_One Fold of the Curtain drawn back._
A new comer in a country village is always sure to elicit more or less
curiosity, and Mrs. Norton did not escape without her due share from the
inhabitants of Grassmere. With telegraph speed it was found out that she
was a lady between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in bombazine,
and wore close mourning caps. Miss Norton was talked of as a slender,
fair girl, with blue eyes, and long, flowing curls, and might be
seventeen, perhaps twenty—of course, they could not be strictly
accurate in this matter.
Bales of India matting were unrolled in the door-yard—crates of
beautiful china unpacked in the piazza—sofas and chairs crept out from
their rough traveling cases, displaying all the beauty of rosewood and
damask, until finally by aid of all these means and appliances to boot,
Mrs. Norton and her daughter were pronounced very _genteel_—but—
“But, I wonder what they are!” said Mrs. Humphreys to the deacon, as
talking over these secular matters she handed him his second cup of
coffee.
Not that the good lady had any doubt of their being _bona fide_ flesh
and blood; neither did she believe they were witches or fairies who had
taken up their abode at Silver-Fall. “_I wonder what they are!_” must
therefore be interpreted as “_I wonder what church they attend_,” or
“_what creed they profess_.”
The deacon shook his head and looked solemn.
“It is to be hoped,” continued Mrs. Humphreys, complacently stirring the
coffee, “that at her period of life Mrs. Norton may be a professor of
some kind.”
The deacon dropped his knife and fork—he was shocked—astounded.
“I am surprised to hear you speak thus lightly, Mrs. Humphreys—_a
professor of some kind_! Is it not better that she should yet rest in
her sins, than to be walking in the footsteps of error—a _professor of
some kind_! Wife—wife—you forget yourself!” exclaimed the deacon.
“I spoke thoughtlessly, I acknowledge,” answered Mrs. Humphreys, much
confused by the stern rebuke of her husband. “I meant to say, I hoped
she had found a pardon for her sins.”
“Have you forgotten that you are a parent?” continued the deacon,
solemnly. “Can you suffer the ears of your daughter to drink in such
poison! _A professor of some kind!_ Naomi, my child,” placing his hand
on the sunny head before him, “beware how you listen to such doctrine;
there is but one true faith—there is but one way by which you can be
saved. Go to your chamber, and pray you may not be led into error
through your mother’s words of folly!”
But there were others at Grassmere most anxiously wondering, like good
Mrs. Humphreys, “_what they were_,” ere they so far committed themselves
as to call upon the strangers. Sunday, however, was close at hand; Mrs.
Norton’s choice of a church was to determine them the choice of her
acquaintance.
Does the reader think the inhabitants of Grassmere peculiar? I think
not. There are very many just such people not a hundred rods from our
own doors.
Unfortunately, on Sunday the rain poured down in torrents. Nothing less
impervious than strong cowhide boots—India-rubber overcoats, and thick
cotton umbrellas, could go to meeting, consequently, Mrs. Norton staid
at home, and on Monday afternoon, after the washing was done, and the
deacon had turned his well saturated hay, Mrs. Humphreys put on her best
black silk gown and mantilla, her plain straw bonnet, with white
trimmings, and walked over with her husband to Silver-Fall cottage. As
the widow rented her house of them, they could not in decency, they
reasoned, longer defer calling upon her.
A glance within the cottage would convince any one that Mrs. Norton and
Grace were at least persons of refinement—for there is as much
character displayed in the arrangement of a room as in the choice of a
book.
Cream colored mattings, and window-curtains of transparent lace,
relieved by hangings of pale sea-green silk, imparted a look of
delicious coolness to the apartments. There was no display of gaudy
furniture, as if a cabinet warehouse had been taken on speculation—yet
there was enough for comfort and even elegance; nor was there an over
exhibition of paintings—one of Cole’s beautiful landscapes, and a few
other gems of native talent were all; nor were the tables freighted as
the counter of a toy-shop; the only ornament of each was a beautiful
vase of Bohemian glass, filled with fresh garden flowers, whose tasteful
arrangement even fairy hands could not have rivaled.
The few moments they were awaiting the entrance of Mrs. Norton were
employed by Mrs. Humphreys in taking a rapid survey of all these
surroundings, the result of which was to impress her with a sort of awe
for the mistress of this little realm.
“My stars!” said she, casting her eyes to the right and left, half
rising from the luxurious couch to peep into one corner, and almost
breaking her neck to dive into another, “my stars, deacon, if this don’t
beat all I ever did see!”
But the deacon, with an air worthy of a funeral, shook his head, closed
his eyes, and muttered,
“Vanity—vanity!”
The door opened, and Grace gliding in, sweetly apologized for her
mother, whom a violent headache detained in her apartment.
“Well, I do wish I knew what they were!” again exclaimed Mrs. Humphreys,
as she took the deacon’s arm and plodded thoughtfully homeward.
Then going to a dark cupboard under the stairs, she rummaged for some
time among the jars and gallipots, and finally producing one marked
“Raspberry Jam,” she told Naomi to put on her Sunday bonnet, and carry
it to the cottage, and—
“Naomi, you may just as well ask Grace Norton what meeting she goes to.”
Delighted to make the acquaintance of Grace, Naomi threw on her bonnet
and tripped lightly to the cottage, thinking little, we fear, of her
mother’s last charge. At any rate it was omitted, and so the night-cap
of Mrs. Humphreys again threw its broad frilling over an unsatisfied
brow.
In the morning the deacon received a very neat note from Mrs. Norton,
requesting to see him up on business.
“And now, my dear sir,” said she, after the common courtesies of the day
were passed, “I have taken the liberty to send for you to transact a
little business for me. If not too great a tax upon your time, will you
purchase a pew for me?”
The deacon grimly smiled, and rubbing his knee, replied,
“Why, yes, Mrs. Norton, I shall be glad to attend to the matter. True,
it is a busy season with us farmers, but the Lord forbid I should
therefore neglect _his_ business.”
“Do you think you can procure me one?” asked Mrs. Norton.
“O, I reckon so, for I am certain there are several pews now to be let
or sold either.”
“And what price, Mr. Humphreys?”
“Well, I guess about sixty dollars; and now I recollect, Squire Bryce
wants to sell his—it is right alongside of mine, and I reckon my pew is
as good for hearing the word as any in the meeting-house. I am glad,
really I do rejoice to find you a true believer.”
“You mistake my church, I see,” said Mrs. Norton, smiling, “I belong to
a different denomination from the one of which as I am aware you are a
professor.”
“Then,” cried the deacon, rising hastily and making for the door,
“excuse me—I—I know nothing of any other church or its pews. I cannot
be the instrument of seating you where false doctrines are preached!
I—good morning, ma’am.”
The widow sighed as the gate slammed after her visiter, but Grace burst
into a merry fit of laughter.
“How ridiculous!” she exclaimed; “was there ever such absurdity!”
“Hush, hush my dear child,” said Mrs. Norton, “Mr. Humphreys is without
doubt perfectly conscientious in this matter—we may pity, but not
condemn such zeal in the cause of religion.”
“Do you call bigotry religion, mamma?” asked Grace.
“A person may be a very good Christian, Grace, and yet be very much of a
bigot,” answered her mother. “That such a spirit as Mr. Humphreys has
just now shown may often be productive of more evil than good, I allow.
His aim is to do good, but he adopts the wrong measures.”
“Why, mamma, one would have judged from his manner that we were
infidels!” said Grace.
“O no, my child, he did not really think that,” replied Mrs. Norton,
smiling at her earnestness. “He only felt shocked at what he deems our
error—for he sacredly believes there can be no safety in any other
creed than his own. Without the charity therefore to think there may be
good in all sects, and lacking the desire to study the subject, or
rather so much wedded to his belief that he would deem it almost a sin
to do so, like an unjust judge, he condemns without a hearing. There are
too many such mistaken zealots in every creed of worship. O, my dear
child,” continued Mrs. Norton, her fine eyes bathed in tears, “would
that members of every sect might unite in love and charity to one
another! They are all aiming alike to love and serve Christ, and yet
take no heed to his commandment, ‘_Love ye one another!_’”
“Well, mamma, for the sake of his sweet daughter, Naomi, I can forgive
the good deacon. I have never seen a more interesting face than hers,
and her manners are as graceful and lady-like as if she had never seen
the country,” said Grace.
“And most probably a great deal more so, my love,” replied Mrs. Norton,
“for nature can add a grace which courts cannot give. But I agree with
you in thinking Miss Humphreys interesting; she is, indeed, so, and if
her countenance prove an index of her mind, I think you may promise
yourself a pleasing companion.”
But the deacon, it seems, was of a different way of thinking, and no
sooner did he enter under his own roof, place his oak stick in the
corner, and hang up his hat on the peg behind the door, than going into
the kitchen where the good wife was busily employed preparing the
noonday meal, assisted by Naomi, he made known with serious countenance,
that he had discovered _what they were_ at Silver-Fall cottage!
Of course, Miss Norton was not such a companion as they would choose for
Naomi. True, she was a pretty girl, and Mrs. Norton a lady of faultless
manners; but then so much the more danger, and therefore Naomi, though
not forbidden, was admonished to beware of their new acquaintances.