Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "Will you have a card, please?"]
A NEW GRAFT
ON THE FAMILY TREE.
BY
P A N S Y
[ISABELLA ALDEN]
AUTHOR OF "A HEDGE FENCE," "SIDE BY SIDE,"
"STRIVING TO HELP," ETC.
[ILLUSTRATION]
London:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1902
Contents.
Chapter
I. WILL IT BLOOM, OR WITHER?
II. THE TREE
III. INTRODUCED
IV. FROM DAWN TO DAYLIGHT
V. BEDS AND BUTTON-HOLES
VI. A NEW SERVICE FOR THE SABBATH
VII. A NEW SABBATH CLASS
VIII. NEW LIGHT
IX. A NEW CHAMPION
X. FISHING
XI. GRACE SUFFICIENT
XII. DIFFERENT SHADES
XIII. BUDS OF PROMISE
XIV. DUST AND DOUBT
XV. OPPORTUNITIES
XVI. THE REASON OF THINGS
XVII. FIRST FRUITS
XVIII. BIRDS OF PROMISE
XIX. "WHATSOEVER"
XX. CLOUDS
XXI. HEDGED IN
XXII. CORDS UNSEEN
XXIII. "FORBID THEM NOT"
XXIV. STORM
XXV. UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER
XXVI. DORRIE'S AMBITION
XXVII. HEART-THROBS AND COMMONPLACES
XXVIII. "I DON'T KNOW"
XXIX. THE OLD AND THE NEW
A NEW GRAFT
ON THE FAMILY TREE.
CHAPTER I.
WILL IT BLOOM, OR WITHER?
"WHAT in the world are you ever going to do with all those tidies?"
The speaker was a girl of sixteen—a fair, bright creature, with dancing
eyes, and that alert expression which we find on the faces of those to
whom the future is an interesting and exciting puzzle which they long
to solve.
She was watching with curious interest the absorption of her sister,
who knelt before a half-packed trunk, studying the disposal of packages
so as to solve that old problem, "How to get twice as much into a trunk
as it will reasonably hold."
She made no answer to the young questioner, having just taken up a
closely written sheet of paper, the contents of which absorbed her
attention. The question was repeated.
"Louise, what do you expect to do with all those tidies?"
"Put them on chairs and sofas—" with a far-away expression and dreamy
tone, and eyes only for the paper before her.
The young girl laughed slightly, then her face grew sober.
"Louise," she said, hesitating as one who might be on doubtful ground,
"has Lewis told you anything about his home and its surroundings?"
"Somewhat, dear—" still only half attending to the speaker.
"Well, Addie Dunlop says they live very plainly indeed. She visits the
Wheelers, you know, in that vicinity, and she was at their house on two
different occasions. She says it is quite isolated from neighbours, and
is a regular country farmhouse."
This brought a laugh.
"What would you have a country farmhouse but a country farmhouse?"
"Oh well, Louise, you know what I mean."
If she did she kept the knowledge in silence; and her young sister,
after regarding her with a curious look for a moment, drew a heavy sigh.
"It doesn't seem to me that you belong to country farmhouses," she
said boldly, "with your education and talents. What will you do with
them buried among commonplace—hills?" She had nearly said people, but
checked herself. "Why should Lewis hide himself in that out-of-the-way
place?"
"Well, dear, you know it is a question of health with him. Nearly all
his plans in life had to be changed to meet the demands of a failing
body. Farm life agrees with him."
"I don't believe it will with you. I don't like to think of you away
off there, miles away from anything to which you are accustomed.
Louise, honestly, aren't you afraid you will be homesick?"
Thus solemnly questioned, Louise dropped her engrossing paper, and
turning from the trunk, gave the questioner the full benefit of her
laughing eyes.
"My dear little grandmother, have you gone and gotten your yourself
into a fever of anxiety over your young and giddy sister? I'm not a bit
afraid of a farmhouse. As for homesickness, of course I shall have that
disease. What sort of a heart would it be that could leave such a home
as mine without longing for it, and the dear faces that belong to it,
sometimes many times a day? But having looked at the matter fairly, it
seems to be the right thing to do. And, my troubled little sister, you
want to fully realize this. I am not going 'away off there' alone, but
with Lewis Morgan; and if I did not love him enough to be absolutely
certain that I could go to the ends of the earth with him as well as
not, if it should seem best to do so, I assuredly ought not to marry
him."
"And leave papa and mamma!"
It was impossible not to laugh at the startled, tragic tone in which
these words were spoken, as the elder sister repeated them—
"And leave papa and mamma! And also, which is a very important matter,
leave my dear little troubled sister Estelle. Positively, dear,
though it has its sad side, of course, it does not seem too much of a
sacrifice for me to make in order to be with Lewis. If it did, I should
think myself unworthy of him."
"How strange!" said the younger sister, though she was wise enough this
time to say it to herself. "I'm sure I don't see how she can do it.
Besides papa and mamma, there is our beautiful home, and all the girls,
and the lectures, and the circles, and—oh, well, everything. According
to Addie Dunlop she will just be buried alive, surrounded by snow in
winter and haying and harvesting in summer. What is there in Lewis
Morgan that should make her want to go? I wouldn't like to go anywhere
with him. He is nice enough; he is very nice indeed, for that matter.
I like him as well, if not better, than any of the young men who call
on us. But liking a man and enjoying a half-hour's talk with him, and
going to a lecture or concert with him, is one thing, and going away
from one's father and mother to spend a lifetime with him is another."
The conclusion of her soliloquy was that she said aloud, in tones more
dismayed than before—
"I don't understand it at all! I never could go away with Lewis Morgan,
and leave papa and mamma and everybody."
Whereupon the bride-elect leaned over her open trunk and laughed
immoderately. Her young sister's perplexity seemed so funny to her.
"Of course you couldn't, you dear child," she said, when she could
speak. "You are not expected to want to go away from papa and mamma
and live with Lewis Morgan, though I am sure I hope you will come and
live with us half the time. Farmhouses are very nice places in which to
spend summer, Estelle. But you mustn't wear a woe-begone face over me,
and think of me as making a sacrifice. If you ever give your heart to a
good, true man, you will be entirely willing to go away with him, and
until you are you must never think of taking marriage vows. Meantime,
dear, of course you don't understand it; you are much too young. I hope
it will be many a year before the thing will seem possible to you."
"It will never seem possible," Estelle said stoutly. "If I have got to
love any man enough to be willing to go away from papa and mamma before
I can be married, I shall have to be an old maid; for that is all
nonsense. I know no man on earth could tempt me to do it."
"Very well," said the bride in much composure, "I am glad you think
so; it is the best way to feel. To be sure, people change their minds
sometimes; but at your age it is much the nicest thing to think.
Meantime, dear, don't you worry about those tidies. I shall find places
for them, where they will set the nice old-fashioned rooms aglow with
their beauty. I am glad I have so many. Now, do you suppose that ebony
box would fit in this niche? I would like to have it here, because we
shall keep this trunk with us all the time."
"She hasn't the least idea how farmhouses look, especially that one. I
wonder if she has the slightest notion how her future brother-in-law
looks? Lewis Morgan indeed! I wish he had stayed in Australia!" And
with another long-drawn sigh the troubled young sister went in search
of the ebony box.
This was not the first time that Louise Barrows, the bride-elect, had
been called upon to vindicate the comforts of her future home. Her
father had demurred and hesitated, and argued the question with his
prospective son-in-law, and the mother had shed some tears in secret
over the thought that the daughter of whom she was so proud had chosen
so obscure and prosaic a future.
"Think of her getting-up at four o'clock in the morning to look after
the butter and milk, and get breakfast for the workmen!" she had said
to her husband in their confidential talks; and he had answered—
"There are worse lots in life than that, I suppose."
But he had sighed as heavily as the young daughter always did when she
thought about it, and he had wished from his inmost heart that things
had shaped differently. Still he essayed to comfort his wife.
"He is Louise's own choice, and he is a good Christian man, with
strong, solid principles. It might have been much worse."
"Oh yes," the mother assented, "he is a Christian man;" and the tone in
which she said it might almost have justified you in expecting her to
add: "But that doesn't amount to much." What she did say was: "But what
can Louise do for herself or others, buried alive out there? She is
eminently fitted for usefulness. You know as well as I that she would
grace any circle, and that she is a leader among her set; she leads in
the right direction, too, which is more than can be said of most girls:
but what chance will she have to develop her talents?"
"That is true," the father said, and then he sighed again. Yet these
Christian parents had prayed for their daughter every day since she
was born, and professed assured confidence in the belief that God
guides his children and answers prayer. Still their faith did not reach
high enough to get away from a lurking belief that the Guide of their
daughter's life had made a mistake in setting her future among such
surroundings. Not that they put the thought into such words—that would
have been irreverent; but what did their sighings and regrettings mean?
It was rather hard on the prospective bride, even though her parents
were wise enough to say almost nothing about their regrets, now that
the question was settled. But she felt it in the atmosphere. Besides,
she had to encounter a like anxiety from another source. It was only
the evening before Estelle's cross-questioning occurred that Lewis
Morgan himself, getting-up from one of the luxurious easy-chairs which,
repeated in varying patterns, abounded in Mr. Barrows' parlours,
crossed over to the mantel, and, resting his elbow on its edge and his
forehead on his hand, looked down from his fine height on Louise as she
nestled in a brown-tinted plush chair that harmonized perfectly with
her soft, rich dress, and contrasted perfectly with her delicate skin,
and made to the gazer a lovely picture, which seemed but to heighten
his perplexity.
"After all, Louise," he said, "I don't know but we made a mistake in
planning as we did. Someway, out in Australia, where my planning was
done, the contrast between your present home and our future one was not
so sharply defined before me as it is here."
"Shut your eyes, then," said Louise, "and imagine yourself back in
Australia, when you have any planning to do. That is quite as near as I
want you to get to that barbarous country again."
Lewis Morgan laughed, and then immediately his brow clouded.
"But, Louise, there is a fitness in things, and you fit right in here.
Everything matches with you." And his eyes gave a swift journey up
and down the room, taking in its soft and harmonizing furnishings—the
richness and glow of the carpet, the delicacy and grace of the lace
curtains, the air of ease and elegance in the disposal of the elegant
furniture, the rare paintings looking down on him from the walls,
glowing in the gas-light, then back to the small, graceful figure in
the brown chair.
"Louise, you are entirely unfamiliar, you know, with country life, and
I don't believe I can give you the least idea of the sharp and trying
contrasts."
"Then don't try. Wait, and let me see them for myself."
"Yes, but—what if we wait until it is too late to rectify mistakes?
Though, for that matter, we can change, of course, should the thing
prove unbearable. But I am really afraid it is a mistake. I seem to
feel it more to-night than ever before."
"Lewis," said the little brown figure, "do you really think I am a bird
of bright plumage, that must have a gilded cage and downy nest, and
nothing else?"
He looked down on her with unutterable admiration in his eyes.
"Oh, you know very well," he said, half smiling, "that I think you
are everything that any mortal woman can be—possibly a little more.
But—well, it is not only the house and surroundings, though they are
rude and plain enough. I am afraid that you and my mother will not
understand each other. She is old-fashioned and peculiar—she is a
good mother, and I love and respect her; but, Louise, she is not in
the least like yours, and I am not sure that she will have an idea in
common with you."
"Yes she will. We shall both bestow an undue amount of admiration on,
and take an absurd degree of comfort in, your tall self."
He laughed again, and then shook his head.
"I doubt whether even there you will not be disappointed. My mother has
a strong, warm love for her family; but she does not show it in the way
to which you have been accustomed. She is reserved, pent-up. She will
sit up with my little sister Nellie six nights in succession; but she
never caresses and kisses her as your mother does Lora."
"Never mind," said Louise; "it is not natural for some people to kiss
and caress. The sitting up is the most important matter after all,
especially when one is sick; though I will own that I am sorry for poor
Nellie, without the kisses. Perhaps we can work together: your mother
will do the patient caring for, and I will do the kissing. How will
that work?"
"I see you are bent on making everything shine with the brightness
of your own spirit. But, really and truly, I am afraid I have been
dreaming a wild dream in supposing that I could transplant you to
such a rough atmosphere. It was ridiculous in my father to put in
the proviso that we must live at home. I ought to have resisted it.
Because I must spend my days out of doors, travelling over a farm, is
no reason why we shouldn't have a home of our own. I think my father is
abundantly able to give me a separate start, if he only saw the matter
in that light."
"But since he doesn't, we must, like dutiful children, try to see it
in his light, until such time as we can win him over to our notions or
become full converts to his. I know all about it, Lewis. I don't expect
to walk in a garden of roses all the time. I know, too, that to go into
farm life is a trial to you. All your plans were in another channel.
Yet I am more than glad to give up all those rose-coloured plans for
the sake of seeing you look at this moment as strong and well es your
summer on a farm has made you. I fully intend to be happy on that farm.
I shall have to make a confession to you. Papa talked seriously to me
about trying to rent a farm and stock it for us, and do you know I
controverted it?"
"I should think so," said Lewis Morgan hastily. "He ought not to spare
the money from his business. And, besides, it would be unjust as he is
situated."
"Well, I didn't enter into that part of it. I simply said that I
thought duty to your father obliged you to yield to his very decided
wishes in this matter, and that you and I were both resolved on a
thorough trial of it. And, really, I don't apprehend any dreadful
consequences. I want to try the experiment of living with my
mother-in-law and having a thoroughly good time in doing it. And,
Lewis, there is one subject on which we surely can agree. You forget
the most important one of all."
He shook his head, and his voice was low and sad.
"No, I don't, Louise. You are mistaken: not one of the family, save
myself, is a Christian."
The first shadow that he had seen on his bride's face, when this
subject was being discussed, flitted across it now. At last he had
startled her.