THE LITTLE BLACK TRUNK.
When Spring came, spirits and strength began to flag. Everything without
was so alluring, that indoors and duties grew dreadfully monotonous and
tiresome. Bea found that her sweeping and dusting fell terribly behind,
because she spent so much time sitting in the window-sills, and standing
in the doors, where the sunshine was so temptingly clear and warm, and
from where the yard and trees, so rapidly budding out, could be enjoyed.
Olive dreaded her close dark counting-room, but said little about it, in
the belief that complaining wouldn't help. Ernestine's four scholars
lessened to two, and as the days grew warmer she spent much of the time
on the lounge, looking listless, and betraying little interest in
anything.
Kittie and Kat, found that snatching moments from work, to take a race
down the yard, or gather some particular cluster of fresh young
blossoms, gave dish-water a chance to cool; or dust, left ready for
taking up, to blow back to all corners of the room. Meals began to fall
behind, but everybody was too warm and listless to eat much, or mind the
tardiness. In short, everybody had the spring fever, but such ordinary
complaint was not noticed, until, as the heat grew more debilitating,
Bea said to her mother one evening, as they stood in the door, looking
out into the soft still moonlight that lay so purely over the fresh
early grass and blossoms:--"Mama, seems to me Ernestine is not well."
Bea could not understand why her mother should start so, at such a
slight intimation, or why her face should look so anxious as she turned
it.
"Why, dear?"
"She lies down so much; it may be because the weather has turned warm so
suddenly, but seems to me, she is so pale and quiet, and it is something
so unusual, that I couldn't help but notice it; but then, may be, it's
nothing after all."
"Only the weather, I fancy," answered Mrs. Dering; but Bea saw that she
looked uneasy, and that all that evening she watched Ernestine, who lay
on the lounge, more lively than she had been for several days, with a
sparkling light in her eyes, and a rich color in her face, that made her
more beautiful than mother or sisters had ever seen her before. Bea
watched her mother with some anxiety and no little curiosity. How sad
and troubled her eyes looked, as they rested on Ernestine's radiant
face, while every now and then a tremble seized her lips, even while she
smiled at the continual merry nonsense that seemed to possess the girls
that night.
"Ernestine's going to run away," announced Kittie, presently, with some
abruptness; but no one but Bea, who was on the alert, saw how her mother
started, with a force that ran her needle clear under her thumb nail, or
how excessively pale she was as she wiped off the little drops of blood.
"That I am," laughed Ernestine gayly. "Some of these fine mornings I'll
be gone, and you'll find a touching little note on my pin-cushion; and
after I've earned piles of glory and money, I'll come back in an elegant
carriage, and set you all up in luxury."
Everybody laughed, and professed much impatience for the delightful time
to arrive; but Mrs. Dering pushed her sewing aside with an impatient
hand that trembled, and proposed that Ernestine sing for them, which she
immediately did, with a bewildering bird-like witchery, that held them
all entranced, and made the girls sigh more than once, that some of the
flute-like tones had not been given to them, as their talent.
Mrs. Dering's last look and words, when she left next morning, were for
Ernestine, who looked languid and pale in the sunshine, with all her
radiant sparkle and color gone, and no sound or look of song about her
lips; and after the hack had gone, and the girls returned to the house,
Kat said to Kittie, with much resentment in her voice:
"Ernestine always was the petted one in this family. Just see how
anxious mama is about her having a little spring fever, and what an easy
time she has, anyhow. Only two music scholars! I guess we've got the
spring fever just as bad as she has, but we have to work just as hard as
ever, and I don't think it is fair."
And Kittie, notwithstanding she had some such thoughts herself, answered
promptly:
"Well, I suppose there's a reason of some kind, because you know Kat,
mama never would do anything unfair. Perhaps she thinks Ernestine is
more delicate than we are."
"Delicate--fiddlesticks! I've three minds to believe it's because she's
got such big brown eyes and yellow hair, and is so--well--so--"
"Ain't you ashamed," interrupted Kittie, slamming down her dishes. "To
hint at such a thing, Kat Dering!"
The very next evening that brought Mrs. Dering home, brought her with a
proposition for Ernestine to go into the country for a week or two,
giving her two pupils a vacation for that length of time. Perhaps it
occurred to each of the girls that they needed the rest just as much,
if not a little more than Ernestine, and perhaps Mrs. Dering detected
the look in their faces, for she sighed, and Bea discovered that the
same sad look, only deepened and more anxious, lingered in her eyes; and
to show her repentance for a moment's complaining thought, she entered
heartily into Ernestine's selfish joy.
"Just think how I will ride horseback," cried Ernestine, gayly. "I must
fix out a habit some way, mama, and girls, you must let me have all your
pretty things, because Mrs. Raymond's girls dress beautifully, and
entertain a great deal."
"But my dear," spoke her mother, "I am sending you out there to rest, to
enjoy their lovely home, and to grow stronger on country air, not to
frolic and waste all your strength."
"Oh, mama, what an idea!" laughed Ernestine. "Why, I'm not sick, I don't
need rest, all I want is a little fun and something gay. Look at Bea;
she's as pale as a little ghost; you might talk about sending her out to
the country to be quiet, and drink milk, but not me. I don't need it."
And Ernestine nodded gayly to her own radiant reflection in the glass
opposite; then without waiting for any answer, jumped up and waltzed
around the room.
"What a blessing it is that Uncle Ridley gave us the dresses. My purple
is just as stylish as can be, only I do wish, mama, you'd have let me
had a train to it; I'm so tall, and plenty old enough. Bea, will you let
me have that pretty gilt butterfly that you fixed for your hair, and
your gold cuff pins? I've lost one of mine, and they are always such an
addition to one's dress. Olive, you never wore your new black kids much;
let me take them, will you? mine look worn, and I do love nice gloves;
they always mark a lady. And your new dress. I do need a black one
dreadfully, and you say you never will wear yours, so you might just as
well give it to me,--loan it, anyhow."
"You may have it, for all I care," answered Olive. "But my gloves are
one of the things that I cannot loan."
"Nor the dress," said Mrs. Dering, quickly. "You have quite enough
dresses, Ernestine, and besides, Olive's is from her Uncle Ridley, and
she cannot give it away."
Ernestine couldn't see any sense of having it lay upstairs in the
drawer, though she did not say so; and privately thought that perhaps
she could coax her mother around, since Olive was so willing. It proved
quite a vain idea, however, though she made it her last request in the
morning, before her mother left.
"No, Ernestine, I spoke quite as decidedly the first time you asked me.
Be all ready to go by this day week, you have not much sewing to do.
Good-bye, once more, my girls; be careful of the lights, take good care
of yourselves and do not get sick. Write to Jean to-morrow, a nice long
letter and tell her everything. Good-bye."
So she went away again, and nothing discouraged at her inability to
secure Olive's dress, Ernestine danced gayly into the house and off to
her room, to overlook, for the dozenth time, her little collection of
trinkets, and to sing blithely over her dresses; for she did possess the
spirit of coming down cheerfully to any thing inevitable excepting work,
and then, perhaps, mama would relent at the final moment, when she saw
how much a black dress was really needed.
"It's as lonesome as a desert, and Ernestine is selfish as a pig,"
declared Kittie, subsiding gloomily on to the stairs as the hack rattled
out of sight.
"Two solemn facts, but they won't wash the dishes," rejoined Kat,
balancing over the bannisters, in a way that threatened immediate
perpendicularity, with a change of base from what was customary.
"I hate dishes and dish-pans and everything," exclaimed Kittie with much
vehemence. "Any how, this is your week to wash, and mine to wipe; go
along and get the old things ready, and I'll be out in a minute."
"I'll change with you next week," said Beatrice turning from the door,
where she had stood contemplatively. "You and Kat may tend to all the
sweeping, and dusting, and keeping the house in order, and I'll do the
kitchen work."
"Hurrah, will you?" cried Kittie, flying up from her despondent
attitude. "You're a jewel, Bea, shake hands."
Bea surrendered her hand with some misgiving, rightfully conjecturing
that it would receive a shake and twist of over-powering heartiness in
the high tide of Kittie's spirits; and that young lady, having done her
best to dislocate that useful member, rushed off to impart the news to
Kat, and swing her dish rag jubilantly.
The change of instruments, as the girls said, took place Monday morning.
Bea awoke, to find her bed-posts ornamented variously, with a dish-pan,
a flaunting rag and two scrupulously neat towels, while there was a
sound of revelry in the lower hall, which would indicate that the twins
were up, and at their new branch of work, with a vigor which novelty
always imparts to labor. Not that there was anything so novel to a broom
or dust-pan, but they were so tired of their work, that Bea's really
seemed delightful and easy and much to be envied.
"You must have been anxious to get to work," said that sister, coming
down the stairs with her post ornaments, and interrupting a lively
skirmish, where brooms flew around through the air, with a cheerful
disregard for the swinging lamp, or any one's head.
"Anxious to get through, you mean," laughed Kat, throwing down her
weapon, and tumbling her dishevelled hair into a net. "Hollo, Kittie,
your corners are swept cleaner'n mine."
"Of course," answered Kittie complacently, and turning her broom right
end up, in a spasm of housewifely care. "You better go to work and do
yours over; that's in the bargain, isn't it, Bea?"
"Work to be done well," said Bea, surveying Kat's corners with a
critical eye. "And those are not clean; you've slipped right by them."
"Just as well," asserted Kat, whisking her broom about and scattering
the dust that disgraced a small corner over such extent of surface that
it could not be noticed. "That's the way. What's the use of being so
particular?"
Bea shook her head and declared it wouldn't do, then gave to Kittie the
overwhelming responsibility of keeping Kat straight, and departed for
the kitchen.
"Set the blind to lead the blind," laughed Kat, spinning about on her
heels, and finishing up with a hearty hug for Kittie, and the penitent
remark: "You are getting lots better than I, that's a fact; and I must
begin to brush up and sober down, or I'll be the black sheep of the
flock,--as if I wasn't always that. But you really are getting terrible
good, Kittie; I've seen it for a long time and it makes me
uncomfortable; spin around and be gay like you used to."
"Nonsense," laughed Kittie, then looked sober, and sat down upon the
stairs suddenly. "I'm not good, Kat, it isn't that; I don't know how to
be; but some way, I can't be as terribly wild and gay as I used to be,
there seems to be so much more to think about now, and seems to me we
ought to help think as much as the others, and besides, I don't think we
ought to be so wild any more; why, Kat, we're in our teens!"
"Suppose we are, dear me!" cried Kat, standing off and surveying her
sister with a sort of vague alarm, "what ever is the matter with this
family? Olive is getting so pleasant, and wears ribbons, and you're not
going to be wild any more, and have gone to thinking; you'll both die
next thing, good people always die; and anyhow, my fun's all up. I never
can be gay if you sit around so solemn and goody-goody;" and Kat rumpled
up her hair and looked desperate.
"The idea, what a speech!" exclaimed Kittie, looking as if her new
resolutions had received a shock. "As if I couldn't be sensible without
being goody-goody, whatever that is. Pick up your broom and don't worry,
my dear. I'll never die of being too good."
Nevertheless, Kat looked forlorn all the rest of the day, and had spells
of solemnly surveying Kittie, as though some wonderful change had taken
place, and a pair of wings, or some equally astonishing thing might be
the result. Next morning was as beautiful as a spring morning ever could
be, and Kat took much comfort in the fact, that, in her haste to get out
to the pond, Kittie flew about the sitting-room in a hurry, whisked the
dirt under the stove, didn't stop to dust, except a rapid skim over the
top, left the piano shut, neglected to put fresh flowers under father's
portrait, and shut the blinds so as to hide all defects under a
comfortable shielding gloom. Kat looked on and felt relieved. Kittie
wasn't going to be so dreadfully good and proper after all, and much
consoled, Kat put on her hat, and dashed out to the pond, where Kittie
was already sailing about, with her head still ornamented in a dust-cap.
Bea had watched their early departure from the field of work, with some
misgiving, and decided to go and take a view of the house as soon as she
got the dishes put away, but just at that moment, the door bell rang;
and dear me, what should she do? The twins were at the farthest end of
the pond, yelling like bedlamites, Bea declared. Ernestine had finished
her small share of work, then put on her cocked-up hat with a blue bow,
and gone down town; so there was no one left to see to the door, and
smoothing down her hair, Bea hurried through the hall with flushed
cheeks and some anxiety.
True to a prophetic feeling which possessed her, the opening of the door
disclosed to view the last person to be desired, on that or any other
morning: Miss Strong, a regular Dickensonian old maid.
"Good morning, sweet child!" she exclaimed, the moment Bea's dismayed
face presented itself.
"Good morning, Miss Strong; will you come in?"
"Come in? Surely, dear. I want to see you all; and then I hear that you
and your sisters are such model little housekeepers, and I think it is
so lovely that you all, in your heart-rending afflictions, should bow so
meekly beneath God's chastening rod, and put your shoulders to the
wheel."
Bea opened the sitting-room door in fear and trembling, and blinded by
the spring sunshine, Miss Strong walked into the dark room, in her
girlish, hasty way, and immediately stumbled over a footstool, and
landed at full length on the lounge, with such force that she dropped
her beaded reticule, and knocked her bonnet off.
"Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bea, running to pick up the things, and
return them to the startled and scarlet-faced spinster. "I don't know
why Kittie shut the blinds, she oughtn't to."
"No, I should say she hadn't, I should, indeed," returned Miss Strong,
putting on her bonnet with a jerk, and snapping her reticule. "It's a
sinful shame, the way some people keep their houses dark as dungeons, to
hide dirt and dust. I have heard that you were neat housekeepers, but I
can't help having my opinion of people who shut out every speck of
light, and trip up respectable people in this way."
Poor Bea's face burned and burned, and her heart throbbed faster as she
went to the window, to open the blinds, feeling that her reputation was
at stake, and that the first ray of light would kindle the faggots. Not
a speck of dust, from the ceiling down, would escape Miss Strong's eagle
eyes, and oh, how she would talk about it! Well, it was done; she threw
them open, and turned around in the calmness of despair. The glaring
sunshine came boldly in, and danced over the dusty table, over the top
of the piano, where you might have written your name, right under the
stove where the dirt lay thick, all around the corners, into Miss
Strong's scornful, roving eyes, and into Bea's burning face. Miss Strong
was angry. She never liked to be seen or heard under a disadvantage, and
she surely had received an unreconcilable insult just now. Besides, she
always went about seeking whom she might devour; she wore little
spit-curls all over her sallow, wrinkled forehead, had a hooked nose, a
long, sharp chin, a dried-apple mouth, and two fiercely bright eyes,
that looked clear through you, and plainly indicated that she thought
you all wrong, and at fault. Whenever she heard any one praised, she
immediately set about finding a flaw somewhere, and heralded it to the
world, as soon as found. She knew the Dering family were not as nice and
worthy of praise and sympathy, as people seemed to think, and she had
come this morning on purpose to find out, and then correct the deluded
public mind. She was quite satisfied, and the "I-told-you-so" spirit
was so jubilant within her, that she could hardly keep from flaunting it
before Bea's distressed face. She satisfied herself, however, with
looking at each dusty article with great care, brushing some imaginary
specks from her dress, settling her bonnet, and asking abruptly:
"How's your mother? I haven't long to stay."
"She was quite well, thank you, the last time she was home," answered
Bea, watching those eagle eyes in terror.
"Umph! Pity she can't stay home," said Miss Strong, once more taking in
the room with an unmistakable glance.
"It's very lonely without her," assented Bea, catching sight of the
wilted flowers under her father's portrait, and fervently hoping that
her visitor's eye would not see them. But vain hope! Miss Strong's eyes
went straight from the dirt under the stove up to the neglected vase,
and she smiled in a way, that made Bea long to jump up and scream.
"I have often wanted to see your father's portrait, and I have heard
what beautiful flowers you always kept under it. So lovely!"
"We do," answered Bea, with much dignity, and flashing a resentful
glance at Miss Strong. "Papa loved flowers dearly, and we always love to
have them under his picture; but Kittie must have been in a hurry, and
forgotten it this morning."
"In-deed," said Miss Strong slowly. "But excuse me, pray do, I wouldn't
have spoken of it, but I supposed, of course, that this room had not
been arranged for the day yet."
"Well, it is very early," retorted Bea, stung quite out of her patient
politeness; and Miss Strong got up immediately, shutting her mouth with
a vicious snap.
"I'm sure I wouldn't have called so early," she said shortly. "But I am
soliciting for the Church Fund, and having heard how exceedingly
generous and willing you all were to give to all such causes, I made my
first call here, confident that it would yield me encouragement."
Poor Bea colored violently again, remembering that she only had enough
money to pay the grocery bill, due to-morrow, and yet Miss Strong had
made her feel as though she must give something; every one would expect
it.
"I'm very sorry," she said, slowly. "But I really cannot this morning."
"In-deed," said Miss Strong again. "But then, people will be mistaken
once in a while; I must bid you good morning, Miss Dering;" and out she
stalked, before Bea could gain her breath.
When Kittie and Kat came in from the pond a little while later, they
found Bea, lying on the lounge and sobbing, with a despairing energy,
that excited their liveliest alarm, and made all horrible things seem
possible, from mother's death down to the breaking of the cherished
family tea-pot. Bea told her story, but hadn't room to remonstrate, for
the sobs that caught her breath; and the girls listened in grave alarm.
"Who cares for old Polly Strong?" cried Kat, with defiant irreverence,
and throwing her hat to the ceiling.
"Well, I'm sorry," cried Kittie, running to comfort the prostrate chief.
"It's all my fault; Kat swept the parlor this morning and I cleaned in
here. Oh, I am ashamed, and so sorry, Bea dear."
"Well--well, I think it's too--too bad," sobbed Bea, uncomforted. "She
talked so mean, and--and--she'll tell everybody that--that--I'm no
housekeeper, and then--then, mama--"
"If she does," interrupted Kat fiercely, "I'll tell every mortal man,
woman and child, in turn, that she's a meddling old thing, if they don't
know it already; and I'll tell them just the truth about this room,
too."
"It was horrible in me," sighed Kittie in great self-reproach. "And when
you were so kind as to change, too. We'll go right back to the dishes,
Bea, and not disgrace your work any more, and I'll go right to work and
clean this room decent, so that everything will shine until you can see
your face in it."
By this time Ernestine's wardrobe was pretty near ready to go upon her
visit. She had exercised her ingenuity in making few things look their
best and go a long way; and her selfishness in getting every available
thing from the girls, without ever expressing a wish that they were
going to share the pleasure; because, she reasoned in her mind, if they
were going, she couldn't have all their pretty things, so better be
still, than express an untruthful desire. On the day after the Strong
visit, she came from down-town, and walked up to the house, very much as
if she were a little ashamed to go in, but which she did, with an
assumption of indifference, and came into the room where the girls were
sitting.
"I've got the last things," she said with a laugh, tinged with an
uneasiness that no one noticed, and unwrapping a small parcel.
"What?" asked Bea, glancing up with interest; then looked at the open
paper, and did not say another word.
Kittie and Kat did likewise, and in a moment Ernestine broke the silence
with an impatient laugh.
"Well, what do you all look so horrified at? It was my own money, I
guess, and precious little at that."
"What did you pay for them?" asked Bea gravely.
"These--" Ernestine held up a pair of snowy kids, with three buttons--"I
got for a dollar and a half, cheap, because one finger is a little
soiled. This--" lifting a creamy tip, with pale blue shading--"was two
dollars. Won't it look lovely in my black hat?"
"Yes, it will look lovely," said Bea slowly; she was really too
astonished and hurt to say any more; but Kat cried out explosively:
"Oh Ernestine Dering! you selfish, selfish, old--pig, you--" "Know mama
wants shoes," interrupted Kittie, with her voice full of indignant
tears. "And you heard her say the last time she was home, that she did
not want to spend the money for them, and here you spend three dollars
and a half for--"
"Things that I want," finished Ernestine, getting up and pushing her
chair away. "I've worked hard, and I think I might spend a very little
bit of my own money. You all don't seem to think so, and you're not very
pleasant, so I'll just leave you until you are in a better humor."
With that she went out, feeling really as though she were more aggrieved
than aggressor, and stillness followed her departure.
"She's worked hard?" cried Kittie at length, with indignant scorn. "Very
hard; but mama hasn't, nor we haven't--"
"Oh don't, please," exclaimed Bea, bursting into tears. "Don't say
anything, girls; I don't know what I hadn't rather have, than for mama
to know that Ernestine would do such a thing. Oh, I wish she need never
to know it."
It did not take much thought to decide Ernestine, that she was much
abused, and though her usually laggard conscience insisted on being
touched, she solaced it by putting the tip in her hat, and seeing how
becoming it was, and by trying on the gloves, which were a perfect fit.
Then putting them away, she stole off to the garret, to carry out a
plan, made in secrecy--that of rummaging the packed trunks there, and
perhaps finding something that could be turned into a party dress, which
she was quite sure she would need. The garret was roomy and sunny, and
all the rest of the afternoon, Ernestine comforted herself, and her
abused feelings by hunting among the old trunks, and spinning many gay
dreams, wherein she dwelt in luxury, and all that heart could wish. She
had selected a pale green silk, and a fine soft lawn from her mother's
put aside wardrobe, and her mind's eye saw herself most becomingly, and
beautifully dressed in them--if mama would only consent.
Over in the corner, something caught her eye presently, that she had
never seen before. Only a small dark trunk with an air of secrecy about
it; and something irresistibly took her right over to it, with her arm
load of gay things.
"I wonder what it is," she mused, fingering the lock curiously, and
feeling so strange as she did so.
"Go away!" something seemed to say imperatively; but she lingered, and
fingered more curiously than ever the small key attached to a faded
ribbon.
"Go away! Go away!" seemed to come again that voice, and she felt it to
her inmost soul; but the very realization of an inward warning against
it, urged her on. She put the key in the lock,--and hesitated; turned it
slowly,--and hesitated again; then broke into a nervous little laugh,
and tossed the cover open.
[Illustration: "NOW LET'S SEE WHAT'S IN THIS WONDERFUL TRUNK."]
"Why I'm as cold as ice, what a goose! Now let's see what's in this
wonderful trunk to make me feel so funny; something splendid I guess,
but I couldn't help opening it, I really couldn't,--oh dear!"
It was of disappointment, for there was nothing there but a queer old
basket, a pillow, with a plain little slip, and a worn faded letter on
top.