AUNT DORINDA.
"WHAT a nice old lady she is!" said Anna, as they were walking
homeward. "But does it not seem absurd for these people to be setting
themselves up one above another, and thinking about gentility and
social position."
"I don't know," replied Ethel. "Why is it more absurd for them than for
anybody else?"
"I don't suppose it is more absurd; only it seems rather more comical,
somehow: Miss Millar is the only very aspiring young lady in my class.
She says her mother won't let her wash dishes, or do any such work,
because she means to make a lady of her. She was greatly surprised when
I told her that I washed the breakfast dishes every morning, and that a
great many ladies always dusted their parlours themselves. I have liked
her the least of any girl in the class; but I somehow feel attracted
toward her, after what Mrs. Trim told us about her parents. Poor child,
between her mother's gentility and her father's infidelity, she has not
much chance for her life."
"I think the children of such parents are worse off than those whose
parents are merely careless and thoughtless," remarked Ethel. "The
two little boys seem to be good children, and sing their hymns with a
special relish. But who shall we find to take our knitting class?"
"There is Mrs. Rose."
"She is the very one, if she can find time; but then she has so much
to do as it is. It hardly seems fair to ask her to undertake anything
else."
"She is more likely to find time than a great many people who are doing
nothing," remarked Anna. "I remember very well something I once heard
Mr. Verplank say to my father: 'When I want some extra piece of work
done in the church or the Sunday-school, I never think of going to the
people who have abundance of leisure. I ask some one who has his or her
hands pretty well filled already.' See, there is Mrs. Ray, standing at
the gate, looking for us. I wonder if anything has happened?"
Ethel quickened her pace, and was met by Emily with a face and gesture
of comical dismay.
"What has happened?" asked Ethel.
"Aunt Dorinda!" whispered Emily.
Ethel groaned, and sat down on the horse-block.
"When did she come?" she asked, presently.
"This afternoon, at four."
"Is she going to stay?"
"Of course, I suppose so. She has brought two big trunks. And now,
while I have a chance, Ethel, I want to tell you something. Of course,
we must all be very respectful and kind to Aunt Dorinda; but you must
make up your mind that you will hold your own, and 'not' be walked
over by her. Of course, she will want to interfere with everything, as
usual."
"I hope she won't want to interfere with the sewing-school," said Anna,
who knew something of Aunt Dorinda's peculiarities.
"She will, you may be sure," replied Ethel. "She will have some fine,
grand system of her own about it. They say she had not been introduced
to the President five minutes before she had advised him as to the
Alabama claims, the Indian question, and the reform of the Patent
Office."
"I suspect there must be a little exaggeration in that story, as she
herself would remark," said Emily, laughing. "But never mind; we must
make the best of her, that is all. Anna, won't you come in to dinner?"
Anna declined, and went on her way.
Ethel called after her, "Don't forget to see Mrs. Rose early in the
week."
"See Mrs. Rose about what?" asked Emily.
"About teaching our knitting class. We have six or seven girls whose
mothers want them to learn to knit, and we cannot attend to them and
the others at the same time."
"Then you had a full school?"
"I should think so. Not one girl was absent, great or small. We had
thirty-three scholars, and heard of several more who were coming. We
wanted Mrs. Trim to take the knitting girls, but she thought some of
the other people would be offended if she were asked to teach, and that
we had better ask 'some of our own folks,' as she said. But, oh dear,
Emily! What shall we do with Aunt Dorinda?"
"We won't borrow trouble," replied Emily. "Perhaps she may not care to
interfere, and then Henry will know how to manage her. But come, dear,
you had better go and dress, and that will refresh you for your dinner.
You have just half an hour."
Miss Dorinda Atwood was a lady somewhere between fifty and sixty, of
independent fortune, well educated, and a sincere Christian. How was
it, then, that her advent was looked upon as a misfortune wherever
she appeared, as she did pretty regularly at the houses of any of her
numerous relatives? The question is easily answered. Miss Dorinda
Atwood had no capacity whatever for minding her own business. 'Wherever
she went, she advised, directed, and interfered, right and left, with
everybody's most private affairs and arrangements. Nothing was sacred
from her, from household arrangements and nursery management to affairs
of the heart or religious experiences.
All her life Miss Dorinda had been giving advice. She had begun with
her own father and mother before she was six years old, and she had
gone on with the families of her brothers and sisters, nephews and
nieces, pastors and fellow church-members. She had been sufficiently
disinterested, very benevolent and liberal with her money, and
sincerely desirous of doing good; yet at fifty-five, there was not one
of her own family who did not dread her like a nightmare.
Ethel dressed herself for dinner, and came down, when it was ready, to
find Miss Dorinda in the parlour, talking to Dr. Ray in her usual loud
emphatic voice, which, somehow, wearied the ear like some noisy piece
of machinery.
"Why, 'Dr.' Ray. It is not 'possible' that 'you,' a 'physician,' can
admit the practice of dining at 'six' o'clock. I don't wonder at it
in silly, fashionable people, but I should suppose 'any' one who made
a study of the human frame, would know better. Is it possible you can
advise your patients to take their meals at such unhealthy hours?"
"I don't usually give my patients a great deal of advice about their
household arrangements, unless they are more than usually bad," replied
Dr. Ray, in the dry tone which showed that he was annoyed. "For myself,
I don't find it desirable to work after dinner, and, therefore, I like
to have it late in the day. Well, dear, how has the day gone with you?"
"Oh, nicely," replied Ethel. "How do you do, Aunt Dorinda?"
Aunt Dorinda was diverted for a moment from the dinner question by
Ethel's appearance, but she began upon it again as soon as they were
seated at the table. Dr. Ray, like other middle-aged gentlemen who work
hard all day, enjoyed his late dinner, and liked to have something
good, and to discuss it at his leisure, with an accompaniment of
lively light conversation. But Miss Dorinda did not approve of light
conversation. She had always made it a rule, she said, to improve her
mind by conversing with every one she met, upon the subject with which
he or she was best acquainted. Accordingly, she questioned Dr. Ray
about the sanitary condition of Ironton; slid related various striking
and unsavory facts concerning tenement-houses, and sewerage in large
cities.
Dr. Ray at last grew restless under the infliction, especially as he
perceived that Miss Dorinda's stories were spoiling his wife's dinner
as well as his own.
"Suppose we start another subject," said he, good-humoredly. "I hear
enough about sickness during the day."
"Dr. Forrester used to say, when I was at C—, that if there was any one
subject which ought by common consent to be banished from conversation
in a health establishment, it was the subject of health," remarked
Emily.
"Don't mention Dr. Forrester. I never want to hear of 'him' again,"
said Aunt Dorinda.
"Why, aunt, I thought he was a great friend of yours," said Emily.
"I 'used' to think he was a sensible man, but I have changed my mind. I
was the means of sending Lily Adams to him, but I will never send any
one there again. Three or four weeks after she went, I stopped there to
see her. If you will believe it, there she was in a room with a carpet
'all' OVER the floor, and warmed by 'steam;' and a regular spring
bed, as luxurious as anything she was used to at home. And there was
Lily eating 'eggs' and 'meat' for her breakfast, and drinking 'tea,'
and going up and down in the 'elevator.' I asked her how many miles
she walked in a day, and she said she hardly walked at all—the doctor
would not let her." And Miss Dorinda stopped short with a look which
expressed a dozen exclamation points at least.
"Yes," said the doctor, calmly. "Forrester was very judicious with
Lily. I always told them at home, that she took too much exercise."
"'Judicious!'" said Miss Dorinda, with a sniff. "Yes, very judicious,
no doubt! I talked to Dr. Forrester myself. I said to him,—
"'Dr. Forrester, you are entirely in the wrong. These carpets and
easy-chairs and spring beds in the rooms—these luxuries of the table,
are all wrong, 'radically' WRONG! What your patients need are not
luxuries. They want 'rousing' and 'invigorating' and HARDENING,—THAT
is what they want. You ought to take up every carpet, and have only
two meals a day, and those of the very plainest. Lily Adams don't want
coddling; she wants bracing and rousing, and you ought to give it her.'
"And do you believe he just went into his room, and shut the door,
without a word. And the next time I went to Lily's room, there was a
card on it, with 'No visitors allowed.' Of course I went in, however;
I knew it could not mean 'me.' I told Lily what she ought to do, and
tried to get her out to walk; but she said the doctor would not allow
it, and she must do as he said. So I just came away, and left her to
her own destruction."
"But Lily is almost well, Aunt Dorinda," said Ethel. "The doctor says,
in another year, if she is careful, she may be as well as anybody."
"Nonsense, Ethel! She may appear better, but it cannot possibly be
that she has made any permanent improvement under such treatment as
that. Air and exercise—air and exercise—they are the great panaceas for
illness. Don't you think so, Dr. Ray?"
"Air and exercise are very good things in their places; but they are
no more to be administered indiscriminately than any other remedies,"
replied Dr. Ray. "I have seen more than one patient aired and exercised
out of the world in my time."
Miss Dorinda was "amazed," and "shocked," and "distressed," to find her
nephew so far behind the most "distinguished" men of the time.
But Dr. Ray continued to eat his dinner, undisturbed by the shower
of emphatic participles, till Emily's mention of a new club-book
changed the subject and brought Aunt Dorinda out on the subject of
indiscriminate reading.
It was a fashion at Dr. Ray's for the family to spend most of the
summer evenings on a long veranda, which led into the garden. Thither
Emily and Ethel now brought their work—Emily, the basketful of
patchwork which she was basting for the "infants," and Ethel, some
pretty, dainty little garment she was crocheting for a neighbour's
young baby. Mr. Dalton came and sat down by Ethel on the step, and
began talking about the sewing-school and its prospect. Aunt Dorinda
went up-stairs, and presently came down with an immense bundle, which
filled both her arms, and was as much as she could carry.
"I have brought some work with me, which I expect you all to take hold
of and help me about," said she, as she set down her bundle. "You and
Ethel ought to be especially interested in it, Emily, because it is
missionary work. What 'are' you doing, Emily—sewing 'patchwork?' Now,
'do' you," said Miss Dorinda, in pathetically argumentative tones, "DO
you consider it an employment worthy of a rational and immortal being,
to spend precious time in putting together little pieces of calico, or
crocheting worsted?"
"As to that," replied Emily, "immortal little babies have mortal
bodies, and need jackets and cloaks to keep them warm; and it would
be hardly worthy of a rational being to set little children to sewing
patchwork, without basting it beforehand."
"But why should they sew patchwork at all?" persisted Aunt Dorinda.
"Why should they not as well learn to sew upon the sleeve of a shirt,
for some poor missionary or minister?"
"In the first place, because they cannot, usually, sew well enough;
and in the second place, because it is not as pleasant for them,
Aunt Dorinda. They like the bright colours, and feel a great deal of
interest in seeing the blocks go together."
"And, pray, who are these children who are to be so entertained?" asked
Aunt Dorinda. "Not 'poor' children, of course!"
"They are the children of Ethel's sewing class, up at Henry's chapel,"
answered Emily.
"A sewing class, indeed! I should not have suspected Ethel of such an
undertaking. Tell me all about it, my dear," she continued, turning to
Ethel, who heartily wished Emily had kept her basket out of sight. "I
dare say I can give you some valuable assistance."
"There is nothing so very much to tell," said Ethel. "Anna Burgers and
myself meet the girls of the Sunday-school on Saturday afternoon, and
teach them to sew. That is all."
"How many have you?" was the next question.
"About thirty-five."
"All little children?"
"Oh, no! About fifteen are little ones. The rest are quite large girls.
By-the-by, Henry, we gave one class to that tall McHenry's girl, who
said she was going to make her dress like mine, you know, and she
managed it nicely. She really has copied my suit quite accurately, and
you don't know how much better she looks."
"That ought to show you, Ethel, the importance of always being plainly
dressed, especially when you go among poor people," said Aunt Dorinda,
solemnly. "You see how that poor simplicity has already been corrupted
by your example. Perhaps you may have laid the foundation of a love a
dress and fashion, which will prove the ruin of that immortal soul. I
don't exactly see what you find to laugh at," said Miss Dorinda, in a
tone of some irritation, as Mr. Dalton smiled. "I am speaking only the
plain truth."
"Oh, Aunt Dorinda, if you had seen Martha McHenry's dress before,
you would know what Henry was smiling at," exclaimed Ethel, laughing
outright. "I never saw so many puffs and ruffles and trimmings on any
one person in my life. Her present suit is perfect simplicity compared
with the one she wore that first Sunday. That was why I said she looked
so much better."
Miss Dorinda looked rather disconcerted, and hastened to change the
subject. "I am glad to hear of this sewing-school. It exactly fits in
with my own plans. I will supply them with work at once, and oversee
the school for you while I remain. Of course, you will be glad to have
some competent person at the head of the affair."
Ethel looked at her sister with a face of such blank dismay that Emily
could hardly forbear laughing.
"What is your work, Aunt Dorinda?" asked Emily.
"Missionary work, of course. I am preparing a box to send to the girls'
school at O—, a suit of clothing for each girl in the school. I have
a whole trunkful of them, and I have brought down two of them to show
you."
So saying, Aunt Dorinda proceeded to unfold her package and display
its contents. They consisted of two high-necked, long-sleeved frocks
of thick, dark calico, incredibly ugly, and tasteless in colour and
design; two aprons ditto, of another kind of ugly calico, and various
undergarments of coarse brown factory and thick yellow flannel.
"You see, everything is plain and substantial; nothing to minister in
the least degree to the love of dress or finery. I bought two whole
pieces of the calico very cheap, because the man said it was not a
popular pattern. 'Never mind,' said I; 'it will do very well for the
missionaries.' And do you believe, a lady standing by, and whom I had
never seen, took me up quite sharply. 'Poor missionaries!' said she.
'People think anything which is too coarse or too tasteless to wear at
home, will do for the missionaries.'"
"She was very much in the right, I think," remarked Emily. "I never
could see why missionaries should not have pretty and tasteful clothes,
as well as other people."
Meantime, Mr. Dalton had been gravely inspecting the finished suits
which Miss Dorinda had displayed upon the railing of the veranda. "Do I
understand you that these clothes are meant for the school-girls at O—,
Miss Atwood?" he asked.
"Of course—for the girls of Miss Beecher's and Mrs. W.'s schools."
"I am sorry to tell you that they will be of no earthly use," said Mr.
Dalton. "We do not make any change in the girls' dress when they come
to us. On the contrary, we prefer to have them wear their national
costume, as they have always been used to do, only encouraging them to
keep clean and tidy. We think it best to avoid everything which can
needlessly wound their prejudices, or have a tendency to separate them
from their own friends at home."
Miss Dorinda looked very blank at this intelligence. "Now, I should
attack their prejudices the first thing," said she. "I always make a
'point' of doing so."
"No wonder you always set everybody against you," thought Mr. Dalton;
but he said, "You would not find that course answer very well, if you
were a missionary. 'I' always make a point of respecting the feelings
of my people, so far as it is possible."
"But don't you think the girls would wear these things if their
teachers ordered it?" asked Miss Dorinda.
"Possibly some of them might do so, if it were made a matter of
discipline; but many of them would rather go home."
"I should think the teachers would insist on their dressing in
civilized fashion," said Aunt Dorinda.
"Why should they do so? So long as their own dress is modest, becoming,
and suitable, why should they not wear it?"
"But I have cut out twenty-five suits," said Miss Dorinda, in an
injured tone, "and I have material enough for ten more."
"You might give them to some public institution,—say to the Five-Points
Mission, or some of the Refugees," suggested Emily, consolingly.
"But after I had planned it all out so nicely!" said Aunt Dorinda. "I
think, after all, you must be mistaken, Mr. Dalton."
"Anybody who has had any experience will tell you the same, my dear
Miss Atwood. Ethel will lend you some of Miss Beecher's letters to
read."
"What sort of things would be nice to send, brother Henry?" asked Ethel.
"Any small, pretty, and tasteful articles which you would like to wear
yourself," replied Mr. Dalton.
"Such as handkerchiefs?"
"Yes; handkerchiefs are always acceptable; so are towels and napkins,
and toilet articles of all kinds, especially fine tooth-combs. We never
can have too many of these articles; and they are not to be bought in
the country. Working implements would, I presume, be very acceptable as
presents for the girls."
"I am glad to hear that," said Emily. "When we send our box, I will
make an investment in poor Mary Stone's needle-books and emery
cushions. I dare say her slippers and mice and butterflies will be
pleasing novelties out there."
"I presume so. Then, pretty articles for the adornment of the house
(if they are not too heavy for transportation) are always hailed with
delight."
"There, now! I am so glad to hear that," exclaimed Ethel. "Margaret
Fleming and her cousin paint such lovely little pictures on academy
boards. They would be easy to pack and to carry; and I am sure they
would like to send some of them. I think we shall make out a beautiful
box,—don't you, Emily?"
"If you are going to make such a fancy fair, cousin, of the matter, I
will have nothing to do with it," said Miss Dorinda, decidedly. "There
is quite enough of such nonsense going at home. As to these things, I
dare say plenty of people will like to have them and we can set the
children of your sewing-school to work at them directly. How many times
do you meet them?"
"Once a week, on Saturday afternoons," answered Ethel, rather faintly.
"Don't you think that is too seldom? You might meet them three times, I
should think,—say from four to half-past six or seven."
"I don't think that would do," said Ethel, plucking up a little spirit.
"It would interfere with our dinner and with their tea. Then they go to
school; and they want the time after school to play in; and besides, I
don't think I could spare the time myself."
"Or the strength," added Dr. Ray. "I decidedly object to Ethel's taking
any more upon herself at present. I think, as the girls have begun
this undertaking, Aunt Dorinda, they had better be left to manage it
themselves. It would be a pity for you to waste your valuable time
and strength on such a small and trifling affair, but it is very good
practice for them."
Aunt Dorinda did not seem to know whether to be pleased or offended.
She knew of old that there was no use in opposing Dr. Ray when he had
once set his foot down, and she liked to be told that her time and
strength were too valuable to be wasted on small undertakings.
"Nothing that concerns the welfare of immortal souls can be small
or trifling," said she, solemnly. "But, as you say, it is very good
practice for the girls. I must talk further with you about this
business of sending things to the missionaries, Mr. Dalton. I cannot
but think yet, that you are mistaken."
"But, Aunt Dorinda, when Henry has been years on the spot!" said Ethel,
rather indignantly.
"I can't help that, my dear. Judgments formed at a distance, and by
disinterested people, are often more correct and reasonable than those
formed on the spot. In the latter case, there are always so many points
to influence the feelings and the judgment, that an opinion formed
under such circumstances is almost always partial and one-sided.
But, Emily, I think I will retire," she added. "I have had a long
journey, and it is growing late. I make it a rule never to sit up after
half-past nine. Good-night!"
"What 'shall' we do with her?" said Emily, with a kind of groan, after
Aunt Dorinda had "retired," (she was not urged to reconsider her
decision.) "She talks of staying all summer."
"She always talks of it, but she never does it," replied Ethel. "You
will see she will change her mind in two or three weeks. I should not
wonder if she took it into her head to go to California and see Juliet.
But, oh dear! I wish she had not come just now."
"We must keep her out of the sewing-school, somehow or other!" said
Emily, decidedly. "I well remember how she plagued us before, at the
Home."
"And yet, she is a good woman too, and means to do right," said Ethel.
"What a pity it is that she makes herself so disagreeable: I cannot
understand it!"
"The secret lies in her self-conceit, and her disregard of other
people's rights and feelings," remarked Dr. Ray. "As she says herself,
she is always attacking people's prejudices; and everything is a
prejudice, with her, with which she does not agree. If she were to try
to convert a Jew, she would begin by insisting that he should eat pork
directly. Then, as I said, she could never learn the art of minding
her own business. You will see, she will not have been here three days
before she will have advised Emily upon every point of her domestic
economy and household management."
"I think I will refer her to Mrs. Jones," said Emily.
"It is a great pity she should make herself so disagreeable to
everybody," said Ethel. "With her money, and her desire of doing good,
how much she might accomplish if she would only be reasonable!"
"Well, she won't," said Dr. Ray, who seemed specially aggrieved, and
disposed to, look on the darkest side of the picture. There was some
excuse for him. As a very hard-working professional man, whose whole
day was passed amid scenes of suffering, distress, and grief, the few
cheerful hours he spent at home with his family were beyond measure
precious to him; and it was hard to have them engrossed by somebody who
talked to him about the very subjects he wished to forget, and who had
no sense of delicacy to prevent her intruding her advice and opinion
upon his most private and personal affairs.
"You will see she won't," he continued. "She will persist in sending
those hideous rags to those unlucky school-girls, and in officering
poor Ethel's needle brigade. I should not wonder if she were to wish to
visit my patients with me."
"That makes me think of something Mrs. Trim told me about a poor girl
up on the 'Hill,'" said Ethel, and she repeated the story. "I thought
I might just run in before Sunday-school, and carry her a bunch of
flowers. Mrs. Trim says she loves flowers, and Richard has put some of
his best balsams in pots for her. Then, if she seemed pleased, I could
go and see her again; and at any rate, my visit would do no harm."
"Is it a respectable place?" asked the doctor.
"Oh yes, indeed, brother, perfectly respectable," replied Ethel. "Her
sister works on a sewing-machine, for some one down town, and this poor
thing is left alone a great deal,—only the neighbours go in and see to
her."
"What ails her?" was the next question.
"Mrs. Trim did not know exactly. Well, I believe I will 'retire,' like
Aunt Dorinda, for I am tired enough. My head feels like an exhausted
receiver."
"Wonders will never cease," remarked Dr. Ray, when Ethel had gone.
"Think of the chicken's proposing, of her own accord, to go and see a
strange sick woman! What has come over the child?"
"She has got an object in life," replied Mr. Dalton. "Therein lies the
explanation of the whole mystery."
"And do you know what that object is?"
"I think I do, but I would rather not mention it. I dare say it will
declare itself in time. Good-night."