Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia, Mary Meehan,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
FAMILY PRIDE
OR
Purified by Suffering
BY MARY J. HOLMES
Author of "Dora Deane," "The English Orphans," "Homestead on the
Hillside," "Tempest and Sunshine," "Lena Rivers," "Meadowbrook," "Cousin
Maude," etc., etc.
CHAPTER I.
THE FARMHOUSE AT SILVERTON.
Uncle Ephraim Barlow, deacon of the orthodox church in Silverton,
Massachusetts, was an old-fashioned man, clinging to the old-time
customs of his fathers, and looking with but little toleration upon what
he termed the "new-fangled notions" of the present generation. Born and
reared amid the rocks and hills of the Bay State, his nature partook
largely of the nature of his surroundings, and he grew into manhood with
many a rough point adhering to his character, which, nevertheless, taken
as a whole, was, like the wild New England scenery, beautiful and grand.
None knew Uncle Ephraim Barlow but to respect him, and at the church
where he was a worshiper few would have been missed more than the tall,
muscular man, with the long, white hair, who Sunday after Sunday walked
slowly up the middle aisle to his accustomed seat before the altar, and
who regularly passed the contribution box, bowing involuntarily in token
of approbation when a neighbor's gift was larger than its wont, and
gravely dropping in his own ten cents--never more, never less--always
ten cents--his weekly offering, which he knew amounted in a year to just
five dollars and twenty cents. And still Uncle Ephraim was not stingy,
as the Silverton poor could testify, for many a load of wood and bag of
meal found entrance to the doors where cold and hunger would have
otherwise been, while to his minister he was literally a holder up of
the weary hands, and a comforter in the time of trouble.
His helpmeet, Aunt Hannah, like that virtuous woman mentioned in the
Bible, was one "who seeketh wool and flax, and worketh willingly with
her hands, who riseth while yet it is night, and giveth meat to her
household." Indeed, for this last stirring trait Aunt Hannah was rather
famous, especially on Monday mornings, when her washing was invariably
swinging on the line ready to greet the rising sun.
Miss Betsy Barlow, too, the deacon's maiden sister, was a character in
her way, and was surely not one of those vain, frivolous females to whom
the Apostle Paul had reference when he condemned the plaiting of hair
and the wearing of gold and jewels. Quaint, queer and simple-hearted,
she had but little idea of any world this side of heaven, except the one
bounded by the "huckleberry" hills and the crystal waters of Fairy Pond,
which from the back door of the farmhouse were plainly seen, both in the
summer sunshine and when the intervening fields were covered with the
winter snow.
The home of such a trio was, like themselves, ancient and unpretentious,
nearly one hundred years having elapsed since the solid foundation was
laid to a portion of the building. Unquestionably, it was the oldest
house in Silverton, for on the heavy, oaken door of what was called the
back room was still to be seen the mark of a bullet, left there by some
marauders who, during the Revolution, had encamped in that neighborhood.
George Washington, too, it was said, had once spent a night beneath its
roof, the deacon's mother pouring for him her Bohea tea and breaking her
home-made bread. Since that time several attempts had been made to
modernize the house. Lath and plaster had been put upon the rafters and
paper upon the walls, wooden latches had given place to iron, while in
the parlor, where Washington had slept, there was the extravagance of a
knob, a genuine porcelain knob, such, as Uncle Ephraim said, was only
fit for the gentry who could afford to be grand. For himself, he was
content to live as his father did; but young folks, he supposed, must in
some things have their way, and so when his pretty niece, who had lived
with him from childhood to the day of her marriage, came back to him a
widow, bringing her two fatherless children and a host of new ideas, he
good-humoredly suffered her to tear down some of his household idols
and replace them with her own. And thus it was that the farmhouse
gradually changed its appearance both outwardly and in, for young
womanhood which had but one glimpse of the outer world will not settle
down quietly amid fashions a century old. And Lucy Lennox, when she
returned to the farmhouse, was not quite the same as when she went away.
Indeed, Aunt Betsy in her guileless heart feared that she had actually
fallen from grace, imputing the fall wholly to Lucy's predilection for
a certain little book on whose back was written "Common Prayer," and at
which Aunt Betsy scarcely dared to look, lest she should be guilty of
the enormities practiced by the Romanists themselves. Clearer headed
than his sister, the deacon read the black-bound book, finding therein
much that was good, but wondering why, when folks promised to renounce
the pomps and vanities, they did not do so, instead of acting more stuck
up than ever. Inconsistency was the underlying strata of the whole
Episcopal Church, he said, and as Lucy, without taking any public step,
had still declared her preference for that church, he, too, in a
measure, charged her propensity for repairs to the same source with Aunt
Betsy; but, as he could really see no sin in what she did, he suffered
her in most things to have her way. But when she contemplated an attack
upon the huge chimney occupying the center of the building, he
interfered; for there was nothing he liked better than the bright fire
on the hearth when the evenings grew chilly and long, and the autumn
rain was falling upon the roof. The chimney should stand, he said; and
as no amount of coaxing could prevail on him to revoke his decision, the
chimney stood, and with it the three fireplaces, where, in the fall and
spring, were burned the twisted knots too bulky for the kitchen stove.
This was fourteen years ago, and in that lapse of time Lucy Lennox had
gradually fallen in with the family ways of living, and ceased to talk
of her cottage in Western New York, where her husband had died and where
were born her daughters, one of whom she was expecting home on the warm
July day when our story opens.
Kate, or Katy Lennox, our heroine, had been for a year an inmate of
Canandaigua Seminary, whither she was sent at the expense of a distant
relative to whom her father had been guardian, and who, during her
infancy, had also had a home with Uncle Ephraim, her mother having
brought her with her when, after her husband's death, she returned to
Silverton. Dr. Morris Grant he was now, and he had just come home from a
three years' sojourn in Paris, and was living in his own handsome
dwelling across the fields toward Silverton village, and half a mile or
more from Uncle Ephraim's farmhouse. He had written from Paris, offering
to send his cousins, Helen and Kate, to any school their mother might
select, and as Canandaigua was her choice, they had both gone thither a
year ago, Helen, the eldest, falling sick within the first three months,
and returning home to Silverton, satisfied that the New England schools
were good enough for her. This was Helen; but Katy was different. Katy
was more susceptible of polish and refinement--so the mother thought;
and as she arranged and rearranged the little parlor, lingering longest
by the piano, Dr. Morris' gift, she drew bright pictures of her favorite
child, wondering how the plain farmhouse and its inmates would seem to
her after Canandaigua and all she must have seen during her weeks of
travel since the close of the summer term. And then she wondered next
why Cousin Morris was so much annoyed when told that Katy had accepted
an invitation to accompany Mrs. Woodhull and her party on a trip to
Montreal and Lake George, taking Boston on her homeward route. Surely
Katy's movements were nothing to him, unless--and the little, ambitious
mother struck at random a few notes of the soft-toned piano as she
thought how possible it was that the interest always manifested by the
staid, quiet Morris Grant for her light-hearted Kate was more than a
brotherly interest, such as he would naturally feel for the daughter of
one who had been to him a second father. But Katy was so much a child
when he went away to Paris that it could not be. She would sooner think
of the dark-haired Helen, who was older and more like him.
"It's Helen, if anybody," she said aloud, just as a voice at the window
called out: "Please, Cousin Lucy, relieve me of these flowers. I brought
them over in honor of Katy's return."
Blushing guiltily, Mrs. Lennox advanced to meet a tall, dark-looking
man, with a grave, pleasant face, which, when he smiled, was strangely
attractive, from the sudden lighting up of the hazel eyes and the
glitter of the white, even teeth disclosed so fully to view.
"Oh, thank you, Morris! Kitty will like them, I am sure," Mrs. Lennox
said, taking from his hand a bouquet of the choice flowers which grew
only in the hothouse at Linwood. "Come in for a moment, please."
"No, thank you," the doctor replied. "There is a case of rheumatism just
over the hill, and I must not be idle if I would retain the practice
given to me. Not that I make anything but good will as yet, for only the
Silverton poor dare trust their lives in my inexperienced hands. But I
can afford to wait," and with another flash of the hazel eyes Morris
walked away a pace or two, but, as if struck with some sudden thought,
turned back, and fanning his heated face with his leghorn hat, said,
hesitatingly: "By the way, Uncle Ephraim's last payment on the old mill
falls due to-morrow. Tell him, if he says anything in your presence, not
to mind unless it is perfectly convenient. He must be somewhat
straitened just now, as Katy's trip cannot have cost him a small sum."
The clear, penetrating eyes were looking full at Mrs. Lennox, who for
a moment felt slightly piqued that Morris Grant should take so much
oversight of her uncle's affairs. It was natural, too, that he should,
she knew, for, widely different as were their tastes and positions in
life, there was a strong liking between the old man and the young, who,
from having lived nine years in the family, took a kindly interest in
everything pertaining to them.
"Uncle Ephraim did not pay the bills," Mrs. Lennox faltered at last,
feeling intuitively how Morris' delicate sense of propriety would shrink
from her next communication. "Mrs. Woodhull wrote that the expense
should be nothing to me, and as she is fully able, and makes so much of
Katy, I did not think it wrong."
"Lucy Lennox! I am astonished!" was all Morris could say, as the tinge
of wounded pride dyed his cheek.
Kate was a connection--distant, it is true; but his blood was in her
veins, and his inborn pride shrank from receiving so much from
strangers, while he wondered at her mother, feeling more and more
convinced that what he had so long suspected was literally true. Mrs.
Lennox was weak, Mrs. Lennox was ambitious, and for the sake of
associating her daughter with people whom the world had placed above
her she would stoop to accept that upon which she had no claim.
"Mrs. Woodhull was so urgent and so fond of Katy; and then, I thought it
well to give her the advantage of being with such people as compose that
party, the very first in Canandaigua, besides some from New York," Mrs.
Lennox began in self-defense, but Morris did not stop to hear more, and
hurried off a second time, while Mrs. Lennox looked after him, wondering
at the feeling which she called pride, and which she could not
understand. "If Katy can go with the Woodhulls and their set, I
certainly shall not prevent it," she thought, as she continued her
arrangement of the parlor, wishing so much that it was more like what
she remembered Mrs. Woodhull's to have been, fifteen years ago.
Of course that lady had kept up with the times, and if her old house was
finer than anything Mrs. Lennox had ever seen, what must her new one be,
with all the modern improvements? and, leaning her head upon the mantel,
Mrs. Lennox thought how proud she would be could she live to see her
daughter in similar circumstances to the envied Mrs. Woodhull, at that
moment in the crowded car between Boston and Silverton, tired, hot, and
dusty, worn out, and as nearly cross as a fashionable lady can be.
A call from Uncle Ephraim aroused her, and going out into the square
entry she tied his gingham cravat, and then handing him the big
umbrella, an appendage he took with him in sunshine and in storm, she
watched him as he stepped into his one-horse wagon and drove briskly
away in the direction of the depot, where he was to meet his niece.
"I wish Cousin Morris had offered his carriage," she thought, as the
corn-colored and white wagon disappeared from view. "The train stops
five minutes at West Silverton, and some of those grand people will be
likely to see the turnout," and with a sigh as she doubted whether it
were not a disgrace as well as an inconvenience to be poor, she repaired
to the kitchen, where sundry savory smells betokened a plentiful dinner.
Bending over the sink, with her cap strings tucked back, her sleeves
rolled up, and her short, purple calico shielded from harm by her broad,
motherly check apron, Aunt Betsy stood cleaning the silvery onions, and
occasionally wiping her dim old eyes as the odor proved too strong for
her. At another table stood Aunt Hannah, deep in the mysteries of the
light, white crust which was to cover the tender chicken boiling in the
pot, while in the oven bubbled and baked the custard pie, remembered
as Katy's favorite, and prepared for her coming by Helen
herself--plain-spoken, blue-eyed Helen--now out in the strawberry beds,
picking the few luscious berries which almost by a miracle had been
coaxed to wait for Katy, who loved them so dearly. Like her mother,
Helen had wondered how the change would impress her bright little
sister, for she remembered well that even to her obtuse perceptions
there had come a pang when, after only three months abiding in a place
where the etiquette of life was rigidly enforced, she had returned to
their homely ways, and felt that it was worse than vain to try to effect
a change. But Helen's strong sense, with the help of two or three good
cries, had carried her safely through, and her humble home amid the
hills was very dear to her now. But she was Helen, as the mother had
said; she was different from Katy, who might be lonely and homesick,
sobbing herself to sleep in her patient sister's arms, as she did on
that first night in Canandaigua, which Helen remembered so well.
"It's better, too, now, than when I came home," Helen thought, as with
her rich, scarlet fruit she went slowly to the house. "Morris is here,
and the new church, and if she likes she can teach in Sunday school,
though maybe she will prefer going with Uncle Ephraim. He will be
pleased if she does," and, pausing by the door, Helen looked across
Fairy Pond in the direction of Silverton village, where the top of a
slender spire was just visible--the spire of St. John's, built within
the year, and mostly, as it was whispered, at the expense of Dr. Morris
Grant, who, a zealous churchman himself, had labored successfully to
instill into Helen's mind some of his own peculiar views, as well as to
awaken in Mrs. Lennox's heart the professions which had lain dormant for
as long a time as the little black-bound book had lain on the cupboard
shelf, forgotten and unread.
How the doctor's views were regarded by the deacon's family we shall
see, perhaps, by and by. At present our story has to do with Helen,
holding her bowl of berries by the rear door and looking across the
distant fields. With one last glance at the object of her thoughts she
re-entered the house, where her mother was arranging the square table
for dinner, bringing out the white stone china instead of the mulberry
set kept for everyday use.
"We ought to have had some silver forks before Katy came home," she
said, despondingly, as she laid by each plate the three-lined forks of
steel, to pay for which Helen and Katy had picked huckleberries on the
hills and dried apples from the orchard.
"Never mind, mother," Helen answered, cheerily; "if Katy is as she used
to be, she will care more for us than for silver forks, and I guess she
is, for I imagine it would take a great deal to make her anything but a
warmhearted, merry little creature."
This was sensible Helen's tribute of affection to the little, gay,
chattering butterfly, at that moment an occupant of Uncle Ephraim's
corn-colored wagon, and riding with that worthy toward home, throwing
kisses to every barefoot boy and girl she met, and screaming with
delight as the old familiar waymarks met her view.
"There are the oxen, the darling oxen, and that's Aunt Betsy, with her
dress pinned up as usual," she cried, when at last the wagon stopped
before the door; and the four women stepped hurriedly out to meet her,
almost smothering her with caresses, and then holding her off to see if
she had changed.
She was very stylish in her pretty traveling dress of gray, made under
Mrs. Woodhull's supervision, and nothing could be more becoming than her
jaunty hat, tied with ribbons of blue, while the dainty kids, bought to
match the dress, fitted her fat hands charmingly, and the little
high-heeled boots of soft prunella were faultless in their style. She
was very attractive in her personal appearance, and the mental verdict
of the four females regarding her intently was something as follows:
Mrs. Lennox detected unmistakable marks of the grand society she had
been mingling in, and was pleased accordingly; Aunt Hannah pronounced
her "the prettiest creeter she had ever seen;" Aunt Betsy decided that
her hoops were too big and her clothes too fine for a Barlow; while
Helen, who looked beyond dress, or style, or manner, straight into her
sister's soft, blue eyes, brimming with love and tears, decided that
Katy was not changed for the worse. Nor was she. Truthful, loving,
simple-hearted and full of playful life she had gone from home, and she
came back the same--never once thinking of the difference between the
farmhouse and Mrs. Woodhull's palace, or if she did, giving the
preference to the former.
"It was perfectly splendid to get home," she said, handing her gloves
to Helen, her sunshade to her mother, her satchel to Aunt Hannah, and
tossing her bonnet in the vicinity of the water pail--from which it was
saved by Aunt Betsy, who, remembering the ways of her favorite child,
put it carefully in the press, examining it closely first and wondering
how much it cost.
Deciding that "it was a good thumpin' price," she returned to the
kitchen, where Katy, dancing and curveting in circles, scarcely stood
still long enough for them to see that in spite of boarding school fare,
of which she had complained so bitterly, her cheeks were rounded, her
eyes brighter, and her lithe little figure fuller than of old. She had
improved in looks, but she did not appear to know it, or to guess how
beautiful she was in the fresh bloom of seventeen, with her golden hair
waving around her childish forehead, and her deep, blue eyes laughing so
expressively with each change of her constantly varying face. Everything
animate and inanimate pertaining to the old house was noticed by her.
She kissed the kitten, squeezed the cat, hugged the dog, and hugged the
little goat, tied to his post in the clover yard and trying so hard to
get free. The horse, to whom she fed handfuls of grass, had been already
hugged. She did that the first thing after strangling Uncle Ephraim as
she alighted from the train, and some from the car window saw it, too,
smiling at what they termed the charming simplicity of an enthusiastic
schoolgirl. Blessed youth! blessed early girlhood, surrounded by a halo
of rare beauty! It was Katy's shield and buckler, warding off many a
cold criticism which might otherwise have been passed upon her.
They were sitting down to dinner now, and the deacon's voice trembled
as, with the blessing invoked, he thanked God for bringing back to them
the little girl, whose head was for a moment bent reverently, but
quickly lifted itself up as its owner, in the same breath with that in
which the deacon uttered his amen, declared how hungry she was, and went
into rhapsodies over the nicely cooked viands which loaded the table.
The best bits were hers that day, and she refused nothing until it came
to Aunt Betsy's onions, once her special delight, but now declined,
greatly to the distress of the old lady, who, having been on the watch
for "quirks," as she styled any departure from long-established customs,
now knew she had found one, and with an injured expression withdrew the
offered bowl, saying sadly: "You used to eat 'em raw, Catherine; what's
got into you?"
It was the first time Aunt Betsy had called a name so obnoxious to Kate,
especially when, as in the present case, great emphasis was laid upon
the "rine," and from past experience Katy knew that her good aunt was
displeased. Her first impulse was to accept the dish refused; but when
she remembered her reason for refusing, she said, laughingly: "Excuse
me, Aunt Betsy, I love them still, but--but--well, the fact is, I am
going by and by to run over and see Cousin Morris, inasmuch as he was
not polite enough to come here, and you know it might not be so
pleasant."
"The land!" and Aunt Betsy brightened. "If that's all, eat 'em. 'Tain't
noways likely you'll get near enough to him to make any difference--only
turn your head when you shake hands."
But Katy remained incorrigible, while Helen, who guessed that her
impulsive sister was contemplating a warmer greeting of the doctor than
a mere shaking of his hands, kindly turned the conversation by telling
how Morris was improved by his tour abroad, and how much the poor people
thought of him.
"He is very fine looking, too," she said, whereupon Katy involuntarily
exclaimed: "I wonder if he is as handsome as Wilford Cameron? Oh, I
never wrote about him, did I?" and the little maiden began to blush as
she stirred her tea industriously.
"Who is Wilford Cameron?" asked Mrs. Lennox.
"Oh, he's Wilford Cameron, that's all; lives on Fifth Avenue--is a
lawyer--is very rich--a friend of Mrs. Woodhull, and was with us in
our travels," Katy answered, rapidly, the red burning on her cheeks so
brightly that Aunt Betsy innocently passed her a big feather fan, saying
she looked mighty hot.
And Katy was warm, but whether from talking of Wilford Cameron or not
none could tell. She said no more of him, but went on to speak of
Morris, asking if it were true, as she had heard, that he built the
new church in Silverton.
"Yes, and runs it, too," Aunt Betsy answered, energetically, proceeding
to tell what goin's-on they had, with the minister shiftin' his clothes
every now and ag'in, and the folks all talkin' together. "Morris got me
in once," she said, "and I thought meetin' was left out half a dozen
times, so much histin' round as there was. I'd as soon go to a show, if
it was a good one, and I told Morris so. He laughed and said I'd feel
different when I knew 'em better; but needn't tell me that prayers made
up is as good as them as isn't, though Morris, I do believe, will get to
heaven a long ways ahead of me, if he is a 'Piscopal."
To this there was no response, and being launched on her favorite topic,
Aunt Betsy continued:
"If you'll believe it, Helen here is one of 'em, and has got a sight
of 'Piscopal quirks into her head. Why, she and Morris sing that
talkin'-like singin' Sundays when the folks git up and Helen plays the
accordeon."
"Melodeon, aunty, melodeon," and Helen laughed merrily at her aunt's
mistake, turning the conversation again, and this time to Canandaigua,
where she had some acquaintances.
But Katy was so much afraid of Canandaigua, and what talking of it might
lead to, that she kept to Cousin Morris, asking innumerable questions
about him, his house and grounds, and whether there were as many
flowers there now as there used to be in the days when she and Helen
went to say their lessons at Linwood, as they had done before Morris
sailed for Europe.
"I think it right mean in him not to be here to see me," she said,
poutingly, "and I am going over as quick as I eat my dinner."
But against this all exclaimed at once. She was too tired, the mother
said. She must lie down and rest, while Helen suggested that she had not
yet told them about her trip, and Uncle Ephraim remarked that she would
not find Morris home, as he was going that afternoon to Spencer. This
last settled it. Katy must stay at home; but instead of lying down or
talking much about her journey, she explored every nook and crevice of
the old house and barn, finding the nest Aunt Betsy had so long looked
for in vain, and proving to the anxious dame that she was right when she
insisted that the speckled hen had stolen her nest and was in the act of
setting. Later in the day, and a neighbor passing by spied the little
maiden riding in the cart off into the meadow, where she sported like a
child among the mounds of fragrant hay, playing her jokes upon the sober
deacon, who smiled fondly upon her, feeling how much lighter the labor
seemed because she was there with him, a hindrance instead of a help, in
spite of her efforts to handle the rake skillfully.
"Are you glad to have me home again, Uncle Eph?" she asked, when once
she caught him regarding her with a peculiar look.
"Yes, Katy-did, very glad," he answered. "I've missed you every day,
though you do nothing much but bother me."
"Why did you look funny at me just now?" Katy continued, and the deacon
replied: "I was thinking how hard it would be for such a highty-tighty
thing as you to meet the crosses and disappointments which lie all along
the road which you must travel. I should hate to see your young life
crushed out of you, as young lives sometimes are."
"Oh, never fear for me. I am going to be happy all my life long. Wilford
Cameron said I ought to be," and Katy tossed into the air a wisp of the
new-made hay.
"I don't know who Wilford Cameron is, but there's no ought about it,"
the deacon rejoined. "God marks out the path for us to walk in, and when
he says it's best, we know it is, though some are straight and pleasant
and others crooked and hard."
"I'll choose the straight and pleasant, then--why shouldn't I?" Kate
asked, laughingly, as she seated herself upon a rock near which the hay
cart had stopped.
"Can't tell what path you'll take," the deacon answered. "God knows
whether you'll go easy through the world, or whether he'll send you
suffering to purify and make you better."
"Purified by suffering," Kate said aloud, while a shadow involuntarily
crept for an instant over her gay spirits.
She could not believe she was to be purified by suffering. She had never
done anything very bad, and humming a part of a song learned from
Wilford Cameron, she followed after the loaded cart, returning slowly to
the house, thinking to herself that there must be something great and
good in the suffering which should purify at last, but hoping she was
not the one to whom this great good should come.
It was supper time ere long, and after that was over Kate announced her
intention of going now to Linwood, Morris' home, whether he were there
or not.
"I can see the housekeeper and the birds and flowers, and maybe he will
come pretty soon," she said, as she swung her straw hat by the string
and started from the door.
"Ain't Helen going with you?" Aunt Hannah asked, while Helen herself
looked a little surprised.
But Katy would rather go alone. She had a heap to tell Cousin Morris,
and Helen could go next time.
"Just as you like;" Helen answered, good-naturedly; but there was a
half-dissatisfied, wistful look on her face as she watched her young
sister tripping across the fields to call on Morris Grant.