A MEETING AT ELMFIELD.
It was one of the royal days of a New England autumn; the air clear and
bracing and spicy; the light golden and glowing, and yet softened to
the dreamiest, richest, most bounteous aureole of hope, by a slight
impalpable haze; too slight to veil anything, but giving its tender
flattery to the landscape nevertheless. And through that to the mind.
Who can help but receive it? Suggestions of waveless peace, of endless
delight, of a world-full glory that must fill one's life with riches,
come through such a light and under such a sky. Diana's life was full
already; but she took the promise for all the years that stretched out
in the future. The soft autumn sky where the clouds were at rest,
having done their work, bore no symbol of the storms that might come
beneath the firmament; the purple and gold and crimson of nature's gala
dress seemed to fling their soft luxury around the beholder, enfolding
him, as it were, from all the dust and the dimness and the dullness of
this world's working days for evermore. So it was to Diana; and all the
miles of that long drive, joggingly pulled along by Prince, she rode in
a chariot of the imagination, traversing fields of thought and of
space, now to Evan and now with him; and in her engrossment spoke never
a word from the time she mounted into the waggon till they came in
sight of Elmfield. And Mrs. Starling had her own subjects for thought,
and was as silent on her part. She was thinking all the way what she
should do with that letter. Suppose things had gone too far to be
stopped? But Diana had told her nothing; she was not bound to know by
guess-work. And if this were the _beginning_ of serious proposals, then
it were better known to but herself only. She resolved finally to watch
Diana and the Elmfield people this afternoon; she could find out, she
thought, whether there were any matter of common interest between them.
With all this, Mrs. Starling's temper was not sweetened.
Elmfield was a rare place. Not by the work of art or the craft of the
gardener at all; for a cunning workman had never touched its turf or
its plantations. Indeed it had no plantations, other than such as were
intended for pure use and profit; great fields of Indian corn, and
acres of wheat and rye, and a plot of garden cabbages. Mrs. Reverdy's
power of reform had reached only the household affairs. But the corn
and the rye and the cabbages were out of sight from the immediate home
field; and there the grace of nature had been so great that one almost
forgot to wish that anything had been added to it. A little river
swept, curving in sweet leisure, through a large level tract of
greenest meadows. In front of one of these large curves the house
stood, but well back, so that the meadow served instead of a lawn. It
had no foreign beauties of tree growth to adorn it, nor needed them;
for along the bank of the river, from space to space, irregularly, rose
a huge New England elm, giving the shelter of its canopy of branches to
a wide spot of turf. The house added nothing to the scene, beyond the
human interest; it was just a large old farmhouse, nothing more;
draped, however, and half covered up by other elms and a few fir trees.
But in front of it lay this wide, sunny, level meadow, with the wilful
little stream meandering through, with the stately old trees spotting
it and breaking its monotony; and in the distance a soft outline of
hills, not too far away, and varied enough to be picturesque, rounded
in the whole picture. A picture one would stand long to look at;
thoroughly New England and characteristic; gentle, homelike, lovely,
with just a touch of wildness, intimating that you were beyond the
rules of conventionality. Being New England folk themselves, Mrs.
Starling and Diana of course would not read some of these features.
They only thought it was a "fine place."
Long before they got there this afternoon, before anybody got there,
the ladies of the family gathered upon the wide old piazza.
"It's as a good as a play," said Gertrude Masters. "I never saw such
society in my life, and I am curious to know what they will be like."
"You have seen them in church," said Euphemia.
"Yes, but they all feel poky there. I can't tell anything by that.
Besides, I don't hear them talk. There's somebody now!"
"Too fast for any of our good sewing friends," said Mrs. Reverdy; "and
there is no waggon. It's Mr. Masters, Gerty! How he does ride; and yet
he sits as if he was upon a rocking-horse."
"I don't think he'd sit very quiet upon a rocking-horse," said Gerty.
And then she lifted up her voice and shouted musically a salutation to
the approaching rider.
He alighted presently at the foot of the steps, and throwing the bridle
over his horse's head, joined the party.
"So delighted!" said Mrs. Reverdy graciously. "You are come just in
time to help us take care of the people."
"Are you going to entertain the nation?" asked Mr Masters.
"Only Pleasant Valley," Mrs. Reverdy answered with her little laugh;
which might mean amusement at herself or condescension to Pleasant
Valley. "Do you think they will be hard to entertain?"
"I can answer for one," said the minister. "And looking at what there
is to see from here, I could almost answer for them all." He was
considering the wide sunlit meadow, where the green and the gold, yea,
and the very elm shadows, as well as the distant hills, were
spiritualized by the slight soft haze.
"Why, what is there to see, Basil?" inquired his cousin Gertrude.
"The sky."
"You don't think that is entertaining, I hope? If you were a polite
man, you would have said something else."
She was something to see herself, in one sense, and the something was
pretty, too; but very self-conscious. From her flow of curly tresses
down to the rosettes on her slippers, every inch of her showed it. Now
the best dressing surely avoids this effect; while there is some, and
not bad dressing either, which proclaims it in every detail. The
crinkles of Gertrude's hair were crisp with it; her French print dress,
beautiful in itself, was made with French daintiness and worn with at
least equal coquettishness; her wrists bore two or three bracelets both
valuable and delicate; and Gertrude's eyes, pretty eyes too, were
audacious with the knowledge of all this. Audacious in a sweet, secret
way, understand; they were not bold eyes, openly. Her cousin looked her
over, with a glance quite recognisant of all I have described, yet
destitute of a shade of compliment or even of admiration; very clear
and very cool.
"Basil, you don't say all you think!" exclaimed the young lady.
"Not always," said her cousin. "We have it on Solomon's authority, that
a 'fool uttereth all his mind. A wise man keepeth it till afterwards.'"
"What are you keeping?"
But the answer was interrupted by Mrs. Reverdy.
"Where shall we put them, do you think, Mr. Masters? I'm quite anxious.
Here, on the verandah, do you think?--or on the green, where we mean to
have supper? or would it be better to go into the house?"
"As a general principle, Mrs. Reverdy, I object to houses. When you
can, keep out of them. So I say. And there comes one of your guests. I
will take my horse out of the road."
Mrs. Reverdy objected and protested and ran to summon a servant, but
the minister had his way and led his horse off to the stable. While he
was gone, the little old green waggon which brought Miss Barry came at
a soft jog up the drive and stopped before the door. Mrs. Reverdy came
flying out and then down the steps to help her alight.
"It's a long ways to your place, Mis' Reverdy; I declare, I'm kind o'
stiff," said the old lady as she mounted to the piazza. There she stood
still and surveyed the prospect. And her conclusion burst forth in an
unequivocal, "Ain't it elegant!"
"I am delighted you like it," said Mrs. Reverdy with her running laugh.
"Won't you sit down?"
"I hain't got straightened out yet, after drivin' the horse so long. It
does put me in a kind o' cramp, somehow, to drive,--'most allays."
"Is the horse so hard-mouthed?"
"La! bless you, I never felt of his mouth. He don't do nothin'; I don't
expect he would do nothin'; but I allays think he's a horse, and
there's no tellin'."
"That's very true," said Mrs. Reverdy, the laugh of condescending
acquiescence mingled with a little sense of fun now. "But do sit down;
you'll be tired standing."
"There's Mrs. Flandin's waggin, I guess, comin'; she was 'most ready
when I come by. Is this your sister?"--looking at Gertrude.
"No, the other is my sister. This is Miss Masters; a cousin of your
minister."
"I thought she was, maybe,--your sister, I mean,--because she had her
hair the same way. Ain't it very uncomfortable?" This to Gertrude.
"It is very comfortable," said the young lady; "except in hot weather."
"Don't say it is!" quoth Miss Barry, looking at the astonishing hair
while she got out her needles. "Seems to me I should feel as if my hair
never was combed."
"Not if it _was_ combed, would you?" said Gertrude gravely.
"Well, yes; seems to me I should. I allays liked to have my hair
sleeked up as tight as I could get it; and then I knowed there warn't
none of it flyin'. But la! it's a long time since I was young, and
there's new fashions. Is the minister your cousin?"
"Yes. How do you like him?"
"I hain't got accustomed to him yet," said the little old lady,
clicking her needles with a considerate air. "He ain't like Mr.
Hardenburgh, you see; and Mr. Hardenburgh was the minister afore him."
"What was the difference?"
"Well--Mr. Hardenburgh, you could tell he was a minister as fur as you
could see him; he had that look. Now Mr. Masters hain't; he's just like
other folks; only he's more pleasant than most."
"Oh, he is more pleasant, is he?"
"Well, seems to me he is," said the little old lady. "It allays makes
me feel kind o' good when he comes alongside. He's cheerful. Mr.
Hardenburgh _was_ a good man, but he made me afeard of him; he was sort
o' fierce, in the pulpit and out o' the pulpit. Mr. Masters ain't nary
one."
"Do you think he's a good preacher, then?" said Gertrude demurely,
bending over to look at Miss Barry's knitting.
"Well, I do!" said the old lady. "There! I ain't no judge; but I love
to sit and hear him. 'Tain't a bit like a minister, nother, though it's
in church; he just speaks like as I am speakin' to you; but he makes
the Bible kind o' interestin'."
It was very well for Gertrude that Mrs. Carpenter now came to take her
seat on the piazza, and the conversation changed. She had got about as
much as she could bear. And after Mrs. Carpenter came a crowd; Mrs.
Flandin, and Mrs. Mansfield, and Miss Gunn, and all the rest, with
short interval, driving up and unloading and joining the circle on the
piazza; which grew a very wide circle indeed, and at last broke up into
divisions. Gertrude was obliged to suspend operations for a while, and
use her eyes instead of her tongue. Most of the rest were inclined to
do the same; and curious glances went about in every direction, not
missing Miss Masters herself. Some people were absolutely tongue-tied;
others used their opportunity.
"Don't the wind come drefful cold over them flats in winter?" asked one
good lady who had never been at Elmfield before. Mrs. Reverdy's running
little laugh was ready with her answer.
"I believe it does; but we are never here in winter. It's too cold."
"Your gran'ther's here, ain't he?" queried Mrs. Salter.
"Yes, O yes; grandpa is here, of course. I don't suppose anything would
draw him away from the old place."
"How big is the farm?" went on the first speaker.
Mrs. Reverdy did not know; three or four hundred acres, she believed.
Or it might be five. She did not know the difference!
"I guess your father misses you when you all go away," remarked Mrs.
Flandin, who had hardly spoken, at least aloud.
The reply was prevented, for Mrs. Starling's waggon drew up at the foot
of the steps, and Mrs. Reverdy hastened down to give her assistance to
the ladies in alighting. Gertrude also suspended what she was saying,
and gave her undivided attention to the view of Diana.
She was only a country girl, Miss Masters said to herself. Yet what a
lovely figure, as she stood there before the waggon; perfectly
proportioned, light and firm in action or attitude, with the grace of
absolute health and strength and faultless make. More; there always is
more to it; and Gertrude felt that without in the least having power to
reason about it; felt in the quiet pose and soft motion those spirit
indications of calm and strength and gracious dignity, which belonged
to the fair proportions and wholesome soundness of the inward
character. The face said the same thing when it was turned, and Diana
came up the steps; though it was seen under a white sun-bonnet only;
the straight brows, the large quiet eyes, the soft creamy colour of the
skin, all testified to the fine physical and mental conditions of this
creature. And Gertrude felt as she looked that it would not have been
very surprising if Evan Knowlton or any other young officer had lost
his heart to her. But she isn't dressed, thought Gertrude; and the next
moment a shadow crossed her heart as Diana's sun-bonnet came off, and a
wealth of dark hair was revealed, knotted into a crown of nature's
devising, which art could never outdo. "I'll find out about Evan," said
Miss Masters to herself.
She had to wait. The company was large now, and the buzz of tongues
considerable; though nothing like what had been in Mrs. Starling's
parlour. So soon as the two new-comers were fairly seated and at work,
Mrs. Flandin took up the broken thread of her discourse.
"Ain't your father kind o' lonesome here in the winters, all by
himself?"
"My grandfather, you mean?" said Mrs. Reverdy,
"I mean your grandfather. I forget you ain't his own; but it makes no
difference. Don't he want you to hum all the year round?"
"I daresay he would like it."
"He's gettin' on in years now. How old is Squire Bowdoin?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Reverdy. "He's between seventy and eighty,
somewhere."
"You won't have him long with you."
"O, I hope so!" said Mrs. Reverdy lightly, and with the unfailing laugh
which went with everything; "I think grandpa is stronger than I am. I
shouldn't wonder if he'd outlive _me_."
"Still, don't you think it is your duty to stay with him?"
Mrs. Reverdy laughed again. "I suppose we don't always do our duty,"
she said. "It's too cold here in the winter--after October or
September--for me."
"Then it is not your duty to be here," said her sister Euphemia,
somewhat distinctly. But Mrs. Flandin was bound to "free her mind" of
what was upon it.
"I should think the Squire'd want Evan to hum," she went on.
"It would be very nice if Evan could be in two places at once," Mrs.
Reverdy owned conciliatingly.
"Where _is_ Captain Knowlton now?" asked Mrs. Boddington.
"O, he is not a captain yet," said Mrs. Reverdy. "He is only a
lieutenant. I don't know when he'll get any higher than that. He's a
great way off--on the frontier--watching the Indians."
"I should think it was pleasanter work to watch sheep," said Mrs.
Flandin "Don't it make you feel bad to have him away so fur?"
"O, we're accustomed to having him away, you know; Evan has never been
at home; we really don't know him as well as strangers do. We have just
got a letter from him at his new post."
They had got a letter from him! Two bounds Diana's heart made: the
first with a pang of pain that they should have the earliest word; the
next with a pang of joy, at the certainty that hers must be lying in
the post office for her. The blood flowed and ebbed in her veins with
the violent action of extreme excitement. Yet nature did for this girl
what only the practice and training of society do for others; she gave
no outward sign. Her head was not lifted from her work; the colour of
her cheek did not change; and when a moment after she found Miss
Masters at her side, and heard her speaking, Diana looked and answered
with the utmost seeming composure.
"I've been trying ever since you came to get round to you," Gertrude
whispered. "I'm so glad to see you again."
But here Mrs. Flandin broke in. She was seated near.
"Ain't your hair a great trouble to you?"
Gertrude gave it a little toss and looked up.
"How do you get it all flying like that?"
"Everybody's hair is a trouble," said Gertrude. "This is as little as
any."
"Do you sleep with it all round your shoulders? I should think you'd be
in a net by morning."
"I suppose you would," said Gertrude.
"Is that the fashion now?"
"It is one fashion," Miss Masters responded.
"If it warn't, I reckon you'd do it up pretty quick. Dear me! what a
thing it is to be in the fashion, I do suppose."
"Don't you like it yourself, ma'am?" queried Gertrude.
"Never try. _I've_ something else to do in life."
"Well, but there's no _harm_ in being in the fashion, Mis' Flandin,"
said Miss Gunn. "The minister said he thought there warn't."
"The minister had better take care of himself," Mrs. Flandin retorted.
Whereupon they all opened upon her. And it could be seen that for the
few months during which he had been among them, the minister had made
swift progress in the regards of the people. Scarce a tongue now but
spoke in his praise or his justification, or called Mrs. Flandin to
account for her hasty remark.
"When you're all done, I'll speak," said that lady coolly. "I'm not a
man-worshipper--never was; and nobody's fit to be worshipped. _I_
should like to see the dominie put down that grey horse of his."
"Are grey horses fashionable?" inquired Mrs. Reverdy, with her little
laugh.
"What would he do without his horse?" said Mrs. Boddington. "How could
he fly round Pleasant Valley as he does?"
"He ain't bound to fly," said Mrs. Flandin.
"How's he to get round to folks, then?" said Mrs. Salter. "The houses
are pretty scattering in these parts; he'd be a spry man if he could
walk it."
"Seems to me, that 'ere grey hoss is real handy," said quiet Miss
Barry, who never contradicted anybody. "When Meliny was sick, Mr.
Masters'd be there, to our house, early in the mornin' and late at
night; and he allays had comfort with him. There! I got to set as much
by the sight o' that grey hoss, you wouldn't think; just to hear him
come gallopin' down the road did me good."
"Yes; and so it was to our house, when Liz was overturned," said Mary
Delamater. "He'd be there every day, just as punctual as could be; and
he could never have walked over. It's a cruel piece of road between our
house and his'n."
"I don't want him to walk," said Mrs. Flandin; "there's more ways than
one o' doin' most things; but I _do_ say, all the ministers ever I see
druv a team; and it looks more religious. To see the minister flyin'
over the hills like a racer is altogether too gay for my likin's."
"But he ain't gay," said Miss Gunn, looking appalled.
"He's mighty spry, for anybody that gets up into a pulpit on the
Sabbath and tells his fellow-creaturs what they ought to be doin'."
"But he does do that, Mrs. Flandin," said Diana. "He speaks plain
enough, too."
"I _do_ love to hear him!" said Miss Barry. "There, his words seem to
go all through me, and clear up my want of understandin'; for I never
was smart, you know; but seems to me I see things as well agin when
he's been talkin' to me. I say, it was a good day when he come to
Pleasant Valley."
"He ain't what you call an eloquent man," said Miss Babbage, the
schoolmaster's sister.
"What is an 'eloquent man,' Lottie Babbage?" Mrs. Boddington asked.
"It's a word, I know; but what is the thing the word means? Come, you
ought to be good at definitions."
"Mr. Masters don't pretend to be an eloquent man!" cried Mrs. Carpenter.
"Well, tell; come! what do you mean by it? I'd like to know," said Mrs.
Boddington. "I admire to get my idees straight. What is it he don't
pretend to be?"
"I don't think he pretends to be anything," said Diana.
"Only to have his own way wherever he goes," added Diana's mother.
"I'd be content to let him have his own way," said Mrs. Carpenter.
"It's pretty sure to be a good way; that's what _I_ think. I wisht he
had it, for my part."
"And yet he isn't eloquent?" said Mrs. Boddington.
"Well," said Miss Babbage with some difficulty, "he just says what he
has got to say, and takes the handiest words he can find; but I've
heard men that eloquent that they'd keep you wonderin' at 'em from the
beginning of their sermon to the end; and you'd got to be smart to know
what they were sayin'. A child can tell what Mr. Masters means."
"So kin I," said Miss Barry. "I'm thankful I kin. And I don't want a
man more eloquent than he is, for my preachin'."
"It ain't movin' preachin'," said Mrs. Flandin.
"It moves the folks," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I don't know what you'd
hev', Mis' Flandin; there's Liz Delamater, and Florry Mason, jined the
church lately; and old Lupton; and my Jim," she added with softened
voice; "and there's several more serious."
No more could be said, for the minister himself came upon the scene at
this instant. There was not an eye that did not brighten at the sight
of him, with the exception of Mrs. Starling and Diana; there was not a
lady there who was not manifestly glad to have him come near and speak
to her; even Mrs. Flandin herself, beside whom the minister presently
sat down and entered into conversation respecting some new movement in
parish matters, for which he wished to enlist her help. General
conversation returned to its usual channels.
"I can't stand this," whispered Gertrude to Diana; "I am tired to
death. Do come down and walk over to the river with me. Do! you can
work another day."
Diana hesitated; glanced around her. It was manifest that this was an
exceptional meeting of the society, and not for the purposes of work
chiefly. Here and there needles were suspended in lingering fingers,
while their owners made subdued comments to each other or used their
eyes for purposes of information getting. One or two had even left
work, and were going to the back of the house, through the hall, to see
the garden. Diana not very unwillingly dropped her sewing, and followed
her conductor down the steps and over the meadow.