AUNT EUNICE'S VISIT.
FOR three or four days Letty found it very odd to be alone in the house
from morning till night, with nothing to do, after she had washed up
her few breakfast things, till it was time to get dinner ready; and the
hours threatened to hang heavy on her hands. John's clothes were all
in perfect order, thanks to the care of the good old lady with whom he
had boarded for the last four or five years: so she had not the young
wife's usual task of shirt-making. The house was all in holiday trim;
and, spin them out as she would, she could not make her sweeping and
dusting last more than an hour.
Finally she bethought herself of the garden. It was a nice, mellow
piece of ground, which had been thoroughly dug over and manured in the
fall, and was, therefore, in a fine state to begin operations upon in
the spring.
John had set out thrifty young cherry and pear trees, and had planted
two or three grapevines and a row of gooseberry and currant bushes,
taking care to procure the best sorts of each; but he knew nothing
about flowers.
Letty was exceedingly fond of flowers, and always had great success in
their cultivation. At Mrs. Trescott's, the geraniums and fuchsias in
the kitchen-windows quite outshone those in the greenhouse; and her
flower-borders were always a mass of colour, from tulip-time till the
frosts came in the fall.
John fully intended to have a nice garden; but his ideas extended no
farther than to fruits and vegetables. He was, however, quite willing
that Letty should follow her own devices in the matter of flowers, and
laid out her verbena-beds with great neatness.
Mrs. De Witt saw them at work together in the evenings,—which were now
growing long enough to allow them to be out after tea,—and rejoiced
that she had found a neighbour after her own heart. One morning she
came over, trowel in hand, and a basket of plants on her arm.
"Well, here you are at work! I'm so glad to see you take to gardening!
There's nothing more healthy or more diverting, if one has troubles,
whether they are little or great. I tell Mr. De Witt,—
"'Mr. De Witt,' says I, 'I dig half my worries into them flower-beds.'
"And he says, 'I guess you dig 'em all in, Ruth; for I don't see any of
'em lying loose,' says he.
"But, la bless you! that's just his way of talking. He thinks I'm the
best woman in the world; but it's only because he is so good himself.
Well, I see you working out here; and so I've brought you some roots of
snap-dragons and carnations and pansies,—real fine sorts, I tell you,
from imported seeds. The carnations are all good, I know, because they
blossomed last year; but the snap-dragons are new."
Letty gratefully accepted the present. "I am sure I am very much
obliged to you," said she; "but I am afraid you are too generous."
"Oh, no, I'm not. There's plenty more. I mean to give you some of my
purple and white foxgloves, when you get a place for them. Our garden
is so full, it will be all the better for thinning out a little. It
a'n't quite time to plant out salvias and scarlet geraniums; but, when
it is, I'll give you some nice ones."
"How in the world do you contrive to get so many flowers together, Mrs.
De Witt?" asked Agnes, who had come in and was languidly looking on at
the planting of the carnations. "It must cost a great deal both of time
and money."
"Oh, Mr. De Witt is a florist. That's his business. He works for Segur
& Tryon, the great nursery-people:—herbaceous plants and bulbs, his
department is. I expect you must have been up that long, green walk in
their garden, with the flowers on each side. Well, all that is under
his care. He used to work in the greenhouse; but it injured his health."
"It must be terribly hot, disagreeable work," said Agnes.
"Oh, he don't mind. He was brought up to it in the old country from the
time he was a boy,—and his father and grandfather before him; though he
says it a'n't so hot there as it is here. You couldn't hire him to do
any thing else. He says people who never work in their gardens don't
have half the comfort that those do who take all the care themselves;
and I believe that is so."
"So do I," said Letty. "But is Mr. De Witt English?"
"Dutch," replied Mrs. De Witt,—"Holland Dutch; but he speaks English
so well that hardly any one guesses it. That's the way my little girl
comes by her odd name,—Gatty. Her name is really Gertrude; but her
father calls her Gatty: so every one else does the same. I'd set the
carnations a little deeper, Mrs. Caswell, if I were you."
"Don't you mean to make a garden, Agnes?" asked Letty.
"No. Joe says it costs more than it comes to, and that it is cheaper to
buy what one wants at the market. He laughed the other night when John
brought home his seeds, and said he might expect his cucumbers to cost
him a shilling apiece when they were done."
"I don't see how that can be," said Letty. "What expense is there after
the first cost of the seeds?"
"Why, they must be kept in order, you know."
"Well, he doesn't intend to hire a gardener to do that," said Letty,
smiling. "I expect most of the weeding will fall to my share, with what
John can do before and after work."
"But, Letty, if any one came to call, you wouldn't like to be caught on
your knees weeding an onion-bed, would you?"
"Why not?" asked Letty.
Agnes had no answer ready, only that "it would be odd."
"But, Agnes, I think some things—cucumbers and tomatoes
especially—taste so much better when you pick them fresh from the vines
than they do when you buy them at market. Peas, too. Come and see our
peas. They are four inches high already."
Agnes languidly admired the peas, and then announced her errand. She
had come to borrow a cup of molasses. Joe had promised to send some
down, but it hadn't come; and she wanted to make some gingerbread.
Agnes was somewhat given to borrowing, and did not always remember to
pay.
While Letty was getting the molasses, Mrs. De Witt came bustling back
with the foxgloves, and set about planting them herself.
"I don't believe in taking so much pains about flowers," said Agnes. "I
should rather plant something good to eat, seems to me."
"Well, I don't know," replied Mrs. De Witt. "When the first gardener
planted his garden, he did not think so; for you know the Lord God
planted a garden eastward in Eden, and set in it not only every tree
that was good for food, but every tree that was pleasant to the sight.
I don't think he would be likely to throw away any work. Do you?"
Agnes found herself at a loss for an answer, and put on an air of
dignity. "I don't think it right to use the Bible in speaking about a
little common thing like that."
"I have noticed that people generally say that when the quotation
happens to go against them," said Mrs. De Witt. "Common folks have
common things happen to them, mostly; and if they can't go to the Bible
for directions about them, they might almost as well not have any. Now,
for my part, I think it is one of the greatest beauties of the Bible
that it does suit all sorts of every-day matters, and tells about them
too. I dare say if you and I had been to write the history of Abraham,
we should have left out how he ran and picked out a calf and got hot
cakes and butter for his visitors. I've often wondered what those cakes
were like."
"And you know Solomon was a great botanist," said Letty, who had
returned in time to hear the end of the conversation. "And no one can
read Isaiah without seeing that he was fond of flowers."
"Oh, well, I give in," said Agnes, with a sigh. "I am wrong, of course.
I always am. I hear that twenty times a day: so I ought to know it by
this time. Letty, if you can spare time from more important matters, I
wish you would come and see me now and then. I don't pretend to be very
good company, of course; but—"
"Nonsense!" said Letty. "Don't be silly! Of course I shall come,—and
do come, whenever I can. You don't want me to live in the road between
here and your house, do you? I will come over this afternoon and see
how the gingerbread turns out."
The days went on to weeks, and the spring passed into summer, and still
Letty's garden grew and flourished, and waxed gay with flowers and
green with spreading cucumber-vines and rows of goodly pea and tomato
plants and stately ranks of sweet corn. The little territory was a
wonder of productiveness; and many an hour of cool morning and evening
did she and John spend hoeing and weeding there.
Agnes declared that Letty would never have the heart to eat one of
those onions, after the labour she had bestowed upon them.
In all these horticultural pursuits John found a most kind and
efficient advisor in his next door neighbour. Mr. De Witt had been bred
to the business of a gardener, as I have said, and so had his father
and grandfather, and their ancestors before them, as far back as any
one knew any thing about the family. It seemed rather a pity that he
had no son to keep up the line; but Gatty was at present the only
child. She was now ten years old,—a pretty, quiet child, who carried in
her chubby face a curious reflection of her father's gravity.
Mr. De Witt and John soon fell into a warm friendship. Mr. De Witt
was exceedingly intelligent and well informed, especially upon the
subject of European politics, both English and Continental. He had also
picked up a good deal of theology and metaphysics; and endless were the
discussions he and John held while smoking their pipes, sitting under
the large apple tree in Mr. De Witt's garden, or on Letty's back steps.
This smoking did not please Letty at all. She disliked the smell of
the pipe, and thought it an expensive and an unhealthy habit; but
she wisely declined to interfere with her husband's tastes, feeling
satisfied if he would smoke only at home.
Agnes came in one evening, and found Letty sitting with her work at the
front window.
"How you smell of tobacco-smoke!" said she. "Do you like it?"
"No," replied Letty; "I cannot say that I do; but the men seem to take
such wonderful comfort in their pipes that I have not the heart to say
a word against it; though I must say I think it's a very bad habit."
"So you do find that there are some trials in married life?" said
Agnes, significantly.
Letty laughed. "You don't call that a trial; do you? I wish he would
give it up; but if I never have any thing more to complain of in John
than his pipe, I think I shall be a happy woman."
Agnes looked a little vexed at this rejection of her condolence.
She was very fond of sympathy, as she called it,—that is, of being
pitied on all subjects and occasions. She wanted to be pitied because
she lived in a small house,—because she was not rich,—because
Number 6 had new worked-muslin curtains,—because Joseph smoked, and
liked johnny-cake better than milk-toast. All these were trials, in
her estimation; and she was fond of talking them over in low and
confidential tones with any one who would listen to her.
This "maundering"—as the Scotch call it—was very distasteful to Letty,
and she did not think it good for Agnes: so she discouraged it by every
means in her power.
Agnes was not only fond of making the most of her own trials, but she
was benevolently anxious that all her friends should do the same. At
present, however, she abandoned the subject of the pipe, and fell upon
something else.
"How they do prose and prose!" said she, looking over to the apple
tree where the men were sitting. "What can they find to talk about so
everlastingly?"
"Oh, they are never at a loss. Mr. De Witt thinks a certain doctrine is
in the Bible, and John thinks it is not; and when every thing else is
exhausted, they fall back upon that. I cannot say I am much the wiser
for their discussions; but they seem to enjoy them wonderfully. I don't
think John ever conversed so much in his life before; for he is not a
great talker; but he and Mr. De Witt seem to suit each other exactly."
"And so they go by themselves and talk, and leave you to amuse yourself
the best way you can. Very kind and considerate, certainly!"
Letty winced at this; for the truth was, she had not always been able
to help feeling a little jealous of these conversations, from which she
was in a great measure excluded simply because she did not understand
what they were about. The knotty points of theology and metaphysics in
which the two men took such interest were not of much interest to her,
and seemed to be disputes about words more than any thing else; and
the mysterious diagrams in the "Scientific American," over which they
poured for hours sometimes, were so much Greek to her. Agnes saw her
advantage, and pursued it.
"The fact is, Letty, say what you will, all men are selfish. They think
their wives are just made to wait upon them and take care of their
homes, and that they ought to be thankful for any crumbs of comfort
the men choose to bestow upon them. Now, there is that 'Scientific
American:' it is of no earthly use to you. Why couldn't he just as well
subscribe to some paper that you would like to read as well as himself?
What is that but selfishness?"
Agnes had made a mistake. She should not have attacked John directly.
It roused Letty's wife-spirit in an instant.
"You are very much mistaken, Agnes. John is not selfish. He is always
thinking what he can do to please me and to save me trouble. Look
at all the little contrivances he has made about the house for my
convenience. The very first thing he thinks of when he comes in, and
the last thing before he goes out, is whether he can do any thing to
help me. As for the 'Scientific American,' it is a great assistance to
him in his business; and, if he takes that for himself, he takes the
Magazine expressly for me,—for he hardly ever looks at it. He doesn't
care for that sort of reading."
"That is just what I say," persisted Agnes. "If he were not selfish, he
would care, just because it interested you. And there is Joseph, just
the same. He laughed at my worsted-work last night, and said my dog
squinted, and my dog's nose was like a pair of stairs; and he would not
hold my worsted for me, just because he was whittling something."
"Whittling what?"
"Oh, I don't know. He wanted to explain it to me; but I couldn't
pay attention enough to understand. Some trumpery model or other, I
suppose."
"Well, but, Agnes, I think it is a poor rule that won't work both ways.
Why should not Joseph complain of your selfishness and want of love
for him because you would not be interested in his models? It was as
important to him as your worsted-work to you;—rather more so, probably.
I should think, for my part, there was some selfishness in requiring a
man to lay down such a piece of work to hold worsted, which might just
as well be wound off of a chair."
Agnes could not see the matter in that light. She never could see that
any of her requirements were selfish. She had all her life long acted
on the principle (though probably she had never avowed it once to
herself) of putting her own fancies and desires before those of any one
else. If people gave way to her and waited upon her, well and good: it
was no more than their duty. If they did not, they were hard-hearted,
selfish and unkind, and she was the most abused of all her race. She
habitually put herself first, and measured all other things by that
standard. Even her mother had said, with some bitterness, in Letty's
hearing, that there was no use in expecting Agnes to put herself out of
her way for any one.
Joseph, a careless, good-natured fellow for the most part, was also
fond of consideration and attention. He was fond of having things
comfortable about home. He wanted his meals ready at the minute, and
well cooked; and he expected his house to be in order when he entered
it. But he was not as ready as he should have been to make allowance
for his wife's inexperience in housekeeping. Hence, he sometimes spoke
more hastily than was desirable, and made trifling matters of more
importance than was necessary.
But Agnes, instead of striving to avoid those things which annoyed him,
chose to consider that her own way was right, and perversely did the
very same thing over again merely for the sake of having her own way.
They had had no serious disagreement as yet; but she was laying up
trouble for the future.
Just then John looked in. "Come, Letty; come out, and bring your work.
Mr. De Witt is describing the Cathedral at Nuremberg, of which we had
a picture in the paper, you know; and I am sure you would like to hear
him. Besides, I like to have you near. Come, Agnes."
Letty cast a glance of triumph at her cousin, and prepared to obey.
Agnes, with a demonstrative sigh, excused herself. She must go home,
she said,—with a look which would have conveyed to a stranger the idea
that she was going straight to martyrdom.
Towards the end of August, Letty was one day very much surprised to
see a carriage stop at her gate, and the well-preserved figure of Aunt
Eunice stepping from it, with two baskets and a pail. She ran out to
welcome the good old lady and relieve her of her parcels.
Aunt Eunice was soon sitting on the sofa,—she had no love for
rocking-chairs,—with her fine lawn and crape as unruffled as though she
had just stepped out of her bedroom at the farm.
"Well, and how dost thou get on, dear? Every thing looks so neat and so
comfortable about thee that it is hardly worth while to ask. I ought
to apologize for coming on washing-day; but neighbour Jones offered to
bring me in his easy carriage, and I thought I might never again have
so good a chance. Don't let my coming put thee aback, now."
"Oh, my washing is all done and out long ago," said Letty, smiling.
"These long hot days I like to get up and wash before breakfast, while
it is cool and comfortable. I was up by four o'clock this morning."
"That's a good housewife!" said the old lady, approvingly. "But bring
me that small basket, my dear. I have brought thee a small addition to
thy family. Thou rememberest the yellow kitten thou admiredst so much?
I have kept him on purpose for thee; and here he is."
Letty was delighted. The basket was untied, and the yellow kitten
appeared, somewhat ruffled by the journey, and very much amazed to find
himself in a strange place. However, a saucer of milk and a bit of raw
meat served to convince him that he had fallen into good hands; and he
began at once to make himself at home in his new quarters.
"I have brought thee something else, which thou must divide with
Agnes," said Aunt Eunice,—"a basket of eggs, and a pail of fresh
butter, part of my last churning. And how is Agnes? Does she live near
thee still?"
Letty pointed out the house, and said she would run over and call her;
but Aunt Eunice stopped her.
"Let me rest a few minutes, and we will step over and see her. I should
like to look in upon her unawares, as I have upon thee."
Letty consented,—rather unwillingly; for she knew what washing-days
were to Agnes, and she thought it was hardly fair to take her at
unawares. However, after a few minutes, spent in conversation or in
silence, while Letty put away her share of the eggs and butter, Aunt
Eunice was ready; and they crossed the road to Number Ten.
Agnes was certainly in no condition for visitors. In the course of her
washing she had wetted herself from head to foot, and splashed the
water from one end of the kitchen to the other. The breakfast-table
had not been cleared away, but stood as used, with the remains of the
morning's meal, and black with flies.
Agnes was attired in what had been her travelling-dress when she
was first married,—a gray-and-purple valencia, which had once been
very pretty, but was now torn, burned, frayed and worn in a manner
really surprising. She never wore an apron about her work. Her hair
was straggling about her ears, her shoes were down at the heels and
out at the sides. A more forlorn figure it would be hard to imagine,
especially in contrast with Letty in her neat pink calico and white
apron and collar.
"Dear me, Aunt Eunice! Is this you? What cloud did you drop from? Do
come in and sit down. I am all upside-down, washing, as you see; but
you won't mind that, I am sure. You know poor people have to get on as
they can. Do walk into the other room, out of this mess."
When Letty reached the other room, she could not think it such a
great improvement over the kitchen. The furniture, bought in the fall
to furnish the rooms at the boarding house, had already assumed the
indescribably forlorn appearance which belongs to cheap neglected
haircloth. Scratches appeared here and there, bits of veneering were
knocked off, and each button was surrounded by its own little circle
of dust. Dust had made a lodgment under the sofa, under the little
corner-shelves filled with knickknacks, in which Agnes took especial
pride,—on the skirting-boards and the window frames and ledges. Three
or four highly-coloured French prints decorated the walls, and some
gilt books, whose showy bindings and coarse paper were emblematic of
their contents, lay on the table.
All this, however, was at first concealed by the judicious expedient of
darkening the room till it was difficult to tell a table from a chair:
so that Aunt Eunice had nearly sat down upon a shelf of the corner
cupboard. It was a cardinal article of faith with Agnes that sunshine
was vulgar and darkness genteel; but she so far relented as to turn the
slats of the blinds, that her visitors might find their way to seats.
"Well, and how dost thou get on at housekeeping?" asked Aunt Eunice. "I
should say thou hast a nice, convenient house."
"It is very small," said Agnes, sighing. "I think it's very hard to
keep such a little place in order. Don't you?"
"Well, perhaps so; but I should say the house was large enough for thee
and thy husband. How many rooms has it?"
"Only six,—five, that is, besides the kitchen; and two of them are
little more than closets."
"That gives thee two bedrooms, besides kitchen and parlour, and
abundant storeroom. When I first went to housekeeping in this part of
the country, I had only one room for kitchen, parlour and bedroom."
"How did you ever live?" asked Agnes.
"Oh, nicely. I don't know that I have ever enjoyed myself more in my
life than when I lived in that log house; though the wolves used to
come unpleasantly near, the first winter or two. I remember once I was
alone in the house. Thy uncle had been called away to watch with a
neighbour who was very sick, and I sat knitting by the fire-light, when
a slight noise at the window caused me to look round, and there I saw
the eyes of a wolf glaring at me out of the darkness."
"Horrible!" exclaimed both the girls. "What did you do?"
"I raised my heart to God for protection; and, having quieted my first
fears in that way, I threw a quantity of dry light wood on the fire, so
as to make a great blaze, and then took down my husband's gun, which
was always loaded, and hung near the bed. Then—now, don't look for any
thing very heroic—I snatched up an iron hook and a tin pan which stood
near, and ran towards the window, drumming with all my might and making
a frightful noise. The wolf, who I suppose had never heard such music,
turned and fled, and I did not see him again. But you can imagine that
I did not sleep much that night. My great fear was that the brute might
be the advance-guard of a pack, and that my husband, coming home in the
gray dusk of the morning, might encounter them.
"We found afterwards there were really more than a dozen of them;
but the neighbour was so low that Jacob did not leave him till after
sunrise, when he died. He told me that when he came across the lot and
saw the creature's footsteps in the snow, his heart died within him,
and he had hardly strength to reach the house. Indeed, I think he was
the palest man I ever saw, when I opened the door."
"Dreadful!" exclaimed Agnes. "I should never have dared to stay there
another night."
"Oh, we were not so easily scared as that. We had several acres under
improvement, and considerable wheat in the ground; and it would never,
have answered to move away and leave it all to destruction for one
fright."
"But to live all in one room! And I dare say you had no comforts, or
any thing!"
"We were as well off as our neighbours in that respect,—which was all
that was necessary. Half the furniture people purchase is for others,
rather than for themselves. We were all friendly and social, and did
a deal of visiting. I thought nothing, in those days, of riding ten
miles on horseback to go to a quilting. Most of the women and girls
used to ride behind their husbands or their beaux; and there was as
much contriving to get the pairs properly assorted as takes place in a
modern ball-room. I had a saddle-horse of my own: so I was independent
of the men-folks in that respect."
"Well," said Letty, "while you are chatting with Agnes, I will run home
and see to my cooking; for you must all come to our house to dinner.
I have been contriving how I can send word to your mother, Agnes. I
believe I will ask Gatty De Witt to go over and carry a note."
"I shall be glad to see Susan, if thou canst manage it without too much
trouble," said Aunt Eunice. "But dost thou not want some help about
getting dinner for so many?"
"Oh, no," replied Letty. "I can manage it well enough; but I must run
up to market first."
"Letty is used to work," said Agnes, as her cousin left the room. "Do
you know, Aunt Eunice, she actually did all the work at Mrs. Trescott's
for six months before she was married,—cooking, washing and all? I
was just as vexed at her as I could be. It was bad enough to have her
living out at all; but that was a little too much."
"Why?" asked Aunt Eunice.
"Oh, really, aunt, you know we must pay some attention to the opinions
of the world in such matters; and with Letty's family it did not sound
very well to say that one's cousin was a kitchen-girl."
"And how much of the world dost thou think concerned itself in the fact
that thy cousin worked in the kitchen instead of the shop? Or why is
one more genteel than the other? Canst thou tell?"
Agnes did not know, only every one thought so. She was willing to
drop the subject; for she had, as usual, a host of grievances for the
ears of anybody who would listen to them; and this morning she was
especially afflicted. Joseph had called her extravagant! He declared
that they never had any thing in the house fit to eat, with all the
money they spent, and said he would make the purchases himself; and he
had actually bought a cook-book, and asked her to study it.
"Did not thy mother teach thee to cook?" asked Aunt Eunice.
"No. I never learned to cook. Mother did all that."
"But surely thou didst not leave it all to thy mother? Didst thou not
help some times?"
"Why, you know, Aunt Eunice, I had to keep my hands nice for my work;
and when I was in the shop I had no time. Besides, I never looked
forward to having such work to do. And I really think, now, that Joe
might keep a girl, if he only thought so. If it was any thing that
affected his own comfort, he would do it quickly enough, no doubt; but
as long as it is only his wife that suffers—"
"Thou shouldst not speak of thy husband in that way. It is very wrong,"
said Aunt Eunice, gravely. "As to thy not being brought up to work,
that is a great misfortune,—perhaps more thy misfortune than thy
fault. I am surprised that thy mother should have let thee grow up so
ignorant."
"She did not think I should ever have it to do."
"That makes no difference, my child. If thou hadst ten servants at thy
command, thou wouldst never be well served unless thou understandest
something of their work thyself. The best advice I can give thee is,
go to work and learn as fast as possible the best way of doing every
thing about the house. Letty, I am sure, would be glad to show thee;
and, from what I have seen already, as well as what I know of Maria
Trescott, I should say she was perfectly competent to do so. Then make
up thy mind to try and please thy husband. Learn to put thy own tastes
and wishes aside, if necessary, and interest thyself in his."
"I think that is a hard case, aunt," interrupted Agnes, indignantly.
"If I had looked at marriage in that light, I am sure I never should
have tried it."
"My child, it is no more true of marriage than of any other state of
life. If thou wouldst be happy or useful in any position whatever, thou
must learn self-denial. I tell thee, Agnes, it is the key of life, and
of happiness, too. No one who has nothing to do but to please himself,
ever succeeded in doing so for any length of time. Self-denial is the
law of God, and whoever fights against it is sure to come by the worst.
And He has not disdained to set us an example.
"'Ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though he was rich,
yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be
rich.'
"'Let every one of us please his neighbour for his good to
edification,' says Paul, and adds, 'for even Christ pleased not
himself.'
"If thou wilt only try and do so for the love of God, my dear, in time
it will become easy to thee, and thou wilt find many sweet flowers of
pleasure growing where thou didst not look for them."
Agnes did not reply. She did not relish this kind of doctrine at
all. She had professed to ask for advice, but what she really wanted
was pity. Her appetite in this respect was fast becoming morbid. She
sighed, and was silent; and Aunt Eunice, thinking she had said enough,
turned the conversation to something else.
Joseph came home a little before noon, and looked very much annoyed
as he entered the disorderly kitchen. "All in the suds, as usual!" he
said, bitterly. "I wish there were no such things as washing-days!"
Agnes sighed again as she went to meet him, and cast a glance at Aunt
Eunice, as much as to say, "You see how I am treated."
Joe smoothed his ruffled brow as he saw who was their visitor, and
welcomed her with great cordiality, hinting plainly to Agnes at the
same time that she had better go and make herself decent. When she
had gone, he began to apologize for the state of the house. It soon
appeared that he too had a train of grievances to relate. Agnes was
extravagant and self-willed; she spent money foolishly on expensive
provisions, and then wasted what she bought, because she did not know
how to cook it; he was afraid they should never make both ends meet, at
the rate they were going on, &c.
Aunt Eunice dealt still more plainly with him than with his wife.
She told him that it was the man's place to comfort, to support and
help,—that he must not expect to receive all and give nothing in
return. It was true that Agnes was ignorant; but a good deal of her
trouble arose from inexperience, of which she would get the better
every day; and she warned him against forfeiting his wife's and his own
respect by fretfulness and fault-finding and by indulging in little
acts of selfishness.
On the whole, Joseph was not displeased. He had really been very much
in love with his wife,—more so, it is to be supposed, than she with
him, since her heavy bread had failed to have the same disenchanting
effect upon him which his cookery-book had exercised upon her. He
said to himself that it was very natural and proper for the old lady
to stand up for her niece, and he liked her the better for it. He was
in a very good humour when Agnes appeared, and with a great deal of
politeness gave Aunt Eunice his arm as she crossed the street.
As they passed out through the kitchen, the old lady's smooth brow was
contracted for a moment with something like a frown. She had caught
sight of one of her fine home-spun linen sheets lying on the floor
among the other clothes, torn and stained, and with the marks of
flat-irons burned into and out of it. She said nothing; but, before she
reached Letty's door, her mind was made up as to a subject upon which
she had been for some time in doubt. What that subject was we shall
find out by-and-by.
Letty's dinner was an entire success. Aunt Eunice herself praised the
brown stew made of a round steak, and noticed the variety and freshness
of the vegetables. Accustomed to the space of a large farm, she could
hardly believe that all she saw before her—the tomatoes, the potatoes,
the beans and corn—came from their own little garden.
"Really, now, that is something to be proud of!" said she. "Thou must
have been very industrious, John."
"Much of the praise belongs to Letty," replied John,—a little flush of
gratification shining in his dark cheek. "If I planted, she watered
and weeded, and, above all, cooked; and, I take it, the excellence of
vegetables depends much upon their cooking."
"That's so!" said Joseph, emphatically. "I wish, Aggy, you would get
Letty to show you how to cook tomatoes like these. Ours always taste
raw and watery."
"I guess you do not cook them long enough," said Letty. "They require
more time than people generally think."
"Perhaps so. Some people have a knack of doing things right:—that's all
I know," replied Joseph.
"Some people have a knack of liking any thing better than what their
own wives do," said Agnes, bitterly. "If you are so desperately
particular, it is a pity you did not marry a kitchen-girl."
It was now Joseph's turn to colour; and he looked heartily ashamed.
John turned his black eyes upon Agnes with a look which made her
own colour rise, and she subsided into a sulky silence, which she
maintained during the remainder of the meal.
Aunt Eunice, with ready tact, turned the conversation; and Letty was
too well accustomed to her cousin's ways to trouble herself about them.
She did think Agnes might have offered to help her with the dishes
after dinner; but she made no move to do so. There was no particular
bad temper in the omission; it simply never occurred to her. She had,
not been taught the invaluable habit of helpfulness. As Letty was
putting her plates together, however, Mrs. De Witt tapped at the door,
coming in, as usual, before any one had time to open it.
"Now, look here!" said she. "Gatty and I are going to wash up these
dishes. You go right in the parlour and sit down and chat with your
aunt. We can do it just as well as not, and we'll have 'em all done in
less than no time."
"I am sure you are very kind," said Letty; "but it is giving you a
great deal of trouble."
"Oh, don't you think that! You'll do as much for me some time, I dare
say. What's neighbours for, only to help one another? That's my idea,
at least."
"It is mine, too," said Letty. "But every one doesn't think so."
"More's the pity! It's Scripture doctrine, anyhow. Now, you go right in
and sit down with your aunt. I'll do every thing just as well as you
can. La! What a pretty kitten! Look, Gatty! A'n't it cunning?"
"My aunt brought it to me," said Letty. "But, Mrs. De Witt, you must
come over to tea and see Aunt Eunice: I am sure you will like her.
John and Joseph are coming home at five o'clock, and we shall have tea
early."
Mrs. De Witt promised to come, and immediately began making a great
clattering among the dishes, while Letty returned to the parlour. Agnes
looked rather surprised to see her so soon.
"Finished already?" she asked.
"Oh, no; but Mrs. De Witt has kindly taken my work off my hands."
Aunt Eunice involuntarily looked at Agnes; but Agnes made no sign.
"That is always the way with Letty," she said pettishly. "Every one
helps her."
"Perhaps because she always helps everybody," said Aunt Eunice,
significantly.
Agnes understood what she meant, and felt it.
"I don't see how you can bear to have that woman so familiar with you,"
she said, with a disdainful toss of her head. "She runs in at all
hours, and seems to think herself as good as anybody."
"Why shouldn't she?" asked Letty, dryly.
Agnes did not seem to know, exactly, only she didn't like "that sort
of people." De Witt was only a working gardener, and his wife, a
tailoress. She did not wish to associate with everybody, for her part.
She thought it must be a much pleasanter state of society where people
had their own stations and kept them.
"And what dost thou think thine own position would be in that case?"
asked Aunt Eunice. "Dost thou suppose that the wife of a working
chemist and perfumer would associate with dukes and earls?"
Agnes had not thought of that; but she believed that, at any rate, a
perfumer's wife was a good many degrees above a working gardener's.
"Oh, Agnes, Agnes, how very silly thou art!" said Aunt Eunice, with a
sort of groan. "Where didst thou pick up such absurd notions? Thou art
nearly as bad as the grocer's wife who refused to associate with her
neighbour on the ground that her husband sold single candles, while she
sold only by the pound."
Letty laughed heartily. "You will have to put up with the society of
the gardener's wife a little while, Agnes; for I have asked her to tea,
to meet Aunt Eunice. I am sure they will suit exactly."
"Aunt Eunice must be flattered!"
"I consider it a compliment to both of them," said Letty. "Here is your
mother coming at last."
Letty's prophecy proved true. They did suit each other exactly. Aunt
Eunice had penetration enough to understand perfectly the kind spirit
which lay under Mrs. De Witt's bad English and unceremonious ways. And
Mrs. De Witt, on her part, was charmed with the old lady's manners and
dress, and the gentle wisdom of her conversation. As she afterwards
said, it was as good as a picture to look at her, and better than a
sermon to hear her talk. They found a common subject in their love
of flowers; and nothing would do but that Aunt Eunice must come over
and look at Mrs. De Witt's dahlias and snap-dragons, and then at the
beautiful old-fashioned egg-shell china, and the tiny silver spoons,—so
heavy in proportion to their size,—as well as the little silver
cream-jug, marked with a coat-of-arms, which Mr. De Witt's father had
brought from Holland.
"They have been in his family,—oh, I can't tell you how long! Mr. De
Witt knows. He knows all about his family. There was a very great man
in it once, who was torn to pieces by the people for something he
did,—Grand—something,—I forget what."
"Grand-pensionary, perhaps," said Aunt Eunice. "And so the famous De
Witt was an ancestor of thine. I should like to see thy husband and
talk some Dutch with him,—that is, if I have not forgotten all I ever
knew."
"Do tell!" exclaimed the good woman. "Can you talk Dutch? Mr. De Witt
would be ready to stand on his head."
Letty could not help laughing heartily at the ludicrous idea of the
grave, sober Mr. De Witt in such a position. "Do send for him," said
she. "Let Gatty go and bring him here to tea. I am so glad I thought of
it."
"Why, you'll have quite a tea-party," said Mrs. De Witt. "He'll be
delighted, I'm sure, if it won't be too much trouble for you. But then
I know you don't mind a little trouble. Mrs. Caswell, here, is like the
woman in Scripture, Mrs. White:—she 'worketh willingly with her hands.'
"There's a great deal in that working willingly. That's what I always
tell Gatty; because children don't always like to take hold of work,
you know.
"'Gatty,' says I, 'work willingly: the willing mind is half the
battle.'"
Agnes made no objection to this addition to the tea-party. The old
china and silver, the coat-of-arms and the grand-pensionary, had worked
a great change in her feelings and manners towards Mrs. De Witt, and
she was very gracious all the rest of the evening.
Mrs. De Witt insisted on lending Letty her spoons and china, and
gathered a dish of her precious early apricots to add to the
entertainment. Aunt Eunice was as much pleased with Mr. De Witt as
she had been amused with his wife. He was a slow-spoken, serious man,
who seldom laughed, and almost always had his head full of some great
subject, which he pondered as he worked at his carnation and verbenas.
No one would have taken him for a Hollander, except for the extra
exactness of his English,—which he certainly had never learned from
his wife. He and Aunt Eunice fell into conversation directly, and kept
it up briskly in Dutch, much to the amusement of Mrs. De Witt, who was
delighted to see her husband appreciated.
"Well, children," said Aunt Eunice, as she looked at her watch after
tea, "I expect neighbour Jones will soon be here. Let us have family
worship together before we separate."
All were pleased with the proposal, and John brought the great Bible
from its stand, Aunt Eunice remarking, with approbation, that the good
book showed signs of daily use.
After the prayer, they sat a moment in silence, and then Aunt Eunice
spoke. She said she should probably never see so many of her family
together again, and she felt impelled to say a few words to them on the
most important subject of all. She urged upon them the importance of a
personal, vital faith,—a faith which should pervade and sanctify all
their actions and make their daily life and conversation a continual
praise-offering to God. In this way of living, she said, they would, in
the darkest hour, find light in their dwellings, and God would always
be with them. It might be sometimes in the cloud and sometimes in the
pillar of fire; but he would always be there, and the one would guide
them as surely as the other to the promised land. The old lady spoke
with authority and solemnity, and her countenance seemed to glow with
more than mortal light as she entreated her hearers, by the mercies
of God, to serve him and to honour his name in their daily life and
conversation.
Even Agnes was touched, and forgot all her grievances for the time.
Tears filled all eyes as Aunt Eunice bade them what they all felt might
be a final farewell; and Mrs. De Witt, always impulsive, sobbed aloud.
She declared afterwards to her husband that such a season of worship
was like a well in the desert. It would do her good all her life; and
she felt thankful that she had thought of giving her a basket of her
best apricots to carry home. It was a privilege to be allowed to do any
thing for such a saint.