FROM THE POST OFFICE.
Mrs. Starling's room was like her; for use, and not for show, with some
points of pride, and a general air of humble thrift. A patchwork quilt
on the bed; curtains and valance of chintz; a rag carpet covering only
part of the floor, the rest scrubbed clean; rush-bottomed chairs; and
with those a secretary bureau of old mahogany, a dressing-glass in a
dark carved frame, and a large oaken press. There were corner
cupboards; a table holding work and work-basket; a spinning-wheel in a
corner; a little iron stove, but no fire. Mrs. Starling lay down on her
bed, simply because she was not able to sit up any longer; but she was
scarcely less busy, in truth, than she had been down-stairs. Her eyes
roamed restlessly from the door to the window, though with never a
thought of the sweet September sunlight on the brilliant blue sky.
"Diana's queer this morning," she mused. "Yes, she was queer. What made
her so mum? She was not like herself. Sailing round with her head in
the clouds. And a little bit _blue_, too; what Diana never is; but she
was to-day. What's up? I've been lying here long enough for plenty of
things to happen; and she's had the house to herself. Knowlton has been
here--she owned that; well, either he has been here too often, or not
often enough. I'll find out which. She's thinkin' about him. Then that
coffee--_was_ it coffee, last night? I could have sworn to it; just the
smell of fresh, steaming coffee. I didn't dream it. She wasn't
surprised, either; she had nothing to say about it. She would have
laughed at it once. And the ashes in the chimney! There's been a sight
o' wood burned there, and just burned, too; they lay light, and hadn't
been swep' up. There's mischief! but Diana never shall go off with that
young feller; never; never! Maybe she won't have Will Flandin; but she
sha'n't have him."
Mrs. Starling lay thinking and staring out of her window, till she felt
she could go down-stairs again. And then she watched. But Diana had put
every possible tell-tale circumstance out of the way. The very ashes
were no longer where her mother could speculate upon them; pies and
cakes showed no more suspiciously-cut halves or quarters; she had even
been out to the barn, and found that Josiah, for reasons of his own,
was making the door-latch and hinges firm and fast. It was no time now,
to tell her mother her secret. Her heart was too sore to brave the
rasping speech she would be certain to provoke. And with a widely
different feeling, it was too rich in its prize to drag the treasure
forth before scornful eyes. For this was part of Diana's experience,
she found; and the feeling grew, the feeling of being rich in her
secret possession; rich as she never had been before; perhaps the
richer for the secresy. It was all hers, this beautiful, wonderful love
that had come to her; this share in another person's heart and life;
her own wholly; no one might intermeddle with her joy; she treasured it
and gloated over it in the depths of her glad consciousness.
And so, as the days went by, there was no change that her mother could
see in the sweet lines of her daughter's face. Nothing less sweet than
usual; nothing less bright and free; if the eyes had a deeper depth at
times, it was not for Mrs. Starling to penetrate; and if the childlike
play of the mouth had a curve of beauty that had never until then
belonged to it, the archetype of such a sign did not lie in Mrs.
Starling's nature. Yet once or twice a jealous movement of suspicion
did rise in her, only because Diana seemed so happy. She reasoned with
herself immediately that Evan's absence could never have such an
effect, if her fears were true; and that the happiness must therefore
be referred to some purely innocent cause. Nevertheless, Mrs. Starling
watched. For she was pretty sure that the young soldier had pushed his
advances while he had been in Pleasant Valley; and he might push them
still, though there no longer. She would guard what could be guarded.
She watched both Diana and other people, and kept an especial eye upon
all that came from the post office.
Evan had gone to a distant frontier post; the journey would take some
time; and it would be several days more still, in the natural course of
things, before Diana could have a letter. Diana reasoned out all that,
and was not anxious. For the present, the pleasure of expecting was
enough. A letter from _him;_ it was a fairylandish, weird, wonderful
pleasure, to come to her. She took to studying the newspaper, and,
covertly, the map. From the map she gained a little knowledge; but the
columns of the paper were barren of all allusion to the matter which
was her world, and Evan's. Newspapers are very partial sometimes. She
was afraid to let her mother see how eagerly she scanned them. The map
and Diana had secret and more satisfactory consultations. Measuring the
probable route of Evan's journey by the scale of miles; calculating the
rate of progress by different modes of travel; counting the nights, and
places where he might spend them; she reckoned up over and over again
the days that were probably necessary to enable him to reach his post.
Then she allowed margins for what she did not know, and accounted for
the blanks she could not fill up; and reasoned with herself about the
engrossments which might on his first arrival hinder Evan from
writing--for a few hours, or a night. So at last she had constructed a
scheme by which she proved to herself the earliest day at which it
would do to look for a letter, and the latest to which a letter might
reasonably be delayed. Women do such things. How many men are worthy of
it?
That farthest limit was reached, and no letter yet.
About that time, one morning the family at Elmfield were gathered at
breakfast. It was not exactly like any other breakfast table in
Pleasant Valley, for a certain drift from the great waves of the world
had reached it; whereas the others were clean from any such contact.
The first and the third generation were represented at the table; the
second was wanting; the old gentleman, the head of the family, was
surrounded by only his grand-daughters. Now old Mr. Bowdoin was as
simple and plain-hearted a man as all his country neighbours, if
somewhat richer than most of them; he had wrought at the same labour,
and grown up with the same associations. He was not more respectable
than respected; generous, honest, and kindly. But the young ladies, his
grandchildren, Evan's sisters, were different. They came to spend the
summer with him, and they brought fancies and notions from their
far-away city life, which made a somewhat incongruous mixture with the
elemental simplicity of their grandfather's house. All this appeared
now. The old farmer's plain strong features, his homespun dress and his
bowl of milk, were at one end of the table, where he presided heartily
over the fried ham and eggs. Look where you would beside, and you saw
ruffled chintzes and little fly-away breakfast-caps, and fingers with
jewels on them. Miss Euphemia had her tresses of long hair unbound and
unbraided, hanging down her back in a style that to her grandfather
savoured of barbarism; he could not be made to understand that it was a
token of the highest elegance. For these ladies there was some attempt
at elaborate and dainty cookery, signified by sweetbreads and a puffed
omelette; and Mrs. Reverdy presided over a coffee-pot that was the
wonder of the Elmfield household, and even a little matter of pride to
the old squire himself; though he covered it with laughing at her mimic
fires and doubtful steam engines. Gertrude Masters was still at
Elmfield, the only one left of a tribe of visitors who had made the old
place gay through the summer.
"I have had an invitation," said Mrs. Reverdy as she sent her
grandfather his cup of coffee. And she laughed. I wish I could give the
impression of this little laugh of hers, which, in company, was the
attendant of most of her speeches. A little gracious laugh, with a
funny air as if she were condescending, either to her subject or
herself, and amused at it.
"What is it, Vevay? what invitation?" inquired her sister; while
Gertrude tossed her mass of tresses from her neck, and looked as if
nothing at Pleasant Valley concerned _her_.
"An invitation to the sewing society!" said Mrs. Reverdy. "We are all
asked." And the laugh grew very amused indeed.
"What do they do?" inquired Gertrude absently.
"O, they bring their knitting at two or three o'clock,--and have a good
time to tell all the news till five or six; and then they have supper,
and then they put up their knitting and go home."
"What news can they have to tell at Pleasant Valley?"
"Whose hay is in first, and whose orchard will yield the most cider,"
said Euphemia.
"Yes; and how all their children are, and how many eggs go in a
pudding."
"I don't believe they make puddings with eggs very often," said the
other sister again. "Their puddings are more like hasty puddings, I
fancy."
"Some of 'em make pretty good things," said old Mr. Bowdoin. "Things
you can't beat, Phemie. There's Mrs. Mansfield--she's a capital
housekeeper; and Mrs. Starling. _She_ can cook."
"What do they expect you to do at the sewing meeting, Vevay?"
"Show myself, I suppose," said Mrs. Reverdy.
"Well, I guess I'd go," said her grandfather, looking at her. "It would
be as good a thing as you could do."
"Go, grandpa? O, how ridiculous!" exclaimed Mrs. Reverdy, with her
pretty face all wrinkled up with amusement.
"Go? yes. Why not?"
"I don't know how to knit; and I shouldn't know how to talk orchards
and puddings."
"I think you had better go. It is not a knitting society, as I
understand it; and I am sure you can be useful."
"Useful!" echoed Mrs. Reverdy. "It's the last thing I know how to be.
And I don't belong to the society, grandpa."
"I shouldn't like them to think that," said the old gentleman. "You
belong to me; and I belong to them, my dear."
"Isn't it dreadful!" said Mrs. Reverdy in a low aside. "Now he's got
this in his head--whatever am I going to do?--Suppose I invite them all
to Elmfield; how would you like that, sir?" she added aloud.
"Yes, my dear, yes," said the old gentleman, pushing back his chair;
for the cup of coffee was the last part of his breakfast; "it would be
well done, and I should be glad of it. Ask 'em all."
"You are in for it now, Vevay," said Gertrude, when the ladies were
left. "How will you manage?"
"O, I'll give them a grand entertainment and send them away delighted,"
said Mrs. Reverdy. "You see, grandpa wishes it; and I think it'll be
fun."
"Do you suppose Evan really paid attentions to that pretty girl we saw
at the blackberrying?"
"I don't know," Mrs. Reverdy answered. "He told me nothing about it. I
should think Evan was crazy to do it; but men do crazy things. However,
I don't believe it of him, Gerty. What nonsense!"
"I can find out, if she comes," said Miss Masters. "You'll ask her,
Genevieve?"
So it fell out that an invitation to hold the next meeting of the
sewing society at Elmfield was sent to the ladies accustomed to be at
such meetings; and a great stir of expectation in consequence went
through all Pleasant Valley. For Elmfield, whether they acknowledged it
or not, was at the top of their social tree. The invitation came in due
course to Mrs. Starling's house.
It came not alone. Josiah brought it one evening on his return from the
Corners, where the store and the post office were, and Mrs. Reverdy's
messenger had fallen in with him and intrusted to him the note for Mrs.
Starling. He handed it out now, and with it a letter of more bulk and
pretensions, having a double stamp and an unknown postmark. Mrs.
Starling received both and Josiah's explanations in silence, for her
mind was very busy. Curious as she was to know upon what subject Mrs.
Reverdy could possibly have written to her, she lingered yet with her
eyes upon this other letter. It was directed to "Miss D. Starling."
"That's a man's hand," said Mrs. Starling to herself. "He's had the
assurance to go and write to her, I do believe!"
She stood looking at it, doubtful, suspicious, uneasy; then turned into
the dairy for fear Diana might surprise her, while she opened Mrs.
Reverdy's note. She had a vague idea that both epistles might relate to
the same subject. But this one was innocent enough, at least. Hiding
the large letter in her bosom, she came back and gave the invitation to
Diana, whose foot she had heard.
"At Elmfield! What an odd thing! Will you go, mother?"
"I always go, don't I? What's the reason I shouldn't go now?"
"I didn't know whether you would like to go there."
"What if I don't? No, I don't care particularly about goin' to
Elmfield; they're a kind o' stuck up folks; but I'll go to let them see
that I ain't."
There was silence for a little; then Mrs. Starling broke it by
inquiring if Diana had finished her chintz gown. Diana had.
"I'd wear it, if I was you."
"Why, mother?"
"Let 'em see that other folks can dress as well as them."
"O, mother, my dresses are nothing alongside of theirs."
"What's the reason they ain't?" inquired Mrs. Starling, looking
incredulous.
"Their things are beautiful, mother; more costly a great deal; and
fashionable. We can't make things so in Pleasant Valley. We don't know
how."
"I don't see any sense in that," rejoined Mrs. Starling. "One fashion's
as good as another. Anyhow, there's better-lookin' folks in Pleasant
Valley than ever called themselves Bowdoin, or Knowlton either. So be
as smart as you can, Diana. I guess you needn't be ashamed of yourself."
Diana thought of nothing less. Indeed she thought little about her
appearance. While she was putting on her bright chintz dress, there was
perhaps a movement of desire that she might seem pleasant in the eyes
of Evan's people--something that _he_ need not be ashamed of; but her
heart was too full of richer thoughts to have much room for such as
these. For Evan had chosen her; Evan loved her; the secret bond between
them nothing on earth could undo; and any day now that first letter of
his might arrive, which her eyes were bright only to think of looking
upon. Poor Diana! that letter was jammed up within the bones of Mrs.
Starling's stays.