These were the days of long visits, before affectionate friends thought
it quite worth while to take a hundred miles’ journey merely to dine or
to pass a night in one another’s houses. Helena lingered through the
pleasant weeks of early summer, and departed unwillingly at last to join
her family at the White Hills, where they had gone, like other
households of high social station, to pass the month of August out of
town. The happy-hearted young guest left many lamenting friends behind
her, and promised each that she would come back again next year. She
left the minister a rejected lover, as well as the preceptor of the
academy, but with their pride unwounded, and it may have been with wider
outlooks upon the world and a less narrow sympathy both for their own
work in life and for their neighbors’ work and hindrances. Even Miss
Harriet Pyne herself had lost some of the unnecessary provincialism and
prejudice which had begun to harden a naturally good and open mind and
affectionate heart. She was conscious of feeling younger and more free,
and not so lonely. Nobody had ever been so gay, so fascinating, or so
kind as Helena, so full of social resource, so simple and undemanding in
her friendliness. The light of her young life cast no shadow on either
young or old companions, her pretty clothes never seemed to make other
girls look dull or out of fashion. When she went away up the street in
Miss Harriet’s carriage to take the slow train toward Boston and the
gayeties of the new Profile House, where her mother waited impatiently
with a group of Southern friends, it seemed as if there would never be
any more picnics or parties in Ashford, and as if society had nothing
left to do but to grow old and get ready for winter.
Martha came into Miss Helena’s bedroom that last morning, and it was
easy to see that she had been crying; she looked just as she did in that
first sad week of homesickness and despair. All for love’s sake she had
been learning to do many things, and to do them exactly right; her eyes
had grown quick to see the smallest chance for personal service. Nobody
could be more humble and devoted; she looked years older than Helena,
and wore already a touching air of caretaking.
“You spoil me, you dear Martha!” said Helena from the bed. “I don’t know
what they will say at home, I am so spoiled.”
Martha went on opening the blinds to let in the brightness of the summer
morning, but she did not speak.
“You are getting on splendidly, aren’t you?” continued the little
mistress. “You have tried so hard that you make me ashamed of myself. At
first you crammed all the flowers together, and now you make them look
beautiful. Last night cousin Harriet was so pleased when the table was
so charming, and I told her that you did everything yourself, every bit.
Won’t you keep the flowers fresh and pretty in the house until I come
back? It’s so much pleasanter for Miss Pyne, and you’ll feed my little
sparrows, won’t you? They’re growing so tame.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Helena!” and Martha looked almost angry for a moment,
then she burst into tears and covered her face with her apron. “I
couldn’t understand a single thing when I first came. I never had been
anywhere to see anything, and Miss Pyne frightened me when she talked.
It was you made me think I could ever learn. I wanted to keep the place,
’count of mother and the little boys; we’re dreadful hard pushed. Hepsy
has been good in the kitchen; she said she ought to have patience with
me, for she was awkward herself when she first came.”
Helena laughed; she looked so pretty under the tasseled white curtains.
“I dare say Hepsy tells the truth,” she said. “I wish you had told me
about your mother. When I come again, some day we’ll drive up country,
as you call it, to see her. Martha! I wish you would think of me
sometimes after I go away. Won’t you promise?” and the bright young face
suddenly grew grave. “I have hard times myself; I don’t always learn
things that I ought to learn, I don’t always put things straight. I wish
you wouldn’t forget me ever, and would just believe in me. I think it
does help more than anything.”
“I won’t forget,” said Martha slowly. “I shall think of you every day.”
She spoke almost with indifference, as if she had been asked to dust a
room, but she turned aside quickly and pulled the little mat under the
hot water jug quite out of its former straightness; then she hastened
away down the long white entry, weeping as she went.