The first day of the year was clear and bright, as if it were a New
Year’s pattern of what winter can be at its very best. The two friends
were prepared for changes of weather, and met each other well wrapped in
their winter cloaks and shawls, with sufficient brown barége veils tied
securely over their bonnets. They ignored for some time the plain truth
that each carried something under her arm; the shawls were rounded out
suspiciously, especially Miss Pendexter’s, but each respected the
other’s air of secrecy. The narrow road was frozen in deep ruts, but a
smooth-trodden little foot-path that ran along its edge was very
inviting to the wayfarers. Mrs. Hand walked first and Miss Pendexter
followed, and they were talking busily nearly all the way, so that they
had to stop for breath now and then at the tops of the little hills. It
was not a hard walk; there were a good many almost level stretches
through the woods, in spite of the fact that they should be a very great
deal higher when they reached Mrs. Dallett’s door.
“I do declare, what a nice day ’tis, an’ such pretty footin’!” said Mrs.
Hand, with satisfaction. “Seems to me as if my feet went o’ themselves;
gener’lly I have to toil so when I walk that I can’t enjoy nothin’ when
I get to a place.”
“It’s partly this beautiful bracin’ air,” said Abby Pendexter.
“Sometimes such nice air comes just before a fall of snow. Don’t it seem
to make anybody feel young again and to take all your troubles away?”
Mrs. Hand was a comfortable, well-to-do soul, who seldom worried about
anything, but something in her companion’s tone touched her heart, and
she glanced sidewise and saw a pained look in Abby Pendexter’s thin
face. It was a moment for confidence.
“Why, you speak as if something distressed your mind, Abby,” said the
elder woman kindly.
“I ain’t one that has myself on my mind as a usual thing, but it does
seem now as if I was goin’ to have it very hard,” said Abby. “Well, I’ve
been anxious before.”
“Is it anything wrong about your property?” Mrs. Hand ventured to ask.
“Only that I ain’t got any,” answered Abby, trying to speak gayly.
“’Twas all I could do to pay my last quarter’s rent, twelve dollars. I
sold my hens, all but this one that had run away at the time, an’ now
I’m carryin’ her up to Aunt Cynthy, roasted just as nice as I know how.”
“I thought you was carrying somethin’,” said Mrs. Hand, in her usual
tone. “For me, I’ve got a couple o’ my mince pies. I thought the old
lady might like ’em; one we can eat for our dinner, and one she shall
have to keep. But weren’t you unwise to sacrifice your poultry, Abby?
You always need eggs, and hens don’t cost much to keep.”
“Why, yes, I shall miss ’em,” said Abby; “but, you see, I had to do
every way to get my rent-money. Now the shop’s shut down I haven’t got
any way of earnin’ anything, and I spent what little I’ve saved through
the summer.”
“Your aunt Cynthy ought to know it an’ ought to help you,” said Mrs.
Hand. “You’re a real foolish person, I must say. I expect you do for her
when she ought to do for you.”
“She’s old, an’ she’s all the near relation I’ve got,” said the little
woman. “I’ve always felt the time would come when she’d need me, but
it’s been her great pleasure to live alone an’ feel free. I shall get
along somehow, but I shall have it hard. Somebody may want help for a
spell this winter, but I’m afraid I shall have to give up my house.
’Tain’t as if I owned it. I don’t know just what to do, but there’ll be
a way.”
Mrs. Hand shifted her two pies to the other arm, and stepped across to
the other side of the road where the ground looked a little smoother.
“No, I wouldn’t worry if I was you, Abby,” she said. “There, I suppose
if ’twas me I should worry a good deal more! I expect I should lay awake
nights.” But Abby answered nothing, and they came to a steep place in
the road and found another subject for conversation at the top.
“Your aunt don’t know we’re coming?” asked the chief guest of the
occasion.
“Oh, no, I never send her word,” said Miss Pendexter. “She’d be so
desirous to get everything ready, just as she used to.”
“She never seemed to make any trouble o’ havin’ company; she always
appeared so easy and pleasant, and let you set with her while she made
her preparations,” said Mrs. Hand, with great approval. “Some has such a
dreadful way of making you feel inopportune, and you can’t always send
word you’re comin’. I did have a visit once that’s always been a lesson
to me; ’twas years ago; I don’t know’s I ever told you?”
“I don’t believe you ever did,” responded the listener to this somewhat
indefinite prelude.
“Well, ’twas one hot summer afternoon. I set forth an’ took a great long
walk ’way over to Mis’ Eben Fulham’s, on the crossroad between the
cranberry ma’sh and Staples’s Corner. The doctor was drivin’ that way,
an’ he give me a lift that shortened it some at the last; but I never
should have started, if I’d known ’twas so far. I had been promisin’ all
summer to go, and every time I saw Mis’ Fulham, Sundays, she’d say
somethin’ about it. We wa’n’t very well acquainted, but always friendly.
She moved here from Bedford Hill.”
“Oh, yes; I used to know her,” said Abby, with interest.
“Well, now, she did give me a beautiful welcome when I got there,”
continued Mrs. Hand. “’Twas about four o’clock in the afternoon, an’ I
told her I’d come to accept her invitation if ’twas convenient, an’ the
doctor had been called several miles beyond and expected to be detained,
but he was goin’ to pick me up as he returned about seven; ’twas very
kind of him. She took me right in, and she did appear so pleased, an’ I
must go right into the best room where ’twas cool, and then she said
she’d have tea early, and I should have to excuse her a short time. I
asked her not to make any difference, and if I couldn’t assist her; but
she said no, I must just take her as I found her; and she give me a
large fan, and off she went.
“There. I was glad to be still and rest where ’twas cool, an’ I set
there in the rockin’-chair an’ enjoyed it for a while, an’ I heard her
clacking at the oven door out beyond, an’ gittin’ out some dishes. She
was a brisk-actin’ little woman, an’ I thought I’d caution her when she
come back not to make up a great fire, only for a cup o’ tea, perhaps. I
started to go right out in the kitchen, an’ then somethin’ told me I’d
better not, we never ’d been so free together as that; I didn’t know how
she’d take it, an’ there I set an’ set. ’Twas sort of a greenish light
in the best room, an’ it begun to feel a little damp to me,—the s’rubs
outside grew close up to the windows. Oh, it did seem dreadful long! I
could hear her busy with the dishes an’ beatin’ eggs an’ stirrin’, an’ I
knew she was puttin’ herself out to get up a great supper, and I kind o’
fidgeted about a little an’ even stepped to the door, but I thought
she’d expect me to remain where I was. I saw everything in that room
forty times over, an’ I did divert myself killin’ off a brood o’ moths
that was in a worsted-work mat on the table. It all fell to pieces. I
never saw such a sight o’ moths to once. But occupation failed after
that, an’ I begun to feel sort o’ tired an’ numb. There was one o’ them
late crickets got into the room an’ begun to chirp, an’ it sounded kind
o’ fallish. I couldn’t help sayin’ to myself that Mis’ Fulham had forgot
all about my bein’ there. I thought of all the beauties of hospitality
that ever I see!”—
“Didn’t she ever come back at all, not whilst things was in the oven,
nor nothin’?” inquired Miss Pendexter, with awe.
“I never see her again till she come beamin’ to the parlor door an’
invited me to walk out to tea,” said Mrs. Hand. “’Twas ’most a quarter
past six by the clock; I thought ’twas seven. I’d thought o’ everything,
an’ I’d counted, an’ I’d trotted my foot, an’ I’d looked more ’n twenty
times to see if there was any more moth-millers.”
“I s’pose you did have a very nice tea?” suggested Abby, with interest.
“Oh, a beautiful tea! She couldn’t have done more if I’d been the
Queen,” said Mrs. Hand. “I don’t know how she could ever have done it
all in the time, I’m sure. The table was loaded down; there was
cup-custards and custard pie, an’ cream pie, an’ two kinds o’ hot
biscuits, an’ black tea as well as green, an’ elegant cake,—one kind
she’d just made new, and called it quick cake; I’ve often made it
since—an’ she’d opened her best preserves, two kinds. We set down
together, an’ I’m sure I appreciated what she’d done; but ’twa’n’t no
time for real conversation whilst we was to the table, and before we got
quite through the doctor come hurryin’ along, an’ I had to leave. He
asked us if we’d had a good talk, as we come out, an’ I couldn’t help
laughing to myself; but she said quite hearty that she’d had a nice
visit from me. She appeared well satisfied, Mis’ Fulham did; but for me,
I was disappointed; an’ early that fall she died.”
Abby Pendexter was laughing like a girl; the speaker’s tone had grown
more and more complaining. “I do call that a funny experience,” she
said. “‘Better a dinner o’ herbs.’ I guess that text must ha’ risen to
your mind in connection. You must tell that to Aunt Cynthy, if
conversation seems to fail.” And she laughed again, but Mrs. Hand still
looked solemn and reproachful.
“Here we are; there’s Aunt Cynthy’s lane right ahead, there by the great
yellow birch,” said Abby. “I must say, you’ve made the way seem very
short, Mis’ Hand.”