_AFFAIRS AT BOONVILLE._
WHEN Aunt Hannah came home, which she did about three weeks after
Rhoda's departure, her first question Was about Rhoda.
"She wrote me she was going to school in Milby," she said to Jeduthun
Cooke, whom she had met at the station, and who had offered to take her
home in his buggy.
"Oh, she did?" said Jeduthun, in something like a tone of relief.
"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so. It's all right, then."
"All right? What do you mean, Jeduthun? Of course it's all right. What
should be wrong?"
"Oh, nothing," said Jeduthun. "I thought all the time it was nothing
but talk; but some of the folks over at the Springs, and even at
Boonville, say that it is all stuff about her going to school—that John
Bowers just took her to 'The Home' where he got her first and left her
there."
"I dare say he did," answered Miss Weightman. "Rhoda told me in her
letter that there was talk of her boarding at 'The Home' till she could
find some other place."
"Oh, well, I dare say it's all right. I hope so, I'm sure, for Rhoda is
as nice a girl as ever lived, and I'd hate to think John Bowers would
do such a mean thing. Here comes Uncle Jacob now."
"So you've caught a ride, I see," said Uncle Jacob. "I calculated to
meet you, but I had business that kept me a spell, and this old horse
hain't got any go in him. I don't see what ails him."
"I do," said Jeduthun, who stood no ways in awe of the rich man, and
knew his own value too well to be afraid of consequences; "I can see it
right through his ribs. Put some oats into him, Mr. Weightman; that's
the best medicine for his disease."
"You might as well go on since you have got started," said Mr.
Weightman, not noticing Jeduthun's remark on his steed. "I've got
business over at the Springs, and may not be home till dark."
"I guess you won't, according to appearances," chuckled Jeduthun. "I
sha'n't charge her anything for the ride, you may be sure," alluding to
a current story that Mr. Weightman had once asked a poor woman to ride
to the Springs with him and then charged her two shillings.
"I suppose one way the story got out about Rhoda was this," remarked
Jeduthun, after they had gone on a little way in silence: "Mr. Badger,
at the post-office, remarked that nobody got letters from Rhoda. You
see she promised to write to Fanny Badger and Flora Fairchild and two
or three of the girls, and they kept coming after letters, and didn't
get any.
"'It's very strange, pa,' says Fanny one day.
"'It ain't any more strange than that she don't write to her own
folks,' says Mr. Badger, 'and they hain't had one letter from her since
she went away: I know Rhoda's writing,' says he, 'and I know there
hasn't been one.'
"Then at that minute, Mr. Bowers came in, and Flora Fairchild, she asks
him when he had heard from Rhoda.
"And he colours up, and says, 'Well, not very lately. I expect she
don't have much time to write letters.'
"And he turned and was going away without his mail, till Mr. Badger
called him back, he seemed so kind of confused. And the next day Aunty
Fairchild was over to the Springs, and she heard it from some one that
knew her that Rhoda was living at 'The Home.' But if she is boarding
there to go to school, it's all right, of course."
"Of course," echoed Aunt Hannah, but she did not feel perfectly easy.
She said to herself half a dozen times during the five miles' ride that
it was all nonsense—that John and Maria never would do such a thing in
the world, and it was a shame even to think it of them; but she felt
all the same that it would be a great comfort to hear from themselves
that Rhoda was well and happy at school.
Her adopted grand-niece had crept very near the old woman's warm heart
during these last years. She had done more to form Rhoda's mind than
any one else, and she understood the girl far better than her adopted
parents.
"It would kill the child or drive her to something desperate," she said
to herself; "but it can't be. I am an old fool, and am just worrying
myself for nothing."
Nevertheless, when she at last reached home, her first inquiry of Aunt
Sarah for the Bowers family and Rhoda.
"Oh, Rhoda; well, I don't know," answered the old woman. "They tell
all kinds of stories, but I dare say there isn't no truth in 'em. Some
say she has gone to school—some say Bowers has took her back to 'The
Home,' or done worse. I don't know nothing about it. I've asked Mis'
Bowers two or three times, but she always seems dreadful shy of saying
anything about Rhoda. The girl herself thought she was going to school,
I know, for she came down here and told me so the night before she went
away.
"'What school are you going to?' says I.
"'I don't know,' says she. 'Pa says he can't tell till he gets there,'
says she.
"Well, I thought that was queer too, not to know where she was going
to school, but I never thought no more about it till I heard these
stories."
"I can't think there is anything in the stories," said Aunt Hannah. "It
is just village talk. Have any letters come for me?'
"Yes, a lot. Here they are in this drawer. I've been to the office
every day."
Aunt Hannah looked them over.
There was one from the grocer who bought her catsup and pickles every
year, one or two from missionary friends and others, but no letter from
Rhoda.
"There must be something wrong," she said to herself; "and yet perhaps
she is waiting to hear that I have got home."
"The Bowerses are all gone away and their house is shut up," said Aunt
Sarah, "but I heard Kissy Cooke say they was coming home Saturday.
Hasn't the kitten growed?"
The days went on, and still no letter came from Rhoda, but on Saturday,
Keziah Cooke stopped in and brought one.
"John Bowers has got home," said she; "I've just been up and opened the
house for them, and I stayed to get tea, for the baby ain't very well,
and Mrs. Bowers seemed kind of beat out. I was coming by the office,
and Mr. Badger handed me that letter for you. It's from Rhoda, ain't
it?"
"Yes," said Miss Weightman.
She opened the letter as she spoke and reading a few lines, she dropped
the paper and clasped her hands with such a look of pain and distress
that Keziah sprang to catch her, thinking she was going to faint.
"There! Sit down and let me get you a glass of water," said she. "What
is it? Is she dead?"
"No, no!" said Miss Weightman as soon as she could speak. "I could
almost wish she were. Keziah, they have turned the poor girl off—sent
her back to 'The Home.' She thought to the last minute she was going to
school. She has been very sick, she tells me, and is only now getting
about again."
"Well," said Keziah, with emphasis, "I know one thing: I wouldn't be in
their place for something. If they don't bring a curse on themselves
and their child, I don't know anything. And she all the same as their
own for so many years. Poor dear! No wonder she was sick. I hope the
folks were kind to her."
"She says they were," said Aunt Hannah, recurring to the letter. "She
says she was very low—that they thought she would die, and wrote to
Mrs. Bowers, but had no answer. She has found a friend in one of the
old ladies. Dear me! To think of Anne Brown being in a 'Home.' She was
very well off in a house of her own the last I knew of her.
"'She has been very kind to me, as has everybody else,' Rhoda writes.
'She thinks I had better tell you all about it. Oh, aunty, do come and
see me if you can.'"
"You will go, won't you?" said Keziah.
"Indeed I shall, and bring the child home with me," said Aunt Hannah.
"While I have a roof over my head, that child shall never be dependent
on a public charity. I will go to-morrow."
"Jeduthun is going over to Shortsville, and can take you to the train
as well as not, if you don't mind an early start," said Keziah, full of
kindly sympathy, and at the same time not insensible to the pleasure
of having authentic news of Rhoda to tell Mrs. Antis and her other
friends. "Well, I never could have believed that of Mrs. Bowers. I
wonder whether Rhoda did anything to displease them? I always thought
she was one of the steadiest, piousest, best young girls in the whole
town. I know, when she joined church last winter, Mr. Maynard said he
never seen a young girl of her age that seemed to have a more realizing
sense of religion than she had. Well, when her father and mother
forsake her, the Lord 'll take her up. He don't never get tired of his
adopted ones; that's one comfort, ain't it?"
"It is indeed," said Aunt Hannah. "I am sure Rhoda is one of his little
ones. Just now I must say I feel worse for John and Maria than for the
child. She will have a home with me as long as I live, and it will go
hard but I will contrive to educate her, so that she can provide for
herself when I am gone."
"Where are you going now?" asked Keziah as the old lady went into her
bedroom and came out with her bonnet on.
"I am going up to see Maria," answered Aunt Hannah. "I must know the
whole story before I sleep. Remember, we have only heard one side as
yet."
"I'm afraid there ain't but one side to hear," said Keziah. "I know I
wondered to see how confused and kind of angry Mrs. Bowers seemed every
time anybody asked her about Rhoda. Poor thing! No wonder she didn't
write to any of the girls. I'll walk with you, Miss Hannah, if you
don't mind."
For as Keziah said when speaking of it next day, "I mistrusted the old
lady might want help. I didn't like her looks. She was just as gray as
ashes for a while and when her colour came again, it was all on one
side of her face. She was getting an old woman, you see, and her heart
was dreadful set on Rhoda."
"Why, Aunt Hannah! Who expected to see you here so soon?" said Mrs.
Bowers as her aunt entered.
"Maria," said Miss Weightman, without any reply to the greeting, "what
have you done with Rhoda?"
"Rhoda? Oh, she is at school," answered Mrs. Bowers, trying very
unsuccessfully to speak as if nothing were the matter. "You know she
always wanted to go to school."
"Don't lie to me, child!" said Aunt Hannah, so sternly that Maria
started and turned pale. "I know that she is not at school. I have just
had a letter from her. What has she done that she is turned off in this
way?"
"I never said she had done anything," answered Mrs. Bowers, beginning
to cry. "I think it is too bad if I am to be called a liar in my own
house. I am sure I never said one word against Rhoda; but when we had
one of our own, it was different. And Uncle Jacob was always at us
about her, and he said we needn't expect anything from him unless we
would be guided by him; and an adopted child isn't the same as one's
own."
"It is, if possible, a more sacred charge," said Aunt Hannah. "Oh,
Jacob, could not you be satisfied with destroying your own soul without
bringing on yourself and these the curse of the orphan?"
"I am sure it was all his fault," whimpered Mrs. Bowers; "and we had a
right to do it. And the ladies at 'The Home' treated John shamefully.
And I think Rhoda ought to be ashamed to abuse us so."
"She has not abused you, nor will she do so, Maria; but the punishment
will surely come, I fear. The wealth for which you and your husband
have sold yourselves will eat as a canker if ever it is yours. You are
bound—sold under sin, and the wages of sin is death. You have cast off
the child you solemnly promised to cherish as your own. Do you think
your boy will be the better for it? Do you think, if you were taken
away, you would like to have him turned over to public charity? You and
your husband have committed a grievous sin; and unless you repent, your
sin will rise against you in the judgment day. What will you say when
you are asked for the child which you were permitted to take into your
charge?"
"Aunt Hannah, I'll thank you to let my wife alone," said Mr. Bowers,
who had hitherto sat silent. "I don't think it is any of your business.
We took Rhoda and we have given her up again, and she is no worse off
than she was before."
"And I am sure we gave her five new dresses and ever so many
underclothes, and John sent her all her things that she left here when
she went away," sobbed Mrs. Bowers. "I think it is a shame that I
should be talked to so."
"I shall say no more to you, Maria, nor to you, John," said Aunt
Hannah, recovering her calmness. "Rhoda is henceforth my charge. I
shall go to the city to-morrow and bring her home with me. Though I am
not rich and never shall be, my precious child shall not be left to
strangers while I have a loaf or a dollar to divide."
"And then everybody will know the whole story, and there will be no end
of a fuss and a scandal," said Mrs. Bowers.
"There will be that at any rate," answered Aunt Hannah. "Do you think
you can do such a thing and not have everybody know it? I heard the
story before I had been off the cars ten minutes, but I would not
believe it till I had the child's own letter."
"What do you think Uncle Jacob will say to you?" asked Mr. Bowers.
"I neither know nor care. I am not accountable to Jacob, nor in any way
dependent on him. I want nothing that he has to give. Ah, John, John,
you have made the greatest mistake of your life."
"Well, I don't know but I have, Aunt Hannah," said Mr. Bowers.
"Sometimes I have thought so. It was more Maria's doing than mine, any
way. Only that I didn't know what she might say, I believe I should
have given up at the last minute and brought Rhoda home with me."
"Oh yes, 'It was all Maria!' It is always 'The woman whom thou gavest
to be with me,'" said Aunt Hannah. "That excuse was one of the first
fruits of the fall, and it will be one of the last."
"Well, you know, Aunt Hannah, I really couldn't have the girl here
unless Maria was willing," said Mr. Bowers, with some show of reason.
"Rhoda was a good girl, and I was very fond of her; but, after all, our
own had the first claim. But I do wish you would reconsider this matter
before you bring the girl back to make a talk and a fuss. She is well
enough off where she is, and she is sure to make friends."
"She has made one Friend who I am afraid is not yours, John—even the
Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, and who has said,—
"'Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive.'
"Oh, why didn't you tell me what you meant to do? Then the poor child
might have been spared some part of this distress which has almost cost
her life."
"Well, Uncle Jacob thought it would only make a fuss; and besides—Come,
Aunt Hannah, do take a second thought before you send for Rhoda. Second
thoughts are always best, you know."
"I know people say so, but I don't believe it," said Aunt Hannah. "I
believe, when any person habitually tries to be governed by a sense of
duty, the first thought is almost always the right thought. But there
is no use in talking to me on this matter. I can't consider you at
all. I shall go to town to-morrow morning, and if possible bring Rhoda
home with me. You have done what you saw fit, and you must take the
consequences. They are nothing to me. I can only pray that you may be
brought to a better mind, and that the sins of the parents may not be
visited on the children."
When Aunt Hannah went home, she found that Keziah had lighted her fire
and got her tea all ready.
"I thought you'd be kind of tired and done over, and wouldn't feel
like getting supper," said Kissy, who was aching with curiosity to
learn the result of the interview, though she had too much delicacy to
ask any questions. "I guess I'll go along now, for 'Duthun will want
his supper; but if you don't mind, I'll just run round again before
bedtime—say about nine o'clock—and see how you are. You might be took
faint again."
"Do," said Miss Hannah; "and, Kissy, bring Jeduthun with you. I want to
see him."
When she was left alone, even before she drank her tea, Aunt Hannah
went to her desk and took out a paper. She sat down and wrote about
half a page, apparently referring to the other as she did so. Then she
tore up the first and burned the pieces; and leaving the other on the
desk, she sat down to her tea.
As Keziah and her husband were finishing their supper, which was
rather later than usual, there was a knock at the door, which was
opened before Jeduthun could reach it by Mr. Bowers.
"For mercy's sake, Kissy, come to my aunt!" he exclaimed. "And,
Jeduthun, you run for the doctor. I'm afraid Aunt Hannah is dead."
"Is any one there?" asked Kissy as they hurried toward the house.
"Only Uncle Jacob. We went over together, and found her sitting by her
desk leaning back in her chair. She was at our house not two hours ago."
"I know," said Kissy. "She wasn't well, though. It shook her dreadfully
when she got that letter. I thought she would faint away then. It's
gone to her heart, I expect."
Aunt Hannah was indeed gone to her long home. She had died sitting in
her chair, apparently without pain. Uncle Jacob at once took possession
of the house and gave all the orders about the funeral on a liberal
scale.
"She sha'n't say that I didn't do what was right by her," he muttered
to himself. "The will wasn't signed, so it wasn't worth anything in
law, and I don't believe she was in her right mind. I'll send all her
clothes to that girl, and that's more than she had any right to in law;
but I will do it. Yes, she shall have the clothes."
"After all, I don't know that I am sorry," said Mrs. Bowers to her
husband. "Aunt Hannah was an old woman, any way, and it would have been
very awkward to have Rhoda back here. I wonder how she has left her
property?"
"There wasn't any will, so it all goes to Uncle Jacob," said Mr.
Bowers. "I expected to hear she had left it to Rhoda. It is odd that
there should have been no will. She was always so particular about
business. Uncle Jacob says he shall send Rhoda all her clothes. I am
glad of that."
"I don't see why he should. Rhoda has enough of her own. But they won't
amount to much, Aunt Hannah always dressed so plainly."
"She was always giving away. Uncle Jacob says she has sent over four
hundred dollars to foreign missions, besides all she has done at home.
Well, I hope it will all turn out for the best, that's all."
There was a great wonderment in the little village when it came to be
known that Aunt Hannah had died without a will. Two or three people had
known of her making one some years before, and did not scruple to hint
that Uncle Jacob had destroyed it to get possession of the place, but
nobody could prove anything.
Of course Keziah told everybody about Rhoda, and how her aunt had meant
to take her home.
Mr. and Mrs. Bowers found themselves in anything but an enviable
position, and at last Mr. Bowers sold out his interest in the mills and
went to Hobarttown to live, so that Rhoda's last tie to Boonville was
cut off.