One Sunday afternoon in early summer Miss Harriet Pyne came hurrying
along the entry that led to Martha’s room and called two or three times
before its inhabitant could reach the door. Miss Harriet looked
unusually cheerful and excited, and she held something in her hand.
“Where are you, Martha?” she called again. “Come quick, I have something
to tell you!”
“Here I am, Miss Pyne,” said Martha, who had only stopped to put her
precious box in the drawer, and to shut the geography.
“Who do you think is coming this very night at half past six? We must
have everything as nice as we can; I must see Hannah at once. Do you
remember my cousin Helena who has lived abroad so long? Miss Helena
Vernon,—the Honorable Mrs. Dysart, she is now.”
“Yes, I remember her,” answered Martha, turning a little pale.
“I knew that she was in this country, and I had written to ask her to
come for a long visit,” continued Miss Harriet, who did not often
explain things, even to Martha, though she was always conscientious
about the kind messages that were sent back by grateful guests. “She
telegraphs that she means to anticipate her visit by a few days and come
to me at once. The heat is beginning in town, I suppose. I daresay,
having been a foreigner so long, she does not mind traveling on Sunday.
Do you think Hannah will be prepared? We must have tea a little later.”
“Yes, Miss Harriet,” said Martha. She wondered that she could speak as
usual, there was such a ringing in her ears. “I shall have time to pick
some fresh strawberries; Miss Helena is so fond of our strawberries.”
“Why, I had forgotten,” said Miss Pyne, a little puzzled by something
quite unusual in Martha’s face. “We must expect to find Mrs. Dysart a
good deal changed, Martha; it is a great many years since she was here;
I have not seen her since her wedding, and she has had a great deal of
trouble, poor girl. You had better open the parlor chamber, and make it
ready before you go down.”
“It is all ready,” said Martha. “I can carry some of those little
sweet-brier roses upstairs before she comes.”
“Yes, you are always thoughtful,” said Miss Pyne, with unwonted feeling.
Martha did not answer. She glanced at the telegram wistfully. She had
never really suspected before that Miss Pyne knew nothing of the love
that had been in her heart all these years; it was half a pain and half
a golden joy to keep such a secret; she could hardly bear this moment of
surprise.
Presently the news gave wings to her willing feet. When Hannah, the
cook, who never had known Miss Helena, went to the parlor an hour later
on some errand to her old mistress, she discovered that this stranger
guest must be a very important person. She had never seen the tea-table
look exactly as it did that night, and in the parlor itself there were
fresh blossoming boughs in the old East India jars, and lilies in the
paneled hall, and flowers everywhere, as if there were some high
festivity.
Miss Pyne sat by the window watching, in her best dress, looking stately
and calm; she seldom went out now, and it was almost time for the
carriage. Martha was just coming in from the garden with the
strawberries, and with more flowers in her apron. It was a bright cool
evening in June, the golden robins sang in the elms, and the sun was
going down behind the apple-trees at the foot of the garden. The
beautiful old house stood wide open to the long-expected guest.
“I think that I shall go down to the gate,” said Miss Pyne, looking at
Martha for approval, and Martha nodded and they went together slowly
down the broad front walk.
There was a sound of horses and wheels on the roadside turf: Martha
could not see at first; she stood back inside the gate behind the white
lilac-bushes as the carriage came. Miss Pyne was there; she was holding
out both arms and taking a tired, bent little figure in black to her
heart. “Oh, my Miss Helena is an old woman like me!” and Martha gave a
pitiful sob; she had never dreamed it would be like this; this was the
one thing she could not bear.
“Where are you, Martha?” called Miss Pyne. “Martha will bring these in;
you have not forgotten my good Martha, Helena?” Then Mrs. Dysart looked
up and smiled just as she used to smile in the old days. The young eyes
were there still in the changed face, and Miss Helena had come.
That night Martha waited in her lady’s room just as she used, humble and
silent, and went through with the old unforgotten loving services. The
long years seemed like days. At last she lingered a moment trying to
think of something else that might be done, then she was going silently
away, but Helena called her back. She suddenly knew the whole story and
could hardly speak.
“Oh, my dear Martha!” she cried, “won’t you kiss me good-night? Oh,
Martha, have you remembered like this, all these long years!”