairly bewitching in her new timidity. We kissed
all round, and they drove away. I took up my sewing, but the house
seemed strangely still.
“Rose, dear,” mamma began presently, “this will bring a sense of
lonesomeness to you that may be depressing at first. I had hoped the
circle would not be broken quite so soon. But you must be a brave
little girl.”
“Oh,” I replied, “I am happy because she is. And then she will not
leave us for ever so long. But she is so bright and pretty that some
one would have fallen in love with her if it had not been Mr. Ogden.
You will not be robbed of me so soon—if that is any comfort.”
She smiled a little but did not answer.
The affection and honoring seemed to render Fan more humble than
before. She possessed a truly rich and noble nature which would not be
easily puffed up with pride.
Mrs. Fairlie and Kate returned, and a few days afterward we heard that
Mrs. Ogden was at her brother’s.
Kate came over to see us. She had changed indescribably. A languid
society air enveloped her as a garment. She talked with a slight drawl,
pronouncing her words in a very clear, delicate manner, as if she was
afraid of hurting them, Nelly said. All except the r’s, which she
rather ignored.
The months spent at the South had been just lovely. Such charming
people, (“cha_w_ming” she said,) so much cultivation, elegant, refined
manners, and oh, such dressing! How any one could exist in this dull
little town she did not see. And the stay in New York had been
splendid! They had become very intimate with Mrs. Ogden. We had seen
Winthrop, of course. Didn’t we think him a most entertaining young
man? She forgot though that we had but a _very_ slight opportunity of
judging. He had spent a number of evenings with her, and they had been
out together. He was quite an eligible “parti,” with a strong French
accent. The whole Churchill estate would have to be divided between
him and his sister presently, since there were only old maids and old
bachelors in the family. But she should not make up her mind about
marrying until after she had been abroad. American girls often married
very handsomely in foreign countries.
“French Counts for instance,” said Fan.
“O, but the _real_ article was to be had. And American gentlemen
traveled abroad now instead of going to native watering places. It was
so much more stylish. If Dick only would go with them! Mother had tried
to persuade him to hire the farm out.”
“He must be very lonesome;” said mamma.
“O, he is such an old hermit! He doesn’t care at all for society. Just
give him a book, or a dog, or a lot of kittens and he is perfectly
happy. He will end by being a bachelor like Mr. Churchill, yet I don’t
know as that is altogether to be deplored. Since mamma has a life right
there, it will be as well if there is no wife to interfere.”
She said this with the utmost complacency. I do not suppose she
imagined that it had a selfish sound.
Fan laughed a little afterward. “I shall tell Winthrop that he had
better wait. She _might_ come home from Europe and marry him.”
“I do not believe they will like Jennie Ryder;” I remarked.
“Kate snubbed her long ago. But Dick and she will have a chance to
get settled, I think, without any one’s interference. It is really
fortunate that they are going.”
We saw Mrs. Ogden twice during her stay. She was not as lovely as Miss
Esther, being more worldly-minded, but she had the Churchill breeding
and was a lady.
There was one little feast that we kept by ourselves—baby’s birthday.
She could walk and began to utter pretty words with one syllable left
off, and was the quaintest, cunningest baby in the wide world as we
knew—very well.
“What a short year;” said Fanny. “How many things have been crowded
into it.”
“And we are glad to have you, dear little Dot, if there are seven of
us,” exclaimed Nelly, kissing her extravagantly.
“But Mr. Duncan said he owned her and that he meant to take her away
some day;” declared tiny Tim, who was fast outgrowing her pet name. It
seemed to me that they were all a great deal taller than a year ago.
“We won’t let him have her just yet,” answered papa. “Or perhaps some
one might go in her place.”
The children glanced at each other in dismay; and papa laughed heartily.
The birds began to sing and the trees were coming out again. We went to
the woods for wild flowers and had our house fragrant with them. But in
the wake of spring came house-cleaning and gardening, and then—all the
sewing.
“The same thing year after year;” I said to mamma.
“And yet not quite the same either. There is a gradual outgrowing and
ingrowing. There should be a corresponding strength and sweetness and
patience and faith. By and by we come to the whole stature. But it is
the growth of a good many springs, the heat and toil and watching of
many summers, and the ripening of repeated autumns.”
“I did not take it as high as that.”
“But are we not to?” and mamma’s face was at its sweetest. “I often
think we work, in types. We clean our houses and dust finds lodgement
in them again, we purify our souls by prayer and good works, and we
find the rubbish of indolence and impatience and selfishness. So we go
at it and have another trial.”
“We ought to get strong;” I said thoughtfully.
“We _do_ grow stronger, I hope. And we become more watchful over our
work. You know when our house is first made nice and tidy how careful
we are of littering it again. And when God has helped us by his grace
to purify our souls how earnestly we should try to keep them so. For
they are His temples.”
I thought it over by myself. Yes, everything spoke. The true meanings
of life were not so hard to get at, after all. It was—believe and do.
They went hand in hand.
And yet it was a curious jumble. You had to come back from the grand
thoughts to the common every-day doings. Dresses and skirts and aprons,
sheets and towels, washing and ironing, and the inevitable eating. The
charm lay in making it as good and as pretty as possible, with the
outside harmony of taste and appropriateness, and the minor graces of
love and kindness.
Fan had taken upon herself some new, odd ways. She began to grow very
motherly with the children, she spent a part of every day in the
kitchen with Ann, and she had a box in one corner of the bureau-drawer
with which she held mysterious consultations. Wonderful were the
patterns of tatting that went into it, the bits of fine crocheting, the
puffs and rufflings gathered and stitched in dainty fashionings.
For her there could be no expensive trousseau ordered at some first
class city store. It would have to be a labor of love and necessity.
She was quite demure and precise for awhile, then Harry Denham came
home from the West, and she broke out into a regular frolic. Nothing
very bad or harmful, but her olden self that could not be altogether
repressed. Mamma came in with a guiding hand, and I think she
understood that she was being led over a dangerous place. Oh, wise and
tender mothers, what should we do without you?
I went to Mrs. Ryder’s one afternoon to tea, Jennie had asked me
specially on Sunday. “Come early,” she said, “so that we can have a
nice talk while mother is taking her rest.”
I could imagine what we were to talk about. Jennie kissed me with a
sweet, earnest tenderness, seated me in a low chair by the window and
began to take off my hat, and shawl.
“Your mother is not any worse?” I began by way of getting into the
common-places of talk before we should feel awkward.
“O no. Indeed I think she improves a little. She walks better than she
did.”
“I am so glad of that.”
“Not that she will ever regain the entire use of her limbs. That would
be too great a hope. But it is so nice to have her even this way. I
sometimes think how lonely and forlorn I should have been without one
dear friend of my very own.”
“I could not spare any one,” I returned, looking away.
“And you have so many.”
At that I smiled a little.
“A year or so ago mamma used to worry a great deal in her sweet way
that was not actual complaining, about being such a burthen. She
thought it was dreadful to have all my plans brought to nought, when
I loved teaching so much. And sometimes I could not see just why that
misfortune had to happen to me.”
“It is clearer now.”
“The way is clearer,—yes. But it is only lately that I have understood
the great truth.”
“I am sure you were always patient and good-tempered.”
“Isn’t there something still higher than that, or wider, maybe? We do
not live to ourselves, after all, or we ought not.”
“No;” I returned a little wonderingly, studying the bright thoughtful
face.
“The knowledge came—with something else. Every day there is a new
unfolding. And I wanted to tell you—”
Her voice trembled and the sweet eyes were downcast, while a soft flush
crept up to her temples.
“Oh, Jennie, we guessed—and we are all so glad. It is about Richard.”
“Yes.”
Here I was in the midst of another confidence.
“I wanted you to come alone to-day so that we might talk it over. It is
not that I love Fan any less.”
It was my turn to blush now. I did it with a sense of pain and shame.
As if she divined my distress, she said—
“Richard told me about the day last summer. He did love Fanny very
much—he loves her still in one way. But he understands how different
their natures are.”
“That is just it;” I exclaimed with a sense of relief.
“She wants some one to guide and strengthen her, to be tender, and yet
self-assertive. I do not believe she could ever have made the _best_
of Richard. And I love to teach. I like the unfolding, the evolving,
something to _do_, beside living straight along and enjoying one’s
self. And Richard needs to go to school. That is nothing derogatory to
him.”
“No. It is because he has had a rather repressed life. No one cared for
the things which pleased him, except his father.”
“And the woman who takes it ought to spend all her energy in making it
blossom, in bringing it to its best and richest fruitage.”
“As you will.”
“I hope to try. It is the kind of work that I like. But do you not
think—” with much hesitation in her tone, “that it is great good
fortune for me?”
“But you deserve it, every bit. I rejoice that God did send it to you.
Once in awhile some event comes out just right in this world.”
She smiled. “I want to tell you a few of our plans. I cannot help but
think it best that Mrs. Fairlie and Kate have gone abroad. I shall feel
more free, and he will have no opposition to encounter. Though I was
afraid at first that it was not quite fair nor honest.”
“It certainly was best. And if they consult their own fancies and leave
him alone they cannot blame him for marrying.”
“He wanted it to be very soon, though we have been engaged barely a
month. I put it off until Autumn. There are so many things to think
about. And he is _so_ good.”
“He is. There can be no doubt on that point.”
“You know I could never leave mother. I told him so when he first
spoke. I must have her with me, do for her while she lives, share part
of my interest with her, and take much of hers. A person who cannot go
out is so very dependant. He said that her home should be always with
us, there was plenty of room in the house, and he meant to be a son to
her; that he had never had a real mother like her. I am to make over
all right in this place to her, and she can sell it or rent it, and
have a little income of her own.”
“It is delightful. I shall be thankful to have you in _that_ house. You
will make a home of it, which it never has been.”
“We are going on in a quiet old fashioned way. I suppose people will
_think_,” and an arch light crossed her face.
“They have not thought very much about it yet.”
“I wanted to tell you first. And your mother and Fanny.”
“Yes;” I replied softly.
That seemed taking the matter too tamely. I ran to her and clasped my
arms around her neck, making an extravagant speech between my kisses.
Then we branched into relative topics, side issues that presented
themselves in a chance fashion. How wide her range of sight was! Some
way we touched upon position and station.
“That is part of the knowledge;” she said in her bright, sweet way. “I
have learned a lesson that I mean to put in practice if God does give
me the opportunity. It is—holding up, and not pushing down.”
I understood her inconsequent little speech.
“Rich people can do so many pleasant things. Their position keeps them
quite free. They are not misunderstood, at least no one can accuse them
of unworthy motives. It seems to me that they might sometimes hold out
their hands to the next best. It would not hurt them. I don’t want ever
to forget this.”
I knew she would not.
“It has been hard;” I said softly, thinking of the past.
“Why was I not as good and refined and lady-like? What difference was
it whether I worked for the mothers of children one way or another,
teaching them, or sewing for them? I was not likely to crowd in without
an invitation. And how much better shall I be as mistress of Mr.
Fairlie’s house than I am now?”
“It is one of the bitter and unjust ways of the world.”
“I feel as if I should not like to be taken into favor again solely
for the money. I know the setting usually displays the stone to a
better advantage, but why cannot people see it before the gold begins
to glitter? The only drawback to perfect happiness is that Richard’s
mother and sister would _not_ approve. Yet once Kate Fairlie and I were
very good friends.”
“Kate is not really a fair test. There are others—”
“I know it. I ought to be ashamed to find any fault. But I hope I never
shall forget how it feels to be crowded out of bright and pleasant
things.”
There was a little stir, and a soft voice called—“Jennie.” Presently
Mrs. Ryder made her appearance, and then the real visiting began. We
chatted about the village people, the sick and the well, the babies and
the old folks, mamma’s visit to New York which was not an old story
here. I could see they too, suspected Stephen Duncan of a penchant for
Fanny.
Jennie walked home with me part of the way for exercise, and we came
back to Richard in our talk. She _did_ love him very much. The money
had not tempted her.
I had a thought that afternoon too. As soon as I was alone with Fan
I put it into execution. First I told her of the engagement, and she
rejoiced as thoroughly as I.
“Fan,” I said, “there is one thing that it would be just lovely to do,
if you could manage it. If Miss Churchill and you could call on Jennie
Ryder, and have it look every-day-like and social.”
“What a bright idea, Rose! Miss Churchill will like her ever so much.
It is odd how many nice things you find in people when you come to know
them well. We will bring the West Side over here and make them admire
us.”