A TEA-PARTY
"I wish we might have had William Jaquith as well," said Miss Vesta. "It
would have pleased Mary, and every one says he is doing so well."
"I am quite as well satisfied as it is, my dear Vesta," replied Miss
Phoebe. "Let me see; one, two, three--six cups and saucers, if you
please; the gold-sprigged ones, and the plates to match. I think it is
just as well not to have William Jaquith. I rejoice in his reform, and
trust it will be as permanent as it is apparently sincere; but with Mr.
and Mrs. Bliss--no, Vesta, I feel that the combination would hardly have
been suitable. Besides, he and Cousin Homer could not both leave the
office at once, so early in the evening."
"That is true," said Miss Vesta. "Which bowl shall we use for the wine
jelly, Sister Phoebe? I think the color shows best in this plain one
with the gold stars; or do you prefer the heavy fluted one?"
The little lady was perched on the pantry-steps, and looked anxiously
down at Miss Phoebe, who, comfortably seated, on account of her
rheumatism, was vainly endeavoring to find a speck of dust on cup or
dish.
"The star-bowl is best, I am convinced," said Miss Phoebe, gravely;
then she sighed.
"I sometimes fear that cut glass is a snare, Vesta. The pride of the
eye! I tremble, when I look at all these dishes."
"Surely, Sister Phoebe," said Miss Vesta, gently, "there can be no
harm in admiring beautiful things. The Lord gave us the sense of beauty,
and I have always counted it one of his choicest mercies."
"Yes, Vesta; but Satan is full of wiles. I have not your disposition,
and when I look at these shelves I am distinctly conscious that there is
no such glass in Elmerton, perhaps none in the State. In china Aunt
Marcia surpasses us,--naturally, having all the Tree china, and most of
the Darracott; I have always felt that we have less Darracott china than
is ours by right,--but in glass we stand alone. At times I feel that it
may be my duty to give away, or sell for the benefit of the heathen, all
save the few pieces which we actually need."
"Surely, Sister Phoebe, you would not do that!" said Miss Vesta,
aghast. "Think of all the associations! Four generations of cut glass!"
"No, Vesta, I would not," said Miss Phoebe, sadly; "and that shows the
snare plainly, and my feet in it. We are perishable clay! Suppose we put
the cream in the gold-ribbed glass pitcher to-night, instead of the
silver one; it will go better with the gold-sprigged cups. After all,
for whom should we display our choicest possessions if not for our
pastor?"
Little Mr. Bliss, the new minister, was not observant, and beyond a
vague sense of comfort and pleasure, knew nothing of the exquisite
features of Miss Phoebe's tea-table. His wife did, however, and as she
said afterward, felt better every time the delicate porcelain of her
teacup touched her lips. Mrs. Bliss had the tastes of a duchess, and was
beginning life on a salary of five hundred dollars a year and a house.
Doctor Stedman and Mr. Homer Hollopeter, too, appreciated the dainty
service of the Temple of Vesta, each in his own way; and a pleasant
cheerfulness shone in the faces of all as Diploma Crotty handed round
her incomparable Sally Lunns, with a muttered assurance to each guest
that she did not expect they were fit to eat.
"Phoebe," said Doctor Stedman, "I never can feel more than ten years
old when I sit down at this table. I hope you have put me--yes, this is
my place. Here is the mark. You set this table, Vesta?"
Miss Vesta blushed, the blush of a white rose at sunset.
"Yes, James," she said, softly. "I remembered where you like to sit."
"You see this dent?" said Doctor Stedman, addressing his neighbor, Mrs.
Bliss; "I made that when I was ten years old. I used to be here a great
deal, playing with Nathaniel, Miss Blyth's brother, and we were always
cautioned not to touch this table. It was always, as you see it now, a
shining mirror, and every time a little warm paw was laid on it, it left
a mark. This, however, was not explained to us. We were simply told that
if we touched that table, something would happen; and when we asked
what, the reply was, 'You'll find out what!' That was your Aunt
Timothea, girls, of course. Well, Nathaniel, being a peaceful and docile
child, accepted this dictum. Perhaps, knowing his aunt, he may have
understood it; but I did not, and I was possessed to find out what would
happen if I touched the table. Once or twice I secretly laid the tip of
a finger on it, when I was alone in the room; but nothing coming of it,
I decided that a stronger touch was needed to bring the 'something' to
pass. There used to be a little ivory mallet that belonged to the Indian
gong--ah, yes, there it is! I remember as if it were yesterday the
moment when, finding myself alone in the room, I felt that my
opportunity had come. I caught up the mallet and gave a sounding bang on
the sacred mahogany; then waited to see what would happen. Then Miss
Timothea came in, and I found out. She did it with a slipper, and I
spent most of the next week standing up."
"Our Aunt Timothea Darracott was the guardian of our childhood," Miss
Phoebe explained to Mrs. Bliss. "She was an austere, but exemplary
person. We derived great benefit from her ministrations, which were most
devoted. A well-behaved child had little to fear from Aunt Timothea."
"You must not give our friends a false impression of James's childhood,
Sister Phoebe," said Miss Vesta, looking up with the expression of a
valorous dove. "He was far from being an unruly child as a general
thing, though of course it was a pity about the table."
"Thank you, Vesta!" said Doctor Stedman. "But I am afraid I often got
Nat into mischief. Do you remember your Uncle Tree's spankstick,
Phoebe?"
"Shall we perhaps change the subject?" said Miss Phoebe, with bland
severity. "It is hardly suited to the social board. Cousin Homer, may I
give you a little more of the chicken, or will you have some oysters?"
"A--it is immaterial, I am obliged to you, Cousin Phoebe," said Mr.
Homer Hollopeter, looking up with the air of one suddenly awakened. "The
inner man has been abundantly refreshed, I thank you."
"The inner man was making a sonnet, Phoebe, and you have cruelly
interrupted him," said Doctor Stedman, not without a gleam of friendly
malice.
"Not a sonnet, James, this time," said Mr. Homer, coloring. "A few lines
were, I confess, shaping themselves in my mind; it is very apt to be the
case, when my surroundings are so gracious--so harmonious--I may say so
inspiring, as at the present moment."
He waved his hands over the table, whose general effect was of crystal
and gold, cream and honey, shining on the dark mirror of the bare table.
"I agree with you, I'm sure, Mr. Hollopeter," said little Mrs. Bliss,
heartily. "I couldn't write a line of poetry to save my life, but if I
could, I am sure it would be about this table, Miss Blyth. It _is_ the
prettiest table I ever saw, and the prettiest setting."
Miss Phoebe looked pleased.
"It is a Darracott table," she said. "My aunt, Mrs. Tree, has the mate
to it. They were saved when Darracott House was burned, and naturally we
value them highly. I believe they formed part of the original furnishing
brought over from England by James Lysander James Darracott in 1642. It
is a matter of rivalry between our good Diploma Crotty and her aunt,
Mrs. Tree's domestic, as to which table is in the more perfect
condition. Mrs. Tree's table has no dent in it--"
"Ah, Phoebe, I shall carry that dent to my grave with me!" said Doctor
Stedman, with a twinkle in his gray eyes. "You will never forgive it, I
see."
"On the contrary, James, I forgave it long ago," said Miss Phoebe,
graciously. "I was about to remark that though the other table has no
dent, it has a scratch, made by Jocko in his youth, which years of labor
have failed to efface. To my mind, the scratch is more noticeable than
the dent, though both are to be regretted. Mr. Bliss, you are eating
nothing. I beg you will allow me to give you a little honey! It is made
by our own bees, and I think I can conscientiously recommend it. A
little cream, you will find, takes off the edge of the sweet, and makes
it more palatable."
"Miss Blyth, you must not give us too many good things," said the little
minister, shaking his head, but holding out his plate none the less.
"Thank you! thank you! most delicious, I am sure. I only hope it is not
a snare of the flesh, Miss Phoebe."
He spoke merrily, in full enjoyment of his first spoonful of honey--not
the colorless, flavorless white clover variety, but the goldenrod honey,
rich and full in color and flavor. He smiled as he spoke, but Miss
Phoebe looked grave.
"I trust not, indeed, Mr. Bliss," she said. "It would ill become my
sister and me to lay snares of any kind for your feet. I always feel,
however, that milk, or cream, and honey, being as it were natural gifts
of a bounteous Providence, and frequently mentioned in the Scriptures,
may be partaken of in moderation without fear of over-indulgence of
sinful appetites. A little more? Another pound cake, Mrs. Bliss? No?
Then shall we return to the parlor?"
"You spoke of your aunt, Mrs. Tree, Miss Blyth," said Mr. Bliss, when
they were seated in the pleasant, shining parlor of the Temple of Vesta,
the red curtains drawn, the fire crackling its usual cordial welcome.
"She is a--a singularly interesting person. What vivacity! what
readiness! what a fund of information on a variety of subjects! She put
me to the blush a dozen times in a talk I had with her recently."
"Have you been able to have any serious conversation with my aunt, Mr.
Bliss?" asked Miss Phoebe, with a slight indication of frost in her
tone. "I should be truly rejoiced to hear that such was the case."
"A--well, perhaps not exactly serious," owned the little minister,
smiling and blushing. "In fact,"--here he caught his wife's eye, and
checked himself--"in fact,--a--she is an extremely interesting person!"
he concluded, lamely.
"Now, John, why should you stop?" cried Mrs. Bliss. "Mrs. Tree is the
Miss Blyths' own aunt, and they must know her ever so much better than
we do. She was just as funny as she could be, Miss Blyth. Deacon Weight
had asked Mr. Bliss to call and reason with her on spiritual
matters,--'wrestle' was what he said, but John told him he was no
wrestler,--and so he went and tried; but he had hardly said a word--had
you, John?--when Mrs. Tree asked him which he liked best, Shakespeare or
the musical glasses--what _do_ you suppose she meant, Miss Vesta? And
when he said Shakespeare, of course, she began talking about Hamlet, and
Macready, and Mrs. Siddons, who gave her an orange when she was a little
girl, and he never got in another word, did you, John? And Deacon Weight
was so put out when he heard about it! I'm gl--"
"Marietta, my love!" remonstrated Mr. Bliss, hastily, "you forget
yourself. Deacon Weight is our senior deacon."
"I'm sorry, John! but Mrs. Tree _is_ just as kind as she can be," the
little wife went on, her eyes kindling as she spoke. "Oh!--no, I won't
tell, John; you needn't be afraid. Why, she said that if I told she
would set the parrot on me, and she meant it. That bird frightens me out
of my wits. But she _is_ kind, and I never shall forget all she has done
for us."
"I understand that you are a poet, sir," the minister said, turning to
Mr. Homer Hollopeter, and evidently desirous of changing the subject.
"May I ask if the sonnet is your favorite form of verse?"
Mr. Homer bridled and colored.
"A--not at present, sir," he replied, modestly. "For some years I
did feel that my--a--genius, if I may call it so, moved most freely
in the fetters of the sonnet; but of late I have thought it well to
seek--to employ--to--a--avail myself of the various forms in which
the Muse enshrines herself. It--gives, if I may so express myself,
more breadth of wing; more scope; more freedom; more"--he waved his
hands--"circumambiency!"
His hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket.
"I am sure, Cousin Homer," said Miss Vesta, "our friends would be glad
to hear some of your poetry, if you happen to have any with you."
"Very glad," echoed Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, heartily. Doctor Stedman, after
a thoughtful glance at the door, and another at the clock,--but it was
only seven,--settled himself resignedly in his chair and said, "Fire
away, Homer!" quite kindly.
Mr. Homer drew forth a folded paper, and gazed on the company with a
pensive smile.
"I confess," he said, "the thought had occurred to me that, if so
desired, I might read these few lines to the choice circle before
whom--or more properly which--I find myself this evening. An episode has
recently occurred in our--a--midst, Mrs. Bliss, which is of deep
interest to us Elmertonians. The return of a youth, always cherished,
but--shall I say, Cousin Phoebe, a temporary estray from
the--a--star-y-pointing path?"
"It is a graceful way of putting it, Cousin Homer," said Miss Phoebe,
with some austerity. "I trust it may be justified. Proceed, if you
please. We are all attention."
Mr. Homer unfolded his paper, and opened his lips to read; but some
uneasiness seemed to strike him. He moved in his seat, as if missing
something, and glanced round the room. His eye fell and rested on Miss
Phoebe, sitting erect and rigid--in the rocking-chair, _his_
rocking-chair! Miss Phoebe would not have rocked a quarter of an inch
for a fortune; every line of her figure protested against its being
supposed possible that she _could_ rock in company; but there she sat,
and her seat was firm as the enduring hills.
Mr. Homer sighed; pushed his chair back a little, only to find its legs
wholly uncompromising--and read as follows:
"LINES ON THE RETURN OF A YOUTHFUL AND VALUED FRIEND.
"Our beloved William Jaquith
Has resolved henceforth to break with
Devious ways;
And returning to his mother
Vows he will have ne'er another
All his days.
"Husk of swine did not him nourish;
Plant of Virtue could not flourish
Far from home;
So his heart with longing burnèd,
And his feet with speed returnèd
To its dome.
"Welcome, William, to our village!
Peaceful dwell, devoid of pillage,
Cherished son!
On her sightless steps attendant,
Wear a crown of light resplendent,
Duty done!"
There was a soft murmur of appreciation from Miss Vesta and Mrs. Bliss,
followed by silence. Mr. Homer glanced anxiously at Miss Phoebe.
"I should be glad of your opinion as to the third line, Cousin
Phoebe," he said. "I had it 'Satan's ways,' in my first draught, but
the expression appeared strong, especially for this choice circle, so I
substituted 'devious' as being more gentle, more mild, more--a"--he
waved his hands--"more devoid of elements likely to produce discord in
the mind."
"Quite so, Cousin Homer!" replied Miss Phoebe, with a stately bend of
her head. "I congratulate you upon the alteration. Satan has no place in
an Elmerton parlor, especially when honored by the presence of its
pastor."