A DOOR OPENS
The stage stopped at the business end of Farmdale. Around three sides
of a sandy square were grouped the village hotel, the post-office, and
its few stores and shops; on the fourth side this square opened on a
long stretch of velvety green turf, around which, set in deep yards,
surrounded by trees, and embowered in shrubbery, were the comfortable,
well-ordered village homes. In the centre of this green, and midway
its length a fountain was falling into a circular stone basin and from
that flowing into a stone watering-trough, where a white horse with a
barefooted boy on its back was drinking. Beyond the fountain the ground
rose slightly and crowning this gentle swell three white churches set
side by side lifted their spires against the blue sky.
Posey walked slowly along the maple-shaded path, with bright colored
leaves above her and bright colored leaves rustling under her feet,
charmed with the peaceful air, the quiet beauty, and looking carefully
for a house to answer Ben Pancost’s description. It was not long till
she saw it—a modest white house with green blinds, the walls almost
covered with climbing roses and honeysuckles, while over the front door
hung the sign, its gilt lettering somewhat faded by time and storms,
MILLINERY AND DRESSMAKING.
A great lilac bush stood on each side of the small white gate by which
she entered, while syringas, flowering quince, and thickets of roses
gave promise of springtime bloom. The narrow, stone-flagged walk that
led to the side door was fringed with flowers, and ran along the edge
of a grassy bank or low terrace, below which were more flower beds
bordered with China pinks, besides homelier beds of garden vegetables,
while under sheltering rows of currant bushes a flock of white chickens
rolled in the dirt at their ease. Beyond the house lay an orchard, and
the side porch at which the walk ended was shaded by a great grapevine
heavy with purple clusters. A Maltese cat, sunning itself in sleepy
content on the steps, roused as she came up and rubbed against her with
a friendly purr. Over all the sunny little homestead rested an air of
thrift, order, peace, that filled Posey with a sense of restfulness;
why she could hardly have told.
Her knock on the green-paneled door was answered by Miss Silence
Blossom, one of the two whom Ben Pancost had described as “not young,
or really old,” but with the brightness of youth still lingering in her
eyes and her smile. The room into which she led Posey was large and
sunny with windows facing the south. In one corner was an open sewing
machine from which she had evidently just risen. In another corner
stood a square table covered with boxes of flowers and ribbons beside
which trimming a bonnet sat Mrs. Patience Bird, a younger sister of
Miss Silence, her sweet, gentle face touched by a shade of sadness,
reflected in the mourning dress she still wore for the young husband
whose picture was in the little pin at her throat. Behind the low
chair in which she sat was a tall case with long glass doors, filled
with ribbons, flowers, and hats, all in orderly array, for though this
was the work-room of busy workers there was no trace of litter or
confusion.
Mrs. Blossom, the mother, with a strong but kindly face, was watering
a stand of house plants. She, too, was a widow, but of more than half
a lifetime. The years when she had gathered her fatherless children
around her and, still a young woman, taken up a life alone and bravely
for herself and them had left their lines of energy, decision, and
firmness. And, last of the family group, in a large armchair by one of
the sunny windows with some white knitting in her hands, sat an old
lady, whose peaceful face not less than her drab dress, close white
cap, and snowy, folded kerchief, told that she was of the Quaker faith.
Posey took the chair offered her, suddenly embarrassed and shy under
the gaze of so many questioning eyes, and at last stammered abruptly,
“Ben said you would know where the old lady lived.”
“Ben who; and what old lady?” demanded Miss Silence, who in spite of
her name was the talker of the family.
“Why, the nice old lady who wants a girl to live with her. And you know
Ben; he’s the boy who drives the red tin peddler’s cart.”
“I know who she means,” spoke Mrs. Patience. “It is the boy who came
here last summer that Aunt Maria Ames took such a fancy to, and asked
him if he hadn’t a sister to live with her. I think,” to her mother,
“you and Grandmother were away that day. Don’t you remember, Silence,
you mended his coat for him?”
By this time Posey had found her tongue. “Yes,” she hastened to
add, “Ben said you did. He said he knew you were the best kind of
Christians.”
Mrs. Blossom smiled. “I hope Ben was right, though that seems to have
been a case of judging faith by works.”
“Well, Ben Pancost knows,” asserted Posey stoutly.
“He certainly impressed me as a very good boy,” said Miss Silence,
“truthful, frank, and manly. And so you wanted to come and live with
Mrs. Ames?”
“Yes, ma’am, Ben was almost sure she would let me.”
“That is too bad, for she has gone to Chicago to spend the winter with
her daughter.”
Posey’s face clouded with dismay. She had trusted implicitly to Ben.
What should she do if his plan for her failed?
Mrs. Blossom saw the look. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Posey.”
“And whose Posey?” Mrs. Patience questioned looking up from her work
with a gentle smile.
“Nobody’s,” was the mournful answer.
“And where is your home?” continued Mrs. Blossom.
“Nowhere,” answered Posey, a great sense of her forlornness rushing
over her and filling her eyes with tears.
“Now, see here,” Miss Silence’s tone was brisk and incisive; “you want
to tell the truth. Everybody has a surname and lives somewhere.”
“I have told the truth,” protested Posey hotly. “I haven’t anybody or
any home anywhere.”
“But where have you been living?”
Now Posey had gathered from Ben Pancost’s manner that while he
personally approved of her running away from Mrs. Hagood, he was
doubtful of the impression it might make on others, and she had
resolved to be very discreet and tell as little of that part of
her story as possible. But her indignation at the implication of
untruthfulness overmastered her prudence and she answered, “If you want
to know where I’ve lived I can tell you. I’ve lived with a clairvoyant
medium, and I’ve lived at the Refuge in Cleveland, and the last place
I’ve lived was with a Mrs. Hagood in Horsham.”
“Why, Horsham is twenty miles from here.”
“I wish it was twenty million miles.”
“But why?”
“Because,” her voice rising shrill with passion, “Mrs. Hagood was
horrid to me, and I ran away from her, I did; and I don’t care who
knows it, I don’t; and I’ll never go back to her for anybody, never,”
her cheeks flushing and her eyes flashing through her tears.
“In what way was Mrs. Hagood horrid to you?” questioned Mrs. Blossom.
For answer Posey tore open her collar and rolled up her sleeves showing
the marks still visible on her neck and arms. It needed now hardly an
inquiry to bring out the whole story, in which she omitted neither
what she had said to Mrs. Hagood nor the bite she had given her hand.
“And I’ll starve and die before I’ll go back to her,” she added in
conclusion.
“It’s a burning shame to treat a child like that, I don’t care what
she had done!” exclaimed Miss Silence. And Mrs. Patience added in her
gentle tone, “Poor child! wouldn’t you like something to eat?” for Mrs.
Patience had the idea that children were in a perpetual state of hunger.
“Was this Mrs. Hagood always cruel to you?” questioned Mrs. Blossom.
Posey hesitated a moment. “No, ma’am, I guess not. She gave me plenty
to eat, but she scolded me from morning till night, and wanted me to
work every minute. If she wasn’t always cruel she was never kind—” She
paused and looked from face to face—“and now I’m away from her I’m
going to stay away. The landlady at the hotel at Byfield will give me a
dollar a week to wash dishes, but I wish you knew of some other place
where I could live. I’d do everything I could to help, and I’d be real
good. I’m not bad always, indeed I’m not.” She did not say, “If I might
only stay here,” but her wistful eyes expressed the unspoken wish.
“Silence,” Mrs. Blossom spoke quickly, “will you go out in the orchard
and get some sweet apples to bake; and Posey can go with you.”
“Now, mother,” Miss Silence laid down in her lap the work she held,
“I don’t think it’s quite fair to send the child away while you and
Grandmother talk her over, for she knows as well as I that’s what you
would do. There’s only one thing _I_ shall consent to—that she stay
here till a suitable place is found for her.”
“Thee will always be the same impulsive, impetuous Silence as long as
thee lives.” Grandmother Sweet’s face crinkled in a smile. Though
an attentive listener she had not spoken before. She turned to her
daughter, “I have nothing to say for my part, Elizabeth, that the young
girl might not hear, indeed that I would not prefer she should hear.
“And in the first place, my dear,” to Posey, “thee is not free from
blame thyself; from thy own words thee has failed in duty to one older
than thyself, and yielded to the angry passion of thine own heart, and
thus, it well may be, has failed of the lesson God meant for thee. For
always remember, child, God puts us in no place he will not give us
strength to fill, or sends us no trial that will not be for our good if
rightly endured. At the same time if thy story is true, and thee has a
truthful look, I do not think thee has been justly or rightly treated,
or that thy return would be wise or best.”
Then turning again to her daughter, “The leading of the Lord seems to
have brought her to our door. What is thy mind, Elizabeth?”
“Thee has spoken it exactly,” answered Mrs. Blossom, who often used
the Friends’ language in talking with her mother. “As thee says, she
seems to have been led to us, and I hope the time will never come when
any of God’s children find ours a closed door.”
“Oh, if you will let me stay I’ll do my very best!” cried Posey. “Do
you know I said yesterday that I didn’t believe God cared anything for
me, but Ben Pancost said He did, that probably God sent him to help me
then, and that He would take care of me again to-day, and I just think
He has.”
“Dear child,” and Grandmother Sweet put one of her soft, tremulous
hands on Posey’s head, “God’s love and care is over thee always; never
doubt it, even if thee has not the outward evidence.”
“I am going out to Cleveland next week for goods,” remarked Mrs.
Patience, “and I can go out to the Refuge and arrange about Posey.”
Miss Silence nodded. “Yes, and you know Cousin Allen Gloin’s wife has a
sister in Horsham; she will doubtless know of this Mrs. Hagood.”
Posey lifted her head proudly, “I hope you will see everybody who knows
me, and ask them all about me, for then you will find that I have told
the truth.”
“We are not doubting your word,” Miss Silence assured her; “it is on
your account as well as ours that we want to learn as much as possible.”
“All the same I want you to know that it is true,” she answered. “And—”
hesitating a little, “if you know some one in Horsham couldn’t I send a
word to Mr. Hagood? He will worry about me, I know he will, and he was
always so kind that I wish he could know where I am and how good you
are to let me stay. He won’t tell Mrs. Hagood anything about it. I am
sure he won’t.”