WHAT WINTER BROUGHT
Oh, what a lovely white world it was! The low, sedgy places were frozen
over and covered with snow; the edges of the bay, Charles River, and
Mystic River were assuming their winter garments as well. And when, just
a week after, another snowstorm came, there seemed a multitude of white
peaks out in the harbor, and the hills were transformed into veritable
snow-capped mountains. Winter had set in with a rigor unknown to-day.
But people did not seem to mind it. Even the children had a good time
sledding and snowballing and building snow forts and fighting battles.
There were mighty struggles between the North Enders and the South
Enders. Louisburg was retaken, 1775 was re-enacted, and Paul Revere
again swung his lantern and roused his party to arms, and snowballs
whitened instead of darkening the air with the smoke of firearms. Deeds
of mighty prowess were done on both sides.
But the boys had the best of it surely. The girls had too much to do.
They were soon too large for romping and playing. There were stockings
to knit and to darn. There were long overseams in sheets; there was no
end of shirt-making for the men. They put the hems in their own frocks
and aprons, they stitched gussets and bands and seams. People were still
spinning and weaving, though the mills that were to lead the revolution
in industries had come in. The Embargo was taxing the ingenuity of
brains as well as hands, and as more of everything was needed for the
increase of population, new methods were invented to shorten processes
that were to make New England the manufacturing center of the new world.
When the children had nothing else to do there was always a bag of
carpet rags handy. There were braided rugs that were quite marvels of
taste, and even the hit-or-miss ones were not bad.
Still they were allowed out after supper on moonlight nights for an hour
or so, and then they had grand good times. The father or elder brothers
went along to see that no harm happened. Fort Hill was one of the
favorite coasting places, and parties of a larger growth thronged here.
But Beacon Hill had not been shorn of all its glory.
Uncle Winthrop came over one day and took the children and Betty to see
the battle at Fort Hill. The British had intrenched themselves with
forts and breastworks and had their colors flying. It really had been
hard work to enlist men or boys in this army. No one likes to go into a
fight with the foregone conclusion that he is to be beaten. But they
were to do their best, and they did it. The elders went out to see the
fun. The rebels directed all their energies to the capture of one fort
instead of opening fire all along the line, and by dusk they had
succeeded in demolishing that, when the troops on both sides were
summoned home to supper and to comfortable beds, an innovation not laid
down in the rules of warfare.
Little James had been fired with military ardor. Cousin Sam was the
leader of one detachment of the rebel forces. Catch him anywhere but on
the winning side!
Doris had been much interested as well, and that evening Uncle Leverett
told them stories about Boston thirty years before. He was a young man
of three-and-twenty when Paul Revere swung his lantern to give the
alarm. He could only touch lightly upon what had been such solemn
earnest to the men of that time, the women as well.
"I'm going to be a soldier," declared James, with all the fervor of his
youthful years. "But you can't ever be, Doris."
"No," answered Doris softly, squeezing Uncle Leverett's hand in both of
hers. "But there isn't any war."
"Yes there is--over in France and England, and ever so many places. My
father was reading about it. And if there wasn't any war here, couldn't
we go and fight for some other country?"
"I hope there will never be war in your time, Jimmie, boy," said his
grandmother. "And it is bedtime for little people."
"Why does it come bedtime so soon?" in a deeply aggrieved tone. "When I
am a big man I am going to sit up clear till morning. And I'll tell my
grandchildren all night long how I fought in the wars."
"That is looking a long way ahead," returned grandfather.
Besides the lessons, Doris was writing a letter to Miss Arabella. That
lady would have warmly welcomed any little scrawl in Doris' own hand.
Uncle Winthrop had acknowledged her safe arrival in good health, and
enlarged somewhat on the pleasant home she had found with her relatives.
Betty had overlooked the little girl's letter and made numerous
corrections, and she had copied and thought of some new things and
copied it over again. She had added a little French verse also.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth, "when will the child ever learn
anything useful! There doesn't seem any time. The idea of a girl of ten
years old never having knit a stocking! And she will be full that and
more!"
"But everybody doesn't knit," said Betty.
"Oh, yes, you can buy those flimsy French things that do not give you
any wear. And presently we may not be able to buy either French or
English. She is not going to be so rich either. It's nonsense to think
of that marshy land ever being valuable. Whatever possessed anyone to
buy it, I can't see! And if Doris was to be a queen I think she ought to
know something useful."
"I do not suppose I shall ever need to spin," Betty said rather archly.
Mrs. Leverett had insisted that all her girls should learn to spin both
wool and flax. Betty had rebelled a little two years ago, but she had
learned nevertheless.
"And there was a time when a premium was paid to the most skillful
spinner. Your grandmother, Betty, was among those who spun on the
Common. The women used to go out there with their wheels. And there were
spinning schools. The better class had to pay, but a certain number of
poor women were taught on condition that they would teach their children
at home. And it is not a hundred years ago either. There was no cloth to
be had, and Manufactory House was established."
Betty had heard the story of spinning on the Commons, for her own
grandmother had told it. But she had an idea that the world would go on
rather than retrograde. For now they were turning out cotton cloth and
printing calico and making canvas and duck, and it was the boast of the
famous _Constitution_ that everything besides her armament was made in
Massachusetts.
Uncle Winthrop thought Doris' letter was quite a masterpiece for a
little girl. At least, that was what he said. I think he was a good deal
more interested in that than in the sampler she had begun. And he agreed
privately with Betty that "useless" sometimes was misspelled into
"useful."
Another letter created quite a consternation. This was from Hartford.
Mrs. King wrote that a friend, a Mr. Eastman, was going from Springfield
to Boston on some business, and on his return he would bring Betty home
with him. His wife was going on to Hartford a few days later and would
be very pleased to have Betty's company. She did not know when another
chance would offer, for not many people were journeying about in the
winter.
Betty was to bring her nicest gowns, and she needed a good thick pelisse
and heavy woolen frock for outside wear. The new hats were very large,
and young girls were wearing white or cream beaver. Some very handsome
ones had come from New York recently. There was a big bow on the top,
and two feathers if you could afford it, and ribbon of the same width
tied under the chin. She was to bring her slippers and clocked
stockings, her newest white frock, and if she had to buy a new one of
any kind it need not be made until she came to Hartford.
"I never heard of such a thing!" declared Mrs. Leverett, aghast. "She
must think your father is made of money. And when 'Lecty and Matthias
were married they went to housekeeping in three rooms in old Mrs.
Morton's house, and 'Lecty was happy as a queen, and had to save at
every turn. She wasn't talking then about white hats and wide ribbons
and feathers and gewgaws. The idea!"
"Of course I can't have the hat," returned Betty resignedly. "But my
brown one will do. And, oh, isn't it lucky my silk is made and trimmed
with that beautiful lace! If I only had my white skirt worked! And that
India muslin might do with a little fixing up. If I had a lace ruffle to
put around the bottom!"
"I don't know how I can spare you, Betty. I can't put Doris to doing
anything. When any of my girls were ten years old they could do quite a
bit of housekeeping. If she wasn't so behind in her studies!"
Betty had twenty plans in a moment, but she knew her mother would object
to every one. She would be very discreet until she could talk the matter
over with her father.
"Everything about the journey is so nicely arranged," she began; "and,
you see, Electa says it will not cost anything to Springfield. There may
not be a chance again this whole winter."
"The summer will be a good deal pleasanter."
"But the Capital won't be nearly so"--"gay," she was about to say, but
changed it to "interesting."
"Betty, I do wish you were more serious-minded. To think you're sixteen,
almost a woman, and in some things you're just a companion for Doris!"
Betty thought it was rather hard to be between everything. She was not
old enough for society, she was not a young lady, but she was too old to
indulge in the frolics of girlhood. She couldn't be wise and sedate--at
least, she did not want to be. And were the fun and the good times
really wicked?
She was on the lookout for her father that evening. Warren was going to
the house of a friend to supper, as the debating society met there, and
it saved him a long walk.
"Father, Electa's letter has come," in a hurried whisper. "She's planned
out my visit, but mother thinks--oh, do try and persuade her, and make
it possible! I want to go so much."
But Betty began to think the subject never would be mentioned. Supper
was cleared away, Doris and James studied, and she sat and worked
diligently on her white gown. Then she knew her mother did not mean to
say a word before her and presently she went to bed.
Mrs. Leverett handed the letter over to her husband. "From 'Lecty," she
said briefly.
He read it and re-read it, while she knit on her stocking.
"Yes"--slowly. "Well--Betty might as well go. She has been promised the
visit so long."
"I can't spare her. Even if I sent James home, there's Doris. And I am
not as spry as I was ten years ago. The work is heavy."
"Oh, you must have someone. John Grant was in from Roxbury to-day. He
has two girls quite anxious to go out this winter. I think the oldest
means to marry next spring or summer, and wants to earn a little money."
"We can't take in everyone who wants to earn a little money."
"No," humorously. "It would bankrupt us these hard times. The keep would
be the same as for Betty, and a few dollars wages wouldn't signify."
"But Betty'll want no end of things. It does seem as if 'Lecty had
turned into a fine lady. Whether it would be a good influence on Betty!
She's never been serious yet."
"And Electa joined the church at fourteen. I think you can trust Betty
with her. To be sure, Mat's prospered beyond everything."
Prosperity and every good gift came from the Lord, Mrs. Leverett fully
believed. And yet David had seen the "ungodly in great prosperity." She
had a mother's pride in Mr. and Mrs. King, but they were rather gay with
dinner parties and everything.
"She will have to take Betty just as she is. Her clothes are good
enough."
Mr. Leverett re-read the letter. He wasn't much judge of white hats and
wide ribbons, and, since the time was short, perhaps Electa could help
her to spend the money to better advantage, and there would be no worry.
He would just slip a bill or two in Betty's hand toward the last.
"Betty's a nice-looking girl," said her father.
"I should be sorry to have her niceness all come out in looks," said
Betty's mother.
There was no reply to this.
"I really do not think she ought to go. There will be other winters."
"Well--we will sleep on the matter. We can't tell about next winter."
Warren thought she ought to go. Aunt Priscilla came over a day or two
after in Jonas Field's sleigh. He was out collecting, and would call for
her at half-past five, though she still insisted she was pretty
sure-footed in walking.
Mr. Perkins in a moment of annoyance had once said to his wife:
"Priscilla, you have one virtue, at least. One can always tell just
where to find you. You are sure to be on the opposition side."
She had a faculty of always seeing how the other side looked. She had a
curious sympathy with it as well. And though she was not an irresolute
woman, she did sometimes have a longing to go over to the enemy when it
was very attractive.
She listened now--and nodded at Mrs. Leverett's reasoning, adding the
pungency of her sniff. Betty's heart dropped like lead. True, she had
not really counted on Aunt Priscilla's influence.
"I just do suppose if 'Lecty was ill and alone, and wanted Betty,
there'd be no difficulty. It's the question between work and play. There
wan't much time to play when I was young, and now I wish I had some of
the work, since I'm too old to play. I do believe the thing ought to be
evened up."
This was rather non-committal, but the girl's heart rose a little.
"Oh, if 'Lecty was ill--but you know, Aunt Priscilla, they keep a man
beside the girl, and it seems to me she is always having a nurse when
the children are ailing, or a woman in to sew, or some extra help. She
doesn't _need_ Betty, and it seems as if I did."
"Now, if that little young one was good for anything!"
"She's at her lessons all the time, and she must learn to sew. I should
have been ashamed of my girls if they had not known how to make one
single garment by the time they were ten year old."
"But Doris isn't ten," interposed Betty. "And here is Electa's letter,
Aunt Priscilla."
"No, I don't see how I can spare Betty," said Mrs. Leverett decisively.
Aunt Priscilla took out her glasses and polished them and then adjusted
them to her rather high nose.
"Well, 'Lecty's got to be quite quality, hasn't she? And Matthias, too.
I suppose it's proper to give folks their whole name when they're
getting up in the world and going to legislatures. But land! I remember
Mat King when he was a patched-up, barefooted little boy. He was always
hanging after 'Lecty, and your uncle thought she might have done better.
'Lecty was real good-looking. And now they're top of the heap with
menservants and maidservants, and goodness knows what all."
"Yes, they have prospered remarkably."
"The Kings were a nice family. My, how Mis' King did keep them children,
five of them, when their father died, and not a black sheep among them!
Theron's a big sea captain, and Zenas in Washington building up the
Capitol, and I dare say Mat is thinking of being sent to Congress. Joe
is in the Army, and the young one keeps his mother a lady in New York,
I've heard say. Mis' King deserves some reward."
Betty glanced up in surprise. It was seldom Aunt Priscilla praised in
this wholesale fashion.
"And this about the hat is just queer, Betty. You should have seen old
Madam Clarissa Bowdoin, who came to call yesterday, with a fine sleigh
and driver and footman. She just holds on to this world's good things, I
tell you, and she's past seventy. My, how she was trigged out in a black
satin pelisse lined with fur! And she had a black beaver bonnet or hat,
whatever you call it, with a big bow on top, and two black feathers
flying. I should hate to have my feathers whip all out in such a windy
day."
"Oh, yes, that is the first style," said Betty. "Hartford can't keep it
all."
"Hartford can't hold a candle to Boston, even if Mat King is there.
Stands to reason we can get fashions just as soon here, if theirs do
come from New York. Madam was mighty fine. You see, I do have some
grand friends, Betty. Your uncle was a man well thought of."
"Madam Bowdoin holds her age wonderfully," said Mrs. Leverett.
"Yes. But she's never done a day's work in her life, and I don't
remember when I didn't work. Let me see--I've most forgot the thread of
my discourse. Oh, you never would believe, Betty, that twenty year ago
there was just such a fashion. I had a white beaver--what possessed me
to get it I don't know. Everything was awful high. I had an idea that
white would be rather plain, but when it had that great bow on top, and
strings a full finger wide--well, I didn't even dare show it to your
uncle! So I packed it away with white wax and in a linen towel, and when
she'd gone yesterday I went and looked at it. 'Taint white now, but it's
just the color of rich cream when it's stood twenty-four hours or so.
Fursisee, they were just as much alike as two peas except as to color
and the feathers. I declare I _was_ beat! Now, if you were going to be
married, Betty, it might do for a wedding hat."
"But I'm not going to be married," with a sigh.
"I should hope not," said her mother--"at sixteen."
"My sister Patty was married when she was sixteen, and Submit when she
was seventeen. The oldest girls went off in a hurry, so the others had
to fill their places. Well--it just amazes me reading about this bonnet.
And whatever I'll do with mine except to give it away, I don't know. I
did think once of having it dyed. But the bow on top was so handsome,
and I've kept paper wadded up inside, and it hasn't flatted down a mite.
Now, Elizabeth, she has that silk we all thought so foolish, and her
brown frock and pelisse will be just the thing to travel in. And maybe I
could find something else. The things will be scattered when I am dead
and gone, and I might as well have the good of giving them away. Most
of the girls are married off and have husbands to provide for them. I
used to think I'd take some orphan body to train and sort of fill
Polly's place, for she grows more unreliable every day. Yet I do suppose
it's Christian charity to keep her. And young folks are so trifling."
"Go make a cup of tea, Betty," said Mrs. Leverett.
"Now, Elizabeth," when Betty had shut the door, "I don't see why you
mightn't as well let Betty go as not. 'Tisn't as if it was among
strangers. And there's really no telling what may happen next year. We
haven't any promise of that."
Mrs. Leverett looked up in surprise.
"Tisn't every day such a chance comes to hand. She couldn't go alone on
a journey like that. And 'Lecty seems quite lotting on it."
"But Betty's just started in at housekeeping, and she would forget so
much."
"Betty started in full six months ago. And the world swings round so
fast I dare say what she learns will be as old-fashioned as the hills in
a few years. I didn't do the way my mother taught me--husband used to
laugh me out of it. She'll have time enough to learn."
The tea, a biscuit, and a piece of pie came in in tempting array. Aunt
Priscilla was at her second cup when Jonas Field arrived, good ten
minutes before the time.
"You come over to-morrow, Betty," said Aunt Priscilla. "You and Dorothy
just take a run; it'll do you good. That child will turn into a book
next. She's got some of the Adams streaks in her. And girls don't need
so much book learning. Solomon's wise, and he don't even know his
letters."
That made Doris laugh. She was getting quite used to Aunt Priscilla.
She rose and made a pretty courtesy, and said she would like to come.
Polly had forgotten to light the lamp. She had been nursing Solomon, and
the fire had burned low. Aunt Priscilla scolded, to be sure. Polly was
getting rather deaf as well.
"It's warm out in the kitchen," said Polly.
"I want it warm here. I aint going to begin to save on firing at my time
of life! I have enough to last me out, and I don't suppose anybody will
thank me for the rest. Bring in some logs."
Aunt Priscilla sat with a shawl around her until the cheerful warmth
began to diffuse itself and the blaze lightened up the room. Polly out
in the kitchen was rehearsing her woes to Solomon.
"It's my 'pinion if missus lives much longer she'll be queerer'n Dick's
hatband. That just wouldn't lay anyhow, I've heerd tell, though I don't
know who Dick was and what he'd been doing, but he was mighty queer.
'Pears to me he must a-lived before the war when General Washington
licked the English. And there's no suitin' missus. First it's too hot
and you're 'stravagant, then it's too cold and she wants to burn up all
the wood in creation!"
Aunt Priscilla watched the flame of the dancing scarlet, blue, and
leaping white-capped arrows that shot up, and out of the side of one eye
she saw a picture on the end of the braided rug--a little girl with a
cloud of light curls sitting there with a great gray cat in her lap. The
room was so much less lonely then. Perhaps she was getting old, real
old, with a weakness for human kind. Was that a sign? She did enjoy the
runs over to the Leveretts'. What would happen if she should not be able
to go out!
She gave a little shudder over that. Of all the large family of sisters
and brothers there was no one living very near or dear to her. She was
next to the youngest. They had all married, some had died, one brother
had gone to the Carolinas and found the climate so agreeable he had
settled there. One sister had gone back to England. There were some
nieces and nephews, but in the early part of her married life Mr.
Perkins _had_ objected to any of them making a home at his house. "We
have no children of our own," he said, "and I take it as a sign that if
the Lord had meant us to care for any, he would have sent them direct to
us, and not had us taking them in at second-hand."
They had both grown selfish and only considered their own wants and
comforts. But the years of solitude looked less and less inviting to the
woman, who had been born with a large social side that had met with a
pinch here, been lopped off there, and crowded in another person's
measure. If the person had not been upright, scrupulously just in his
dealings, and a good provider, that would have altered her respect for
him. And wives were to obey their husbands, just as children were
trained to obey their parents.
But children were having ideas of their own now. Well, when she was
sixteen she went to Marblehead and spent a summer with her sister
Esther, who was having hard times then with her flock of little
children, and who a few years after had given up the struggle. Mr. Green
had married again and gone out to the lake countries and started a
sawmill, where there were forests to his hand.
But this long-ago summer had been an epoch in her life. She had baked
and brewed, swept and scrubbed, cooked and put in her spare time
spinning, while poor Esther sewed and took care of a very cross pair of
twins and crawled about a little. There had been some merrymaking that
would hardly have been allowed at home, and a young man who had sat on
the doorstep and talked, who had taken her driving, and with whom she
had wickedly and frivolously danced one afternoon when a party of young
people had a merrymaking after the hay was in. It was the only time in
her life she had ever danced, and it was a glimpse of fairy delight to
her. But she was frightened half to death when she came home, and began
to have two sides to her life, and she had never gotten rid of the other
side.
She had a vague idea that next summer she would go again. Meanwhile Mr.
Perkins began to come. There was an older sister, and no one surmised it
was Priscilla, until in March, when he spoke to Priscilla's father.
"I declare I was clear beat," said the worthy parent. "Seems to me
Martha would be more suitable, but his heart's set on Priscilla. He's a
good, steady man, forehanded and all that, and will make her a good
husband, and she'll keep growing older. There is nothing to say against
it."
The idea that Priscilla would say anything was not entertained for a
moment. Mr. Perkins began to walk home from church with her and come to
tea on Sunday evening, and it was soon noised about that they were
keeping steady company. Martha went to Marblehead that summer and one of
the twins died. In the fall Priscilla was married and went to
housekeeping in King Street, over her husband's place of business. She
was engrossed with her life, but she dreamed sometimes of the other side
and the young man who had remarked upon the gowns she wore and put roses
in her hair, and she had ideas of lace and ribbons and the vanities of
the world in that early married period. Her attire was rich but severely
plain; she was not stinted in anything. She was even allowed to "lay by"
on her own account, which meant saving up a little money. She made a
good, careful wife. And some months before he died, touched by her
attentive care, her husband said:
"Silla, I don't see but you might as well have all I'm worth, as to
divide it round in the family. They will be disappointed, I suppose, but
they haven't earned nor saved. You have been a good wife, and you just
take your comfort on it when I'm gone. Then if you should feel minded to
give back some of it--why, that's your affair."
The Perkins family had _not_ liked it very well. They knew Aunt
Priscilla would marry again, and all that money go to a second husband.
But she had not married, though there had been opportunities. Later on
she almost wished she had. She had entertained plans of taking a girl to
bring up, and had considered this little orphaned Adams girl,--who she
had imagined in a vague way would be glad of a good home with a prospect
of some money,--if she behaved herself rightly. She had pictured a
stout, red-cheeked girl who needed training, and not a fine little lady
like Doris Adams.
But she was glad Doris had sat there on the rug with the cat in her lap.
And she was glad there had been the summer at Marblehead, and the young
man who had said more with his eyes than with his lips. He had never
married, and had been among the earliest to lay down his life for his
country. She always felt that in a way he belonged to her. And if in
youth she had had one good time, why shouldn't Betty? Perhaps Betty
might marry in some sensible way that would be for the best, and this
visit at Hartford would illume all her life.
There were things about it she had never confessed. When her conscience
upbraided her mightily she called them sins and prayed over them. There
were other matters--the white bonnet had been one. She had purchased it
of a friend who was going in mourning, who had made her try it on, and
said:
"Just look at yourself in the glass, Priscilla Perkins. You never had
anything half so becoming. You look five years younger!"
She did look in the glass. She could have pirouetted around the room in
delight. She was in love with her pretty youthful face.
So she bought the hat--at a bargain, of course. She put it away when it
came home, and visited it surreptitiously, but somehow never had the
courage to confess, or to propose wearing it, though other women of her
age indulged in as much and more gayety. In the spring she bought a new
silk gown, a gray with a kind of lilac tint, and cut off the breadths to
make sure of it.
Mr. Perkins viewed it critically.
"I'm not quite certain, Priscilla, that it is appropriate. And a brown
would give you so much more good wear. It looks too--too youthful."
He never remembered there were fifteen years between himself and
Priscilla.
"I--I think I would change it."
"Oh," with the best accent of regret she could assume, "I have cut off
the breadths and begun to sew them up. It's the spring color. And summer
is coming."
"Uu--um----" with a reluctant nod.
She wore it to a christening and a wedding, but the real delight in it
had to be smothered. And when her husband proposed she should have it
dyed she laid it away.
There were other foolish indulgences. Bows and artificial flowers that
she had put on bonnets and worn in her own room with locked doors, then
pulled them off and laid them away. She was so fond of pretty things,
gay things, the pleasures of life--and she was always relegated to the
prose! Other people wore finery with a serene calmness, and went about
their daily duties, to church, on missions of mercy, and were well
thought of. Where was the sin? Her clothes cost quite as much. Mr.
Perkins was a close manager but not stingy with his wife.
She used to think she would confess to her mother about the dancing, but
she never had. She ought to bring out these "sins of the eye" and lay
them before her husband, but she never found the right moment and the
courage. She had meant to deal them out to the Leverett girls,
especially Electa--but Electa seemed to prosper so amazingly! She _must_
do something with them, and clear up her life, sweep, and garnish before
the summons came. She was getting to be old now, and if she went off
suddenly someone would come in and take possession and scatter her
treasures. Likely as not it would be the Perkinses, for she hadn't made
any will.
Why shouldn't Betty have some of them and go off on her good time. It
wouldn't be housekeeping and spinning and looking after fractious
children. But those evenings out on the stoop, and the timid invitations
to take a walk, the pressure of the hand, the smile out of the eyes--oh,
why----
All her life she had been asking "Why?"--taking the hard and distasteful
because she thought there was a virtue in it, not because she had been
trained to believe goodness must have a severe side and that really
pleasant things were wicked. The "Whys" had never been answered, much as
she had prayed about them.
She would never take the girl to bring up now. As for Doris
Adams--Cousin Winthrop would be thinking presently that the ground
wasn't good enough for her to walk on. So there was only Betty, unless
she took up some of the Perkins girls. Abby was rather nice. But, after
all, her father was only a half-brother to Aunt Priscilla's husband. And
she must make that will.
"Missus, aint you goin' to come to supper? I told you 'twas ready full
five minutes ago," said an aggrieved voice.
Aunt Priscilla sprang up and gave herself a kind of mental shaking. She
stepped around to avoid the little girl on the rug with the cat in her
lap. Polly went on grumbling. The toast was cold, the tea had drawn too
long, and for once the mistress never said a word in dispraise.
"She's goin' off," thought Polly. "That's a bad sign, though she does
sit over the fire a good deal, and you can't tell by that. Land alive! I
hope she'll live my time out, or I'll sure have to go to the poorhouse!"
Aunt Priscilla went back to her fire and the vision of the little girl
who had made a curious impression on her by a kind of sweetness quite
new in her experience. It had disturbed her greatly. Nothing about the
child had been as she supposed.
Everybody went down to her, which meant that she had some subtle,
indescribable charm, but Aunt Priscilla would have said she had no
dictionary words to explain it, though there had been a speller and
definer in her day.
The little girl had come to "seven times" in the tables. She had studied
an hour, when Betty said they had better go and get back by dark. Jamie
boy gave a little "snicker" as she shut her book. The disdain of her
young compeer was quite hard to bear, but she meekly accepted the fact
that she "wasn't smart." If she had known how he longed to go with them,
she would have felt quite even, but he kept that to himself.
All Boston was still hooded in snow, for every few days there came a
new fall. Oh, how beautiful it was! Everybody walked in the middle of
the street,--it was so hard and smooth,--though you had to keep turning
out for vehicles, but one didn't meet them very often.
Boots were not made high for girls and women then, but everybody had a
pair of thick woolen stockings, some of them with a leather sole on the
outside, which was more durable. The children pulled them well up over
their knees and kept good and warm. Some people had leather leggings,
but rubber boots had not been invented.
Boys were out snowballing--girls, too, for that matter. Someone sent a
ball that flew all over Doris, but she only laughed. She snowballed with
little James now and then.
So they were bright and merry when they reached the sign of "Jonas
Field," and Doris gave her pretty, rather formal greeting. She was never
quite sure of Aunt Priscilla.
"I suppose _you_ came to see Solomon!" exclaimed that lady.
"Not altogether," replied Doris.
"Well, he is out in the kitchen. And, Betty, what is the prospect
to-day?"
"Oh, Aunt Priscilla, I almost think I'll get off. Father is on my side,
and mother did really promise 'Lecty last summer. Mother couldn't get
along alone, you know, and Jimmie boy is doing so well at school that
she would like to keep him all winter. Father knows of a girl who would
be very glad to come in and work for three dollars a month, though he
says everybody gives four or more. But Mr. Eastman will be here so soon.
Father said I might get some things in Hartford."
"We'll see what Boston has first," returned Aunt Priscilla with a little
snort. "I've been hunting over _my_ things."
People in those days thought it a great favor to have clothes left to
them, as you will see by old wills. And occasionally the grandmothers
brought out garments beforehand, and did not wait until they were dead
and gone.
"I have a silk gown that I never wore above half a dozen times. I could
have it dyed, I suppose, but they're so apt to get stringy afterward.
Maybe you wouldn't like it because it's a kind of gray. You're free to
leave it alone. I shan't be a mite put out."
The old spirit of holding on reasserted itself. Of course, if Betty
didn't like it, _her_ duty would be done.
"Oh, Aunt Priscilla! It looks like moonlight over the harbor. It's
beautiful."
The elder woman had shaken it out and made ripples with it, and Betty
stood in admiring wonderment. It looked to her like a wedding gown, but
she knew Aunt Priscilla's had been Canton crape, dyed brown first and
then black and then worn out. There was an old adage to the effect that
one never could get rich until one's wedding clothes were worn out.
"It's spotted some, I find--just a faint kind of yellow, but that may
cut out. I never had any good of it," and she sighed. "It isn't what you
might call gay; but, land alive! I might as well have bought bright red!
There's plenty of it to make over. They weren't wearing such skimping
skirts then, and I had an extra breadth put in so that it would all fade
alike. Well----" And she gave a half-reluctant sigh.
"Why, I feel as if it ought to be saved for a wedding gown," declared
Betty, her eyes alight with pleasure. "It's the most beautiful thing.
Oh, Aunt Priscilla!"
A modern girl would have thrown her arms around Aunt Priscilla's neck
and kissed her, if one could imagine a modern girl being grateful for a
gown a quarter of a century old, except for masquerading purposes.
People who could remember the great Jonathan Edwards awakening still
classed all outward demonstrations of regard as carnal affections to be
subdued. The poor old life hungered now for a little human love without
understanding what its want really was, just as it had hungered for more
than half a century.
"Well, child, maybe 'Lecty can plan to make something out of it. You
better just take it to her. And here's a box of ribbons, things I've had
no use for this many a year. You see I had a way of saving up--I didn't
have much call for wearing such."
Aunt Priscilla felt that she was renouncing idols. How many times she
had fingered these things with exquisite love and longing and a desire
to wear them! Madam Bowdoin, almost ten years older, wore her fine
ribbons and laces and her own snowy white hair in little rings about her
forehead. No one accused her of aping youth. Aunt Priscilla had worn a
false front under her cap for many a year that was now a rusty, faded
brown. Her own white hair was cut off close.
"Oh, Aunt Priscilla, I think my ship has come in from the Indies. I
never can thank you enough. I'm so glad you saved them. You see, times
_are_ hard, and if father had to pay a girl for taking my place at home,
he wouldn't feel that he could afford me much finery. And the journey,
too. But I have only to pay from Springfield to Boston, for Mr. Eastman
has his own conveyance--a nice big covered sleigh. And now all these
beautiful things! I feel as rich as a queen."
Doris had been standing there big-eyed and never once asked for Solomon.
Aunt Priscilla began to fold the gown. It still had a crackle and
rustle delightful to hear. And there was a roll of new pieces.
"Why, next summer I could have a lovely drawn bonnet--only it _does_
cost so much to have one made. I wish I knew how," said Betty.
"I suppose--you don't want to see my old thing?" rather contemptuously.
"The hat, do you mean? Oh, I just should! I've thought so much about it,
and how queer it is that old-fashioned articles should come round."
"Every seven years, people say; but I don't believe it's quite as often
as that."
From the careful way it was pinned up, one would never imagine it had
been out that very morning. The bows were filled with paper to keep them
up, and bits of paper crumpled up around, so they could not be crushed.
Its days of whiteness were over, but it was the loveliest, softest cream
tint, and looked as if it had just come over from France. The beaver was
almost like plush, and the puffed satin lining inside was as fresh as if
its reverse plaits had just been laid in place.
"Oh, do put it on!" cried Doris eagerly.
Betty held the strings together under her fair round chin.
"You look like a queen!" said the child admiringly.
"Why it _is_ just as they are wearing them now, the tip-top style.
'Lecty couldn't have described this hat any better if she had seen it.
And if I can have it, Aunt Priscilla, I shall not care a bit about
feathers. It's beautiful enough without."
"Yes, yes, take them all and have a good time with them. Now you see if
you can pack it up--you'll have to learn."
Aunt Priscilla dropped into her chair. She had cast out her life's
temptations, and it had been a great struggle.
"Not that way--make the bow stand up. The bandbox is large enough. And
give the strings a loose fold, so. Now put that white paper over. It's
like making a gambrel roof. Then bring up the ends of the towel and pin
them. Polly shall go along and carry it home for you."
"I'm a thousand times obliged. I wish I knew what to do in return."
"Have a good time, but don't forget that a good time is not all to life.
Child--why do you look at me so?" for Doris had come close to Aunt
Priscilla and seemed studying her.
"Were you ever a little girl, and what was your good time like?"
Doris' wondering eyes were soft and seemed more pitying than curious.
"No, I never was a little girl. There were no little girls in my time."
She jerked the words out in a spasmodic way, and put her hand to her
heart as if there was a pain or pressure. "When I was three year old I
had to take care of my little brother. I stood up on a bench to wash
dishes when I was four, and scoured milk-pans and the pewter plates we
used then. And at six I was spinning on the little wheel and knitting
stockings. I went to school part of every year, and at thirteen I was
doing a woman's work. No, I never was a little girl."
Doris put her soft hand over the one that had been strained and made
coarse and large in the joints, and roughened as to skin while yet it
was in its tender youth. And all the pay there had been from her
father's estate had been three hundred dollars to each girl, the
remainder being divided evenly among the boys. She felt suddenly
grateful to Hatfield Perkins for the easier times of her married life.
"Now, both of you go out in the kitchen and get a piece of Polly's fresh
gingerbread. She hasn't lost her art in that yet. Then you must run off
home, for it will soon be dark, and Betty will be needed about the
supper."
The gingerbread was splendid. Doris broke off little crumbs and fed them
to Solomon, and told him sometime she would come and spend the afternoon
with him. She should be so lonesome when Betty went away.
Polly carried the bandbox and bundle for them, and Betty took the box of
ribbons. Aunt Priscilla brought out the light-stand and set her candle
on it and turned over the leaves of her old Bible to read about the
daughters of Zion with their tinkling feet and their cauls and their
round tires like the moon, the chains and the bracelets and the bonnets,
the earrings, the mantles, the wimples and the crisping pins, the fine
linen and the hoods and the veils--and all these were to be done away
with! To be sure she did not really know what they all were, but her few
had been snares and a source of secret idolatry for years and years. She
had nothing to do now but to consider the end of all things and prepare
for it. But there was the dreaded will yet to make. If only there was
someone who really cared about her!