MISS BLESSING CALLS ON RACHEL MILLER.
On the following Saturday afternoon, Rachel Miller sat at the front
window of the sitting-room, and arranged her light task of sewing and
darning, with a feeling of unusual comfort. The household work of the
week was over; the weather was fine and warm, with a brisk drying breeze
for the hay on the hill-field, the last load of which Joseph expected to
have in the barn before his five o'clock supper was ready. As she looked
down the valley, she noticed that the mowers were still swinging their
way through Hunter's grass, and that Cunningham's corn sorely needed
working. There was a different state of things on the Asten place.
Everything was done, and well done, up to the front of the season. The
weather had been fortunate, it was true; but Joseph had urged on the
work with a different spirit. It seemed to her that he had taken a new
interest in the farm; he was here and there, even inspecting with his
own eyes the minor duties which had been formerly intrusted to his man
Dennis. How could she know that this activity was the only outlet for a
restless heart?
If any evil should come of his social recreation, she had done her duty;
but no evil seemed likely. She had always separated his legal from his
moral independence; there was no enactment establishing the period when
the latter commenced, and it could not be made manifest by documents,
like the former. She would have admitted, certainly, that her
guardianship must cease at some time, but the thought of making
preparation for that time had never entered her head. She only
understood conditions, not the adaptation of characters to them. Going
back over her own life, she could recall but little difference between
the girl of eighteen and the woman of thirty. There was the same place
in her home, the same duties, the same subjection to the will of her
parents—no exercise of independence or self-reliance anywhere, and no
growth of those virtues beyond what a passive maturity brought with it.
Even now she thought very little about any question of life in
connection with Joseph. Her parents had trained her in the discipline of
a rigid sect, and she could not dissociate the idea of morality from
that of solemn renunciation. She could not say that social pleasures
were positively wrong, but they always seemed to her to be enjoyed on
the outside of an open door labelled "Temptation;" and who could tell
what lay beyond? Some very good people, she knew, were fond of company,
and made merry in an innocent fashion; they were of mature years and
settled characters, and Joseph was only a boy. The danger, however, was
not so imminent: no fault could be found with his attention to duty, and
a chance so easily escaped was a comfortable guaranty for the future.
In the midst of this mood (we can hardly say train of thought), she
detected the top of a carriage through the bushes fringing the lane. The
vehicle presently came into view: Anna Warriner was driving, and there
were two other ladies on the back seat. As they drew up at the
hitching-post on the green, she recognized Lucy Henderson getting out;
but the airy creature who sprang after her,—the girl with dark, falling
ringlets,—could it be the stranger from town? The plain, country-made
gingham dress, the sober linen collar, the work-bag on her arm—could
they belong to the stylish young lady whose acquaintance had turned
Anna's head?
A proper spirit of hospitality required her to meet the visitors at the
gate; so there was no time left for conjecture. She was a little
confused, but not dissatisfied at the chance of seeing the stranger.
"We thought we could come for an hour this afternoon, without disturbing
you," said Anna Warriner. "Mother has lost your receipt for pickling
cherries, and Bob said you were already through with the hay-harvest;
and so we brought Julia along—this is Julia Blessing."
"How do you do?" said Miss Blessing, timidly extending her hand, and
slightly dropping her eyelids. She then fell behind Anna and Lucy, and
spoke no more until they were all seated in the sitting-room.
"How do you like the country by this time?" Rachel asked, feeling that a
little attention was necessary to a new guest.
"So well that I think I shall never like the city again," Miss Blessing
answered. "This quiet, peaceful life is such a rest; and I really never
before knew what order was, and industry, and economy."
She looked around the room as she spoke, and glanced at the barn through
the eastern window.
"Yes, your ways in town are very different," Rachel remarked.
"It seems to me, _now_, that they are entirely artificial. I find myself
so ignorant of the proper way of living that I should be embarrassed
among you, if you were not all so very kind. But I am trying to learn a
little."
"O, we don't expect too much of town's-folks," said Rachel, in a much
more friendly tone, "and we're always glad to see them willing to put up
with our ways. But not many are."
"Please don't count _me_ among those!" Miss Blessing exclaimed.
"No, indeed, Miss Rachel!" said Anna Warriner; "you'd be surprised to
know how Julia gets along with everything—don't she, Lucy?"
"Yes, she's very quick," Lucy Henderson replied.
Miss Blessing cast down her eyes, smiled, and shook her head.
Rachel Miller asked some questions which opened the sluices of Miss
Warriner's gossip—and she had a good store of it. The ways and doings of
various individuals were discussed, and Miss Blessing's occasional
remarks showed a complete familiarity with them. Her manner was grave
and attentive, and Rachel was surprised to find so much unobtrusive good
sense in her views. The reality was so different from her previously
assumed impression, that she felt bound to make some reparation. Almost
before she was aware of it, her manner became wholly friendly and
pleasant.
"May I look at your trees and flowers?" Miss Blessing asked, when the
gossip had been pretty well exhausted.
They all arose and went out on the lawn. Rose and woodbine, phlox and
verbena, passed under review, and then the long, rounded walls of box
attracted Miss Blessing's eye. This was a feature of the place in which
Rachel Miller felt considerable pride, and she led the way through the
garden gate. Anna Warriner, however, paused, and said:—
"Lucy, let us go down to the spring-house. We can get back again before
Julia has half finished her raptures."
Lucy hesitated a moment. She looked at Miss Blessing, who laughed and
said, "O, don't mind me!" as she took her place at Rachel's side.
The avenue of box ran the whole length of the garden, which sloped
gently to the south. At the bottom the green walls curved outward,
forming three-fourths of a circle, spacious enough to contain several
seats. There was a delightful view of the valley through the opening.
"The loveliest place I ever saw!" exclaimed Miss Blessing, taking one of
the rustic chairs. "How pleasant it must be, when you have all your
neighbors here together!"
Rachel Miller was a little startled; but before she could reply, Miss
Blessing continued:—
"There is such a difference between a company of young people here in
the country, and what is called 'a party' in the city. There it is all
dress and flirtation and vanity, but here it is only neighborly visiting
on a larger scale. I have enjoyed the quiet company of all your folks
_so_ much the more, because I felt that it was so very innocent. Indeed,
I don't see how anybody _could_ be led into harmful ways here."
"I don't know," said Rachel: "we must learn to mistrust our own hearts."
"You are right! The best are weak—of themselves; but there is more
safety where all have been brought up unacquainted with temptation. Now,
you will perhaps wonder at me when I say that I could trust the young
men—for instance, Mr. Asten, your nephew—as if they were my brothers.
That is, I feel a positive certainty of their excellent character. What
they say they mean: it is otherwise in the city. It is delightful to see
them all together, like members of one family. You must enjoy it, I
should think, when they meet here."
Rachel Miller's eyes opened wide, and there was both a puzzled and a
searching expression in the look she gave Miss Blessing. The latter,
with an air of almost infantine simplicity, her lips slightly parted,
accepted the scrutiny with a quiet cheerfulness which seemed the
perfection of candor.
"The truth is," said Rachel, slowly, "this is a new thing. I hope the
merry-makings are as innocent as you think; but I'm afraid they unsettle
the young people, after all."
"Do you, really?" exclaimed Miss Blessing. "What have you seen in them
which leads you to think so? But no—never mind my question; you may have
reasons which I have no right to ask. Now, I remember Mr. Asten telling
Anna and Lucy and myself, how much he should like to invite his friends
here, if it were not for a duty which prevented it; and a duty, he said,
was more important to him than a pleasure."
"Did Joseph say that?" Rachel exclaimed.
"O, perhaps I oughtn't to have told it," said Miss Blessing, casting
down her eyes and blushing in confusion: "in that case, _please_ don't
say anything about it! Perhaps it was a duty towards you, for he told me
that he looked upon you as a second mother."
Rachel's eyes softened, and it was a little while before she spoke.
"I've tried to do my duty by him," she faltered at last, "but it
sometimes seems an unthankful business, and I can't always tell how he
takes it. And so he wanted to have a company here?"
"I am so sorry I said it!" cried Miss Blessing. "I never thought you
were opposed to company, on principle. Miss Chaffinch, the minister's
daughter, you know, was there the last time; and, really, if you could
see it—But it is presumptuous in me to say anything. Indeed, I am not a
fair judge, because these little gatherings have enabled me to make such
pleasant acquaintances. And the young men tell me that they work all the
better after them."
"It's only on _his_ account," said Rachel.
"Nay, I'm sure that the last thing Mr. Asten would wish would be your
giving up a principle for his sake! I know, from his face, that his own
character is founded on principle. And, besides, here in the country,
you don't keep count of hospitality, as they do in the city, and feel
obliged to return as much as you receive. So, if you will try to forget
what I have said—"
Rachel interrupted her. "I meant something different. Joseph knows why I
objected to parties. He must not feel under obligations which I stand in
the way of his repaying. If he tells me that he should like to invite
his friends to this place, I will help him to entertain them."
"You _are_ his second mother, indeed," Miss Blessing murmured, looking
at her with a fond admiration. "And now I can hope that you will forgive
my thoughtlessness. I should feel humiliated in his presence, if he knew
that I had repeated his words. But he will not ask you, and this is the
end of any harm I may have done."
"No," said Rachel, "he will not ask me; but won't I be an offence in his
mind?"
"I can understand how you feel—only a woman can judge a woman's heart.
Would you think me too forward if I tell you what might be done, this
once?"
She stole softly up to Rachel as she spoke, and laid her hand gently
upon her arm.
"Perhaps I am wrong—but if _you_ were first to suggest to your nephew
that if he wished to make some return for the hospitality of his
neighbors,—or put it in whatever form you think best,—would not that
remove the 'offence' (though he surely cannot look at it in that light),
and make him grateful and happy?"
"Well," said Rachel, after a little reflection, "if anything is done,
that would be as good a way as any."
"And, of course, you won't mention me?"
"There is no call to do it—as I can see."
"Julia, dear!" cried Anna from the gate; "come and see the last load of
hay hauled into the barn!"
"I should like to see it, if you will excuse me," said Miss Blessing to
Rachel; "I have taken quite an interest in farming."
As they were passing the porch, Rachel paused on the step and said to
Anna: "You'll bide and get your suppers?"
"I don't know," Anna replied: "we didn't mean to; but we stayed longer
than we intended—"
"Then you can easily stay longer still."
There was nothing unfriendly in Rachel's blunt manner. Anna laughed,
took Miss Blessing by the arm, and started for the barn. Lucy Henderson
quietly turned and entered the house, where, without any offer of
services, she began to assist in arranging the table.
The two young ladies took their stand on the green, at a safe distance,
as the huge fragrant load approached. The hay overhung and concealed the
wheels, as well as the hind quarters of the oxen, and on the summit
stood Joseph, in his shirt-sleeves and leaning on a pitch-fork. He bent
forward as he saw them, answering their greetings with an eager,
surprised face.
"O, take care, take care!" cried Miss Blessing, as the load entered the
barn-door; but Joseph had already dropped upon his knees and bent his
shoulders. Then the wagon stood upon the barn-floor; he sprang lightly
upon a beam, descended the upright ladder, and the next moment was
shaking hands with them.
"We have kept our promise, you see," said Miss Blessing.
"Have you been in the house yet?" Joseph asked, looking at Anna.
"O, for an hour past, and we are going to take supper with you."
"Dennis!" cried Joseph, turning towards the barn, "we will let the load
stand to-night."
"How much better a man looks in shirt-sleeves than in a dress-coat!"
remarked Miss Blessing aside to Anna Warriner, but not in so low a tone
as to prevent Joseph from hearing it.
"Why, Julia, you are perfectly countrified! I never saw anything like
it!" Anna replied.
Joseph turned to them again, with a bright flush on his face. He caught
Miss Blessing's eyes, full of admiration, before the lids fell modestly
over them.
"So you've seen my home, already?" he said, as they walked slowly
towards the house.
"O, not the half yet!" she answered, in a low, earnest tone. "A place so
lovely and quiet as this cannot be appreciated at once. I almost wish I
had not seen it: what shall I do when I must go back to the hot
pavements, and the glaring bricks, and the dust, and the hollow,
artificial life?" She tried to check a sigh, but only partially
succeeded; then, with a sudden effort, she laughed lightly, and added:
"I wonder if everybody doesn't long for something else? Now, Anna, here,
would think it heavenly to change places with me."
"Such privileges as you have!" Anna protested.
"Privileges?" Miss Blessing echoed. "The privilege of hearing scandal,
of being judged by your dress, of learning the forms and manners,
instead of the good qualities, of men and women? No! give me an
independent life."
"Alone?" suggested Miss Warriner.
Joseph looked at Miss Blessing, who made no reply. Her head was turned
aside, and he could well understand that she must feel hurt at Anna's
indelicacy.
In the house Rachel Miller and Lucy had, in the mean time, been occupied
with domestic matters. The former, however, was so shaken out of her
usual calm by the conversation in the garden, that in spite of prudent
resolves to keep quiet, she could not restrain herself from asking a
question or two.
"Lucy," said she, "how do you find these evening parties you've been
attending?"
"They are lively and pleasant,—at least every one says so."
"Are you going to have any more?"
"It seems to be the wish," said Lucy, suddenly hesitating, as she found
Rachel's eyes intently fixed upon her face.
The latter was silent for a minute, arranging the tea-service; but she
presently asked again: "Do you think Joseph would like to invite the
young people here?"
"She has told you!" Lucy exclaimed, in unfeigned irritation. "Miss
Rachel, don't let it trouble you a moment: nobody expects it of you!"
Lucy felt, immediately, that her expression had been too frankly
positive; but even the consciousness thereof did not enable her to
comprehend its effect.
Rachel straightened herself a little, and said "Indeed?" in anything but
an amiable tone. She went to the cupboard and returned before speaking
again. "I didn't say anybody told me," she continued; "it's likely that
Joseph might think of it, and I don't see why people should expect me to
stand in the way of his wishes."
Lucy was so astonished that she could not immediately reply; and the
entrance of Joseph and the two ladies cut off all further opportunity of
clearing up what she felt to be an awkward misunderstanding.
"I must help, too!" cried Miss Blessing, skipping into the kitchen after
Rachel. "That is one thing, at least, which we can learn in the city.
Indeed, if it wasn't for housekeeping, I should feel terribly useless."
Rachel protested against her help, but in vain. Miss Blessing had a
laugh and a lively answer for every remonstrance, and flitted about in a
manner which conveyed the impression that she was doing a great deal.
Joseph could scarcely believe his eyes, when he came down from his room
in fresh attire, and beheld his aunt not only so assisted, but seeming
to enjoy it. Lucy, who appeared to be ill at ease, had withdrawn from
the table, and was sitting silently beside the window. Recalling their
conversation a few evenings before, he suspected that she might be
transiently annoyed on his aunt's account; she had less confidence,
perhaps, in Miss Blessing's winning, natural manners. So Lucy's silence
threw no shadow upon his cheerfulness: he had never felt so happy, so
free, so delighted to assume the character of a host.
After the first solemnity which followed the taking of seats at the
table, the meal proceeded with less than the usual decorum. Joseph,
indeed, so far forgot his duties, that his aunt was obliged to remind
him of them from time to time. Miss Blessing was enthusiastic over the
cream and butter and marmalade, and Rachel Miller found it exceedingly
pleasant to have her handiwork appreciated. Although she always did her
best, for Joseph's sake, she knew that men have very ignorant,
indifferent tastes in such matters.
When the meal was over, Anna Warriner said: "We are going to take Lucy
on her way as far as the cross-roads; so there will not be more than
time to get home by sunset."
Before the carriage was ready, however, another vehicle drove up the
lane. Elwood Withers jumped out, gave Joseph a hearty grip of his
powerful hand, greeted the others rapidly, and then addressed himself
specially to Lucy: "I was going to a township-meeting at the Corner,"
said he; "but Bob Warriner told me you were here with Anna, so I thought
I could save her a roundabout drive by taking you myself."
"Thank you; but I'm sorry you should go so far out of your road," said
Lucy. Her face was pale, and there was an evident constraint in the
smile which accompanied the words.
"O, he'd go twice as far for company," Anna Warriner remarked. "You know
I'd take you, and welcome, but Elwood has a good claim on you, now."
"I have no _claim_, Lucy," said Elwood, rather doggedly.
"Let us go, then," were Lucy's words.
She rose, and the four were soon seated in the two vehicles. They drove
away in the low sunshine, one pair chatting and laughing merrily as long
as they were within hearing, the other singularly grave and silent.
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