THE Sunday before she was to go to her place, as Celia took her
accustomed seat in church, she was surprised to find her old associate
Lydia Hinds in the pew before her. She had not seen Lydia since she
left the mill, and had no desire to renew their acquaintance, but
she could not help feeling rather glad at seeing her in church, and
returned her salutation gravely, but with civility; though she made no
reply to the observations which Lydia addressed to her both before and
during service, and felt very uncomfortable under them, as she feared
that Mr. Ellison would think she was whispering, a thing she would
have been very much ashamed to do. Lydia, finding her advances thus
repulsed, tossed her head, and turning away, began an observation of
the bonnets and mantles which came within the range of her vision.
"So, Miss Merritt," she said, almost before the congregation was
dismissed, "you don't want to talk to me, it seems."
"Not in church," replied Celia, feeling that she might with truth add,
"nor anywhere else."
"Well, so it is only that, I'll excuse you, though I do not see any
sense in being so particular. Well, and when are you coming back to the
mill? We miss you very much, I can tell you. Jim Harris has lent me
some delightful books, and he says you may take them if you want to."
"I am not coming back to the mill," returned Celia; "I am going to work
in a family."
"You are not going to be such a goose! Why, you won't have any fun at
all!"
"I do not feel much like having fun just now," replied Celia, glancing
at her new mourning frock; "but I do feel as though I should like to
have a home."
"To be sure! I forgot you had lost your mother, but that is no reason
you should make a nun of yourself. I should think you would need
diversion all the more. But where are you going to live? Tell me, and I
will come and see you sometimes."
"At Mrs. Dennison's, on the river road," replied Celia, rejoicing that
she was going to be out of walking distance.
"Well, if ever I heard the like! Clear out there on that lonesome farm,
with no body to speak to, and nothing to see but cows and horses. I
should die in a week! But I suppose you are afraid of the cholera, and
no wonder. Do you know that Myra William died of it last night? Only
sick three or four hours."
Celia was shocked to hear of the sudden fate of the giddy, reckless
girl, whom she had so lately seen in perfect health, and tried to learn
something of the particulars, but Lydia could tell her nothing.
"I didn't go near her," she said, "I am so much afraid of catching it."
"Poor Anne!" said Celia. "She was so well, and always so gay and giddy.
It does not seem possible. I should think, Lydia, you would begin to
think a little about yourself; when so many are dying around you.
Suppose you should be taken away suddenly."
"Well, then, I suppose I should, and that would be all about it. I did
feel a little scared when I heard of Myra's death, but after all, there
is no use in thinking more of it than one can help. It only makes you
more likely to have the sickness, they say."
"I don't know about that being all about it: after death comes the
judgment, the Bible says. If you knew that you were likely any day
to be called into court to be tried for your life, you would want
to be ready, I should think, and much more when it is to be for
eternity. Just think if you should be taken away, without any time for
repentance!"
"What is the use of thinking and talking about such things?" said
Lydia, who was evidently uncomfortable under the turn the conversation
was taking. "They only make one feel bad, and spoil all one's pleasure."
"The use is, that we may be ready when our time comes," replied
Celia. "I am afraid you will think me very inconsistent, Lydia," she
continued, blushing; "but I can not help asking you to think of these
things more than you do. I know I was as bad—I mean, as thoughtless—as
any of you, the latter part of the time that I was in the mill, and I
have been sorry enough since. But you were kind to me, at least you
meant to be, and I can not help saying one word. I do wish you would
stop reading that kind of books. You know they don't do you any good,
and there are a great many things in them that are downright wicked and
shameful. I am sure I wish I had never looked into them myself. But
now, just look at it! We must all die some time, and we don't know how
soon; at this time, especially, it seems as though we might be called
into the other world at any moment; and if we should not be ready to
go—only think how dreadful it would be! I wish you would read the
Bible, and try to do differently. Come, why not begin now?"
"You are a good girl!" Lydia said, evidently a good deal moved. "And I
do believe you mean kindly in what you say. I have sometimes thought
myself that I should not like to be taken with my head full of Jim's
novels. But even if one wanted to be a Christian, there would be no use
in trying, situated as I am now. You might as well try to be pious in
Bedlam as in the mill."
"I do not think myself it is the best place, but then it can be done.
There were Miss Green and Ruth Cummings, and there is Charity Bateman
now. They are all pious."
"Oh! Well. It was natural to Miss Green: she was just cut out for a
Sunday-school teacher; and Ruth's father and mother were very pious.
As for Charity Bateman, she is not a very good one to hold up for an
example: she is so sour and disagreeable, and always acts as though she
felt herself too good to associate with any one. There never was any
one worse named, for she has no charity in her."
"She is not very amiable, to be sure, but she is very good. Don't you
remember how she sat up night after night with Matilda Smith last
winter?"
"So she did. I admit that she is ready enough to do kindnesses for
people, but then she need not be so crabbed the rest of the time."
"Perhaps if you did not plague her and laugh at her so much, she would
not be so crabbed. But whatever she is, that is no excuse for you, you
know very well. Come, Lydia, perhaps I shall never see you again; no
one knows what may happen. Do promise me now that you will read your
Bible and go to church, and thus try to become a Christian. You know
how much depends on it, and how miserable you will be, if you neglect
it till it is too late. Do try, there's a good girl!"
Celia spoke earnestly and kindly, and Lydia was evidently considerably
affected. Her eyes filled with tears, as she returned her companion's
earnest pressure of the hand, and she promised to consider the matter
with an honest intention of keeping her word. But the cares of her
daily labor, the giddiness of her companions, the fear of ridicule,
all combined to destroy the slight serious impression which she had
received, and in a week she was as careless as ever. In another week,
she was beyond the reach of repentance or prayer—called, like many
another, without hope, without preparation, into the presence of her
Judge.
The next day, Celia went to her new home. It was a long, low, red
house, about two miles from the village, and stood in the very centre
of the large farm, so that the nearest neighbors were half a mile off.
There was a glorious prospect of wood, mountain, and meadow from the
front door, while back of the house was a deep, wooded glen, surrounded
by high rocks, full of living springs, and abounding with all sorts
of wood-plants. Mrs. Dennison received her very kindly; she was a
tall, spare woman, between forty and fifty years old—rather plain, but
with an expression of good temper and kindness which won the regard
of every one that approached her. She had been born and brought up in
Grandville, as were her parents before her. She had lived for fifteen
years in the family of Mrs. Huntley's father, sometimes as seamstress,
sometimes as nurse.
And there was no greater treat to the youthful Huntleys and
Vanderburghs than to be allowed to spend a day at Auntie Dennison's,
as they always called her. On these occasions, they raced in the
pastures, and played hide-and-seek-in the glen, and swing in the barn,
and gathered fruits and mushrooms, and hunted eggs, besides performing
feats of eating and drinking which would be considered incredible by
any one who has not had just such a dear old nurse to visit. Mrs.
Dennison was in her element on these occasions, though between her
pleasures and her anxieties, her fears of their getting cold and
hurting themselves, of their running too much or not eating enough, she
was, as she expressed it, something like a hen with ducklings.
Mr. Dennison was a tall, stalwart, sun-burnt man, who loved his wife,
and was proud of her skill in all sorts of culinary and dairy arts. He
was esteemed the best farmer in the town, and his farm was the pride
and joy of his heart; his meadows were like green velvet; no unsightly
weeds encumbered and deformed his pastures; his fences were always
in repair, and his cattle always fat, and never unruly. They had no
children, and the family consisted, besides themselves, of an old lady
called Aunt Nancy, a relative of Mr. Dennison's, and dependent on him,
and a boy who worked on the farm.
Besides these persons, there were four generations of cats—from old
Dolly, who was the grandmother of all cats and quite too grand to
condescend to be caressed by any one but her mistress, to Dick and
Nelly, the youngest kittens, who were not old enough to catch mice
and continually "aggravated" Dolly by taking liberties with her tail,
undeterred by the numerous cuffs and scratches which they received; a
lame and tame gander, who waddled all over after his mistress, whenever
she appeared out of doors; and Prince, a wonderfully accomplished
little black dog who learned all sorts of surprising tricks without
ever being taught, and understood language as well, Mr. Dennison was
wont to say, as "folks."
Such was the family in which Celia now found herself. Mrs. Dennison
received her with great kindness, and showed her her bed-room, which,
though small, was the very picture of comfort and neatness.
"I hope you will be contented here," she said, when Celia came down
stairs; "though I expect it will seem rather lonely after being in
the mill. I don't think it is, you see, because I am used to it, and
always have so much to do; but very likely a young girl might find it
different. But I do hope you will like it, for I can't bear to see any
one discontented."
"I think I shall like it very much," replied Celia; "but I am afraid
you will find me very awkward at work. I never did know much about it,
and since I have been in the mill, I have done less than ever."
"Where there's a will, there's a way," remarked Mrs. Dennison
encouragingly. "If you really want to learn, I have no doubt you can.
I am very particular about such things, but I don't usually have much
trouble with my girls. If you will only do just as you are told, we
shall get on nicely."
"What shall I do, now?" asked Celia.
"Oh I wash up the dishes, that is the first thing. I can't bear to have
a parcel of dirty dishes about. There's the pan and the cloth, and
the towels are out on the grass. But what are you doing, child? You
wouldn't take hard water to wash dishes, would you? Never mind, it is
only a mistake. You will learn in time."
Mrs. Dennison went on with her washing, keeping her eye on Celia's
proceedings, and now and then setting her right, in a good-natured way,
so that she accomplished her task with great ease. She then helped to
finish the washing, hung out the clothes, mopped the floor of the outer
kitchen, and then washed the potatoes for dinner. By three o'clock the
work was all done for the day, and Mrs. Dennison and Celia sat down
with their sewing in the kitchen, which was the sitting-room in summer.
Two hours passed away pleasantly in sewing and talking, and then Celia
set the table, and got tea. Then there were more dishes to be washed,
and the milk to be taken care of. All the cats came round for their
share, and Mrs. Dennison filled their basins with as much new milk as a
city family would buy for a whole day's consumption. Celia remarked it.
"Well, it might seem wasteful to some people perhaps, but I like to
give them as much as they want, and that keeps them from helping
themselves. Just bring that pail into the milk-room, will you, if it is
not too heavy?"
Celia had not been in the milk-room before, and she now gazed around
her in astonishment, at the long table filled with milk-pans, the
shelves of cheese, each on its well-scrubbed board, and the pots of
cream and butter, with which it was filled.
"A nice parcel of it, isn't there?" said Auntie Dennison, well pleased
with her admiration. "I suppose you never saw so much milk together
before, did you? Well, I like to take care of milk, though it is
dreadful particular work. Every thing has to be just so neat, or else
the butter isn't worth any thing. Now, I never wash my pans with the
same cloth, that I do my other dishes—I always have separate cloths,
towels, and all, and though I say it myself, I always have good luck.
Not a pound of soft butter have I had this summer."
The next day was ironing and churning-day, and then came baking-day,
and so on round the week; each morning bringing with it its especial
duties, for Mrs. Dennison was very systematic in her work. On Saturday,
a pair of chickens were roasted, and some pies and cake baked; for Mrs.
Dennison said, though she never calculated to have any cooking done
on Sundays, she liked to have every thing nice. On Sunday morning the
work was finished earlier than usual, because they had some distance to
ride to church, and it would not do to be late. Accordingly, they were
at the church door just as the first bells had finished ringing, thus
illustrating the truth of the often-repeated saying, that those who
live the farthest from church, are usually the most punctual in their
attendance.
Celia took her accustomed seat, and glanced around for Lydia; she
was not there. Robert and Mark came together, and sat with her; they
were both well, and she had the satisfaction of hearing that Mark
was apprenticed to a very respectable shoemaker, with whom he was
to live. Certainly no one who had known them a year before, would
have recognized in the quiet, well-dressed young people, who were so
attentive both to the service and the sermon, the boy and girl whom Mr.
Vanderburgh had pronounced such hopelessly hard cases, on the occasion
of Mr. Ellison's first visit.
Mr. and Mrs. Dennison were both teachers at the Sunday-school, and
therefore they did not return home till after the afternoon service.
Then the table was set, and they had dinner and tea together, at
half-past four, thus dispensing with one meal, and having the evening
free. Mrs. Dennison's eyes were not good, and Aunt Nancy had long since
lost almost the entire use of hers; and thus Celia found a new way of
making herself useful, by reading aloud, which made the Sunday evenings
pass away pleasantly as well as profitably.
She had passed two or three weeks in this quiet manner, when one day,
as she was setting out her milk-pails in the sun, she heard Prince
barking with all his might, as he always did when any one approached.
And looking up she saw a man running across the field, apparently in
great haste. As he came near, he called out something, but he was so
much out of breath, that she could not understand what he said. The
call brought Mrs. Dennison to the door.
"It's that unfortunate critter, Hewson," said she; "I wonder what has
happened now?"
By this time the man came up, but so breathless with distress and
haste, that he could hardly make out to say: "O Mrs. Dennison! Come
over, do come over! My wife has fallen into the cistern, and hurt
herself dreadful bad. Do come over while I go for the doctor."
"You go out there in the corn, and send Mr. Dennison after the doctor,"
said Mrs. Dennison, snatching her sun-bonnet. "Come along, Celia,
may-be you can do some good. We will just go cross-lots and get there
sooner. Take this bottle of camphor in your hand, and I'll carry the
liniment; for they will be sure not to have any thing that's needed."
"I'll be bound it comes from some of Hewson's shiftless ways," she
said, as they walked rapidly along; "he never did any thing at the
right time, or in the right place yet. I don't believe there ever was
a lazier man born into the world. You will hardly believe it, Celia,
but they lived in their house a whole summer, with the rain pouring in
by pailfuls, whenever there was a shower. He might have mended it in a
day's time; but as he said, when it rained, he couldn't mend it, and
when it didn't rain, it was as good as any body's."
"Does he drink?" asked Celia, who was accustomed to refer all sorts of
misery to whiskey.
"Oh! No. He never does any thing he ought not to; but then again, he
never does any thing he ought to. He is a member of the church, and in
some respects a good man, but he never has prospered, because he is so
shiftless, and his wife is just like him. Take care! You will be in
the cistern yourself! Do put the cover on, before any other accident
happens, and I will go in and see the woman."
No cover was to be found, however, and Celia secured it as well as she
could, by means of some bits of boards which she found, and a rough
bench, which stood by the kitchen-door with one of its legs out. She
then followed Mrs. Dennison into the house, when a sad scene presented
itself. Poor Mrs. Hewson, dripping with water, her face covered with
blood, and groaning with pain, lay upon the bed, which evidently had
not been made that day. A tub with dirty clothes, stood on one side of
the fireplace, and the breakfast-table, still uncleared, on the other.
The furniture had once been very good, and there was enough of it, and
the dishes upon the table were of good stone china; but all things wore
an aspect of dilapidation, dirt, and negligence, lamentable to behold.
"O Mrs. Dennison! I am so glad you have come!" said the poor woman. "I
thought no body would ever get here, and I am in such distress. Can't
you do something for me?"
"We must get off your wet clothes first," replied Mrs. Dennison. "You
will get your death of cold, lying in them so. Where do you keep your
nightgowns?"
"I don't know whether I have any clean ones or not," replied Mrs.
Hewson. "I have not washed for three or four weeks, because I have been
out of soap, and the wash-board was broken. If I have any, they are in
that bureau in the parlor."
"Do you look for them, Celia, while I get her undressed."
Celia looked accordingly, but no nightgowns were to be found, except
one which had no sleeves in it. There was abundance of dirty and
faded finery, and several garments in various stages of progress, but
not one nightgown, cap, or chemise that was in a wearable condition.
She glanced around the parlor. It was a prettily finished room,
with windows down to the floor, and well furnished, but dirty and
comfortless beyond expression. The panes were thick with fly-specks,
and the sashes adorned with dead flies. The carpet was so covered with
dust that it was difficult to discover the original pattern or color,
and you might, as the saying is, have written your name on any article
of furniture in the room. The paper had been very pretty, but it was
partly cracked from the walls, and covered, like every thing else, with
dust, cobwebs, and dirt. Celia could not help wondering when she saw
the quantities of flourishing spiders, how there came to be so many
flies remaining. All these things she noticed as she was searching
unsuccessfully for the nightgowns.
"I was afraid there were none," said Mrs. Hewson, feebly. "I thought I
should get them washed out to-day. I don't know what I shall do."
"You run home, Celia, and bring a nightgown and chemise of mine out
of my top drawer, and a pair of clean sheets and pillowcases from the
press. Be as quick as you can; you know just where to find them, and
ask Aunt Nancy for the roll of old linen."
Celia made all the haste possible, and returned just as the doctor
drove up. Mrs. Hewson was undressed with great difficulty and
suffering, and the bed put in order and made comfortable.
It was found, upon examination, that two of her ribs were broken, and
she was severely bruised, besides having received a bad cut upon her
forehead. It was almost a miracle that she escaped so easily. While the
doctor and Mrs. Dennison were busy about the sick woman, Celia made
an attempt to put the house a little in order; but it seemed almost a
hopeless task, every thing was in such disorder that she did not know
where to begin. However, she carried the washing apparatus out into the
wood-house, cleaned away and washed the dirty dishes, brushed up the
hearth, and swept the floor, while Hewson sat by the fire, bemoaning
his bad luck.
"I always was the most unfortunate man in the whole world," he said, as
the doctor came out of his wife's room. "Nothing ever went right with
me, nor ever will. I lost a sheep in that cistern only two weeks ago."
"Why did you not make a cover for it?" asked the doctor.
"Well, I have been calculating to, this three or four weeks, but I had
nothing just right to make one of."
"What became of the planks you got on purpose for it?" asked Mr.
Dennison.
"Oh! I had to use them to mend the fence. It was knocked down in the
spring, and the boards were handy for kindling-wood, so they got burned
up. Then my sheep got into Peters' lot, and he threatened to prosecute
me, so I had to take the first thing that came to hand to mend the
fence. But that's just the way every thing always goes against me. It's
Providence, I suppose!"
"I should think it was carelessness in this case," said the doctor,
"and a carelessness which is likely to cost you pretty dear. I should
think any man of common-sense would know better than to leave an open
cistern directly in the way for three or four months."
"Well, how could I fix it when I had no boards?"
"You could have got some, I suppose!"
"Well, so I did try. I depended on Peters to get me some the first time
he went to the mill; but he says I didn't mention it to him, though I
am pretty sure I did. But that's just the way! One can't depend on any
one now-a-days."
"Except on one's self! Well Mrs. Dennison, I will call again this
evening and see how she is, and meantime I hope you will be able to
stay."
It was neither easy nor convenient for Mrs. Dennison to spare the time;
but with her an act of kindness was paramount to all other things. She
set Celia to finish the washing, the accumulation of three or four
weeks; but finding that it was quite too heavy for her, she bade her
wash only such things as were absolutely necessary for the sick woman,
telling Hewson that he must hire a washerwoman to do the rest. She put
the bed-room in more decent order, driving out the swarming flies, and
darkening the windows. She combed Mrs. Hewson's hair and bathed her
face and hands, and then prepared her a cup of tea, first washing the
kettle, the tea-pot, and a cup and saucer. Then, having done all things
in her power to make her patient comfortable, she sent Celia home to
get supper, and see to the milk, proposing to stay all night herself.
"How do they come to be so badly off?" asked Celia of Mr. Dennison at
supper. "They do not seem as though they had always been poor."
"Nor have they," he replied. "They need not be poor now, if Hewson had
any industry, or his wife any economy; but they have neither the one
nor the other. His farm might be as good as mine if it were properly
treated; but under his bad management, it is almost worthless. He goes
upon the principle of never doing to-day what can possibly be put off
till to-morrow. This affair of the cistern is just a specimen. His
barn-door is off the hinges; well, there he will let it lie, for the
cows to walk over and knock to pieces, perhaps for a month, when half
an hour's work would put it to rights. Then he has to pay twice as much
for a new one as it would have cost to fix the old one, and has his
barn-floor spoiled besides. It is just so in the house. They never have
a bit of good butter or good bread. They can not get more than half
the market price for their cheese or their fowls, because they are not
half-pressed or half-dressed. Mrs. Hewson buys twice as many dresses as
my wife, and yet she never looks half as well."
"You can see from them, Celia," remarked Aunt Nancy, "the great
importance of what Jane is always saying about doing things thoroughly.
You think it rather hard sometimes because she makes you sweep the room
over, or wash the pans a second time, and always do things just at the
right minute; but if Mrs. Hewson had had some one to do the same by
her when she was young, how much better off she would be now! I am not
sorry that you have had a chance to see how things go there, because
you have been quite put out several times lately at being made to do
things nicely."
Celia blushed, and acknowledged her error. It was true that she had,
as Aunt Nancy said, been considerably "put out" at Mrs. Dennison for
insisting on her doing things exactly at the right time and in the
right way; and it was only the day before that she had showed a great
deal of temper about it. Mrs. Dennison reproved her, which added to her
irritation, and she was beginning to remember what Lydia Hinds used to
say about the slavery of working in a family, and to cast a longing
glance back to the freedom of the mill. The day at Mrs. Hewson's,
however, partly set her right, and several subsequent visits deepened
the impression. She saw plainly enough the discomfort arising from
indolence and carelessness to make her willing to be directed as to the
best way of doing things, and Mrs. Dennison had much seldomer occasion
to reprove her for ill-temper or carelessness. She took pains to give
satisfaction, and succeeded, as people almost always do who take pains.