John Dana, his wife and little ones, attended Ida to Sunnybank. They
arrived late at night, tired and sleepy; but their sunrise matins were
caroled by Ida, as she sang a lively hymn in the breakfast-room, under
the guest-chamber. She roamed briskly to and fro, rummaging side-boards
and peeping into closets.
"Jest like you used to do, Miss Ida!" said Aunt Judy. "Law me! this
comes of faith. I allers said I should live to deliver up them keys
into your hands. And you've come home for good, honey?"
"Yes, Aunt Judy--come to stay with, and take care of you. That's 'for
good,' isn't it?"
"To be sure! It's a mighty 'sponsibility, honey!"
"She'll have strength given her to bear it!" said Will, behind her.
"It's time your biscuits were baking, Aunt Judy, and you're talking
about 'sponsibility!"
"I shall depend upon you, Uncle Will," said Ida. "The servants were
easily controlled while mother's influence was at work. How they will
submit to one of my age and experience remains to be seen."
"Mr. Grant keeps them tolerably straight, ma'am. I can't say it's
exactly as 'twas in her time, but they'll break in pretty easy, I
reckon. An overseer, no matter how smart and good, ain't a marster
or mistis. We get our victuals and clothes, and look just the same,
but there's nobody to ride down from 'the house,' after planting, and
hoeing, and harvesting's done, and say, well done, boys!' and at night,
when we, whose quarters are in the yard, come up, it's so dark and
lonesome, and still, and the doors and windows all shut, it makes us
low-spirited--like 'twas no use to work--and Sunday--we feel it _then_!"
"So you are rather glad I am back again?"
"Glad! mistis! I couldn't be more pleased if you was my own child! We
need you, ma'am; we need you!"
"Still, as Aunt Judy says, it's a great responsibility."
"You're one of the Lord's lambs, mistis. He will provide."
He went out, and Ida caught up his last words, and through the dark
nooks and reverberating galleries of the old house, sounded the
refrain--
"His call we obey, like Abram of old,
Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold,
For 'though we are strangers, we have a good guide,
And trust in all dangers, the Lord will provide!'"
She met her guests with a kiss, and a jingle of the key-basket, and
seating them at table, poured out the coffee; refuting Mr. Dana's
objection that his was too sweet, by the Irish lady's answer to a
similar complaint from General Washington--"Shure, and if 'twas all
sugar, 'twouldn't be too good for yer Honor!"--piled the children's
plates with buttered cakes--rattling all the while of her dignities,
possessions and "'sponsibility." After finding a clean grass plat for
the children's playground, she challenged Mrs. Dana to a stroll over
the house and garden. It was an old-fashioned family mansion, rambling
and picturesque; some rooms wainscotted to the ceiling, and lighted
by rows of narrow windows, with surprisingly small panes. These were
chambers: the lower story, the parlour, dining-room, and the apartments
appropriated to her mother and herself, were light, large, and finished
in a more modern style. Mrs. Dana preferred the antique. The massive
furniture suited them so well, and it was interesting to think of the
generations they had known--what stories they would relate if the
panelled oak could speak.
"With a little variation, they would tell one of all," replied Ida.
"They were born, suffered, joyed and died!" And she thought how she had
gone through all, except the last, within these walls. The garden was
ploughed up. There was no comeliness in it, but it was less desolate
than when overgrown with weed.
"The soil is fertile," said Mr. Grant. "We shall have vegetables worth
showing this summer, Miss Ida. Mr. Dana sends his respects, and will
you step into the parlour? we would like to consult you."
Ida composed her face into a Malvolio expression of solemnity and
conceit: pompously apologised to Mrs. Dana, and obeyed. But the
account books were shut, and her guardian was luxuriating in an
arm-chair and a cigar.
"Mr. Grant and myself have been investigating and comparing accounts,
Ida," he said; "and the result is highly creditable to him and those in
his service. Without wearying you with particulars, I have set down the
sums total here. You perceive that the crops have met the expenditures
of the plantation; and each year, the net profits have surpassed those
of the preceding--a proof that your land is constantly improving. This,
as I said, is to be attributed to Mr. Grant's judicious management.
Your servants are well fed and clothed, and the doctor's bill trifling
in its amount. Praise is also due to Mr. Read. I approve entirely of
the investments he has made of the funds, left after the necessary
disbursements for expenses. Your money is safe and not idle. You were
fortunate in your stewards, and assume the control of an unincumbered
estate, under most favorable auspices."
"I am indeed grateful to Providence, and to them, sir. It is not my
wish, however, to release you from your guardianship. I cannot do it
nominally, as yet, and after the law shall permit it, I shall still
rely upon you for direction. A woman is not fitted to be a financier.
It is a trespass upon your time and goodness, but I cannot endure that
you should give me up."
"Nor I, my child. You will never ask advice or assistance from me
in vain. If your measures are ill-advised, I shall oppose them, and
forward your interest by every means in my power."
"Thank you, sir. I was unjust to question this for an instant. You
feared to weary me with particulars;--you have no other objection to my
looking into them?"
"None, certainly."
She pored over the columns attentively, and her guardian felt his
respect for her rising still higher, as the deep thoughtfulness which
had its home in the eyes and brow, slowly covered the face. It was no
common mind speaking there--it was competent to its work. A gleam of
pleasure shot across her countenance, as she concluded the examination.
Dipping a pen into the standish, she sketched rapidly a calculation
upon a sheet of paper, and spread it before Mr. Dana.
"I registered a vow, years ago, that my maiden enterprise, when I
should come into office, should be the establishment of a charity
school. You have there an estimate of the amount needed to put it into
operation--not guess-work, but the actual sums I will have to expend
for teacher's salary, books and furniture, repair of the room, and a
small remainder for contingent expenses. This knowledge I have gained
by inquiry of those familiar with these things. I am confounded at the
paltry total--I interpret that arch of the eyebrows," she continued,
laughing, "but before you cast any obstacle in my way, listen--dear Mr.
Dana! I have kept an 'expense-book' ever since I can recollect. During
the first winter and spring of my going into society in Richmond,
I spent more than that in dresses and ornaments--the two summers I
passed with Carry, previous to her marriage, as much more,--for it was
a fashionable country neighborhood, and in such, the passion for show
and ostentation is not a whit less than in the city. The price I should
pay for board elsewhere, will meet my personal expenses here; I have no
near relatives for whom to economise, and there are scores of children,
growing up around me, destitute of education, except that bestowed
gratis by poverty and vice."
"I commend your resolution, my daughter,"--this was his phrase of
greatest endearment--"but it is a weighty undertaking for a young
person, and a woman. If commenced, it must be prosecuted vigorously, or
it will do more harm than good. One session will hardly suffice for a
beginning. This appropriation, which is a liberal deduction from your
income, small as you deem it, is not for this year alone. Hitherto
your affairs have prospered, but you may have reverses. A failure of
crops, which not unfrequently happens to others, would embarrass you
considerably."
"I would draw upon my invested funds."
"And if stocks fall, or a bank breaks?"
"And what is more probable than that all these misfortunes will crowd
upon me at once, I may die!" said Ida, with persuasive gravity, "and
when my Heavenly Master demands the reckoning of my stewardship, I
shall render in the plea, 'Lo! here is Thy talent, hid in a napkin!' He
has given me--if not riches--more than a competency for my wants. It
may not be worldly-wise, dear guardian, but it is Christian-like, to
give of my present abundance, and trust that he will be as bountiful in
time to come, as He has been until now."
"There's sense and religion in that!" commented Mr. Grant, admiringly.
"He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord," said Ida, smiling in
her guardian's face. "What think you of the security, Mr. Dana?"
"That your faith shames my caution. Assuming that the plan is feasible
and prudent in its main points, let us descend to the minutiae--'Repairs
of building'--where is the room?"
Ida pointed from the window to a house in the yard. "My father built it
for an office--my mother used it as a lumber-room. The plastering has
fallen, and the roof leaks, but Will tells me the plantation carpenter
and bricklayer can put it in good order. They can make the desks and
benches too."
"'Books'--this is the probable outlay, I suppose."
"It is computed from a list of prices, furnished by a book-seller."
"Now, last and most important--the teacher. Is it to be a girls' or a
boys' school?"
"For girls, mainly; but small boys will be admitted. Large ones might
be refractory to a lady."
"You will have an instructress, then? Where will she board?"
"Here. Shall I not have a spinster household?"
"With Miss Betsey to matronise you. You will be fastidious in your
selection, as she is to be a member of your family. Your provident
brain has not picked her out, surely?"
"You will laugh when I say that I have one in view; but I am hesitating
as to the propriety of making her an offer. I have no false pride to
prevent me from engaging in honest labor; but very sensible people,
in other respects, are troubled with this weakness. Neither do I mean
to term mine a 'charity school,' in consideration for pride of a more
commendable kind, which the parents may have. The teacher will be my
equal and companion. Without interfering with her government, I shall
be as well known to the pupils as herself; if she is absent or sick, be
her substitute; yet she may regard the situation as too humble. Did
you ever see a school-fellow of Carry's named Emma Glenn, a modest,
sweet-looking girl?"
"Glenn! I cannot recall her. She is your choice?"
"Yes, sir. She is, like myself, an orphan. Anna Talbot awakened my
sympathies for her, by relating how and where she saw her last summer.
She is dependent upon her own exertions, and for two years has taught
in the family of an uncle, for the miserable stipend--think of it, sir!
of fifty dollars a year! for instructing six children, two of whom,
sleep in her chamber; and her position is uncomfortable from various
other causes. She was universally beloved at school; and her standing
for scholarship, unquestionable. Can it be more humiliating to labor as
my colleague, than the despised beneficiary of a niggardly relative?"
"I imagine not," he rejoined, smiling. "What is your notion, Mr. Grant,
of this hair-brained young lady?"
"That we should all be better, and I am not sure, but wiser too, for
some of her spirit;" he replied.
"I am not, I hope, thoughtlessly sanguine, Mr. Dana;" pursued Ida. "I
expect discouragement and difficulties, for I know the class I have
to deal with. It is no girl's ambition to play lady patroness that
spurs me on in this task. The idea originated with my mother, and was
a darling scheme of hers and mine; but was laid low with many other
benevolent plans--laid by, I should say--for my prayer and aim are to
prove myself worthy of my parentage. Few females at my age are placed
in my circumstances; and I do not court notoriety or responsibility,
although some will have it so. Constant, stirring exercise is as
indispensable to my mind as body. Forgive me, dear sir; but I have been
distressed by an occasional misgiving, that you thought me unfeminine,
regardless of public opinion. I love my friends as dearly, truly as any
one; I have no relish for masculine pursuits; I would have woman move
in her God-appointed sphere;--but if He has endowed me with talents and
opportunity for extending my usefulness, I _fear_ not to improve them.
Do you understand me?"
"My daughter! must I say, that next to my wife, you are nearer to me
than any woman living? and I respect and honor, as much as I love you.
Where is the mammet of fashion I would consult and trust as I do you?
You are honestly striving with a purpose, and hoping for no plaudit but
'she hath done what she could.' How many mistake the limit of their
'could!' Go on as you have begun, and you will develope the highest
type of female character. That I have not said this much before, is
because I am a man of few words; and you appeared to shun open praise."
Mr. Grant, seeing they were forgetting him, had, with native delicacy,
stepped without the door, upon pretext of speaking to a passing laborer.
Ida was moved even to tears, by her guardian's unqualified encomium,
so feelingly uttered. The esteem of such a man was, of itself a reward
for her conflicts with self and outward temptations. She had so much
to be thankful for! she said over and over, that day. She was at home!
at Sunnybank! the air was purer--the water clearer--the birds merrier,
there than anywhere else; and there was abiding tranquillity in the
thought that she might live and die under the roof-tree that sheltered
her cradle; an enlargement of heart and kindliness as she beheld her
dependents rejoicing in her restoration to them; looking to her for
support and happiness. And that mother's grave was there! She sat there
a long hour at even-tide. The willow leaflets were just putting out,
and the swaying of the flexile boughs was slight and noiseless. There
was a hush in the air--not a dead calm--but a solemn pause, as if
Nature had folded her busy hands to return devout thanks for mercies
past, and gather strength for future labor. Ida was no sickly dreamer
now. She knew life, as it is--a day! only a day--divide and sub-divide
as we may,--the morning hallowed by some with early prayer--squandered
by more in trifling; the noon, waxing to its height over reeking brows
and panting chests, and straining arms; the evening, relaxing the
strung muscles, and curdling the bounding blood, and bringing to each
his meed,--righteous recompense for his deeds, fair or foul; and the
night--black-browed angel, saying to the vexed brain, "Thy work is
ended!" spreading his hands over the swelling heart-wave, and it is
still! bidding the harassed body--"Sleep on now and take your rest."
She knew life, and that to the God-fearing toiler in His vineyard,
there is no rest until night. He is not denied the inhalation of the
odorous breeze, and a pause in the shade to wipe his heated brow; but
he must not swerve from his furrow to seek it. Flowers, whose kindred
blossom in Paradise, smile up from the unsightly clods, and these he
may wear in his bosom, leaving unculled the poppies and almond-laurel
which flaunt near by; content in knowing but this, what is _his_ work,
and bending, training every power to the strenuous endeavor to do it.
Mr. Dana stayed but three days; his family prolonged their visit into
as many weeks; nor would Ida have resigned them then, had not Emma
been daily expected; for the school was a fixed fact. Accompanied and
guarded by the faithful Will, Ida had explored the woods, gullies and
old fields for recruits. Her determined spirit bore her out, or she
would have thrown up the project by the end of the first day. She chose
what Will called the "toughest cases" for her freshest energies.
"The Digganses" lived in a rickety hut, in the exact centre of a
common of broom straw, mowed down to stubble, for ten feet around
the door--said area populated at Ida's visit, by five white-headed
children, three hounds, and two terrier puppies, a full-grown grunter
and a brood of little ones, and half a dozen meagre fowls. The hounds
bayed; the terriers squeaked their shrill treble; the pigs squealed,
and made for the high straw; the human animals scampered squallingly,
into the house; while Ida's horse--to complete the hubbub--set up a
frightened neigh, and would have run, but for Will's grip. Without
waiting for Mrs. Diggans' "Light! won't you?" she sprang from the
saddle. The hostess came to the door with a greasy, steaming kettle
in one hand, and the flesh-fork in the other. She deposited them upon
the ground, wiped her hands upon her begrimmed apron, and offered her
right. Ida blessed the ignorance of Fashion's laws in these regions,
which did not compel her to remove her gloves. The cabin did not belie
the promise of the exterior. It was dingy and dirty, scented with
bacon and cabbage, and an indescribable smell, as of a musty cupboard,
converted into a sleeping-room. Yet these people were not disreputable,
in the ordinary acceptation of the word. They had never been convicted
of theft or drunkenness. Indolence and improvidence kept them down, for
they were never "up." They were as well off now as when they married;
if the children came faster than the bread, they begged or borrowed of
their "lucky" neighbors.
"I'm mighty pleased to see you!" said Mrs. Diggans, dusting a wooden
cricket with the convenient apron. "How much you've growed like your
mother. _Good_ Fathers! I never see two folks more alike. You've done
come home to live, I've heern."
"I hope so, ma'am."
"You didn't like town-folks, I 'spose?"
"Yes, ma'am; I have some good friends there, but I think my place is
here."
"Um-_hum_! well--you ain't married?"
"Oh! no, ma'am."
"But you're goin' to be, I reckon?" slyly.
"Not that I know of. But how are you getting on, Mrs. Diggans?"
"Ah, Miss Idy! in the same old way;--can't never make both ends jine,
but somehow we lives and fattens."
"How many children have you?"
"Six--my biggest girl is out, visitin' her father's kin."
"Is it possible! I must be growing old. I recollect when you were
married. You wore your wedding-dress the next Sunday, and I thought it
was so fine."
"I wonder if you do?" said the flattered Mrs. Diggans. "Who'd a thought
it?--and you so young! One of my children's named after you--Ide-e-e!"
with a car-whistle termination. "Come here this minute! I liked it,
'cause 'twas a pretty name--sort o' high-soundin' you know--Ide-e-e-e!"
Ida had occular evidence of this new beauty of her cognomen.
"And your mother was allers mighty kind to me--ah! she was a
lady--every inch of her!--Ide-e-e-e! if you don't come 'long, I'll
spank you well!"
And "Idee" sneaked in, fist in her mouth, and scraped her bare toes
in a frightfully flesh-crawling, provoking manner, while her namesake
informed her of their relation to each other.
"How old are you, Ida?"
"Going on seven;" answered the mother.
"Can you read?"
"Bless your life, Miss Idy! I don't have time to teach them, nor their
father neither. Mercy knows how they are to git any learnin'. Poor
folks don't need much, but its more _re_-spectable to know how to read
and write."
"But you can read, Mrs. Diggans."
"I used to could."
"You do not object to their being taught if you are not troubled about
it?"
"No-o. I reckon not--but who's a goin' to do it? thar's the rub!"
"I will have it done."
"_You_! Miss Ida! oh-oh! teachin' poor folk's chillen ain't for the
likes of you. We've scuffled along without edication, and so must they."
"Say you will send them, Mrs. Diggans, and I pledge you my word they
shall be as carefully attended to, as if they were the richest in the
land."
She explained her plan. Mrs. Diggans demurred.
"She couldn't spar Maria Julia, and Anne Marthy was too little to walk
so far;--then their clothes warn't fitten. She was mighty obliged, jest
as much as if she had a-sent' em."
"I am _very_ sorry," said Ida. "I came here first, knowing your
attachment to our family. I am really desirous you should oblige me. I
am _so_ disappointed."
Mrs. Diggans relented. "If they had decent clothes, Miss Idy.--See them
dirty rags!"
"Their clothing must be whole and clean, certainly. Promise they shall
attend all the session, and I will give them a suit apiece."
"You're too good, Miss Idy--jest like your ma! We'll talk about it."
"I must have an answer now. My number is limited, as there will be but
one teacher. How many shall I put down?" producing paper and pencil.
"Only two! but that is better than none. 'For the entire session,' Mrs.
Diggans; I trust to your word."
"I keeps a promise when I makes it. Set 'em down."
"Hard customers, Mistis!" said Will, as they remounted.
"Rather, Uncle Will; yet I dread our next visit as much. Does Mr.
Pinely drink now?"
"When he can get money or beg liquor. I feel mean, when he stops me in
the road, to borrow a fourpence. 'Ah, Will!' he says, 'thriving and
likely as when you drove your master's carriage after his bride--your
late lamented mistis! You don't happen to have a fourpence in your
pocket, my boy? Unfortunately, I'm out of change. Thank you, my fine
fellow--I'll remember you my lad!' I can't deny him, Mistis. He knowed
your father well, when they were both young men--a smart, handsome
gentleman he was! and to think!"
"And to see!" thought Ida, as the house peeped through the trees,
with unglazed windows, crumbling chimney, and sunken roof. It was
presented to him by her father--a neat, comfortable cottage. His wife
died of a broken heart; the children were saved from starvation and
freezing, times without number, by her mother. How they subsisted
now, was an impenetrable mystery; for the father never did a stroke
of work, and loafed around the country, thrusting himself upon the
hospitality of those with whom he had associated in former years,
wearing his welcome--not threadbare, but into shreds, before he let
go. In a beggar's garb, and soliciting alms from the slaves of his old
companions, he retained the boastful swagger and ornate language which
earned for him, in youth, the soubriquet of "Pompous Pinely."
The eldest daughter was sitting upon the door-step, dressed almost in
tatters; her matted hair twisted up with a tinsel comb--a gift from
her father, in a generously drunken fit; and the remnants of a pair of
silk stockings hanging about a neatly turned foot and ankle. Her face
was clean; and Ida could not but observe its beauty, as she blushed and
smiled an embarrassed welcome.
"You have not forgotten me, Laura; but you have grown so, I scarcely
knew you. Are you all well?"
"Except papa, who has a headache. Walk in."
"No, thank you. It is pleasant out here." She seated herself upon a
block beside the door. "Where are the children?"
"Gone to look for strawberries."
"Isn't it too early for them?"
"I'm afraid so--but they wanted some so badly."
Ida suspected, from her stammering, that more substantial food would
have been as acceptable.
"I came partly on business, Laura," she hastened to say, apprehending
an irruption from the interior. "I am trying to get up a school in the
neighborhood, to be taught at Sunnybank, by a friend of mine--"
"Miss Ross! do I in truth, have the felicity?" Ida groaned in spirit.
"The softened image of my ever lamented friend!" continued the
inebriate, whose headache was easily accounted for. Putting his hand
to his heart, he heaved a profound sigh. "Ah! my dear young lady!
may you have the inheritance of his transcendant virtues, as of his
faultless physiognomy! Laura, my daughter--have you offered our guest
refreshments?"
"Excuse me, sir! I have not time to partake of them. I was apologising
to Laura for my first visit being a business call."
"She wants to open a school up at Sunnybank, papa. _Do_ let us go!"
cried the girl, eagerly. His face wore a mask of extreme concern.
"It cannot be! the righteous Fates can never be so oblivious to
unparalleled excellence as to ordain that you--the solitary scion of
an aristocratic race, shall be reduced by unpropitious vicissitudes,
to the necessity of maintaining yourself by the arduous employment of
imparting instruction to the juvenile mind!"
"A friend is to be the instructress, sir. I shall exercise a general
supervision."
"What a mountain you remove! I trembled at the supposition that you
were precipitated upon the frozen charities of a mercenary world. Ah,
my young friend! the most shameful part of human hypocrisy is the
heartless repudiation of unmerited exigency!"
"May we go, papa?" persisted the daughter. "I so want to learn!"
"My beloved! wariness is indispensable in the adjudication of a measure
vitally affecting your intellectual progress. Is your friend versed in
classical lore, Miss Ross?"
This absurdity was almost a match for Ida's forbearance. "Her
recommendations cannot be impeached, Mr. Pinely," she said, spiritedly.
"I solicit no further assurance, Miss Ross, than your approbation
of her qualifications. You have my paternal sanction, my daughter.
Moderate your transports, my love!" She had clapped her hands.
"Pray assign her extravaganzas to the intensity of her admiration
of your lovesome self, Miss Ross. I blush at the trivialness of the
reference--but my income is not what it was, when your father and
myself were twin-souls. The remorseless falchion of Time cleaves down
rank and fortune in his flight. The remuneration,--Miss Ross! If
the scanty pecuniary assistance I can render your fair friend will
ameliorate her hardships, my 'bosom's lord will sit lightly on its
throne!'"
Ida curtly told him, "no tuition fees were demanded."
"That materially alters the aspect of your proposition. My munificent
lady! this is a flagrant spoliation of yourself!"
"I do not consider it as such, sir."
"Your enthusiastic philanthropy misleads you. _I_ cannot be an
accomplice to this generous fraud. My children remain in their own
habitation unless your friend accepts compensation for her toils."
Laura looked ashamed and sorrowful, and Ida restrained her indignant
contempt. "We will not differ about a trifle, Mr. Pinely. The terms
and time of payment are subject to your discretion and convenience. I
may enter your little ones--Laura included? There are three, besides
yourself, Laura?"
"They are docile to the flower-wreathed wand of moral suasion, Miss
Ross, but may betray obduration if sterner means are employed. Of
corporeal punishment we will not speak; the rod would fall barbless,
from the lily digits of gentle woman."
"You will come to school, Monday week;" Ida was saying to Laura: "but
do not wait until then to pay me a visit. I must have a long talk with
you. Good bye."
Tears stood in Laura's eyes. Already she regarded her benefactress with
feelings bordering upon devotion. Ida, in her sober ride, turning over
the degradation and misery whose alleviation seemed impracticable, had
no suspicion of the leaven she had hidden in the heavy lump.