_MISS DAVIS'S LETTER._
"I SHALL probably want you to come down about the first of September,
as our school opens on the thirteenth this year, but I can tell better
when I have consulted Mrs. Hallowell, the housekeeper. At all events, I
will write and let you know in good time."
These were Miss Hardy's last words on parting with Rhoda. It was now
the last of March, and Rhoda settled down for the summer, as she
supposed, fulfilling her multifarious duties as assistant sick-nurse,
milliner, reader, and factotum in general at the home.
Miss Carpenter remarked one day, with a sigh, that it would be hard to
fill Rhoda's place when she was gone.
"I am sure nobody will miss the child more than I shall," said Miss
Brown, echoing the sigh. "She is in and out a dozen times a day, and
always has something pleasant to say. Only that it is so clearly to her
advantage, I should be sorry she was going so far. It don't seem as if
I should ever see her again."
But Miss Brown was to go first, and on a longer journey than Rhoda's.
She had been ailing for a day or two—not seriously, but so that Mrs.
Lambert thought it best she should keep her room, especially as the
weather was very trying. Rhoda had arranged her for the night, and left
her feeling cheerful and comfortable; but when she went to call her in
the morning, her good old friend was sleeping the quiet sleep which
knows no waking in this world.
"It is a blessed release to her, I am sure," said Mrs. Lambert, wiping
her eyes. "There isn't one in the house that would be more missed, for
all she was so quiet, and never made any disturbance. Rhoda's 'most
heart-broken, and no wonder. She was like a daughter to the dear old
lady."
It was indeed a heavy blow to Rhoda—like losing Aunt Hannah over again.
"She was so good to me. It does seem as though my friends were taken
away from me as soon as I learn to love them," she said to Mrs.
Worthington.
"You have indeed had a sad experience of the changes of this life for
one so young," replied her friend. "You must try to look all the more
steadfastly at the things which are not seen, my child. It is the only
comfort, and the only way to make affliction work out its good results.
Taken in any other way, it only sours and hardens."
Rhoda knew that these words were not mere phrases and matter-of-course
consolations, coming as they did from one who had been stricken so
sorely, and she tried to take them to heart; but nevertheless she
missed her dear old friend every day more and more.
"Well, they've given her a fine funeral," grumbled Granny Parsons, who
had crawled down to see the ceremony—"rose-wood coffin with silver
handles, and fine cashmere shroud, and all. You won't catch 'em giving
me no such coffin as that. Any old pine box will be good enough for me."
"It won't make no great difference, I expect, whether we have a
rose-wood or pine," remarked Mrs. Josleyn. "So long as we get safe
to the other side of Jordan, we may as well go in a pine boat as a
rose-wood one. And I'm sure Miss Brown has got nicer white robes by
this time than any cashmere, or satin either; for she was a good woman
if ever there was one."
"Here's a letter for you, Rhoda, with money in it," said Miss
Carpenter, coming into Granny Parsons's room, where Rhoda was sitting
with her work, listening to an interminable story of granny's wrongs
from her first, second, and third husbands, and wondering in her own
mind what anybody should have seen in her to marry. "I expect it is
from Miss Hardy. She lives at Cohansey, don't she?"
"Yes, ma'am, but I didn't expect to hear so soon, and it isn't Miss
Hardy's writing, either, or at least I think not. I hope nothing has
happened," she continued, studying the address with that odd feeling
which always prompts one to seek information from the outside rather
than the inside of an unexpected letter.
"Well, do open it and see, child. It won't grow any worse or better by
keeping."
Rhoda opened and read the letter, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise.
"What is it?" asked Miss Carpenter.
"Oh, it is all right. She wants me to come, and has sent the money for
my fare, but she writes me to be at Cohansey the first of June instead
of the first of September."
"The first of June! Why, that is the day after to-morrow," said Miss
Carpenter.
"No, the day after. May has thirty-one days, you know. But the notice
is short enough, anyhow. My clothes are all in order, that is one
comfort."
"Well, I think you needn't complain," grumbled Granny Parsons, "when
she sends you money to go with, and all. Nobody don't send me no money
in letters."
"You would hardly want to set off on such a journey as Rhoda's if they
did, since you are afraid to ride even on the street cars," remarked
Miss Carpenter. "Is the letter from Miss Hardy herself, Rhoda?"
"No, ma'am, from Miss Davis—Anna Davis is the signature. She is one of
the teachers, I know. I saw her name in the circular Isa gave me. She
says Miss Hardy requests her to write."
"Then it is all correct, of course," said Miss Carpenter. "Well,
you must go right to work and get ready, so as not to have too much
to do at the last. You had better go and see Mrs. Mulford and Mrs.
Worthington."
"And Marion Campbell—I must bid her good-bye; and I dare say Mrs.
Ferrand will have something to send her sister," said Rhoda, thinking,
it must be confessed, more of the chance of seeing Isa than of obliging
her mother. "How strange it will seem starting off on such a long
journey!"
"I wish you were not going alone," said Miss Carpenter. "However, I
dare say nothing will happen to you."
Rhoda's packing was all done the next day. She had received a good
travelling outfit when she left Boonville, and had very little to buy.
By Mrs. Mulford's advice, she left her money in the bank, taking only
enough with her to pay her expenses back again if necessary.
"And have you all you want? Are you sure?" asked Marion. "A
travelling-bag, now?"
"Oh yes," answered Rhoda. "My bag is an old one of mother's. It isn't
very smart, but it will do."
"Awed, I thought you might need a new one, and so I bought this," said
Marion, producing a very nice morocco satchel. "I'd like you to have
everything nice and respectable, as you are going among strangers. But
if you don't like it, you can change it at Pritchard's; I bought it on
that condition, for I know young lasses have their fancies."
"Indeed, I don't want to change it. I think it is beautiful," said
Rhoda, surveying her present. "But what is this in the pocket. Oh what
a pretty purse! And money in it, too! Oh, Marion, you shouldn't! I
ought not to take it!"
"Aweel, ye can do as you please, but the purse is no my present, it is
Mrs. Ferrand's," said Marion. "She bade me give it to you from her and
Miss Isa."
"Can't I see them, then?" said Rhoda. "Are they not at home? Oh how
sorry I am!"
"No, they're gone away with yon man to some of his nonsense
conventions, or such like. It is Isa's vacation, ye ken."
"Of course he couldn't let her have any good of it," said Rhoda. "He
would be miserable if he thought the poor child was enjoying herself."
"Na, na, ye should not say that," said Marion. "The man means no harm."
"Perhaps not. Aunt Hannah used to say that more than half the mischief
in the world was done by people who meant no harm. Well, good-bye, dear
Marion; you won't forget me, will you?"
"What should ail me to forget you, lass?" said Marion, a little
gruffly. "There, there! Dinna greet and make me as foolish as yourself.
Ye 'll no forget to drop a line and let me know how you have got on."
With all her courage and all her hopes for the future, Rhoda felt
rather forlorn as she started on her journey at three in the afternoon.
She had taken a sleeping car, by Mrs. Mulford's advice, and was
almost alone in it. A part of the road was the same as that she had
travelled in coming from Boonville when she supposed herself bound for
a boarding-school in the city, and a flood of bitterness rushed over
her when she remembered her thoughts and feelings on that occasion. It
required something of a crying fit and a good many prayers to quiet her
spirits.
But by the time she had reached Caneota, she was sufficiently composed
to look eagerly at the crowd around the dépôt to see if she could find
any one she knew, for a good many people from Boonville came to Caneota
to take the cars. At last her eyes were gladdened by the sight of
Jeduthun Cooke's dark face, and she opened the window and called to him.
"Why, Rhoda, is that you?" exclaimed Jeduthun, cordially, shaking
hands. "Where you bound?"
"To Philadelphia first, and then from there to Cohansey, where I am
going to live for a while."
"Do tell! Going to school?"
"No," answered Rhoda, colouring; "I am going into a school, but it is
as a servant, not a scholar. Do you know anything about—"
"About your folks? I heard tell they was going to Hobarttown to live.
They ain't any great favourites in Boonville just now, I can tell you.
But, Rhoda, you'll have company. Boss and his wife's going down."
"I am so glad!" said Rhoda. "I did dread going alone. Jeduthun, what
has become of Aunt Hannah's cow, and the cats, and all?"
"Well, General Dent, he bought old Snowball of Mr. Weightman. The old
man was just a-going to sell her to a drover, when the general came
riding up, and kind of rescued her. Oh, she's well off, the old cow is.
And Kissy, she's got Molly and Fuzzyball."
"Dear old Molly! Jeduthun, if Molly has any more kittens, and you are
going to town some time, will you take one to Miss Carpenter at 'The
Home'? She is so fond of cats."
"Of course I will. Then they was good to you there?"
"Yes, indeed; nobody could be better. And, Jeduthun, please persuade
the Boonville folks to send them a nice box this fall. What has become
of Aunt Hannah's house?"
"Oh, it's all torn down, and Mr. Weightman is building a mill on the
place—means to run us all out, I suppose. Here comes boss, just at the
last minute as usual. I never did see such a man. Well, good-bye, and
good luck to you."
Under her altered circumstances, Rhoda rather shrank from meeting Mr.
and Mrs. Antis. She had imbibed a strong dread of "putting herself
forward," which, like a great deal of seeming humility, was nothing but
"pride turned inside out." But she could not perceive that they made
the least difference in their manner to her, even after they heard that
she was going to live out as a servant.
"It is an abominable shame," declared Mrs. Antis, warmly. "Not but that
it is creditable in you to do anything you can, Rhoda, and I am sure
you will turn out all right; but I wish you had come to me instead of
going away so far. Why won't you come now? You would just be one of the
family, you know."
"You are very kind, Mrs. Antis," said Rhoda, "but there are several
things in the way. One is that I have promised Miss Hardy to stay a
year with her, and the other—Well, Mrs. Antis, the truth is—I suppose
it is foolish pride, but the truth is, I would rather live out anywhere
else than in Boonville."
"I understand," said Mrs. Antis. "But, Rhoda, I shouldn't wish nor
expect you to be a servant; I should want you to come as a daughter
or younger sister, and just be one of ourselves. I always did like
you, ever since you came to Boonville; and if it hadn't been for the
sickness and death of Mr. Antis's sister, which cramped us for means
at that time, we should have sent for you at once. Of course I should
expect you to help me with the work, as Mary used to, but that would be
all."
Rhoda sat still, utterly overcome by this unexpected proposition.
"You mustn't think this is any sudden notion of Cassy's," said Mr.
Antis, misinterpreting Rhoda's silence. "We have often talked it over
since we knew your circumstances, and I don't see why we shouldn't suit
each other very well."
"I am sure you are very kind—more than kind," said Rhoda, after a
little longer silence. "I don't know how to thank you, but I am afraid
it won't do. I must keep my promise to Miss Hardy, because she depends
upon me, and it would be a great inconvenience to her; and then I do
think I ought to earn my own living. But you don't know how much good
you have done me by just speaking of such a thing. I don't think the
world will ever look so dark to me again. And if I may come and stay
with you sometimes—"
"Of course you may," said Mrs. Antis, a little disappointed, but at
once understanding and sympathizing with Rhoda. "We shall be glad to
have you any time."
"And I think all the more of you for wishing to keep your engagement,"
said Mr. Antis. "I wish every one was as careful. I begin to think
sometimes that there is no such thing as faithfulness left in the
world. I have had half a dozen boys since Eben Fairchild left me, and
not one that I could leave to measure a bushel of corn and be sure it
would be done."
"Good old Eben! How is he getting on now?"
"Just the same steady way. He is going to Philadelphia to attend
lectures next winter."
And then ensued a flood of news and neighbourhood gossip about
Boonville people.
"Have you ever heard anything about Aunt Annie—I mean Mr. and Mrs.
Evans?" asked Rhoda, at length.
"Oh yes. They are in Scotland, so Mr. Evans's brother told me, and
little Harry is so much better for the change that they mean to stay
two or three years. Haven't you ever written to them?"
"No," answered Rhoda; "I knew how Aunt Annie would feel, and I didn't
want to make trouble in the family, as Mr. Weightman says I did between
him and Aunt Hannah."
"Did he say so? Well, he is a nice person!"
The party arrived in Philadelphia without accident. And finding that
Rhoda had a few hours to spare, Mr. Antis took a carriage and showed
his wife and Rhoda part of the city. Rhoda saw the Mint, the stores
in Chestnut street, and the American Sunday-school Union, * and other
places that she had heard of. They had lunch at the Continental.
* 1122 Chestnut street, Philadelphia, and which all of our readers are
cordially invited to visit.—[EDITOR.
And when the time came, Mr. Antis went down and saw her across the
river and into the Cohansey train.
"Now, remember, Rhoda, you have always got a home," said he as he shook
hands with her.
"Mr. Antis, you don't know how I thank you," said Rhoda, earnestly. "I
couldn't say half what I wanted to Mrs. Antis, but it seems as if you
had made everything easy to me. I hope Mrs. Antis won't think I don't
value her kindness?"
"No, no! Don't you worry yourself. Mrs. Antis understands, and so do I,
and we shall think all the more of you. But I want you to tell me one
thing, while I think of it. Did you ever know whether your aunt Hannah
made a will?"
"I know she did," said Rhoda. "She told me a year ago that she had, and
that her affairs were all settled."
"You don't know who the witnesses were?"
"No, I never heard."
"It is very odd. Mr. Weightman declares there was no will."
"Perhaps Aunt Hannah had burned it up, or something," said Rhoda.
"Or possibly Mr. Weightman has done the same. I don't think he is any
too good. A man can't be honest and be so fond of money as he is. Well,
good-bye once more."
Arrived at Cohansey, Rhoda easily found her way by the omnibus to Miss
Hardy's school. It was a handsome, old-fashioned house, standing well
up from the street, and covered to the chimney-top with luxuriant
English ivy, which lives through the winter in that climate. A wing
of much later date extended to one side, and evidently contained the
school-rooms.
[Illustration: _Rhoda's Education._
"It looks very pleasant," thought Rhoda, as she stood waiting.]
"It looks very pleasant," thought Rhoda as she stood waiting for some
one to answer the bell. "Oh, if I were coming to school! But there! It
won't do to begin thinking about that. Those girls seem to be having a
nice time. I wish poor Isa was here. I should like to hear her laugh
like that for once. Here comes somebody at last. Is Miss Hardy at
home?" she asked as a somewhat pert-looking servant opened the blind of
the door.
Rhoda was ushered into a small, pleasant room, evidently used as a
library, and surrounded on all sides with low book-cases filled with
books looking as if they were made to be read. She waited several
minutes, and had begun to feel a little uncomfortable, when Miss Hardy
entered the room, followed by another person, whom Rhoda guessed at
once to be the housekeeper.
"My dear child, what has brought you here now?" was her salutation.
"Did not Miss Davis write?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Rhoda, feeling as if she were in a dream. "Miss
Davis wrote that I was to be here the first of June."
"The first of June! You must be mistaken. I told her to ask you to be
here the first of September."
For all answer, Rhoda took the letter from her travelling-bag and
handed it to Miss Hardy. The lady read it, while a shade of amusement
and vexation passed over her face.
"So much for setting a girl who is just going to be married to writing
a business letter!" said she, handing the letter to Mrs. Hallowell.
"It does say the first of June, sure enough," remarked Mrs. Hallowell.
"Miss Davis was thinking about her own wedding-day."
"It is an awkward mistake," said Miss Hardy. "You see school closes in
two weeks, and then we shut up the house and have our long vacation.
But never mind," she added, kindly; "we will arrange it somehow. You
did quite right to come."
"And it will be a great convenience to have you here during the closing
weeks of school," added Mrs. Hallowell. "We always have so much
company. Come, I will show you your room. Would you rather have a very
small room to yourself, or a large one with some one?"
"A small one by myself, please," answered Rhoda; "I don't care how
small, if I can get into it.
"Oh what a pretty little room, and what a nice window!"
"Yes, it is pleasant. Those trees are catalpas, and are lovely when in
blossom. Well, child, make yourself comfortable, and I will send Hester
to call you when your supper is ready."
"Shall I wait on the table to-night?" asked Rhoda. "I would just as
soon; I am not at all tired."
"Yes, you may, if you choose. It will be half an hour to tea, so you
will have time to change your dress."
"Well, how do you like her?" asked Miss Hardy when Mrs. Hallowell
returned.
"Very much," was the reply. "She asked me whether she should not wait
on the table to-night, and that looks well. But I must say she looks
much more like taking Miss Davis's place in the school-room than
Tilly's in the kitchen."
"I think so myself, but we shall see. How could Miss Davis make such a
blunder? I hardly ever let her send away a letter without looking it
over, but I was very busy and it slipped my mind."
"Well, as I said, it will be nice to have her here through the last two
weeks—that is, if she takes hold well."
"But what to do with her in vacation-time?"
"We will see when the time comes. Maybe you can find her a place in
town. I have a feeling that there is a providence in it."