COUSIN MARIA
The romance surrounding Cousin Maria’s early days gave zest to the
expedition upon which the Corners started on the day appointed. Each
was provided with some gift; Jack, of course, carried her book of
photographs, Mary Lee took a little Indian basket, Jean had a box of
peppermints. “Old ladies always like peppermints,” she said. Nan had
wavered between a volume of Father Ryan’s poems and one of Thomas
Nelson Page’s collections of stories, but finally decided upon the
latter as perhaps Cousin Maria did not care for poetry.
It was not a long trip, and when they alighted at the station it was
still rather early in the day. Miss Phebe was there to meet them,
“booted and spurred,” as Nan said afterward. If the children had
not been prepared, and if they had not been too polite to stare,
they certainly would have gazed in amazement at the odd figure which
presented itself to their view as they stood waiting on the platform.
Miss Helen made the proper introductions which Miss Phebe acknowledged
in the set phrase, “Pleased to meet you,” and with a funny little
bob of the head. She led the way to a weather-beaten old buggy,
mud-splashed and dingy. “I cal’lated one of you could ride in here with
me,” she said, “and the rest could go with Nathan in the wagon. He’s
put a lot of clean straw in, and I guess you’ll go comfortable.”
“Oh, a straw ride? What fun!” cried Jack, to whom most novelties were
agreeable. “Aunt Helen, you can sit with the driver if you want to.” As
Jack always claimed this privilege for herself, Miss Helen was fain to
believe that either she was disposed to sacrifice herself to her aunt’s
comfort, or that riding on the straw-strewn floor of the wagon held
superior charms, so she smilingly acquiesced. They all clambered in
after Mrs. Corner had taken her place in the buggy, and the start was
made in a merry mood.
Nathaniel, or Nat, as he preferred to be called, was a shrewd-looking,
lank young man, younger than his length of limb and huge fists would
indicate. He spoke in a high key with a slow, soft drawl and was not
backward in asking questions, though he vouchsafed replies to those
Miss Helen put to him, and by reason of which she learned that he was
Miss Phebe’s sole assistant except when the apples were to be gathered
or some other crop should be brought in.
“Me and her runs the place,” said Nat. “She works as good as a man when
it comes to some things. No, marm, she ain’t no hired girl. I fetch
in the milk; she tends to it. I look after the stawk, caow, and three
hawses; she tends to the fowls. We got a sight of apples last fall,
great crawp. I tended to gittin’ of ’em in, she tended to shippin’ of
’em. Taters same way. Yes, marm, we got a pretty good garden, not so
smart-looking as old Adam Souleses maybe, but I ain’t ashamed of it.
First corn I put in, didn’t the crows get every namable bit? Wal, I
rigged up a scarecrow and got out my shotgun, so I guess the second
crawp’ll stay where it was put. Your folks raise a sight of corn down
your way, don’t ye? Use it, too, I hear. I ain’t a mite stuck on corn
bread myself. She makes good sody biscuits, though the old lady does
complain she makes ’em too precious big. I like ’em that way. Don’t
have to say ‘Pass them biscuits,’ so often, or if they’re on the other
side of the table you don’t have to rise every few minutes to fork
one over. It’s a right sightly place, ain’t it?” He pointed with his
whip to a low white house whose barn was in such close proximity as to
be literally under the same roof. An extensive apple orchard, whose
blossoming was just over, stretched for some distance on one side.
Two poplars stood in front of the house and a weeping willow upon
the modest lawn around which the roadway extended. “That’s our tater
patch.” Nat indicated a field which they were passing. “We grow ’em big
up here.”
“They’re not the only things you grow big,” Miss Helen could not
forbear saying with a glance at the display of ankle below the blue
jeans.
Nat burst into a loud guffaw. “That’s right I swan it don’t seem as if
I’d ever stop growing, and these here pants hitches up higher every
time they come out of wahsh. Look at them sleeves, too.” He stretched
out a mighty arm which showed several inches of red wrist below the
band. “I won’t come of age for three years nearly, and look at me,
bigger’n git out. My grandfather was just that way, growed and growed
till they had to pile bricks on his head to keep him down so he could
stand up in the settin’-room.” He gave a wink over his shoulder at
Jack, who was taking this all in.
“What became of your grandfather?” asked Jack, standing up and hanging
on the seat where her aunt sat. “Did he keep on growing?”
“No, he stopped short of six foot six, and when he died there wa’n’t no
coffin big enough for him. Had to send to Portland and have one made
special. They didn’t surmise he’d need it so soon or they might have
had it ready beforehand so’s not to put the funeral off like they had
to.”
“Did he die suddenly?” asked Jack, interested in this lugubrious
subject.
“Yes, marm. Died awful suddent. Got up as well as you or me, eat his
breakfast, tended to his hawse, white hawse he had, come in the house,
fetched a few hacks and went.”
Jack sidled over toward her aunt and whispered, “What does he mean by
hacks? Did he keep a livery stable?”
Miss Helen could scarcely keep her face sufficiently grave to whisper
back: “No, dear, he means he coughed once or twice.”
“Wal, here we are and here we be,” announced Nat, drawing up his horses
before the gate. “I see Miss Phebe’s got ahead of us, but what can
ye expect with a load of six and her with only them two. Jest wait,
marm, and I’ll lift ye down.” He performed this office, if rather
ungracefully, certainly skilfully, for he swung the little figure of
Miss Helen to the ground as if she were a bag of potatoes. The others
clambered out at the tail of the wagon and went forward to where Mrs.
Corner and Miss Phebe stood on the little porch before the door. On
either side lilacs were in bloom and a climbing rose was trained over
the window.
The entry, covered with oilcloth, separated parlor from sitting-room.
The former, opened only on state occasion, had a queer, musty smell,
as of a place seldom aired. Haircloth covered furniture stood at stiff
angles. A marble-topped table bore a lamp, a photograph album, one or
two books and ornaments. There were two crayon portraits on the wall,
one of Captain Hooper in uniform, another of a young woman with two
children by her side. The four girls disposed themselves upon the long
sofa which stood primly against the wall.
“Isn’t it stuffy?” said Jack in a low tone to Nan.
Nan nodded.
“Why don’t they open the windows this lovely day, so the smell of the
lilacs can come in?” continued Jack.
Nan shook her head at the questioner, for Miss Phebe appeared upon the
threshold. “Mother’ll be pleased to see you,” she said, addressing Miss
Helen. “I think, if you’ll excuse me,” she turned to the girls, “that
she’d better not see you all at once; it might be too exciting for her;
she’s not used to much company. Do you mind waiting till she’s got
accustomed to your mother and aunt?”
The girls assured her that they did not mind in the least.
“If you’ll entertain yourselves with any of the books or things, we
won’t be long,” continued Miss Phebe apologetically. “There’s a box of
shells on the lower shelf of the whatnot; you might like to look at
them. My Grandfather Hooper was a seafaring man, and he brought them
home from foreign parts. Some of them are real pretty.” She stooped
down, lifted the box and set it on the broad window-sill, then she
conducted Miss Helen and Mrs. Corner to the room across the entry.
While the twins took possession of the box of shells Nan and Mary Lee
made a survey of the books on the table.
“They’re awfully stupid,” declared Mary Lee, reading the titles:
“‘History of Cumberland County,’ ‘The Life of General Grant,’ ‘Aids to
the Young.’ What a funny old book. Thomson’s ‘Seasons,’ Young’s ‘Night
Thoughts.’ Do look here, Nan, at the illustrations; aren’t they weird?
Oh, dear, I’d hate to be shut up long in this house. Do you suppose we
dare to open a window or go out-of-doors?”
Nan laid down a copy of Shakespeare she had found. “I don’t know,” she
replied. “Perhaps we’d better not take any liberties. I don’t suppose
it will be long before we shall be summoned.”
“Do look at this carpet,” continued Mary Lee; “isn’t it hideous? And
whoever heard of keeping a carpet down all the year round? And those
portraits are ghastly. Is the lady Cousin Maria, do you reckon, and is
the little girl Cousin Phebe? I seem to distinguish a faint likeness.”
“I should think it might be she. Let’s look through the photographs,
then maybe we can trace her all along succeeding years.”
They took the red morocco album over to one of the windows and began to
turn its pages, once or twice happening upon some photograph familiar
to them. “That’s Cousin Martin Boyd,” cried Nan. “He is in Aunt Helen’s
album at home, the old one that was her mother’s. And oh, Mary Lee,
the lady in hoops and a funny bonnet is Grandma Corner herself. It
isn’t a bit like the lovely portrait that used to be at Uplands, but I
recognize her. And there is father when he was a youngster. Don’t you
remember it? I fancy that very fierce-looking individual in Confederate
uniform is Cousin Maria’s father. The others must all be Hoopers by the
cut of the jib.”
“I don’t think they’re a very interesting lot,” remarked Mary
Lee, viewing the series of stiffly posed persons, bearded men in
long-tailed coats, women in hooped petticoats and beruffled gowns worn
long on the shoulder, and with hair arranged in waterfall curls. “They
take much better photographs now,” she commented.
“Of course. Probably the art was in its infancy when these were taken.”
“Certainly these people weren’t,” returned Mary Lee. “They look as
ancient as the hills, even the children.”
“Here comes Cousin Phebe with an order for our release,” said Nan. So
they put the album back on the table and stood waiting.
“Mother’s ready now,” announced Miss Phebe. “She was quite overcome and
I had to give her some drops, but now that she’s over the excitement
of the meeting she is quite happy and wants to see Grace Corner’s
grandchildren, she says.”
The girls filed in procession across the hall to the door of the
sitting-room which Miss Phebe opened disclosing a bright, cheerful room
with plants in the windows, a red table-cloth on the table, a bright
carpet, a sideboard set off with silver and glass. By an open fire sat
a little white-haired old lady in black gown and white cap who looked
up expectantly as the children entered. “Come right along, my dears,”
she said in a pleasant voice. “This is a great day for me. You’ll
excuse my rising, I’m so stiff with rheumatism.”
The girls came forward and stood a-row, Mrs. Hooper scanning each one
in turn as they were presented by name. “Nancy looks like the Corners,”
she decided, “Mary Lee like her mother’s family; the others are
composite; they are twins, you said, Phebe.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Little Jack Corner’s children. He was such a boy when he went into the
army. I remember well the day he came over to tell us he was going.
Dear me, dear me, so long ago, so long and here I am a New Englander.
Dear me, dear me.” She shook her head as she looked from one to the
other. All the old memories were stirred by this sudden appearance of
her kin.
Then the presentation of gifts took place, a process which while it
greatly pleased Cousin Maria reduced her to tears. “To think of it,
Phebe,” she whimpered, “my own flesh and blood kin and they’ve brought
me gifts as if they had known me all their lives. Oh, there are none
like them, none like my own people down South.”
“Now, mother,” said Miss Phebe in a tone which sounded severe, but
which really arose from hurt feelings, “I hope you remember that
father and I weren’t from down South.”
“Oh, you’re a good child, Phebe; I know that, and Everett was a good,
kind husband, but you are both alien, alien.”
This was pretty hard on Miss Phebe considering she had always been
the most dutiful and conscientious of daughters and sacrificed
herself daily for her mother, but as Miss Helen said afterward, “the
Daingerfields always were sentimental,” so Cousin Maria was allowed to
have her little weep and then recovered herself enough to become quite
animated over the gifts, all of which pleased her mightily, though the
photographs seemed to possess the greatest value in her eyes.
Miss Phebe slipped out, the duties of hostess and cook so clashing that
she was put to it in trying to fill both offices suitably. “Phebe’s a
good child; a better daughter than I deserve,” sighed Cousin Maria.
“She is a Hooper to the back-bone, I can tell you that; just like her
father’s people.” She turned suddenly and laid her hand on Miss Helen’s
arm. “Oh, I tell you, it wasn’t easy at first. Oh, my dears, you will
never know what it is to be as homesick as I was. I had a good, kind
husband and I loved him, but their ways were so different. I never
had been used to lifting a finger; always a houseful of darkies at
my beck and call; always neighbors to drive over and gossip. Oh, my
dears, when I saw my mother-in-law and her daughters doing their own
work, rarely visiting, keeping the parlor shut up year in, year out, no
dances, no fun of any kind, I was appalled. Of course I was looked upon
with coolness and dislike because I was a Southerner, but that did not
make as much difference as the other things, and when I learned what
was expected of me----” She shook her head and sighed deeply. “It was
uphill work, that learning their ways. Once or twice I was so unhappy
I was ready to fly from it all, but there was Everett, so kind and
considerate, though he could only half guess what I missed, and then
came my baby, my little son.” She paused and wiped her eyes.
Miss Helen gently patted her hand. “Never mind, Cousin Maria,” she
said, “that is all over now, and even if you had gone back, or if you
had never come away it wouldn’t have been the same. There were hard
times in Virginia and all throughout the South; the women down there
had to work as hard as here, after the war.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I know. When my little boy died I realized something
of what my parents suffered, and I felt it was a judgment on me for
leaving my father, so I could never rebel against the punishment, for
I could see it was just. Poor father! He did forgive me at last, you
know. When my baby died I wrote to him, but he did not answer till a
year later, but he forgave me.”
“I am so glad,” breathed Jack pressing nearer. “You know we think you
had such a beautiful romantic love story, Cousin Maria, and we were
so glad we could come to see you,” though in her heart of hearts she
was rather disappointed that the heroine of the tale should prove to
be this plain little old woman. “I wish you would tell us all about
it; how you ran away with Captain Hooper and all that; we are so
interested.”
Mrs. Hooper smiled reminiscently, then she turned to Mrs. Corner. “You
would know her for a Southern girl, so spontaneous and outspoken. Well,
dear, I will tell you how it was.”
Though Nan would like to have listened to this story she had an uneasy
feeling that Miss Phebe might need help, so she quietly left the room.
Nan was always the one who carried the heaviest packages, who ran
back for umbrellas, or lugged a double amount of hand-luggage, so it
was like her to do this. She conjectured that the kitchen would be at
the back and she set to work to find it, first opening the door of a
closet, then one which led out upon a back porch, but the third one
seemed to be right, as she found a little entry from beyond which came
sounds and odors which told of the kitchen’s whereabouts. As she paused
upon the door-sill Miss Phebe, busily stirring around, cried out, “Land
sakes!” as she saw the figure in the doorway.
“I thought perhaps I could help you, Cousin Phebe,” said Nan.
Miss Phebe looked quite taken aback and said nervously, “No, thank you;
I couldn’t think of letting you do such a thing.”
“But why not?” Nan could not understand the New England spirit which
scorned assistance and resented intrusion.
“Please,” she continued. “I always help Cousin Mag when I go over
there. Couldn’t I set the table?”
“Oh, no; I set that before I went to the train.”
Still Nan persisted. She stepped into the kitchen. “Well, I could pare
potatoes or something.”
Miss Phebe shook her head. “Nat did those after breakfast. There is
really nothing to do. I made the pies and doughnuts this morning, the
custards yesterday. There isn’t a thing to do but stir up some sody
biscuits. I’ve got the peas and potatoes on. Does your ma like tea or
coffee? and your aunt, what does she drink?”
Nan was doubtful. She knew her Aunt Helen depended upon her afternoon
tea, and missing it to-day might like it earlier. “Suppose I go and
ask,” she said.
“Oh, no, I can make both,” returned Miss Phebe hurriedly.
“But why, if it isn’t necessary?”
Miss Phebe murmured something about its not being polite. Her Puritan
conscience would not permit her to be slack in even so small a matter,
nor must her guests discover her wanting in hospitality, so as Nan saw
she would be really distressed if the question were carried further,
she gave up all idea of making inquiry, but begged Cousin Phebe to
allow her to skim the milk and cut the butter which finally she was
permitted to do.
“You must have been up very early to get so much done before you went
to the train,” remarked the girl.
“Not much earlier than usual,” was the reply. “I wasn’t up before four.”
Nan stared. Four o’clock! and she had been on the go ever since. “I
should think you would be worn to a bone,” she said looking at the wiry
spare figure.
Miss Phebe smiled grimly and said, with a little bridling of the head,
“We don’t believe in wasting daylight up here.” Surely the ante-bellum
days had departed for Cousin Maria Hooper who, in the other room, was
telling of the good old times before the war, when she “never raised
her hand to do a thing and was carried around on a silver waiter, my
dear.”
“If you want to get along you’ve got to work,” said Miss Phebe reading
something of Nan’s thought.
“Or else be smart enough to make others work for you,” returned Nan
laughing. “Isn’t it a sign of ability to plan what a duller brain
executes?”
“I was never taught to expect any one to do my work, and I never had
time to stop to ask such questions,” returned Miss Phebe with a little
asperity. “My father died when I was eighteen and I have been at it
ever since, trying to keep up the place and make a little out of it.”
“Shall I carry these in?” asked Nan, seeing it was out of place to
argue, and standing with bread-plate in one hand and butter in the
other.
“If you will be so kind.”
Nan went into the dining-room and set the things on the table,
then she helped Miss Phebe dish up, carrying in peas and potatoes,
pickles and jelly, doughnuts and “sody” biscuits, custards and pies
and lastly--wonder of wonders--fried chicken. This was Miss Phebe’s
chef-d’œuvre, a dish suggested by her mother and one which the
daughter had been taught to prepare years before. Yielding in this one
particular she offered a Northern bill of fare in other respects, to
Jean’s great satisfaction, who was delighted to see the array of sweet
things, doughnuts and pies, preserves and cake, custards and cookies.
“Even Emerson ate pie for breakfast,” remarked Miss Helen as they
settled themselves in the train late that afternoon. The day had been
an unforgettable one in many respects, in which the quaint, queer
figure of Cousin Phebe stood out alone.
“With so many excellent qualities, so many virtues, and yet so
unattractive,” said Mrs. Corner.
“No doubt if you could penetrate the crust you would find a warm
heart,” returned Miss Helen. “Cousin Maria is pathetic, and how she
clung to us! I am glad we promised to see them again before we leave
these parts. Poor Cousin Maria! Environment has forced her into a
growth different from that which nature and birth intended, and she is
worn out in the struggle. She told me nothing in life could have given
her such pleasure as our visit. One feels very humble before such a
state of things.”
“And yet,” said Nan, “there is nothing Cousin Phebe would not do for
her mother, and I believe she enjoyed our coming, too, though one would
never guess it except that she was so eager that we should come again.”
“I don’t believe she works a bit harder than Cousin Sarah,” commented
Jack.
“Oh, my child, Cousin Sarah never in her life got up at four o’clock in
the morning to make pies and doughnuts before breakfast,” said Nan.
“Nat says if we will come in the fall he will show us more apples than
we ever saw in our lives,” remarked Jean.
“Humph!” ejaculated Mary Lee; “he never saw the Albemarle pippins on
Cousin Phil’s farm up on the mountain.”
[Illustration: CHAPTER IV
THE START FOR CAMP]