Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
Opposite Neighbours.—Frontispiece.
"And so, Letty, you are really going to be married?"
OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS;
OR,
The Two Lives, and their End.
[BY]
[LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.]
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PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
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CONTENTS.
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[CHAPTER I. GOING TO BE MARRIED]
[CHAPTER IV. AUNT EUNICE'S VISIT]
[CHAPTER XII. THE WILL [Part II]
[CHAPTER XIII. MISCHIEF-MAKING]
[CHAPTER XVI. MRS. VAN HORN AGAIN]
[CHAPTER XVIII. A LAST GLIMPSE]
OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS.
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[CHAPTER I.]
GOING TO BE MARRIED.
"AND so, Letty, you are really going to be married?"
Nobody could have mistaken Mrs. Trescott for any thing but a lady, though she was dressed in a very ancient calico wrapper and a gingham apron, and though her sleeves were turned up to her elbows, and her hands stained with the fruit she was paring. Mrs. Trescott was, in housekeeping phrase, "getting ready to do up her quinces," and had chosen that opportunity to hold a little confidential and friendly chat with her chambermaid, Letty Bright, about her future prospects. Letty had lived a long time with Mrs. Trescott, and had won her great regard.
"And so you are really going to be married?"
Letty hung down her head, blushed and smiled, and said she supposed there was no use in denying it.
"No use, indeed!" said Mrs. Trescott. "You silly child, don't you suppose I have had my eyes open for the last six months and more, while John Caswell has been coming and going about the house? No, indeed. And if I had not known John to be a good, steady young man, in every way worthy of you, do you think I would have allowed matters to go so far without at least trying to keep you from throwing yourself away?"
Mrs. Trescott paused a moment, and then continued, in a graver tone:—
"You see, Letty, you have been with me now a long time; and I should naturally take an interest in you, if only for that reason; but that is not all. You have been a very good girl. You have stayed with and helped me in some very trying times, and I have always found you a comfort and a support. It will be hard for me to part with you, Letty; and I should not be at all reconciled to doing so, if I did not think that you were going to settle in life with as reasonable prospects of happiness as fall to the lot of most people. Now, you needn't cry," added Mrs. Trescott,—while her own eyes were full,—"but tell me when this great event is to take place. Next month, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, ma'am," replied Letty, eagerly. "Not before next spring. You see, we want to have a house of our own to go into, and so begin as we mean to keep on."
"A very good plan," said Mrs. Trescott. "Have you any house in view?"
"Why, yes, ma'am; at least, John has,—for I have not seen the place yet. It is on Myrtle Street."
"Myrtle Street? That runs out through the Bronson property, I believe. Rather a new street, isn't it?"
"Rather new," replied Letty; "though there are some pretty places on it already, John can get a double lot there at a very reasonable price, by paying down one-third of the purchase-money. The house is very nice,—or will be when it is finished; and so we shall go at once into a home of our own."
"Do you know any thing of your neighbours?" asked Mrs. Trescott.
"Our opposite neighbour will be my cousin Agnes," said Letty. "She is going to be married very soon, and they have bought Number ten,—directly opposite. Our house is Number nine. I don't know any thing about our next door neighbours, except that John says they have a beautiful garden. He tells me that he never saw so many plants and flowers crowded into such a small space."
"That is a good sign," said Mrs. Trescott. "I like to see people fond of flowers."
"Another reason why I was willing to wait till next spring," continued Letty, "was that I thought I should like to have a little money beforehand,—at least enough to lay in a little stock of sheets and towels and such things, besides my own clothes. You know I haven't been able to save a great deal, so far."
Mrs. Trescott assented. Letty had almost entirely supported a helpless little sister for several years. It had cost her no small degree of self-denial; but she always said the time would come when it would be made up to her: she was not afraid of losing by it. So she went on for several years, buying none but the cheapest bonnets and dresses, and keeping them in wear so long that her cousin, Agnes Train, said she was really ashamed to be seen in the street with her. But little Sally was dead at last, released from a life short indeed in years, but long in suffering; and Letty had the comfort of thinking, as she followed her sister's remains to the grave, that the poor child had never wanted any thing which care and affection could provide to lighten her burden.
"How much have you beforehand?" asked Mrs. Trescott.
"Only ten dollars, ma'am; but with what you owe me I will have fifteen."
"Well," said Mrs. Trescott, "even fifteen dollars will go a good way, when properly managed; and I have a plan in my head which, if you approve, will enable you to earn more."
Letty looked a little alarmed. "I should not like to think of going to another place, Mrs. Trescott, as long as you are suited with me."
Mrs. Trescott smiled. "I am not so unselfish as that, Letty," said she. "But what I was thinking of is this. You know Mrs. Davis is going away next week. We are only two in the family, now that Mr. Trescott is gone; and I have been thinking that we might manage with one girl. Do you think you could undertake the work?"
Letty did not know. She thought she might.
"Of course I shall not expect you to sew," continued Mrs. Trescott, "and I shall help you a good deal myself. You shall have your evenings to yourself; and I will pay you two dollars a week. That will enable you to lay up a nice little sum against the spring; or you can be buying and making up your household linen as you go along. Moreover, you will be learning to cook, and so be better prepared for housekeeping."
Letty considered a little. The work would not be so very hard, after all, and the house was extremely convenient. She would not have so much time to go out; but she did not care about that, so long as she had the evenings to herself. She made a little calculation in her own mind. Two dollars for twenty-five weeks would be fifty dollars. She need be at no present expense for her clothes, since she had bought plain, respectable mourning when Sally died, which she meant to wear all winter. Fifty dollars, with the fifteen already in hand, would do a good deal towards buying the respectable "setting-out" on which she had set her heart. Moreover, as Mrs. Prescott said, she would all the time be acquiring knowledge which would be useful to her as the mistress of a family.
Letty did not look forward to keeping a girl. She knew she should have her own work to do; and she very sensibly thought that the more she knew about housekeeping beforehand, the easier it would be to take the whole responsibility. So she accepted the proposal, with the stipulation that she should be allowed to go to church on Sunday, and to Bible-class, as usual,—to which Mrs. Trescott very readily agreed; and it was understood that she should enter upon her duties the next Monday.
When Letty mentioned this new arrangement at her aunt Train's, whither she usually went to tea every other Sunday afternoon, there was a great outcry. The Trains thought it rather derogatory to their dignity that a niece of theirs should "live out" at all; and they had made many attempts, both direct and indirect, to induce Letty to leave her place and learn a trade, or at least work in the shop, as Agnes did.
But Letty knew when she was well off. She had a comfortable home at Mrs. Trescott's,—far more comfortable, to her mind, than her aunt's house; where, except in the one front room kept for company, nothing ever seemed to be in its place from one year's end to another. She was sure of her wages the year round; whereas Agnes was often out of work for weeks at a time. Moreover, she had a feeling that the company with which Agnes was associated in the rooms where she worked would not please her at all. Mrs. Train said to herself that Letty was a strange girl,—a very obstinate girl, with very little self-respect and many queer notions,—and saved the family dignity by always speaking of her niece as Mrs. Trescott's seamstress. And now here she was actually turning herself into a maid-of-all-work! It was too bad!
"Letty Bright, a'n't you ashamed of yourself?" she exclaimed. "Why, you will be neither more nor less than a kitchen-girl,—a regular drudge! You had better go out to washing, and have done with it!"
"There is no use in talking to Letty, mother," said Agnes. "She will have her own way, you know. But I must say, this is too bad; and all for such a paltry sum, when you might make three times that by working in the shop. Why, I earned six dollars only last week."
"Out of which you had to pay for your board," said Letty,—"to say nothing of streetcar tickets, which use up money very fast. Take out your expenses, and how much are you better off than I am, after all?"
"Nonsense!" said Agnes. "I hate such close calculations. At least I have the pleasure of spending it, and a home of my own."
"So have I," replied Letty,—"and a good home, too."
"Yes,—in a kitchen," sneered her aunt.
"As to that," said Letty, "you and Agnes always sit in the kitchen; don't you? I never remember finding you anywhere else, except when you had company."
"And washing, too!" continued Mrs. Train, not finding it convenient to notice Letty's remark.
"How finely you will feel when John Caswell comes in some morning and finds you up to your elbows in the wash-tub!"
"John never comes in the morning: he is always busy in the shop," said Letty, laughing; "and, besides, he will have to get used to seeing me with my arms in the suds, sooner or later, you know. I don't expect to hire my washing done out of the house: do you, Agnes?"
"John won't care," said Agnes. "He is just such another humdrum body as Letty herself. I don't believe he ever took a holiday, or went to the theatre or circus, in all his life. Only think, mother! He told Joe that he was willing to consent to Letty's notion of putting off their marriage till next spring, because he did not mean to put an article of furniture in his house that was not paid for; and he wished to use what money he had by him in making his payments on the place. There is a romantic lover for you!"
Letty only laughed. She knew very well where John's romance lay; but she did not care to speak about these affairs to her aunt and cousin; and they, seeing that she was not to be moved, began to talk of something else. The new topic, however, was not more fortunate than the other.
"Have you begun to think about winter clothes yet, Letty?" asked Agnes. "I suppose you will wear black, as you don't mean to be married till spring. What bonnet do you mean to have? I saw one which would just suit you, at Smith's,—made of black mode, with beautiful black-and-white flowers, all for five dollars. Wasn't it cheap?"
"Yes, I dare say, if one wanted it," said Letty; "but I don't mean to buy any thing new this fall. I bought two nice new dresses when I put on black; and the black-and-white checked shawl I bought new last winter is perfectly suitable for mourning."
"Well, if ever! And so you mean to wear that black alpaca dress and blanket shawl to church, and everywhere else, all winter!"
"I have a merino, too, you know," said Letty; "and I think the shawl is very nice. It is just like Miss Catherine Trescott's. Mrs. Trescott said she thought it as suitable as any thing I could have."
"Miss Trescott? Yes; but you don't find her wearing hers to church."
"Yes, she does, very often,—in damp and cool weather. And, besides that, Agnes, there would be no sense or propriety in my trying to dress like Miss Trescott. It would not be at all suitable."
"I don't see why. You are as good as she is, any day in the week."
"I am not so sure of that," replied Letty smiling; "but, even if I were, I could not afford it. Miss Catherine's father gives her three hundred dollars a year just for her dress and spending money."
"Does he?" said Agnes. "I never should have guessed that. I am sure that I could dress better than she does, for that money. She is always as plain as a Quaker, when in church. I hardly ever saw her wear any thing but a black silk or a merino."
"Miss Catherine has some beautiful dresses," said Letty; "but both she and her mother always dress plainly in church, because they think it right. I have heard Mrs. Trescott say that she did not like to wear a new dress or bonnet to church, if she could help it. But Miss Catherine does not spend nearly all her money in dress. She buys a good many books and pictures, and spends money on her painting,—besides what she gives away. She made each of her girls in Sunday-school a new cape and hood last winter, all alike, and of new stuff. You don't know how nicely the little things look. But, as I was saying, there would be no sense in my trying to dress like Miss Trescott; and it would be wrong, besides."
"Wrong!" repeated Agnes. "Do you think it any more wrong to wear a pretty dress than an ugly one?"
"No; certainly not. But I think it is always wrong for people to spend so much in dress as to have nothing to spare for any other use. Besides, Agnes, that is not a fair way of putting it. We need not wear ugly or unbecoming things because our dresses are cheap. Pretty calicoes and delaines cost no more than ugly ones."
"But what use have you for money except for dress?" asked her aunt. "You often boast that you have no other expenses."
"Why, you know, while Sally lived I had to care for her—"
"I am not talking about Sally," interrupted Mrs. Train, rather peevishly. "She is dead and gone, poor thing!—all the better for her and for every one else. Moreover, there was never any need of that, either. You might have got her into the Home, or the Hospital, as well as not. It was not as if she had been your own sister. She was no relation to you at all,—only your step-mother's child."
"She was the child of the only mother I ever knew," returned Letty, warmly, "and of one who never let me miss a mother's care so long as she lived; and I would not have left her to be dependent on the charity of strangers,—no, not if I had gone in rags all my life, and worked my fingers to the bone besides. I wish you would not talk about Sally in that way, Aunt Susan. And, now that she is gone, I like to have something for those who are poorer than I am, if it is only for her sake."
"Well, for my part," said Mrs. Train, "I think charity begins at home."
"So do I," replied Letty; "but it need not end there."
"But your bonnet, Letty!" urged Agnes. "Surely you do not mean to wear that black straw, trimmed with bombazine, to church all winter? Do have a new one of some sort."
"I cannot afford it, Agnes; and that is all about it," said Letty, decidedly. "Don't let us talk about such things any more. I do not think it is a very good way of spending Sunday evening. Did you go to church this morning? Dr. Burton preached for us. How did you like him?"
Mrs. Train had not been to church. Agnes had been; but she did not know whether she liked the preacher or not,—though she noticed that he wore a seal-ring, which seemed odd for a minister. She thought the service very long, and the singing not so good as usual. She believed that Mrs. Sampson had on a new India shawl. She thought it looked very odd and affected for Miss Patterson to sit with her Sunday-scholars every Sunday, just as if she wanted every one to see how good she was. The Brown girls had all got new dresses alike,—real Irish poplins, she verily believed. Pretty well, that, for girls who got their living by keeping school. Were their mantles of the same, or of corded silk? She supposed Letty must know, as she sat just behind them.
But Letty did not know. She had been thinking of something besides the Miss Browns. She felt vexed and uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken in spite of her remonstrance, and thought she never would come to her aunt's on Sunday evening again. But they were her only surviving relations, except an old grand-aunt who lived in the country; and she did not like to quarrel with them, though they had so little in common.
Presently John Caswell came in, to go to church with Letty. She had not seen him since she had made the new arrangement; and she had, therefore, told him nothing about it. Mrs. Train, however, pounced upon him at once.
"Well, John, Letty has been promoted. I expect she will soon be too grand to speak to any of us. You did not think you were going to make such a great match as to marry a kitchen-girl, did you?"
John looked somewhat surprised, and turned to Letty for an explanation.
"You have not left your place, have you, Letty? I thought you liked Mrs. Trescott too well to leave her for any one,—"
"Except me," he mentally added.
"I have not left her, and do not intend to leave her at present," said Letty, quietly. "I will tell you all about it, presently. It is time for us to go, isn't it? You know we have a long walk."
John thought it was; and Letty went up-stairs to put on her bonnet. When she came down, she heard her aunt talking very earnestly, and she caught the words "strange, foolish notions," and "drive them out of her," which showed her that her own peculiarities were still the theme of discourse.
"What's the matter, Letty?" said John, as they walked away through the quiet, shady streets. "Your aunt seems to be quite excited on the subject of your misdoings, and declares that you will bring disgrace on the family by your notions. What have you been doing?"
Letty laughed. "Nothing very bad, John. Aunt Train is offended because I have undertaken to do all Mrs. Trescott's work, instead of part of it, as heretofore. She seems to think there is a certain disgrace attached to working in the kitchen, and especially to washing; and she asked me how I thought you would feel to come in, of a morning, and find me with my arms in the wash-tub."
John did not seem to think it would be an unbearable calamity to see Letty at any time of day. He could not perceive that any more disgrace attached to washing than to ironing; and as to cooking, he seemed to consider that a desirable accomplishment. "But what about your dress?" he asked. "Mrs. Train says you do not dress fit to be seen."
"What do you think about it, John?" asked Letty, turning upon him with a grave face, but the least little bit of a laugh in her eye.
John's answer is not recorded; but it may be presumed that Letty was satisfied with it.
Then the two fell into a discourse about their future prospects. Letty often thought how happy it was that she and John were like-minded upon the most important of all subjects. They were sure to draw together there; and, that being the case, she could not fear that they would ever be in danger of serious disagreements.
Indeed, their acquaintance had begun at Mrs. Willson's Bible-class, two years before. They had gone together from Mrs. Willson's Bible-class to the doctor's class, had joined themselves to the people of God at the same time, and still went to church together every Sunday; though John had taken a Sunday-school class, which Letty could not conveniently do. Letty looked forward with pleasure to setting up her household in the fear and love of God,—to daily morning and evening prayers, and Sunday readings of good books, and grace said at a table neatly set for two persons. By the time they reached the church-door, the unpleasant impressions left by her aunt's remarks had passed away, and she felt fully in tune for the sacred services.
Agnes did not go to church; Joseph was not much of a church-goer. Indeed, it may be doubted whether he had been within the walls of any place of worship a dozen times in six years, till he was engaged to Agnes,—when he went sometimes, to please her. Agnes had been a Sunday-scholar as well as Letty, and at one time Mrs. Willson thought her very hopeful; but of late she had grown giddy and careless. She became very irregular in her attendance at Bible-class; and more than once Mrs. Willson had seen such behaviour in church as gave her great pain. At last she spoke to Agnes about the matter,—very gently, indeed, but plainly, as was her duty.
Agnes first denied the charge, and then grew angry; declared she would not be watched and made to give an account of herself like a baby, and at last left the Bible-class altogether. Mrs. Willson was very sorry; but there seemed no more to be done; and she waited and prayed, hoping that Agnes would see the impropriety of her conduct and return to her duty.
In reality, Agnes meant no particular harm; but she was giddy and easily influenced. She was rather unfortunate in being thrown among such a set of girls as those with whom she worked at the shop. There were two or three who took the lead in every thing; and they were extravagant, showy girls, caring for nothing but dress and company, and vying with each other as to who could get the greatest amount of finery out of their limited earnings, and make the gayest appearance in the street. They affected, too, a great deal of independence,—discussed all sorts of subjects with the greatest freedom, not to say flippancy, and had books circulating among them which were any thing but desirable reading.
Agnes used to be shocked, at first, by many things which she saw and heard; but she soon grew accustomed to them, learned to join in the laugh, even when the joke was by no means a delicate one, and to read books in her own room which she was very careful to hide from her mother. She would have liked to go out in the evenings with her companions, running about from store to store and flirting with the shop-boys, or joining in frolics of a still more questionable nature; but this her mother would not permit.
Mrs. Train was not a very wise woman, but she had sense enough to know that it is a great deal easier for a young girl to get a stain upon her reputation than to wash it off again, and that simple imprudence and giddiness may lead her to do things which she will bitterly repent all her life afterwards. So she looked sharply after Agnes's associates, and, in general, kept her pretty well under her own eyes. It was this very care of her mother's, at which Agnes often grumbled and repined, which won the girl her husband, after all.
Joseph Emerson worked in another department of the same factory where Agnes was employed. He was struck at first by her rather quiet manners; and then he began to observe that he never saw her running about in the evenings with the other girls, and discovered that she went to church with tolerable regularity. Joseph was not always perfectly steady himself, and he made no pretence to religion; but, like many other such men, he admired piety in women, and he thought, too, that it was a very good thing for them to stay at home evenings, instead of running about the streets. So he began to pay Agnes various little attentions; and in process of time they were engaged to be married.
Joseph had a good trade; he was a skilful hand, and earned large wages; but he had never laid by a dollar in his life. He was as fond of dress, in his way, as Agnes was in hers. He liked to smoke, and to drive horses, and a visit to the theatre now and then; and thus, without any thing which could properly be called dissipation, his money melted away about as fast as it came, sometimes, indeed, a little faster. He said to himself that he had now a motive for saving, and he meant to be very careful. He really did economize so far as to be able to make a small payment upon his house, and he hoped before spring to be able to furnish it comfortably. He meant that they should board through the winter and go to housekeeping in the spring. So they were to be married the next month; and Agnes was already buying her wedding-dresses.
[CHAPTER II.]
PREPARATIONS.
A FEW days after this Sunday visit, Agnes came round to see Letty, and informed her that the day was set for the wedding.
"I was going to ask you to be bridesmaid, Letty; but mother thought you wouldn't like it, on account of your being in mourning, and all that."
"I understand," said Letty, quietly, as Agnes made rather an awkward pause. "Aunt was quite right. I have no nice dress but a black one,—which would not be at all suitable for a bridesmaid, you know."
"To be sure," said Agnes, briskly, as though relieved from some embarrassment. "That was what we thought. So I have asked Martha Allen. When will you come up and see my dresses, Letty? They are all done,—wedding-dress and all. Mother has been really liberal, I can tell you. She says she is determined that I shall be as nice-looking as a bride the doctor has married this year; and my wedding-dress is lovely,—light blue silk, with short sleeves and a low neck,—blue is so becoming to me, you know,—and a veil, and white flowers for my hair. Won't it be splendid?"
"Very pretty," replied Letty; "but, after all, Agnes, I should rather have bought something which would be useful afterwards. What can you do with such a dress as that?"
"Why, you know, it will do nicely for an evening dress, for a long time; and then it can be coloured. One must have evening dresses, you know."
Letty did not answer. She did not see the necessity of evening dresses for any person in Agnes's position.
"Then I have a black watered-silk, and a plaid silk, and a merino, and a travelling-dress—"
"Travelling-dress!" repeated Letty. "Are you going to travel?"
"Yes; to be sure, child. We are going down East, to see Joseph's friends. When we come back, we are going to the 'Oak House,' to board for the winter. Two weeks from to-day, and then good-by to the old shop forever! But tell me: when will you come up and see my dresses?"
"Saturday afternoon or evening, perhaps," replied Letty. She continued her sewing, thoughtfully, while Agnes chattered on about all sorts of things,—principally about her dresses, and the furniture for their two rooms at the "Oak House," which Joseph had already purchased, and the fine times she expected to have,—boarding, with nothing to do but to amuse herself all day long. Presently she noticed Letty's work.
"What a pile of new muslin!" said she. "Some one has a good piece of work cut out, to make up all this. What very nice cloth it is! I wonder how much Mrs. Trescott gave for it?"
"Fourteen cents a yard," answered Letty. "She bought it for me a few days ago."
"For you!" repeated Agnes, in surprise. "Does Mrs. Trescott do your shopping for you?"
"Sometimes, when I ask her," replied Letty. "She is a better judge than I am, and purchases so much that she gets things to advantage. So, when I need any thing of this kind, I generally ask her to buy it for me. I think this is very nice indeed."
"What is it for?" asked Agnes.
"Pillow-cases," replied Letty, colouring a very little.
"Well, I declare, you are prudent, Letty," said Agnes, laughing. "You mean to begin in good time. I have not bought an article of that kind, yet. I shall have plenty of time when we are boarding to make up such things. How nice and pleasant your kitchen looks! You will make a real good housekeeper,—that's a fact."
"It will not be for the want of good training if I don't," said Letty. "Mrs. Trescott has taken a great deal of pains to teach me; and she is the nicest housekeeper I ever saw."
"I have heard that she was close," remarked Agnes.
"She is economical, but not stingy," said Letty. "She makes the most of things, and will not allow a bit of waste; but she always buys the best, and plenty of it."
"Well, come up on Saturday and see my things," said Agnes.
Letty promised,—and went accordingly. She found her cousin in a bad humour.
"Only think, Letty!" said Agnes. "Martha Allen has gone and bought a blue silk, just the colour of mine, and a great deal handsomer! Hers is corded, and cost two dollars a yard; while mine is only plain silk. She will put me out entirely. Every one will think she is the bride. Isn't it vexatious? I declare, I have a great mind not to be married at all."
"I am glad Joseph does not hear you," said Letty.
"It must have taken all her wages, so that she won't have any thing else decent to wear all winter: that is one comfort," said Agnes, spitefully. "But isn't it vexatious? Now, wouldn't you be vexed, if you were me?"
"I think I should," said Letty; "not for fear of being outshone, but because it does not show a very kind spirit in Martha, after you have been intimate so long. But I am sure, Agnes, your dress is pretty enough for any thing, only so very delicate."
"It is delicate," said Mrs. Train, with something like a sigh. "I was rather unwilling to buy it; but Agnes had set her heart upon it; and, after all, girls don't often get married but once, and I want her to look pretty. You would have looked out for something more useful, I dare say."
Letty thought she should, but said that people must be their own judges in such matters.
"Here is something which will please you better:—this plaid silk," continued Mrs. Train. "Try it on, Agnes, and let Letty see how nicely it fits."
But Agnes would not try it on. Martha's corded silk had put her out of humour with all her own things. She declared that the plaid silk was poor, thin stuff, and looked more like domestic gingham than any thing else; the black silk was only fit for an old woman; and as for the blue, she hated the very sight of it. She wished she had never seen it. She wished she had laid out her money for useful things, like Letty. Where was the use of trying to dress, when some one else was perfectly sure to go beyond you?
"Where, indeed?" said Letty. "But, Agnes, some one is always sure to go beyond you, dress as much as you will. I know I thought Mrs. Trescott's cashmere shawl the very handsomest thing I ever saw till old Mrs. Trescott came; and hers was so much better that it made her daughter's look positively ordinary. I had the curiosity one day to ask Miss Catherine how much it cost; and she said she supposed about 'a thousand dollars.'"
"A thousand dollars!" echoed Mrs. Train and Agnes, in tones of amazement; and Mrs. Train added, "I wish I had half as much as that in the bank, for these children to begin the world upon."
"Yes, indeed: it would be a nice little fortune for one of us," continued Letty. "You know I went to Saratoga once with Mrs. Trescott and Miss Catherine, when Miss Emily was alive. Miss Catherine was anxious—as any young girl would be—to have pretty things to wear; but Mrs. Trescott only laughed, and said, 'You will see so much more dress than you could possibly put on, Kitty, that you will care nothing at all about your own.' And so it proved. Some of the ladies must have spent their whole time in dressing, I think; for they never wore the same dress twice. I heard one lady's maid say that her mistress had brought forty different dresses."
"Only think!" said Agnes. "I always envied you that time."
"You needn't," said Letty, sighing; "for it was a very sad time. We all hoped the water and the pure air would do Emily so much good;—and for a few days she did seem to revive; but she soon was down again, and there was the last hope gone. One could not care much for fine dress and display, with such a sufferer all the time before one's eyes. It used to seem cruel to me, sometimes, to see the people so gay, and hear the band playing, when that dear child was lying almost senseless for hours, or only reviving to fall into another convulsion.
"Some of them were very kind, too. That very lady who had the forty dresses, and who you would think, to see her, cared for nothing else, came to ask Mrs. Trescott if there was any thing she could do to help her; and she cried over Emily as if her heart would break. She told Mrs. Trescott that she had lost two little girls, about Emily's age, three or four years before."
"But do you think, Letty, that people who dress so much really think more about it than others?"
"Yes," replied Letty. "I know they must, unless they are very rich indeed. It takes all their time and thoughts. We had two young ladies staying at our house last winter, who went out a great deal. They were not rich, and made their own dresses; and I never saw them busy with any thing else as long as they stayed. It was a pair of undersleeves to be trimmed, or a flounce to alter, or a thin jacket to be made up,—from morning till night. I know they kept me busy doing up and ironing out, till I wished they were gone. Mrs. Trescott used to try to get them to read, and to be interested about poor people, and so on; but no: they never had any time! Mr. Trescott said, once, it was a pity they had not been apprenticed to a milliner, so as to turn their love of finery to some good account."
Agnes had recovered from her ill humour by this time. She now insisted on trying on all her dresses,—for Letty to see. Letty tried to enter into the spirit of the occasion,—admired and criticized, was laughed at for her ignorance of the fashions, and laughed in her turn.
She finally left Agnes in high spirits, well pleased with every thing, and, apparently, fully convinced that marriage was going to be a cure for "all the ills that flesh is heir to," and looking forward to nothing but sunshine for the rest of her life. No thought of responsibility, no consideration of the sacredness of the engagement into which she had entered, seemed able to divert her attention for a moment. She especially exulted in the idea that she—the youngest of her set—was to be married first of all. "It will be a long time before Martha Allen will get such a good-looking husband, for all her corded silk," were her last words to her cousin.
Letty walked homeward, feeling rather sadly. She had seen too much of fine dresses to be dazzled by Agnes's preparations. She was sorry to see her spending money so foolishly; and she had a feeling that such an expensive wedding was not a very good beginning for two young people who had nothing in the world beforehand. She was sure all this must straiten her aunt very much, with her small income. She was oppressed, too, with Agnes's giddiness. It seemed to her that if ever a girl ought to think seriously, to review her own faults and deficiencies, to feel the need of divine guidance and support, it should be in the week before her wedding-day. She had tried to say something of this kind to her cousin; but Agnes cut her short with a laugh.
"Come, now, Letty; don't preach! You are as bad as Mrs. Willson herself; and I dare say you will look just like her when you are as old,—spectacles and all. One would think I was going to be buried, instead of married."
"I think one is nearly as serious a matter as the other, for my part," said Letty.
"Well, I really believe you do. I wouldn't be so solemn for any thing. I should have no comfort in life if I were always looking at every thing on the shady side. That is always the way with you religious people. You don't take any comfort yourselves, and you don't mean any one else should take any, if you can help it. For my part, I mean to enjoy life all I can, while I have a chance. Trouble comes soon enough, without making it for oneself."
This seemed rather absurd, coming from one who a few minutes before had wished she was not going to be married at all, because Martha Allen had a more expensive dress than her own. Letty saw, however, that it was of no use to try to make any impression upon her cousin at present, and so abandoned the attempt.
"It isn't worth while to talk to her, Letty," said Mrs. Train. "Girls will be girls. She will get sobered fast enough when she comes to know a little of the real cares of life."
The wedding took place at the time appointed, and was a gay affair. Letty wondered, as she looked round upon the dresses of Agnes's companions, how much money they could have left for necessaries. Agnes looked very pretty, and was wonderfully serious for her,—which Letty was very glad to see.
She hoped her cousin realized at last what she was about to do. But Agnes's seriousness proceeded from a very different feeling. She was annoyed and mortified past all endurance. In fact, she was the victim of a conspiracy as spiteful as it was silly. She had boasted a good deal of her wedding preparations; and half a dozen of her companions had determined to revenge themselves by playing her a trick and outdressing her even on her wedding-day.
Martha Allen's corded silk was the beginning of her troubles. But there was Julia Jones in white silk, and Amelia Riley in a beautiful silk-tissue robe with flounces to the waist, and Jane Wilkins in moiré antique (it was not absolutely genuine, perhaps, but looked just as well by candle-light), and half a dozen others, all better dressed than the bride! After all her pains and all her talk!—that was the worst of it. Agnes was quite eclipsed, and that at her own wedding!
To every one but Agnes, the evening seemed to pass off very nicely. The supper was abundant and handsome,—far too much so, Letty thought, as she remembered how her aunt would have to pinch her already spare housekeeping to pay for all these nice things.
Joseph appeared remarkably well. He was good-looking and well dressed, and had very good, though rather stiff, manners; and Letty was especially pleased with his politeness and kindness to his mother-in-law.
Mrs. Train looked tired and sad, as though she found it hard at last to give away her only child; but when any one spoke to her on the subject she expressed herself perfectly satisfied—not to say delighted—with the match.
Letty felt herself, in her plain black dress and crape collar and sleeves, almost out of place in the midst of all this gayety, and was tempted to wish she had not come, especially as she knew very few of the guests. She determined, however, not to be a damper on any one, and exerted herself to talk and be agreeable; in which she succeeded so well that a good many people asked Agnes who that pretty girl in black could be, with such pleasing manners.
Martha Allen took pains to whisper to a number of her friends that Letty was only a servant-girl at Mrs. Trescott's; but this information did not prevent her from receiving a great deal more attention and admiration than she cared for,—especially as she saw that John was looking glum and uncomfortable. Mrs. Train begged her to stay as long as possible; and she could not well refuse.
But as all things come to an end at last, so did this evening; and Letty and John set out for a quiet walk homeward through the moonlight. John was rather silent; and Letty, after two or three attempts to talk, became silent too. At last John roused himself, and asked Letty how she had enjoyed the evening.
"Not very well," said Letty. "I was glad when it was over."
"Were you?" said John. "I thought you seemed to be having a very lively time."
"Of course I felt obliged to exert myself to entertain aunt's company," said Letty. "What else could I do?"
"It seemed to come uncommonly easy, I thought," returned John. "I never saw you so lively. I hardly knew you."
"I don't think you did," said Letty, dryly. "What would you have me do?"
John was not prepared with an answer.
"John," said Letty, "we have never had a quarrel,—have we?"
"No."
"Then do you think it best to begin?"
"I am a fool, Letty! That is the long and short of the matter. But tell me: do you like such a fuss about a wedding?"
"No, indeed!" replied Letty, with emphasis. "I think the more quietly such an affair is managed, the better. I should never wish to have company on my hands at such a time. I should want all my thoughts about me. But people have their own ideas about such things; and, so long as there is nothing really wrong in it, one likes to help them enjoy themselves in their own way. For my part, I should like to go to church and be married in the morning, go straight to my own house, take off my wedding-dress, and begin getting dinner."
The picture conjured up by Letty's words entirely dissipated the remains of John's ill humour. He amused himself with imagining all sorts of difficulties and disasters to Letty's first dinner, until she cut him short by reminding him that she was serving an apprenticeship under an excellent teacher, and might therefore be considered as fully prepared to set up for herself as soon as she should be out of her time.
They parted as good friends as ever; and John went home congratulating himself on his good fortune, and wondering what he had ever done to deserve such a girl as Letty for his wife.
Mr. and Mrs. Emerson departed on their bridal tour, and were gone a week. On their return they went to their lodgings at the "Oak House," where Letty went to see her cousin. She found Agnes in a room in the third story, which looked over a back-yard, and had a little dark bedroom adjoining it. The room was well furnished with a haircloth-covered sofa, and chairs, a showy centre-table, and a dressing-bureau,— whose presence in the parlour Agnes explained by saying that there was no room for it in the bedroom.
Agnes was in high spirits, and expatiated on the delights of boarding, where she had no cares, and nothing to do from morning till night, except to please herself.
"It must seem odd to have so much time upon your hands," said Letty. "You will certainly be able to accomplish a great deal of sewing."
"Not I!" said Agnes, laughing. "I have done sewing enough lately to last me all my life. Joe was talking about some new shirts yesterday; but I begged him, for goodness' sake, not to begin about them yet. I hate the very sight of a needle!"
"Do you read, then? Surely you don't sit here all day and do nothing?"
"Yes, I read a good deal, of one thing and another. Mrs. Smith has lent me 'The Black Robber;' and she is going to let me have the 'Red Bandit,' when she has finished it."
Letty laughed. "Then I suppose you will have the 'Blue Corsair;' and what next? The 'Pink Shoplifter,' or the 'Straw-coloured Pickpocket'?"
Agnes laughed too. But she seemed somewhat annoyed when her cousin added, more soberly,—
"But really, now, Agnes, do you think it a good plan to spend one's time in reading such books?"
"You don't mean to say you think it wicked to read stories: do you?"
"No," replied Letty. "Of course not. That would be entirely too sweeping. But there is as much difference in stories as in people; and, seriously, I do think that a great many of these trashy novels, especially those translated from the French, are hardly fit to light the fire with. They mix up right and wrong, good and evil, till one cannot tell which is which, and make heroes out of men who, in real life, one would wish to have sent to the State prison or the workhouse as quickly as possible. Moreover, a great many of them are positively shameful and indecent."
"Oh, Letty! You are so precise! I do believe you never do the least thing without stopping to consider whether it is right or wrong. What is the comfort of living in that way?"
"What is the comfort of living in any other way?" asked Letty. "Even if this world were all, I believe it would be the best plan; but when one reflects that it is only the preparation for another—"
"Now, Letty, you know I won't stand preaching. I have had enough of that from Mrs. Willson. Do you know, she and the doctor came to see me, and gave me such a lecture on my duties as scared me half out of my wits? One would have thought, to hear them, that I had taken more responsibilities upon myself than if I had been made President of the United States. I am sure I never should have dared to be married, if I had thought of all he said beforehand. I was glad to see them, too; and the doctor made me a beautiful present,—that Bible there on the stand; but they made me so low-spirited that I almost wished they had stayed away."
"But, Agnes, did you never think of these things before you were married?"
"No, indeed; and I don't mean to do it now. Time enough for trouble when it comes, I always say; and so does Joseph. He says he intends to live his life as he goes along. The world owes him a good time, he says; and he means to have it."
Letty sighed, and took her leave, not very well satisfied with the result of her visit. Agnes seemed more giddy than ever; and Letty thought the idle life she was now leading a poor preparation for the cares of a family.
She saw little of Agnes through the winter; but she heard from Mrs. Train of her being out a good deal, though she seldom found time to visit her mother.
Mrs. Train looked thin and worn; and Letty feared she was working too hard, and living too sparingly, trying to save the cost of the wedding-party.
Her own winter passed very quietly. She was kept pretty busy, between her work for Mrs. Trescott and her own sewing, and went out but little. John, too, was very closely employed. Business was flourishing, and he often worked over-hours: so that he had not as many evenings to spend with Letty as formerly. But Letty knew these busy evenings were all for her sake; and she was not inclined to complain.
One afternoon early in spring, Agnes came in to see Letty, and found her busy ironing.
"How pleasant this room is!" was her first remark. "I never saw any one keep a kitchen as nicely as you do. I have seen many a parlour not half so comfortable."
Agnes was right. Many a splendidly furnished drawing-room is not half as inviting as Letty's kitchen was. A bright fire was burning in the stove, the doors of which were open. Letty's plants in the window were in a state of bloom and verdure which seemed something wonderful as contrasted with the wintry landscape outside. Not an article was soiled or out of place; not a speck showed itself upon the painted floor. A superb tortoiseshell cat sat dozing before the fire.
Letty herself, in her lilac calico and white apron, neat from top to toe, looked just fit to be the presiding genius of this temple of peace and good will. She welcomed her cousin warmly, and displaced Mrs. Trescott's Skye terrier to give her a comfortable seat.
"What a washing you have!" said Agnes, looking at the well-filled baskets, and then at the neatly folded towels and sheets on the bars. "Washing on Friday, too!"
"Our people are away; and I thought it would be a good time to wash and do up my own things."
"You don't mean to say that all these things are your own!" said Agnes, in surprise. "All these sheets and things! How many are there?"
"Six pairs of sheets, and as many pillow-cases, besides the towels and my own underclothes," replied Letty, with some pride. "See what nice sheeting."
"It is nice," said Agnes, examining the quality. "These sheets will last a lifetime. Mrs. Trescott must be very generous to give you such a setting-out."
"She has been very generous," replied Letty; "but she did not give me these things. They were all bought and paid for out of my own pocket."
"Why, Letty Bright!" exclaimed Agnes, in amazement. "Where in the world did you get the money?"
"I earned it," replied Letty, smiling. "There was not so very much, after all; only it makes a good deal of show, laid out in such things. That whole pile of sheets did not cost as much as your blue silk dress."
"My dress cost only seventeen dollars," said Agnes.
"Well, those sheets cost nine dollars, and the pillow-cases four;—that is thirteen dollars. That piece of huckaback cost two dollars, and the crash one:—sixteen dollars in all." *
* These were current prices at the time of our story.
"But these fine towels, Letty; I am sure you never got them for any such sum!"
"Oh, those were a present," said Letty. "I should never think of buying such for myself. You see they are not quite new. A very old lady, an aunt of Mrs. Trescott's, was here in the winter. I used to wash and starch her caps (she was very particular about her caps), and do a good many other things for her; and, hearing that I was going to be married, she sent me these towels and two nice table-cloths. See what beautiful old-fashioned damask they are,—all marked with her maiden-name in cross-stitch."
"I see," said Agnes. "But you must have laid out your money to good advantage, Letty, to get so much out of it. John won't have to buy any thing of the kind."
"I felt as though that was my part."
"Well, I suppose it is a good plan. But has not Mrs. Trescott given you any thing?"
"Oh, yes. She gave me a nice broché shawl, which was Miss Maria's, and two of her dresses,—a black silk and a French calico,—besides some handkerchiefs, and things of that sort. Miss Catherine gave me a beautiful all-wool delaine, with the things to make it; and I am to have it made up at her dressmaker's. Mrs. Trescott says she means to give me my wedding-dress; and I suppose she will bring it from the city with her. They have gone down to meet Mr. Trescott. She has given me a nice set of white china tea-things, too,—nice enough for any one,—which she says I am to consider as a legacy from Miss Emily. Let me show them to you."
Agnes looked on and admired, perhaps envied a little, as Letty displayed her treasures, which were indeed very handsome. She was especially delighted with the shawl.
"It is a perfect beauty,—almost as handsome as a cashmere, and as good as new. I should not think it had been worn at all. But, I must say, I wonder at her giving away Miss Maria's things, even to you. I should think Miss Trescott would have them."
"You know I was here all the time Miss Maria was sick, and helped take care of her," said Letty; "and Miss Emily was almost like my own."
"How much trouble they have had!" remarked Agnes. "After all, riches don't save people from sorrow: do they?"
"No, indeed; but the Trescotts have had something better than money to comfort them. Nobody could see Miss Maria for two hours and not know that she was fitter for heaven than earth. And when she came to die, she had no more fear than if she were just going from one room into another. I think they feel about her more as if she were gone on a journey, than as if she were dead. Their religion is more real to them than that of any one I ever saw, except Aunt Eunice. I shall always feel thankful that I was directed to such a family. If I ever come to any good, it will have been through their means."
"You have lived here a long time," remarked Agnes. "How many years?"
"Eight years this spring."
"That is a long time for a girl to live in one place, now-a-days; but every girl does not get such an easy one."
"I don't think it would be called an easy place by most people," said Letty. "We have always had a great deal of sickness and a great deal of company; and Mrs. Trescott is very particular. She will have every thing done just exactly right. Many a time I have had to wash the windows over after I thought I had done them to perfection; and many a shirt and tablecloth she has put back into the wash because it was a little wrinkled or had a speck ironed into it. It was very vexatious at first, I must say; but I fell into her ways after a while, and found it just as easy to do my work well as to slight it."
"A great many girls would not have borne it," remarked Agnes. "They would have got mad and gone home."
"Perhaps I should, if I had had any home to go to," replied Letty; "but, then, there was Sally. What would have become of her if I had left my work for every trifle? So I stayed on, and I had my reward. I have learned to do every thing about the house in the very best way. And, then, I am like one of the family. No own father could be kinder than Mr. Trescott. I am so glad he is coming home in time!"
"Well," said Agnes, with a sigh, "I am sure I hope you will be happy; but, I can tell you, you will have trials. Marriage is not a state of perfect blessedness, by any means."
"I never supposed it was," said Letty. "There is no such thing as perfect blessedness in this world. But I should think you had gone on so far with as few trials as fall to the lot of most people."
"I never knew what trouble was when I was at home," replied Agnes, with another deep sigh.
"I fancy you don't know a great deal about it now."
"Only think! Here is Joseph insisting on our going to housekeeping next month!" continued Agnes, disregarding the interruption. "He says that he wants a home of his own, and that boarding as we do costs too much. And we cannot afford even to keep a little girl: so I shall have every bit of the work to do myself. I might as well be a kitchen-girl at once."
"But, Agnes, what did you expect, when you married a poor man, but to do your own work?" asked Letty, surprised. "I never looked forward to any thing else."
"Well, I did. Just look at Grace Lennox! She keeps a girl all the time; and her husband gets no better wages than Joseph or John."
"Grace has property of her own," said Letty. "Her grandfather gave her a thousand dollars and the place they live in. That makes a great difference. With only his wages to depend upon, I don't wonder that Joseph does not feel like hiring anybody. I should think you would like the idea of having a house and managing every thing in your own way. I am sure I do. When I sit here alone in the evening, I imagine myself in my own house, washing up the breakfast things after John has gone to his work, and then putting on my bonnet and running up to market, till I grow quite excited about it."
"You were brought up to work," said Agnes, peevishly. "That makes all the difference in the world."
"And weren't you?"
"Not to that kind of work. Mother always did every thing about the house. I want her to break up housekeeping and come and live with us; but she won't. She talks over some nonsense about young folks being best by themselves; but I know that is not the reason. She thinks Joe doesn't want her; and that is true, too."
Letty thought it possible that Mrs. Train might decline upon other grounds,—as, that she knew very well that if she lived with Agnes, she would have all the work of the house to do; but she did not say so. She applied herself, instead, to the task of inducing Agnes to look on the bright side of her lot; but she did not succeed very well.
Agnes had another grievance. She had made Joseph a set of new shirts, and Joseph declared that they did not fit at all. Only that morning he had thrown one down and declared that nobody could wear it. Agnes thought he would never have done so if he had had any regard for her feelings, and avowed her suspicions that he did not love her, after all.
Letty could hardly keep from laughing.
"You should have made one first, to try the pattern," said she. "Men are always desperately particular about their shirts. Even Mr. Trescott frets about his, sometimes;—but he never scolds at any thing. Cannot you alter them?"
Agnes did not know how she could improve them. She had no courage to try. Where was the use, when one was found fault with?
Letty asked her if she remembered how she had found fault with her wedding-dresses, after her mother had taken so much pains with them.
Agnes thought that was different. She would not be comforted,—and at last departed with red eyelids and a martyr face, to meet her husband after his work.
And Letty returned to her ironing, feeling thankful that she had been so brought up as not to consider the prospect of having her own work to do a hardship.
[CHAPTER III.]
NUMBER NINE.
LATE in April, Letty was married. Her house was all in order beforehand: so that, as she said, she had nothing to do but to begin living directly. John had bought good and substantial furniture for kitchen and bedrooms. Mr. Trescott gave Letty, for her parlour, a carpet, some cane chairs, a chintz-covered sofa or couch, and—better than all—a neat little book-case, half filled with books, all of a kind to bear reading once and again.
Mrs. Trescott and Catherine went over, the evening before the wedding, to see that every thing was in order, and to make some little additions of sweetmeats and other good things to Letty's larder; while Catherine deposited in the little private drawer which John had contrived in the pantry, half a dozen silver teaspoons. There was no risk in leaving them there; for John was to sleep in the house, and Agnes promised to have an eye to it next day. Agnes had been housekeeping in Number Ten since the middle of March, and already considered herself a person of experience.
Letty had all along intended to go to church and be married, and from the church straight to her own home; but there had been a little change in the programme. Aunt Eunice, who lived on a farm in the country, sent Letty word that she expected her to come out and spend the day with her. She had always been kind to Letty; and, now that she was left alone in old age and infirmity, both Letty and John felt disposed to afford her every satisfaction in their power. She promised to send in for them, and bring them back at night. So it was settled that they should be married at nine in the morning, and set out from the church-door.
Letty had no bridesmaid but little Alice Trescott,—a pretty child seven years old,—who was delighted with the honour, and went through her duties with a dignity and gravity truly edifying.
Letty's dress was a brown checked India silk, with a bonnet and mantle of the same. Agnes laughed when she heard of it; and Mrs. Train said she really thought Mrs. Trescott might have done more than that, considering how rich she was. But they were obliged to admit that Letty looked perfectly like a lady, in her simple attire; and Agnes thought with something like disgust of her light blue silk dress, which was already too stained and shabby for evening, while it was not fit for any thing else.
Letty was pale and somewhat agitated, and John made two or three little mistakes; but, on the whole, the ceremony went off very nicely.
Mrs. Train lingered at the church-door, to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Trescott.
"I feel as though I wanted to thank you for all your kindness to Letty," she said. "You have, as she says, done every thing for her."
"I assure you, Mrs. Train, the obligation has been mutual," said Mrs. Trescott, kindly. "Letty has been my faithful friend for eight years. She has made my interest her own, and my sorrows as well." Mrs. Trescott's voice faltered, and she paused a little. "I feel as though I could easily be very selfish, when I think of losing her; but I am sure she is going to do well. Mr. Trescott has kept his eye on John Caswell ever since we first began to suspect how matters were going; and he is quite sure that there is not a better young man in town."
"His principles are excellent, and his practice is equally so," added Mr. Trescott. "He has been a member of our church for four years; and one more useful or more consistent it would be hard to find. He has been very economical, too: so that they have a nice little sum on hand with which to begin housekeeping. I assure you, Mrs. Train, that Letty's best friends could wish her no brighter prospects than she has before her. Of course, we do not know what calamities Heaven may see fit to send; but, after all, there is every thing in beginning well."
Mrs. Train sighed as she turned away. She began to fear that her own daughter had not begun in the best way. Agnes had expensive notions; so had Joseph; and she believed they had spent more than they could afford, all the time they were boarding. How would it be now that they were keeping house?
Agnes really knew very little about housekeeping. She had been kept in school till she was sixteen, and she had worked in the shop ever since. Mrs. Train herself had done every thing about the house, from cooking and marketing to sweeping and dusting, because, she said, Agnes must keep her hands nice for her work,—but really because it was less trouble to do things herself than to teach her daughter. She was afraid they would not be able to save much, if indeed they could avoid running into debt; and she did not see how she could help them, either. Her own income was very small, and barely sufficed for her daily wants, even when eked out by the profits of her sewing; and she had anticipated it for the expenses of Agnes's wedding outfit and party: so that, save as she would, she must be behind-hand for at least a year.
Mrs. Train sighed again, and passed the butcher's without going in, as she had intended, to buy a beefsteak,—but went home and made her solitary dinner on potatoes and a bit of cold pork, with a cup of tea without milk by way of dessert.
When our young friends arrived at the farm, they found Aunt Eunice standing at the door to receive them, dressed in her very best brown India satin, her crape kerchief and cap, and clear muslin apron. Aunt Eunice had been brought up among Friends, and, though she had married "out of meeting," she still adhered to her plain dress and habit of speech. She welcomed her guests with affectionate warmth.
"I hesitated," she said, "about asking thee to spend thy wedding-day with me; but, after all, I am growing an old woman. I have passed my fourscore years, and am living as it were upon borrowed time, which may be recalled at any hour. So I thought I would use the day while it was my own."
"I think you are looking very well, Aunt Eunice," said Letty. "Don't you feel as strong as usual?"
"Yes, my dear; I am very well for fourscore and two. Nevertheless, in the course of nature, I cannot continue much longer; and it is borne in upon my mind that my death may be sudden. But we won't talk of that now. Come into my room and take off thy bonnet. How nicely thou art dressed, my child!" she continued, when they were alone together. "So exactly in thy dear mother's taste. I could almost wish she were here to see thee."
"I have felt all day as though she did see me, Aunt Eunice," said Letty, in a low tone.
"It may be so, my dear, for all we know. I suppose thou dost not remember her?"
"Sometimes I think I do," said Letty; "but it may be only because mother Esther used to tell me so much about her. Am I like her?"
"Very much," replied Aunt Eunice. "Thou hast just her complexion and eyes,—though thy hair is not so dark,—and very much her expression. I hope thou mayest be like her in other things. She possessed, in greater perfection than any one I ever saw, the 'ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.' From the time that she was ten years old, I hardly ever heard an impatient word pass her lips; and, though she had many things to try her at home, nothing ever seemed to ruffle the sweet inward peace of her spirit. She appeared as one who walked, like Enoch, with God. She was always ready to promote and sympathize with the innocent merriment of others; but it was in the presence of sickness and sorrow that she shone pre-eminent. I used to think she was well called 'Comfort.'"
"I am afraid I am not much like her in meekness," said Letty. "Mother Esther used to call me a little tinder-box, sometimes."
"That comes from thy father," said Aunt Eunice, "and may perhaps be accounted for in other ways. Esther, though I verily believe meaning to be a true Christian, was something of a tinder-box herself. She had not the knack of going smoothly through the world. She was like an unshorn sheep in a brier-patch: every thorn gave her a pull. But she was always kind to thee, in her way; and I am glad thou hast been able to return her kindness, in some measure, by thy care of her orphan child. It must be pleasant for thee to think on, now that thou art setting up in life for thyself."
"Yes, indeed!" said Letty, warmly. "Aunt Train used sometimes to scold about my keeping myself so poor for Sally's sake; but I always told her I should never miss it."
"If I had been situated then as I am now, I should have offered to take the care of her off thy hands, at least so far as to give her a home. But thou knowest I have had my hands more than full till very lately. I must not keep thee here any longer, however, or John will be jealous. Let us go and see what he is about."
The day passed off very pleasantly. Aunt Eunice was a woman of a good deal of reading and experience, and her conversation was as agreeable and lively as it was instructive. She entertained the young people greatly by giving them an account of the way in which weddings were managed down on the Hudson among the Dutch colonists, where she had passed the first years of her married life.
Then John and Letty rambled all over the farm, looked at the cows and sheep, admired the early chickens and ducks (for which Aunt Eunice was quite famous), petted the new kittens, and searched the grove for early hepaticas.
Just before it was time to go home, Aunt Eunice called Letty into her bedroom.
"I have laid by a few things for thee, such as I think thou wilt prize," said she. "Thy grandmother and I had each a large stock of home-spun linen to begin housekeeping with. Thy grandmother's was mostly worn out and scattered in the second marriage; but I have always been careful of mine, and I have the best of it now, besides my own spinning. I have laid out for thee three pairs of my linen sheets, and the same of pillow-cases, and half a dozen napkins, all spun by my own hands,—and—now, thou needn't laugh—a bundle of old linen, both coarse and fine."
"Indeed, I don't laugh, Aunt Eunice. I know how useful old linen is, and how hard is to get it, too; for almost every one cotton now-a-days. But I am afraid you will rob yourself, Aunt Eunice."
"I have plenty more," said Aunt Eunice smiling. "I fell heir to all my husband's mother's spinning; but I thought thou wouldst prefer the work of my own hands."
"Yes, indeed," said Letty. "I never aspired to have linen sheets,—though I have plenty of cotton ones, which I bought myself. I shall keep these for grand occasions, I assure you."
"That is what I would advise. It is always a good plan to have a reserve put away to fall back upon in case of emergency. Linen sheets are much more grateful than cotton to a sick person in a fever. Indeed, I have never brought myself to using any other though I know cotton is considered wholesome. Well, to go back to thy bundle. Here are a couple of table-cloths which thy great-grandmother spun. Thou must take great care of them, and leave them to thy eldest daughter. Here is something else,—a bag of holders for thee. I dare say thou hast never thought of providing that."
"Indeed I have not," said Letty. "I wonder at it, too; for I always use them at home,—I mean at Mrs. Trescott's."
"Then it is well I thought of them. Now thou wilt not burn thy hands with thy new teakettle. Finally, I have knitted thee three or four dish-cloths of linen twine which thou wilt find far superior to the common sort. I want to trouble thee with a little bundle for Agnes. I have put up for her the same number of sheets and pillow-cases as for thee. I thought at first I would not give them to her unless she came for them; but, after all, she is my sister's grandchild; and, though she is rather giddy at present, I hope she will mend. And now, children, I must bid you farewell. I have not troubled you with much advice. I have never found it do so very much good. People must mostly find out for themselves as they go along. I hope, John, that thou intendest to set up thy household in the fear of God?"
"I mean to do so, Aunt Eunice. It is the way in which I was brought up myself; and I hope to train up my children, if God them to me, in the same course."
"That is right. I have lived a longer life than is allotted to most people, and, though I do not mean to complain, I have had my share of this world's sorrows and troubles; but, now that I look back, as it were, from the opening of another world on the road I have been over, I can see much more sunshine than shadow upon it. Try, children, to live close to God, and he will be close to you. You must expect now and then to find some roots of bitterness springing up to trouble you, even between yourselves; though I dare say you think that is impossible. Keep it to yourselves, and it will die the quicker.
"Never allow yourselves to talk of each other's faults to any one else. Letty, thou lookest indignant at the very idea; but I can tell thee, my child, that it is the rock on which many married woman wrecks her happiness. Whatever troubles thee, be the same great or small, take it at once to God. Don't fall into the mistake of thinking that any grief is too small for prayer, or any pleasure too little for thankfulness. Never run into debt. If you have not the money to pay for what you want, do without till you get the money. A debt is an ever-increasing leak. Is thy house paid for, John?"
"Not entirely," replied John. "About a third of the purchase-money remains as mortgage."
"Then thou wilt have an object in saving. Let that be thy first worldly care, so that, whatever happens to thee, thy wife will have a home. Don't, however, be so set upon saving as to go without the reasonable comforts of life or the pleasure of assisting others poorer than thou art. That is bad economy. Finally, if trouble comes, meet it with courage, and trust in God. I am glad to have had thy company for this day; and I hope it may be a pleasant remembrance to thyself as long as thou livest. Now, once more, farewell, and God bless you!"
"Won't you come and see us, some time, Aunt Eunice?" said Letty.
"Why, I am growing rather old to travel, dear; but perhaps I may some day look in upon thee, if I am spared till warm weather comes. Give my love to Agnes and Joseph, and tell them I shall be glad to see them whenever they can make it convenient to come."
"How good and kind she is!" said Letty, as they drove away. "I should love to be just like her when I am as old."
It was nearly dark when they reached Number Nine. Agnes had promised to have a fire for them; but there were no signs of any such thing, and the door was fastened. Fortunately, however, John had the key of the side door in his pocket. A light was soon obtained, and he set about making a fire, Letty changed her dress and prepared to get their supper. Presently Letty came out of the pantry.
"Where have you put the flour or the bread, John? I cannot find any."
John laid down the coal-shovel and looked aghast. "I declare, Letty, I forgot all about it! I meant to order some yesterday; but, somehow, it went out of my head. How stupid! What shall we do?"
"I can step over to Agnes's and borrow some bread," said Letty, smiling at John's expression of consternation. "She will have a fine laugh at us."
"I would rather go up street and buy some bread," said John. "There is a bakery not far off."
"I think that will be the best way,—unless you mean to make your supper on cake alone. There is some one coming in. Who is it?"
There was a gentle knock at the door as she spoke. John opened it, and saw a small, middle-aged woman, plain, and plainly dressed, but with an expression of kindness and gentleness which made Letty like her at once. In one hand she held a bouquet of early flowers, and in the other a large plate full of something neatly folded in a white napkin.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Caswell,—I suppose it is Mrs. Caswell?" said the stranger. "My name is De Witt, and I live next door. I hope you will excuse my taking such a liberty, but I thought may-be you hadn't made any calculations for supper: so I just baked some short-cakes and brought them over. I hope you won't be offended, now."
"No, indeed," said Letty, cordially. "I am very much obliged to you. I was just wondering what we should do; for we forgot to order any flour."
"There! That's just what I thought," said Mrs. De Witt, setting down the plate. "I says to Mr. De Witt, says I,—
"'Mr. De Witt, I don't believe them young things have thought to get any flour;'—for, you see, I sit right by the front window with my work, and I hadn't seen no flour-wagon come here.
"And Mr. De Witt, he says, 'Oh, Ruth, you are always so observing.'
"'I don't care,' says I. 'I'm going to bake 'em some biscuits; and if they don't like 'em they needn't eat 'em,' says I—"
Mrs. De Witt stopped for want of breath.
"You were right," said John. "I did forget the flour at last,—though I thought of it time enough beforehand. It was very kind in you to remember us."
"Well, I think it is best to do kind things when one has a chance," replied Mrs. De Witt. "Not that a plate of biscuits is any thing. I've brought a bunch of flowers, too. Flowers make a room look kind of cheerful: don't you think so? Though I'm sure you look cheerful enough already. I noticed your things when they was coming in. I do like to see furniture neat and substantial to begin with. A great many young folks begin very grand, and then kind of taper off, you know. I don't believe you will do that way. Well, I must go. Now, if there's any thing I can do for you, you must just let me know: won't you?"
Letty promised she would; and Mrs. De Witt departed, putting her head in at the door, a moment afterwards, to ask if they had milk for their tea. Agnes had thought of that; and Mrs. De Witt bade them goodnight.
"What a nice woman!" said Letty.
"She lives next door, where I told you they had so many flowers," replied John. "I cannot help being amused at her finding out that we had no flour, when I did not think of it myself. She must have observed our affairs pretty carefully."
"After all, it is natural enough to speculate on one's new neighbours, especially when they are just married," remarked Letty. "She knows how to make biscuits; that is plain to be seen," she continued, lifting the napkin and disclosing the delicate little flaky tea-cakes. "See here what a treat! Now I am going to give you another treat, in the shape of some of Miss Catherine's plum-cake; but you must not expect that every day. I mean to keep it, like Aunt Eunice's linen, for grand occasions."
They sat down to tea, and, with a thankful heart, almost too full for utterance, John said grace at his own table.
Before the tea was poured out, the front door was unlocked, and Agnes appeared, out of breath, and considerably fluttered.
"Dear me!" she began. "What a start you gave me! When I saw a light in the window, I thought the house must be on fire. So you had to make your own fire on after all! I fully intended to have the kettle boiling and the table all set for you; but I ran into a neighbour's for a minute, and the time get away so, it was seven o'clock before I dreamed of such a thing. How nice and home-like you look! Why, dear me, Letty! You have not baked biscuit already?"
"No: these came from next door," replied Letty. "It occurred to Mrs. De Witt that we were new beginners at housekeeping; and so, out of the kindness of her heart, she baked a plate of biscuits and brought them over by way of introduction."
"How very unceremonious!" said Agnes. "Carrying biscuits to a perfect stranger!"
"Doing an act of kindness is a good way of getting acquainted," said John. "Won't you sit down and have some tea with us, Agnes? The biscuits are very good, notwithstanding they came without ceremony."
"Oh, no, thank you. I must hurry home and get tea for Joe. If he comes before it is ready, there will be such a fuss! How did you find Aunt Eunice?"
"As well as one could expect at her age," replied Letty. "She sent you her love, and something else. That smallest bundle belongs to you."
"Of course the smallest bundle belongs to me. That is always the way," said Agnes. "However, I don't blame Aunt Eunice for being offended. I want to go out and see her; but I cannot get Joe started. Well, goodnight. I expect to get my head taken off when I get home."
While Letty washed up her few tea-dishes, John went up street to order his flour and meal to be sent the first thing in the morning.
"What a busy day this has been!" said he, as he hung up his hat and coat. "Let us remember what Aunt Eunice said about beginning in the right way, and have prayers, Letty."
[CHAPTER IV.]
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.
[CHAPTER V.]
NEW NEIGHBOURS.
THE summer and autumn passed quietly away with our friends; and October saw a goodly supply of vegetables stowed away in John's cellar for winter use. The garden had paid for itself many times over, not only in solid comforts, but in pleasant and healthful amusement; while Joseph's equally good piece of ground had produced nothing better than docks and thistles.
Letty's flowers had done wonders; and her south window in the kitchen was filled with hardy plants in pots, looking rather paler just now in their transition from out-door to in-door life, but which might be expected to produce an abundance of flowers towards the end of winter.
Agnes wondered how Letty could bear to have the sunshine blazing in all day, showing every thing so plainly; but Letty loved sunshine, physical as well as mental; and indeed, her housekeeping could bear the full daylight better than that of her cousin.
November saw two important additions to the neighbourhood in Myrtle Street. Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn moved into Number Four, and Agnes's first baby was born. It proved a fine, bouncing little girl, black-eyed and dark-skinned,—exactly the image of its very good-looking father. Agnes had hoped for a boy, and that it would look like her; but she could not allow her disappointment to embitter her against the little, helpless being which drew its life from her. She even submitted without a murmur to its being called Margaret,—after Joe's mother,—and only made a wry face when he persisted in nicknaming it Peggy, and Madge, and Magpie, and every thing else which could be twisted out of the name of Margaret.
Agnes recovered soon from her confinement, and, Joseph getting an advance of wages about the same time, she hired a nice little English girl to assist her in taking care of the little Madge, as the child came finally to be called. She seemed more placid and contented, and also much more serious and thoughtful, than she had ever done since her marriage; and Letty believed that (as it often happens) the baby was going to make a woman of its mother.
As for Joseph, his admiration of the little stranger was almost painful to witness. The baby was never out of his arms while he was in the house: he built endless castles in the air as to its future, and was terrified at every one of its little ailments. He called Letty up one cold, rainy morning at two o'clock to come and see it expire in convulsions, and ran off a mile for Dr. Woodman before she could dress herself,—somewhat to the disgust of the good doctor, who had been up all the night before, and arrived to find Madge fast asleep in her mother's arms,—the disease having readily yielded to three drops of paregoric!
The other arrival made much more noise and stir in the neighbourhood. Number Four was the only house in the street which made any pretensions to gentility; and it was very genteel indeed. It had a tower, and a bow-window, and a veranda, and a gabled porch, and dormer windows, and every thing else which a house could have outside. And it had a drawing-room, and a parlour, and a dining-room, and a sitting-room, and a library, and every thing else which a house could have inside. And it was painted a delicate peach-blossom colour; and it had a varnished front door, and inside blinds, and various scollops and points and apertures about the roof, and looked just fit to hang up in a tree with a pair of white mice in it. So John said; but Joseph, whose imagination was dazzled with all this show, ascribed this remark to envy, and began to consider the possibility of converting his own dwelling into something similar.
The whole neighbourhood was kept in a state of excitement, for some time, by the arrival of Mrs. Van Horn's furniture. Some people admired the splendour of the carved rosewood sofa, the marble tables, and the pictures,—which seemed to be all gilt frames; and the excitement reached its height when it was discovered that Mrs. Van Horn actually had a piano! For Myrtle Street had hitherto been unblessed or unannoyed by the presence of any musical instrument except Mr. De Witt's fiddle.
But when Mrs. Van Horn made her appearance, the wonder and admiration were transferred from all other things to herself. It was during the time of the first great expansion of skirts; and Mrs. Van Horn's crinoline exceeded every thing that had heretofore been seen in Myrtle Street. Her basque was the longest, her sleeves the richest, her bonnet the most fashionable, that could be imagined. She was a pretty little woman, with pleasant features, long fair curls, a great deal of colour, and very lively manners. Her husband was a dark-whiskered, black-haired man, who dressed as extensively in his way as his wife did in hers. He wore a seal-ring on his finger and a heavy chain on his watch,—quite a contrast to the hard-working men who daily went up and down Myrtle Street with their dinner-pails and baskets.
Agnes was greatly taken with the new-comers, especially with Mrs. Van Horn. She thought the squirrel cage they occupied every thing that could be desired in the way of a mansion, and was really angry with Letty for wondering where they would put all their clothes and furniture, and, that being disposed of, where they would live themselves. What Letty thought of the new-comers may be gathered from a conversation she held with her husband the evening after she had been with her cousin to call on them.
"Have you seen any thing of our new neighbours?" he asked, as he composed himself in his favourite chair after supper.
"I have seen all I want to see," replied Letty, promptly.
It was seldom that she spoke so decidedly about any one; and John looked up in surprise. Letty set up her last dishes, gave a final brush to the stove-hearth, and sat down with her knitting on the other side of the fire. John waited quietly, knowing that Letty would begin to talk of her own accord by-and-by.
"So you didn't particularly like Mrs. Van Horn?"
Opposite Neighbours.
"I have seen all I want to see."
"No," replied Letty, "I did not; and I will tell you why. I went with Agnes to call on her,—as was only civil, you know, and I dressed myself all in my best, to do honour to my first call. Well, we got in, and were taken into the parlour, which is very handsomely furnished,—only so crowded that there is no room to turn round. Presently the lady came sailing in, in a very gracious and polite way. She is really very pretty;—I will say that for her.
"She was not backward to enter into conversation. She didn't know how she should like Myrtle Street,—it was rather out of the way of her acquaintances. Most of the people she visited lived in Clay Avenue and Webster Park. She didn't seem to have any place to run into just when she liked, as she did into Dalton's and Trescott's. You may imagine I opened my eyes a little at this; but I said nothing, and she went on. The Dalton girls, she said, were her most particular friends; they were just as intimate as sisters; and Bessie Dalton said she didn't know what they should do without her. As for Kate Trescott, she had cried like a child; and Mrs. Trescott said, 'Really, Mrs. Van Horn, I don't see but you will have to take Kate to board;' and truly she believed Kate loved her better than her own mother. And so she ran on about all sorts of fashionable people, calling them by their Christian names and by nicknames,—a great deal more familiarly than I should speak of Mrs. De Witt to a stranger."
"That was bad taste," said John, as Letty paused, rather out of breath. "But I don't see that it could be called any thing worse: could it?"
"But, John, it isn't true. Haven't I opened the door at Mrs. Trescott's for three years, ever since Davis went away? And shouldn't I be likely to know it, if she had been so intimate there as she says? And I don't believe it's any more true of the Daltons."
"She may have become intimate with them since you came away."
"Not she! Mrs. Trescott never has such intimacies with any one. It is not her way. I never knew her to be on any but good terms with her neighbours; but none of them were in the habit of running in, in that unceremonious way,—not even the Miss Daltons, who were Miss Catherine's most intimate friends,—and cousins beside.
"Then she told how she went out shopping with Kate Trescott and Bessie Dalton, to buy the very dress she had on, and how Kate had said she liked such a thing as that, because very few people fancied it: it was not a thing that every servant-girl would be getting. (Miss Catherine making such a speech as that!) Then she talked about the style of housekeeping among these grand friends of hers, little thinking whom she had for an auditor;—and certainly she told me some news. She said the Trescotts kept two man-servants all the time; and four girls, and that Bessie Dalton kept a carriage and footman of her own. I am sure I may say that she does not tell the truth; and I believe that a person who will lie about one thing will lie about another. Besides, she told scandalous stories about other people that I don't believe she ever spoke to in her life, as though the circumstances had occurred within her own knowledge."
"How did Agnes like her?"
"They seemed very much taken with each other, I thought. Agnes, you know, cares a great deal for dress and such matters. I foresee that they are likely to become very intimate."
Letty's prophecy proved true. Agnes and Mrs. Van Horn were always running backward and forward across the road, bareheaded, leaning over each other's gate, to gossip confidentially about various matters, and going shopping together. Mrs. Van Horn spent a great deal of money, and never hesitated to use her credit when her purse failed; and Letty found she was leading her cousin into expensive habits. Agnes discovered that her last winter's shawl was not nearly warm enough, and that she must have a new cloth cloak,—a circular cloak being, as every one knows, warmer than a shawl. Her bonnet, too, was remodelled and retrimmed with new and very expensive feathers and flowers; and then a new dress became imperatively necessary.
Joe grumbled a little at these expenses; but he had a strong desire that his wife should be genteel; and he was much flattered by her intimacy with Mrs. Van Horn. So he was easily brought to see that she must dress in such style that her new friends need not be ashamed of her. Mr. Van Horn, too, was very affable, and now and then invited Joe to smoke one of his fine cigars with him, and sometimes condescended to borrow a dollar of him when they met at the market.
The little English girl found more and more work put upon her shoulders every day; and Letty really pitied the patient creature. Her mother lived in the neighbourhood; but Agnes seldom found that she could spare Sally to run home even for a few minutes on Sunday, she had so much to do. Letty saw very little of Agnes now; but she ventured to remonstrate one day, when she saw Sally lifting a large kettle off the fire.
"You shouldn't let that child lift such heavy weights alone," said she, when Sally left the room. "Such young girls are easily hurt by overdoing their strength, and the injury may last for a lifetime."
"I don't think Sally hurts herself," said Agnes, carelessly. "She must expect to work if she lives out at all. I suppose you used to do such things when you lived at Mrs. Trescott's: didn't you?"
"Not at her age," replied Letty. "Mrs. Trescott was always very careful about such matters. Sally is growing very fast, and—"
"Really, Letty, I don't think I need your advice in managing my household," interrupted Agnes, warmly. "When I do, I will ask for it. I don't want any one interfering in my family."
"I have no desire to interfere in any way," said Letty.
"Then don't do it! Mind your own affairs, and I will mind mine!" said Agnes, tartly.
Letty left the room without speaking. She felt very much hurt. Agnes had always been in the habit of coming to her in the most unceremonious way whenever she needed assistance. Letty had made half her baby-clothes for her, and had washed and dressed Madge every morning till she was two months old.
Agnes came to her to borrow ever thing she wanted, and often to her no little inconvenience; and Letty really thought she might venture a word of advice without being considered as taking a liberty. She went home fully determined never again to intrude herself on Agnes in any such way. In the course of the same afternoon, Agnes came over with her hands full of work.
"Just look here, Letty, how I have burned the front breadth of my plaid silk! What in the world shall I do with it? Would you try to mend it, or would you take it out altogether?"
"Really, Agnes," said Letty, "I could not venture to advise you, after what you said to me this morning. I don't like to be told to mind my own business."
"Nonsense, child!" said Agnes, assuming an air of superior wisdom. "Don't be so touchy."
"I am not touchy, as you very well know," replied Letty, with spirit. "If I had been, I should have quarrelled with you long ago. I gave you a simple piece of advice about your girl, and in return you insulted me. If John were to know what you said to me this morning, he would never let me go into your house again."
"But, Letty, when I am willing to forgive and forget, why should not you be willing also?"
"What had you to forgive?" asked Letty. "You must not think that you are going to say just what you like to people, and nothing be said in return. I am willing to advise you about your dress, if you wish it; but you must make up your mind that, if we are to continue friends, you must do your share. People who would have friends must show themselves friendly."
Agnes protested that was what she wished,—that she was sorry she had hurt Letty's feelings,—but no one ever minded her; and, besides, she had so many troubles of her own, she added, with a sigh, that she supposed they did make her irritable sometimes. She concluded by again asking Letty's opinion about the dress.
"My first advice would be, not to wear silk dresses about the kitchen-stove, and to wear an apron when you are about your work," said Letty. "You will never keep any thing decent till you learn to do that."
Agnes came very near again telling Letty to mind her own business; but she thought of the burned silk, and refrained.
"If I were you," continued Letty, "I should cut out this burned part, match a piece on, and then turn the skirt round. By taking pains enough, you can mend it so that it will never show."
"What a piece of work!" exclaimed Agnes. "Can't you take it and mend it for me, Letty? You sew so much faster and better than I can; and I want to go down street with Mrs. Van Horn."
"I have no time," replied Letty. "I have begun to cut out some shirts, and I cannot leave them till they are finished; and I have my own mending to do. Besides, I want to go and walk myself. Dr. Woodman was here yesterday, and he says I stay in the house more than is good for me, and that I ought to walk every day."
"Of course!" said Agnes, pettishly. "Any thing rather than help me!"
"That is unjust, Agnes, and you know it. How many days have I spent in sewing for you in the course of last summer?"
"Dear me! You need not fire up again. You are growing so particular, one cannot speak to you!"
Letty did not answer, but set about her own work in silence. Agnes fidgeted a while, now taking up a book and reading a little, now looking out of the window, and now gazing hopelessly at the unfortunate dress. Finally, she took a pair of scissors from Letty's basket and began slowly ripping off the skirt.
"I wonder why Mrs. Trescott did not call on Mrs. Van Horn when she was here yesterday?" she said, presently.
"Mrs. Trescott does not know Mrs. Van Horn."
"Why, Letty, what do you mean? Mrs. Van Horn says that family are her most intimate friends; she is always talking about them."
"I know that. I heard all she said the day we called there. I did not believe it then, because I know it is not Mrs. Trescott's habit to form such sudden and violent intimacies with any one. Still, I did not wish to say any thing till I knew certainly. So, yesterday, when Mrs. Trescott was here, I asked her if she was acquainted with Mrs. Van Horn."
"Well," said Agnes, eagerly, "and what did she say?"
"She said she believed she had seen her," replied Letty, laughing. "The people who rented the brown-stone house took boarders, and she had heard Mrs. Van Horn mentioned as one of them. At first she thought that was all she knew; but, when I described her, she said she thought Mrs. Van Horn called one day to inquire about the rent of one of Mr. Trescott's houses on the Avenue."
"Well, I declare!" ejaculated Agnes. "So all that was made up! Why, she told me only last night that she had taken a long walk with Miss Charlotte Dalton, and had gone there to dinner."
"Worse and worse!" said Letty, laughing, "Why, Agnes, Miss Dalton has not walked farther than across the road to Mrs. Trescott's since I knew her; and that is seven years this fall. She was hurt somehow in the riding-school when she was quite a little girl, and has never walked since. It is only at her best that she can go as far as Mrs. Trescott's."
"Well, if ever! I thought there was something odd about her always going out of church before the sermon."
"Yes; she cannot sit up long on a seat with a straight back. But you would be surprised to see how much work she accomplishes. She has a Sunday-school class,—only the girls always come to her at home—"
"But to think Mrs. Van Horn should have told such a story!" interrupted Agnes. "What do you suppose she could be thinking of?"
"Not of telling the truth, certainly," said Letty. "But I suspect that is the last thing she troubles her head about. You know now why I would not say I liked her."
"After all, Letty, it was only a little bit of romancing," said Agnes, after a pause. "It was not telling a lie, exactly."
"I don't know what you mean by romancing. It seems to me that when a person says what is not true, with the intention of deceiving, that is nothing less than a lie."
"Then you think the intention makes the lie?"
"Of course it does," said Letty. "If I tell Gatty a story about how Ginger went to visit another cat, and what they said to each other, and what a dog said to them, there is no lie in that. Gatty knows very well that kittens and dogs cannot talk. But if I were tell her that some great lady gave me Ginger,—intending thereby to show that I was on very intimate terms with that great lady,—that would be a lie."
"Well, I must say, I wonder how you held your tongue that day," said Agnes. "I should have spoken right out."
"What good would that have done?"
"I don't know that it would have done any good; but it would have mortified her. Besides, it might have made her more careful another time."
"True, it might have had that effect; though I think it doubtful. A person who carries such a habit to Mrs. Van Horn's age is not easily cured. But you must remember, Agnes, that I was not quite sure. I had been away from Mrs. Trescott's almost a year, and I could not tell what might have happened in that time; though, from what I knew of the habits of the family, I thought the story very improbable."
"Well, Letty, I must say, it would be a good thing if every one in the world were as careful in speaking about people as you are," said Agnes, feelingly. "See, I have ripped all that, as you told me. What shall I do now?"
"Put it away, and go to walk with me," said Letty, "and to-morrow I will show you how to match the plaids."
"I don't see how I can; though truly I should like it, Letty. You see, I promised to go shopping with Mrs. Van Horn, and she will expect me and wait for me."
"Of course you must keep your engagement," said Letty. She longed to add a caution against being led into extravagance by her companion's example,—but refrained. She felt that such a caution might do harm rather than good.
For a little while the intimacy between Agnes and her new friend seemed to be cooling off; but it soon became warm again. There was a fascination about Mrs. Van Horn's society which Agnes found it impossible to resist. In truth, she was a skilful flatterer, and exercised her talent even where there was nothing to be gained by it, merely, as it appeared, "to keep her hand in." They soon came to calling each other by their Christian names, to exchanging embraces and kisses, and holding long, confidential conferences.
Agnes now seldom came into Number Ten, except when she had a favour to ask; and both she and Joseph assumed a certain air of superiority, which annoyed John and amused Letty exceedingly.
Shortly after the holidays, little Sally's mother took her home.
"I am sorry to do it, ma'am," she said Agnes; "but the work is altogether too hard for the child. She grows pale and thin, and has a pain in her side and shoulder all the time, and I think she is growing crooked. I cannot well afford to keep her at home; but I can still less afford to have her sick,—perhaps for life."
Agnes was very much annoyed, and had something to say about the impertinence of the "lower classes." She did not find another girl immediately, and was, consequently, obliged to be more at home.
At last she fell into the habit of carrying little Madge over to Number Ten and leaving her with Letty, while she went down-town, or to a concert or other evening entertainment.
Letty was fond of the baby; and, though it necessarily made her some trouble, she did not complain; but after she had twice been kept up till two o'clock in the morning, once while the parents were out on a sleigh-ride, and again while they were at a party,—John rebelled.
"I am not going to have this any longer, Letty!" he said, decidedly, next morning, when Letty's pale cheeks and untasted breakfast showed the headache she would fain have concealed. "Agnes is as well as you, and stronger; and there is no sense in your wearing yourself out in doing her work."
"But, John—"
"But, Letty, I won't; and that is just all about it. If Agnes wished you to take Madge now and then while she went to church, or out to take the air, I should say nothing against it. Such things are all fair and proper between friends and relations,—not to say neighbours; but as to your holding and carrying that fractious baby till two o'clock, that her mother may figure at a ball, where, in my opinion, she has no business to be at all,—there is no sense nor reason in it. You need not disturb yourself," he added, smiling. "I take all the responsibility. Just say, when she asks you, that I have forbidden it."
And Letty did say so, the very next week, when Agnes wished to go to a concert. And Agnes wondered that people could be so selfish, and wondered what she should do, and wondered that Letty could say John was not tyrannical when he laid his commands on her in that way, and finally went over to tell her sorrows to Mrs. Van Horn. That lady exclaimed and sympathized and pitied; but she never offered to let her girl take care of Madge, as Agnes had hoped: so Agnes, for once, had to stay at home.
The next week she found another girl, not so promising in appearance as Sally, but stronger; and after that she felt herself at liberty to run abroad as much as she pleased.
Letty often wondered how she dared to leave the child; but the time was past when she could venture to remonstrate with her cousin.
One day, when Letty was very busy looking over her domestic affairs and putting them in perfect order, Mrs. Van Horn came in. The little parlour was occupied with various pieces of work; but Letty made room for her visitor, and sat down to entertain her. Mrs. Van Horn had something on her mind, and, after several hints and innuendoes, delivered herself to this effect:—
She thought Mrs. Caswell ought to know what people said about her. She had thought it her duty as a friend to come and tell her. Not that she believed it, of course,—she had told everybody so,—but—and here she stopped, and looked more mysterious than ever.
Letty was rather weak and nervous, and this sort of communication agitated her considerably. Her colour changed, and her hands trembled, as she begged Mrs. Van Horn to explain.
That lady, delighted to see the effect of her words, kept her auditor in suspense some time longer, as she declared that she would not hurt Mrs. Caswell's feelings for the world. It was very unpleasant for any one in her situation; she was rather sorry she had said any thing; but every one was talking—and here she made another pause.
Letty was now on the verge of tears; but she restrained herself, and waited in silence for the mystery to be explained; and it came at last.
Mrs. Van Horn had actually heard it said that Mrs. Caswell, before her marriage, was a servant—neither more nor less than a common servant—in some family in the upper part of the city!
Letty could not restrain a laugh, which had, perhaps, something nervous in it; and Mrs. Van Horn looked rather uneasy, but laughed in her turn.
"Of course I knew you would be amused: that is always the best way to treat these things," said she. "I assure you I shall contradict the story everywhere."
"Pray, don't," said Letty, partly resuming her gravity. "It would not be at all worth your while."
"Oh, but I assure you it is no trouble; and, if it were, I do not mind trouble where my friends are concerned."
"But, Mrs. Van Horn, there is another reason for not contradicting the story:—it is quite true. I did live put for some years. I went to Mrs. Trescott's when I was fourteen, and stayed there till I was married; and I am quite sure no one could have a better home. Mrs. Trescott is the kindest friend I have in the world."
It was now Mrs. Van Horn's turn to look blank; but, like a skilful strategist, she determined to make the best of a very awkward position.
"Dear me! Who could have believed it? Not but that I always thought there was something familiar in your face and manners. I dare say I have seen you there; or perhaps it is only because you have caught some of Mrs. Trescott's ways, as you naturally would, living there so long. Poor woman! I am afraid she is not as happy in her family as one could wish. Perhaps you can tell me about the matter. It was commonly reported that Mr. and Mrs. Trescott had a grand quarrel, which was the occasion of his going off to Europe so suddenly a year ago. It was said that he objected to her spending so much on her poor relations, and declared that he would not be burdened with the support of the whole Dalton tribe: they might take care of themselves. I believe, too, she objected to his running after mediums so much. I have heard, on the best authority, that he is really a spiritualist, and goes to a clairvoyant for advice as to all his business matters. I understand that when his nephews want to get money out of him, they go and bribe this woman; and Mr. Trescott does just what she tells him."
Letty indignantly denied the truth of all these stories. She wondered how such scandals grew up.
Mrs. Van Horn wondered too, and related several more of the same sort, just to show what people would say. She then asked if Letty would be so very kind as to give her a glass of water. Her sharp eyes had caught sight of something which she wished to examine a little more closely.
Letty was not gone quite so long as she was expected to be, and returned to find her visitor closely examining the marks of a pile of rather fine handkerchiefs,—a part of Maria's wardrobe which Mrs. Trescott had given her.
Mrs. Van Horn looked confused at first, but soon recovered herself; while Letty coloured at the impertinence,—a circumstance which Mrs. Van Horn did not fail to observe.
"What beautiful marking!" said she, coolly holding the handkerchief to the light. "I never saw any thing nicer!"
"It is very neat," said Letty; "but here are some which are more curious still:" and she showed her one of the fine towels before mentioned, and marked with the name of Anastasia Burchell in most elaborate cross-stitch. "One does not often see any thing like that now-a-days."
"No, indeed! Nor such superb damask, either!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Horn, with enthusiasm. "I declare, they are the handsomest towels I ever saw! And such an immense size! How beautifully they are done up! They look like new!"
"They have never been used since I had them," said Letty, glad to divert the woman's attention to something which was not slander. "Here are some table-cloths of the same sort." And she displayed her treasures to the admiring eyes of Mrs. Van Horn, who observed every thing closely and went away with her head full of a new idea.
"It is a likely story that any one ever gave her those things!" she said to herself. "People don't make such presents to kitchen-girls. I dare say she knew how to help herself. After all, she did not deny, in so many words, that Trescott and his wife quarrelled. I dare say it is true. People that pretend to such wonderful goodness are just the ones to be up to all sorts of mischief."
[CHAPTER VI.]
THE WILL.
MRS. VAN HORN did not call upon Letty again; and, when she went to return the visit she had received, the lady was not "at home." But she continued upon the most intimate terms with Agnes. Letty was more than ever convinced that she was not a safe person; but she was grieved at the change in Agnes's feelings, and made several attempts to regain some influence over her. Letty fancied, too, that several of her neighbours looked coolly upon her and once, as she passed a knot of them, there was a laugh and a significant whisper that she could not overlook. She could not help suspecting that Mrs. Van Horn's influence lay at the bottom of the matter; nor was she mistaken.
Letty's baby was born in May. Her confinement was attended with much suffering, and she was considered in some danger for several hours. Mrs. Trescott came down early in the morning, and stayed the whole day, greatly to the comfort of Letty, who regarded her as an infallible oracle in all cases of sickness. In the afternoon, when Letty was comparatively comfortable and had fallen asleep, Mrs. De Witt, who had been with her from the beginning, beckoned Mrs. Trescott out of the room.
"I wish you would come over to my house," said she, rather mysteriously. "I have something to say to you, and I don't want any of 'em to hear a word,—particularly Mrs. Caswell. It's been on my mind a good many days," she continued, opening the door for her visitor, "and I wanted some one's advice that knows more than I do; for I really don't think such things ought to be allowed to go on,—only one don't know how to stop 'em, always."
"Well," said Mrs. Trescott, surprised, and somewhat amused, "I will advise you to the best of my ability. What's the matter?"
"It's about Mrs. Caswell herself," said Mrs. De Witt, sitting down, and, in her extraordinary earnestness, coming to the point at once, without any of her customary circumlocution. "You see, she has a good many handkerchiefs and things marked with your daughter's name, and some very fine towels and table-cloths marked with another name,—Anastasia something."
"Anastasia Burchell? Yes. Those things were given her for wedding-presents, by my aunt and myself. My daughter was very much attached to Letty, and at the time of her death I laid by a number of articles of her wardrobe, such as I thought would be useful to Letty, meaning to give them to her whenever she should leave me."
"Exactly," said Mrs. De Witt. "I understand. Well, Mrs. Van Horn was in there one day when Letty was pulling out all her drawers and putting her things in order, and she got hold of some of these very articles. So, what does she do but go all around the neighbourhood, telling every one that Mrs. Caswell stole those things from you, and that you told her yourself that you knew Letty stole, but, as she was a member of the church and going away so soon, you thought you would take no notice!"
"That I told her!" exclaimed Mrs. Trescott, in profound amazement. "Why, Mrs. De Witt, I never spoke to the woman more than once in my life. I hardly know her by sight."
"Do tell!" said Mrs. De Witt. "Why, she is always bragging how intimate she is at your house,—and so on," remembering in time that all Mrs. Van Horn's stories would not bear repetition. "Anyhow, she has told this story about Mrs. Caswell all over the neighbourhood, and a good many people believe it."
"Where does this person live?" asked Mrs. Trescott, with a flash in her eyes which, to those who knew her, betokened mischief. "I should like to see her."
Mrs. De Witt pointed out the house. "See, there she is now at the gate, talking to Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Clarke and Martha Wilbur. She has got some new story in hand, I'll be bound, by the way she nods her head."
Mrs. Trescott had laid a light scarf over her head to come through the garden. "Come with me, Mrs. De Witt," said she, decidedly.
The two crossed the road, and stood in the midst of the gossiping group almost before they were seen.
"Mrs. Van Horn, I believe?" said Mrs. Trescott, addressing the woman,—who looked as if she did not know whether to be pleased or frightened, as she bowed her head.
"I understand," said Mrs. Trescott, in clear, quiet tones,—"I understand that you have spread a report about this neighbourhood, to the effect that Mrs. Letitia Caswell, who formerly lived with me, stole certain articles, marked with my daughter's name, now in her possession."
"I'm sure I don't remember," stammered Mrs. Van Horn. "I only said it was odd how she came by them,—or something like that."
"Why, Mrs. Van Horn, how can you say so?" exclaimed Martha Wilbur, a pert girl of fifteen, who was rejoicing in the prospect of a scene and very ready to help it on. "I am sure you said at our house that Mrs. Trescott told you herself how Mrs. Caswell stole those things, and about all the other trouble she had made in the family. It was the same night when you told us how you had just been out riding with Mrs. Trescott in her new carriage, and how she asked you to go to Washington with her."
"Martha is right," said Mrs. Clarke. "I heard Mrs. Van Horn say all these things myself."
"I have only to say," said Mrs. Trescott, turning to the bystanders, "that the story is perfectly false from beginning to end. Letty lived with me eight years, and was to me more like a younger sister than a servant. I would have trusted her with any amount of money. She is beyond all question one of the most truthful, faithful persons I ever had any thing to do with. The articles in question were given her by me, as a kind of legacy from my daughter Maria; and the damask towels which excited so much attention were a present from my aunt, Mrs. Burchell. As to this person," she added (turning to Mrs. Van Horn), "I do not know her, nor, may I add, have I any desire to make her acquaintance." And, with a dignified bow, Mrs. Trescott turned away, and walked back to Number Ten, followed by Mrs. De Witt.
"Well, if ever!" exclaimed Martha Wilbur.
"Oh, you needn't mind what she says," said Mrs. Van Horn, recovering herself a little, and the instinct of lying, as usual, coming uppermost. "Mrs. Trescott is queer at times," she added, in a mysterious whisper. "Very likely she will be all right to-morrow, and as good friends as ever. There is insanity in the family; and she has so many domestic troubles, it is no wonder."
"Well, now, I think I wouldn't say any more about Mrs. Trescott, if I was you," said plain-spoken Mrs. Clarke. "I have known all about her family for years, and there never was any such thing the matter with them. For my part, I take shame to myself for ever having listened to such stories about Mrs. Caswell; though I never did believe half of them. Suppose she had died this morning: how should some of us be feeling now about the way we have treated her lately,—a woman who has never done any thing but good to one of us? It will be a lesson to me for my whole life; and I hope, Martha, it may be the same to you."
It was so far a lesson to Martha that she lost no time in spreading the story of Mrs. Van Horn's defeat from one end of the street to the other, and several doors round the corner. A good many people chuckled over the lady's discomfiture, and declared that it served her right. Others felt sorry for her, and thought the lesson a severe one; as indeed it was.
Agnes declared that it was a shame all round, and that she did not believe Mrs. Van Horn meant any harm, or ever said half of what was attributed to her. She insisted that it was Mrs. De Witt who had made all the fuss, by telling Mrs. Trescott, and that it would have died out of itself if she had only held her tongue.
Letty heard nothing of the matter till very long afterwards; and John never heard of it at all.
Mrs. Van Horn kept herself very quiet for some time, and was never afterwards heard to boast of her acquaintances on the Avenue. She confided to Agnes that she would never speak to Mrs. Trescott again, as long as she lived,—a resolution which she was not likely to have much difficulty in keeping,—and that she would never again have any thing to do with the Myrtle Street people. It served her right for mixing herself up with such a low set, she said,—adding, pathetically, that she never did try to do people good without having cause to be sorry for it.
Letty's boy was rather a delicate little fellow, and was, indeed, not nearly so fine a baby as Madge; but, then, he was a boy, and Agnes thought she was somewhat injured. But Joe avowed himself perfectly satisfied, and declared, as he tossed the sturdy little thing up to the ceiling, that he would not change his Magpie for all the boys in the world,—all of which Agnes set down as want of sympathy.
But as the weeks went on, the little boy improved; and at two months old, though still small, was as plump and rosy as a mother could wish, while he already displayed, according to Letty, unusual sagacity.
Gatty De Witt was half out of her senses with delight. She had always longed for a little brother or sister; and Letty gave her full permission to call the new-comer her brother. She spent half her time out of school by his crib or holding him in her arms; and the daily task of sewing or knitting, which her mother rigorously exacted, no longer seemed tedious, if she might only sit where she could see the baby. Then came the grand question of his name. Gatty proposed all sorts of names; but Letty had long ago made up her mind that if a boy were given to her, he must be called Alexander Trescott, and Alexander Trescott it was.
"But that is such a long name for such a short baby," said Gatty.
"You know we can call him Alick till he grows longer," suggested John, gravely,—"or Sandy, if you like it better."
"Sandy!" exclaimed Gatty, indignantly. "Mr. Logan's Scotch terrier is named Sandy; and he is an ugly little thing. I don't mind Alick, though."
Alick was born on the second day of May, and Letty was growing quite strong and well again, when a neighbour of Aunt Eunice's called one day with sad news. The old lady had been found dead in her bed that morning. The funeral was appointed for the next day, and one and all the relations were asked to attend it. John went out at once to assist in the necessary arrangements, and the others were to go on the day of the funeral. Agnes came over in the afternoon to talk about it.
"I suppose you will go, of course?" said she, after a little pause.
"No," replied Letty. "John does not think it best. You know I have not been very strong lately; and he is afraid of my making myself sick. I am very much disappointed; but I suppose he is right."
"I don't believe it would hurt you," said Agnes.
"Nor I; but still it might."
"And so kind as Aunt Eunice has always been to you, too!" continued Agnes. "It will look very odd for you to stay at home. If I were you, I would set my foot down and go, whether or not."
"You don't know John, or you would not talk in that way. When he once makes up his mind, that is all about it. However, I do suppose he would let me go, if I really insisted upon it, this time; but I don't like to take the responsibility; and, then, I don't want to worry him. Suppose the baby should be sick after it: how should I feel!"
"Nonsense! It won't hurt him. Babies are not so easily made sick as men suppose. If you were to listen to Joe, you would think that Madge ought to be kept under a glass case and only taken out upon fine days. For my part, I believe in making them hardy. Here comes Mrs. Trescott. Now, I shall just ask her; for I really do not think it looks decent for you to stay at home."
Mrs. Trescott was appealed to accordingly. Much to Agnes's disappointment, and perhaps a little to Letty's, she sustained John's decision. "It is raw, damp weather, and Letty has not been well. A little cold might easily make her sick; and there is not only her own health, but the baby's, to be considered. Ask yourself, Letty, what Aunt Eunice would say."
"Oh, I know you are right," said Letty; and the tears filled her eyes. "But I did feel as though I wanted to see her once more."
"The feeling is a natural one," said Mrs. Trescott; "but look at it in another way. Aunt Eunice is not there,—only, so to speak, the cast-off clothes which she has worn and done with. You will now remember her as you saw her last,—well and happy, with the light of a loving spirit in her eye and the hue of health on her cheek. Is there not some comfort in that?"
"I think she was one of the most beautiful old women I ever saw," said Agnes.
"Her beauty came from within," replied Mrs. Trescott. "It was the spirit which shone in her eyes and smiled in her mouth that gave her face its charm. She always seemed to live, as it were, in the sunshine of God's presence. I never spent an hour in her company without feeling myself the better for it. She seemed to carry about with her an atmosphere of peace and truth, which did good to all who came within its influence."
"Yes, indeed," said Agnes, rather to Letty's surprise. "If one could always live with such people, it would be easy to be good; but when one's daily companions are the very reverse of that, one cannot help being influenced by them. I am sure I feel it so every day of my life," she added, with the usual sigh.
"Yet some of the most lovely Christian characters have grown up under just such influences as those you describe," remarked Mrs. Trescott.
"May-be so; but it is very hard work," said Agnes. "Well, Letty, I must go home and get ready. I am sorry you cannot go; but perhaps it is for the best. John is so indulgent and kind that you must not mind his setting up his will against yours once in a while. It is daily contradiction and selfishness which wear one out."
"What does Agnes mean by talking in that way?" said Mrs. Trescott, after she had gone. "Doesn't she live happily with her husband? Is he an irreligious man?"
"I believe he is rather the more serious of the two,—though that is not saying much," replied Letty; "but he and Agnes have taken up an unfortunate way of talking about each other. They are always complaining,—especially Agnes. I think Mrs. Van Horn encourages her to do so. I always stop her short as soon as I can; but she thinks I have no sympathy with her."
"I wonder if Aunt Eunice made a will?" said Joseph to his wife, as they were riding out next day. "She must have been pretty well off."
"You know she had the farm only for her lifetime," replied Agnes.
"Yes; but I understand that all the furniture and stock were hers; and one would think she must have laid up money."
"She always gave away a good deal," said Agnes. "And if she had any property, I dare say it is left to some institution or other,—very likely to the 'Old Ladies' Home.' She was always sending them butter and other things. But it's hardly right to be talking of such matters now."
"Only it's as well to think about them,—and natural, too."
"Natural to some people," said Agnes; "but not to me, I am sure. I never thought of speculating on the poor old lady's property. But you are so worldly, Joseph! You never seem to care for any thing else."
Joe muttered that he didn't think he any worse than other people in that respect, only he never set himself up to be much.
It turned out that Aunt Eunice had something to leave, and also that she had made a will. Her personal property amounts to more than five thousand dollars. Of this, nine hundred was left to each of the girls, and the use of the remainder to Mrs. Train for her life, to be divided at her death between Agnes and Letty.
The furniture, linen, china, &c.—all the contents of the house, in fact—were left to Letty; "as I am well assured," the testator went on to say, "that she will value them as they deserve." That unlucky ironing-sheet! Aunt Eunice had always intended to make an equal division of all these matters between her two grand-nieces; but the sight of her fine linen reduced to such base uses at last, changed her mind.
A gray crape shawl was left to Mrs. De Witt, and to her husband, a venerable Dutch copy of Calvin's "Institutes," which would have been a prize to any book-collector in the land. Even little Gatty received a remembrance, in the shape of a shepherd and shepherdess of Dutch china, the admiration of several successive generations of children.
Agnes was very much annoyed. Not that she cared so much for Aunt Eunice's quaint, old-fashioned furniture, or her Indian-chintz bed and window curtains; but there were certain spoons and ladles of heavy, solid silver, and a teapot of the same metal, which, transformed into more fashionable shapes, would have been a great ornament to her tea-table. Agnes's spoons were only plated, and, as she pathetically expressed it, it did seem mysterious that Letty, who had a dozen of real silver spoons already, should get so many more. It was always the way in this world, she added, with a sigh, as though longing for a world where spoons should be more equally distributed.
Joe was very provoking, too. He did not care any thing about the spoons,—Letty was welcome to them and to all the rest; and he even said that he didn't wonder at it, for Letty did know how to take care of her things,—a great deal better than they did. He didn't wonder, either, that Aunt Eunice thought so, seeing what a mess Agnes was in the day she came to see them; and then he put on a grave expression, and reminded Agnes that some people never seemed to care for any but worldly things, and that she ought to be thinking of something better.
In a short time the furniture was brought into town and set up in Letty's parlour and front chamber,—the latter apartment never having been furnished before. Very snug and comfortable it looked, with its old, carved mahogany bedstead and bureau, its chintz hangings, and chairs covered with birds and flowers unknown to science, with little Chinamen in attitudes anatomically impossible, and landscapes utterly inconsistent with the laws of gravitation.
Agnes contrasted all this with Mrs. Van Horn's new green-and-gold chamber set, and declared the room was horrid,—enough to give one the nightmare but Catherine Trescott was in ecstasies, and declared that she should come and stay with Letty for the mere pleasure of sleeping under those curtains.
The tall clock also arrived safely. A wonderful clock it was, endowed with surprising powers, of which Gatty was half afraid; for it not only struck the hours and half-hours and the quarters, but it also showed the age of the moon, by means of a great face which looked through a kind of window; and—wonder of wonders!—it had a glass case at the top, under which was a ship in full sail, which actually rose and fell on a wave,—just like a real ship, said Gatty, whose knowledge of maritime affairs was quite limited. This precious clock was believed to have come from Holland in some unknown age before the Revolution.
The store of household linen was really very valuable; for Aunt Eunice had inherited, as I said, the spinnings and weavings of two or three generations of thrifty Dutch and New England women. A good deal of it was of very fine quality; and Letty certainly felt a considerable accession of respectability as she put away the carefully assorted piles in Aunt Eunice's bureaus and clothed the pillows on her own bed with linen. A closet opening out of the parlour held the old-fashioned Canton and Dutch china, as well as the queensware bowls and jars filled with various sweetmeats which had fallen to her share.
When all was arranged, Letty took a pot of preserved peaches and another of raspberry jam, and set out to carry them over to Agnes. As she reached the half-open door, she paused a moment to shake down her dress, which she had held up in crossing the street; and, as she did so, she heard Mrs. Van Horn's voice say, in a decided manner,—
"Oh, yes: you may depend upon it, it was her doing. She got round the old lady in some way or other. Very likely she told her stories about you. Those pious people are always up to such doings."
Letty heard no more. She opened the door, and confronted the speaker with the words on her lips. Both Mrs. Van Horn and Agnes looked confused, and the latter coloured deeply. She had a trick of blushing which made some people think she was very modest and sensitive.
"Dear me, Letty! How you do come in on one, like a spirit!" said Agnes, peevishly. "Why couldn't you knock?"
"For a very good reason:—because I had both my hands full, and the door was open," replied Letty, smiling. "Pray, when did you begin to be so ceremonious, Agnes? If you make a point of it, I will set down my jars, go back and perform the ceremony properly. Perhaps you would like to have me send in a card!"
"Nonsense! What a fuss you make!" (It was always somebody else who made the fuss, according to Agnes.) "What have you there?"
"I have brought you some of Aunt Eunice's sweetmeats," replied Letty. "They are very nice; and I know Joe likes such things."
"I think Aunt Eunice might have left me part of them herself," said Agnes. "It is very odd that she should have left every thing to you. I believe some one must have prejudiced her against me."
"Who?" asked Letty, looking her cousin full in the face.
Agnes was not prepared with an answer to such a direct question. She was fond of dealing in hints and innuendoes; but she rather shrunk from an open war with Letty, who, gentle as she was, had a straightforward way of standing her ground, not very easy to encounter.
Mrs. Van Horn came to her help.
"Now, dear Agnes, pray don't disturb yourself! So nervous and sensitive as you are, you ought to be careful. I don't wonder you feel keenly the injustice of your aunt's will. Of course it is not the value of a parcel of old rubbish, which no one with a particle of taste would have in the house; but no one likes to be treated with unkindness. No doubt, however, the old lady was quite childish when she made that addition to her will,—if, indeed, she ever made it at all." And with this parting shot, Mrs. Van Horn sailed away.
"How can you endure that woman?" said Letty, looking after the retreating figure some disgust.
"You don't like her, that is clear; she is rather too much for you," said Agnes, with an ill-natured laugh.
"Naturally I don't," replied Letty. "When a woman calls me a thief, and tells several lies to sustain the accusation, it does certainly give me a prejudice against her."
"Mrs. Van Horn was wrong the other day, I admit," said Agnes. "She was a great deal too hasty; and she is apt to embroider a little,—that cannot be denied; but, after all, she is very kind-hearted."
"I don't understand the kindness of heart which allows people to slander their neighbours and to try to set relations against one another," said Letty. "As to Aunt Eunice, she had a right to make her will as she pleased; and, considering what she has done for your mother, I think it is not very gracious in you to find fault with her."
"Well, well, who cares?" said Agnes, impatiently. "You have got the things, and you are welcome to them. What are you going to do with your money?"
"We have not quite decided," replied Letty. "I think, however, we shall pay up the mortgage on our house and lot; then we shall be sure of a house, whatever happens; and with the rest of the money we may get the house insured, or we may let it lie by against a rainy day."
"Is that your plan, or John's?"
"Mine. I have always told John that I should not be easy till the place was paid for. 'Out of debt, out of danger,' you know."
"Well, but what danger, Letty?"
"Danger of having the mortgage foreclosed, and so losing the house and all we have laid out upon it," said Letty. "You know Mr. Grayson has the reputation—whether justly or not—of being a hard man in such matters. They say he has made a great deal of money in that way,—by allowing people to go on and make improvements, and then taking advantage of some unfortunate time to foreclose."
"But so long as you pay the interest,—"
"We may not always be able to pay the interest. Times may be bad; or John may be sick; or a dozen other things may happen."
"You are always borrowing trouble, Letty," said Agnes. "Does not the Bible say, 'Take no thought for to-morrow'?"
"Yes; and the way to avoid doing so is to take thought for to-day," said Letty, smiling. "The house once our own, there will be no more thought needed, except to pay the taxes and the insurance. The Bible says, too, 'Owe no man any thing.' And, since we are upon quotations, I will give you another,—a wise one, too, though not from the Bible:—'He that buildeth his house with other men's money is like one that gathereth together stones for his own tomb.'"
"I don't know what you mean by that," said Agnes. "The money is our own."
"Not while we honestly owe it, Agnes."
"That may be your doctrine, but it is not mine," said Agnes, lightly. And then she added, as if to turn the conversation, "Shall I turn these things out of the jars, or keep them till I want to use them."
"Keep them altogether," said Letty. "I meant you should. They are handsome old jars, and will be useful for a good many purposes."
Agnes expressed herself much obliged, and the cousins parted.
A few days later, John came home, looking both annoyed and amused.
"Has Agnes said any thing to you about their notion of building?" he asked.
"Nothing whatever," replied Letty, surprised. "What do they want to build?"
"Oh, Joe says they want another parlour. He has found out that it is very ungenteel to eat in the kitchen, and that a dining-room is a necessary of life: so they are going to build on a wing north of the entry for a grand large parlour."
"I believe they think nine hundred dollars is a perfect mine of wealth," said Letty. "Did Joe talk to you about building it for him?"
"Yes; he has been up at the shop this afternoon. I could not help advising him against it. You see, he has only made one payment on the place, and that not a large one. Joe has been behind-hand with his interest twice; and, without thinking Grayson such a sharper as people call him, he is a hard man, and I should not like to be in his power."
"Nor I."
"This addition, as they propose to finish it, will cost three or four hundred dollars, at the least calculation; then they will want new carpets and furniture, and so on."
"Exactly," said Letty. "One expense leads to another. What did you say to Joe?"
"I advised him strongly to see Grayson and pay up the mortgage before he did any thing else. He objected that it would use up nearly the whole of Aunt Eunice's legacy, and they would have nothing left for themselves."
"Nothing for themselves!" exclaimed Letty. "Why, won't they have the house for themselves?"
"So I told him; but Joe said he had that now. He believed in people enjoying themselves as they went along, and not borrowing trouble. In short, I believe the only effect of my advice will be that Joe will give the job to some one else."
"He may at least give you credit for being disinterested," said Letty. "But have you seen Mr. Grayson yourself?"
"Yes; I spoke to him to-night. He was very civil,—said there was no hurry; he thought it would be better for me to lay out the money on my business; but I told him the money was yours, and you preferred to have it used in this way.
"'What!' said he. 'In paying debts rather than in buying new furniture or finery?'
"And then he wiped his glasses a while, and said he,—
"'My good friend, let me give you one piece of advice. You make your will and leave this place to your wife; or, better still, deed it to her now: she is a woman who can be trusted; and you won't die any the sooner for having your affairs arranged.'"
John concluded rightly. The only effect of his advice was that Joseph gave his building to some one else,—a Mr. Carr. John had not a high opinion of the man, but, of course, said nothing about him. Materials were soon collected, and the work of building began. They had at first intended only to make one large room for a parlour; but Mr. Carr suggested that it would be very convenient to have a nursery down-stairs; and, now that they were about it, it would not cost much more: so the nursery was added to the original plan.
A good many little variations were made,—such as a door here and a closet there. Mrs. Van Horn thought the parlour should have a cornice; and Agnes, of course, agreed with her. Then Joe came to the conclusion that windows down to the floor were absolutely necessary. John took the liberty of reminding him that every one of these additions to the original plan was an added expense; but Joe did not take the hint in very good part. He drew himself up, thanked Mr. Caswell for his advice, but believed he knew what he was about.
Meantime, John had paid up his mortgage. It was a happy day when he brought home his papers and announced to Letty that the house was all her own. Letty made a little feast on the occasion, and invited Mr. and Mrs. De Witt, Agnes and Joseph to tea.
Joe, who had quite overcome his fit of ill humour, made himself very agreeable, discussed flowers with Mrs. De Witt, and chemistry with her husband, and praised Letty's biscuits and cakes, till she, laughingly, told him he would incite her to set up a bakery. Joe said that a school for instruction in the art would be more to the purpose, and declared he would endow a professorship for her when his ship came home.
Agnes, who chose to take all this as an imputation on herself, sighed, and took occasion to remark that, if girls only knew half of what was before them, they would never be married. She appealed to Mrs. De Witt for confirmation.
But that lady, perhaps partly actuated by a spirit of perversity, declared that she had been a great deal happier in marriage than she ever expected to be.
Thereat Mr. De Witt smiled calmly; and Agnes remarked that the ways of Providence were mysterious. Agnes's religion mostly spent itself in little expressions of this kind; which had caused Joe to remark, upon one occasion, that she was never very pious except when she was very cross.
It now became a question what was to be done with the rest of the money (about three hundred and fifty dollars) which remained after the mortgage was discharged and a few little improvements made about the place; and, after various consultations, it was concluded to deposit it in the Sixpenny Savings-Bank, to be ready against the time of need.
[CHAPTER VII.]
LOSSES.
THE new building was finished towards the autumn,—at least two months later than was promised; but who ever knew a building finished at the time appointed?
The parlour was really a very pretty room, well proportioned, high and airy. The bedroom, too, was very nice and convenient, with its shelves and cupboards, and a light closet which Agnes dignified with the name of a dressing-room. Letty almost envied her cousin that bedroom, and began to look forward to the time when she should be able to have one like it. As John had predicted, new furniture was bought for the drawing-room, and a new carpet for the bedroom,—all good and expensive; and Joe purchased at an auction a French clock, some vases for the mantelpiece, and some pictures for the walls,—oil paintings, Agnes proudly declared,—as if being oil paintings they must necessarily be all right.
When all was complete, they had a party, which was quite the most imposing affair of the sort ever witnessed in Myrtle Street. Letty remonstrated a little; but, finding that Agnes was bent upon it, she assisted her as much as she could. The supper was mostly due to her skill; and a very good supper it was, and gained a great deal of praise,—all of which Agnes accepted as though it had been justly her due.
Mrs. Van Horn was there, beautifully dressed, all blushes and smiles,—a very agreeable person to look at. She went about telling everybody how much she had helped dear Mrs. Emerson, and how nothing could have been done right but for her. To be sure, dear Mrs. Emerson had not much notion of how things ought to be done at such times; and that cousin of hers was a plague,—so conceited and stingy. She really supposed dear Mrs. Emerson had never seen much of good society; but she certainly appeared wonderfully well, considering.
"To be sure," said Martha Wilbur, who had lately devoted herself to the extinguishment of Mrs. Van Horn upon all public occasions, "she has never had the advantage of an intimate acquaintance with Mrs. Trescott and the Miss Daltons, as you have, Mrs. Van Horn!"
Letty was there, of course, dressed in her plain black silk, with a bit of old lace round the neck, which she had found among Aunt Eunice's hoards. A little pearl pin, containing Sally's hair, was her only ornament; yet, somehow (as Mrs. Van Horn confessed to herself in vexation of spirit), she looked more like a lady than any one else in the room. Graceful in manners, yet always lively and cheerful, she glided here and there,—always just where she was wanted, talking to people who seemed likely to feel neglected, making strangers acquainted with each other, and acting generally the part of the few drops of oil in a large machine, which cause every part to run smoothly.
After the party came something not quite so pleasant,—namely, paying the bills. The next Sunday evening Joseph came over to Number Nine, in great perturbation, and asked to see John.
"That fellow Carr has sent in his bill. He gave it to me yesterday. Do you believe? He has asked me six hundred and eighty dollars!—Just twice what he said the building would cost. I wish you would go over the bill with me, and tell me what you think of his charges. I am sure they are enormous."
"I will," replied John,—"but not to-night."
"Why not?" asked Joseph, surprised.
For John was sitting, without even a book in his hand, apparently doing nothing except keeping an eye on little Alick.
"It is Sunday," replied John, quietly.
"Oh!" said Joseph, a little disconcerted. "But this is not work, John."
"I think it is,—and not very easy work either. I find looking over bills and estimates about the hardest things I have to do. But, hard or easy, I make it a rule never to attend to any business on Sunday. 'Thou shalt do no manner of work,' is the commandment, you know."
"But, John, you don't always act up to it, as it seems to me. You and Letty were down at Mrs. Jones's all Sunday afternoon; and when I passed the house I saw you cutting wood, and Letty washing out some things in the shed, as busy as a bee. Isn't there some inconsistency in that?"
"I think not. You know Mrs. Jones was taken suddenly ill last Sunday morning. There was no one to take care of her, except her little daughter, who came running up here in great distress while we were at dinner, declaring that her mother was dying. You know she has not the best character in the world, and none of the neighbours will have any thing to do with her. But Letty has spoken to the little girl now and then, and I have given her things out of the garden,—nothing of any account to be sure, but enough, I suppose, to make her feel kindly towards us.
"Of course we went straight down there; and we found the woman in a deplorable state, sure enough, with no fire and no wood, and nothing else, in short, except some whiskey. So I chopped up some boards to make a fire; and Letty set to work to make the woman and her house decent before the doctor came;—not a very pleasant task, as you may guess.
"Now, that was a thing which could not be put off; and I think it came under the head of 'works of necessity and mercy,' like our Saviour's healing the sick. But this bill can be examined just as well to-morrow as to-day."
"Well, I suppose you are right," said Joe, reluctantly. "I know I don't think enough about these things. But, you see, he gave it to me last night, and I put it in my pocket and never thought of it again till just now. Then there is that party. I never thought it was going to cost so much. Agnes had her mind set upon it, and I hated to refuse her. She thinks a great deal of that sort of thing. If a thing is only fashionable, why, she must have it, cost what it will; and her mother is just so, exactly."
"Now, Joe, I won't hear you abuse my relations," said John, smiling; "and, above all, I won't hear you find fault with your wife. You know it is not right; and, besides, in this matter there is not a pin to choose between you. You were just as fierce for the party and the new parlour as she was; and you know you were vexed at me for advising you against them."
"Well, but I never thought they were going to cost so much. If I had had any idea—"
"Well, we won't talk about that now. It is time for church."
"I didn't think of going to church," said Joe.
"Oh, yes; you will go with me. Letty stays at home with the youngster now-a-days: so I am alone in the evenings. I should like to have you hear our new minister. I am sure you will like him."
"Well, I will; but I must go home and fix up a little."
And Joe actually went to church, instead of spending the Sunday evening in idleness or in fretting over his bills, and came home in much better humour.
Agnes would not go. She was tired out with the party; and, besides, as she said, she had nothing decent to wear. She did not see what possessed Joe all of a sudden. She hoped it would do him good; that was all. She was sure there was abundant room for improvement.
It was an odd thing, Letty thought, but Agnes always seemed vexed when her husband showed any inclination towards seriousness. Perhaps she felt it a reproach.
"Bring your papers to-morrow evening, and I will go over them with you," said John, as they parted; "but don't make up your mind beforehand that you have been cheated. And, Joe, think over what you have heard this evening before you go to sleep. It will do you no harm."
Monday evening brought Joseph and his papers.
John went over the bills carefully, and scrutinized every item.
"Well?" said Joseph, eagerly, as he laid down the papers.
"Well," repeated John, "really, Joe, I don't see any fault to find with the bill. Some of the items were rather high, perhaps; but in general, he asks no more than I should have asked for the same work."
"But he agreed to do it all for three hundred dollars."
"I understand that was the original contract."
"Yes."
"Have you it here?" Joe produced the contract, and John compared it with the bill. "You see, Joe, there are so many extras; and every one adds something to the cost. At first you meant to have the bedroom open from the parlour; then you concluded to have closets between; then you decided to have one of them with a window, and the other fitted with shelves and drawers, and so on; then you connected the bedroom with the kitchen by a passage—"
"Well, well, I know," interrupted Joseph, impatiently; "but surely all that could not make such a great difference."
"Then you had the parlour finished very differently from the style you proposed to me," pursued John. "You had a cornice,—and an expensive one at that,—and windows down to the floor, and long blinds, and large panes. No, Joe, I don't think Carr has cheated you; though he ought to have told you, as he went along, how much each of these alterations would cost."
"There it is!" said Joe. "He kept saying,—'Oh, that won't make much difference; that will be a mere trifle;' and so on. I didn't know,—how should I? The fact is, John, I ought not to have had Carr. I was a fool for my pains: that's all." He was silent for a few minutes, and then said, gloomily, "So you think I have nothing to do but to pay the bill?"
"I think so."
"And so all that money goes; and for what? Why, for things we might just as well have done without, after all. What are we the better for having a grand parlour?"
John did not say, "I told you so!" That was not his way. He only remarked,—
"Why, the parlour is a very pretty parlour, and the bedroom is certainly convenient, and will save Agnes a good many steps in the course of the day; and, if you wished to sell the house—"
"But I don't want to sell it," said Joe, rather impatiently. "I want a house to call my own and have my children grow up in and remember as home. And, after all," he continued, brightening up a little, "there is no hurry about the matter. Carr is willing to wait,—even to take a second mortgage, if we don't want to pay him directly."
"Now, Emerson, don't you go to doing any such thing as that!" said John, impressively. "Pay the money while it is in your hand, and then the place will be, as you say, your own. You will never find a time when it will come any easier."
"But, I tell you, that and the furniture and this wretched party together will take the whole of Aunt Eunice's legacy. We sha'n't have more than a hundred dollars left for ourselves."
"You will have the house left for yourself, won't you?" said John, a little impatiently. "You cannot eat and have your cake, fix it as you will. Take my advice. Pay Carr in the first place; then pay for your furniture, if you have not done so already; and let Grayson have the rest, as a payment on the house. That will leave you comparatively free; and, with economy, you will easily make up the rest."
"I hate economy," said Joe, sullenly;—"always scrimping here and pinching there; you cannot afford this, and you cannot afford that: there is no comfort in it."
"I confess I do not love economy for its own sake," said John, smiling. "I like to spend money as well as you,—though perhaps in a different way; but any thing is better than being in debt."
"And even if I wanted to be economical, it would be of no use," said Joe. "Agnes does not know how to save: I believe it is not in her. She wastes more provisions in a week than your wife does in a year; and, after all, we have never any thing fit to eat. Her only notion of economy is locking up the sugar-bowl. I should think her mother might have taught her something about housekeeping."
"Now, Emerson, I won't listen to any such talk as that," said John, in good humour, but decidedly. "All these expenses were as much your doing as hers; and, if I may speak plainly—"
"Go ahead."
"I think it is a downright sin for a man to talk of his wife's faults to other people. You promised in your marriage to love and honour her; and the Bible expressly commands a man to give honour to his wife. Now, it is not honouring her to expose her weakness to other people. You took her 'for better, for worse;' and you must just take the worse with the better. It would be an excellent thing both for you and Agnes if, instead of each fixing your thoughts on what the other ought to do, you would learn to think more of what you ought to do yourselves. You know we that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves. If you are wiser than Agnes,—and I don't deny it,—you ought to let that make you more forbearing and gentle, and not more exacting, towards her."
Joe took this lecture in good part. He really loved his wife, though he was often unreasonable with regard to her; and he was not ill pleased to have forbearance and gentleness urged on the ground that he was the stronger of the two. He sat silent a while, and then went back to the papers.
"There is another thing about paying this money, John. You know more will be coming by-and-by from Mrs. Train."
"It is ill waiting for dead men's shoes, Joe. Mrs. Train is as likely to live as you or I; and, besides, I am sure you would not like to feel that you were speculating on her death."
"That is true. I should feel mean about it; for the old lady has always been a good friend of mine. Well, John, I believe I will take your advice;—that is, if Aggy is willing."
Joseph went home in a very good humour, and quite determined to take John's advice.
Agnes, however, was not very well pleased. She said the money was hers, and she didn't want it all shut up in a house. Joe could pay Carr half his bill, if he wished to, and the rest could wait: they should want the money for other things.
And Joe, to whom paying money for what he had had and enjoyed was something like throwing it away, let the matter drop, saying to himself, by way of salvo, that the money really did belong to Agnes and she ought to have the use of it. There would be plenty of time. His wages were rising every day, times were good, and, if they could not make both ends meet, they might take some boarders. So that their indebtedness was really increased, instead of lessened, by Aunt Eunice's legacy.
About the middle of the winter, Agnes's second baby was born. It was a fine little boy, and really did look like her: so she was quite satisfied this time. She had been content with her mother's attendance before; but now nothing would serve but a regular nurse, recommended by Mrs. Van Horn as having a very genteel connection.
Mrs. Train was at first a good deal hurt, but satisfied herself with the idea of the gentility of the thing. She was now very comfortably off, thanks to Aunt Eunice; but the habit of complaining was too deeply fixed to be uprooted by any change of circumstances, and she mourned continually over the fact that the money was so tied up that she could not touch it. It was so hard upon her not to be able to help dear Agnes; and, after all, what did the income from three thousand amount to? It was just an aggravation,—nothing more.
It was the first of August. John's young peach and plum trees were coming into bearing, and the apricot tree, by the kitchen door, was covered with fruit, just growing to perfection. The garden was more fruitful than ever, and John had carried early cucumbers and tomatoes to market, besides using all he wanted himself; while Letty's flower-beds were the envy and admiration of the neighbourhood, and threatened to eclipse Mrs. De Witt herself.
Every thing was in order at Number Nine. Not a nail was loose, not a board hung awry, not a speck of paint was needed anywhere about it. Every one who came through Myrtle Street said, "What a pretty place!"
One warm evening, Letty was standing at the gate, looking for her husband, who was a little later than usual. The short baby, looking shorter still in his abbreviated petticoats, was rolling on the grass. Ginger, now grown a magnificent cat, was prancing around him, keeping a sharp look-out for a fresh grasshopper. Letty turned from her watch for a moment, and looked around her.
"How lovely every thing is!" said she to herself. "How much we have to be thankful for! We have had nothing but mercies from the beginning till now. May God make us grateful!"
She turned again to the gate, and saw John coming slowly up the street.
The moment he came in sight, she perceived that something was the matter. Still, she was not alarmed. John was constitutionally subject to fits of gloom and depression which almost amounted to hypochondria; and while they lasted, he was totally unable to take a cheerful view of any thing.
Letty used to be very much distressed by these fits at first; but she learned, after a while, how to treat them, and even, to some extent, to guard against them, by inducing her husband to take certain precautions in regard to diet and repose, which, left to himself, he was too apt to neglect.
"John has got one of his blue fits," said she to herself. "I thought he was working too hard."
Not to seem as though she were watching him, she took up Alick and went into the house to have tea all ready.
John did not enter at once; and, looking out to see what had become of him, she saw him leaning over the well, breaking bits off a certain choice shrub, a present from Mr. De Witt, which grew close by.
"Why, John, what are you doing?" she exclaimed. "You are spoiling that beautiful rose-acacia."
"Am I?" said John, rousing himself, and looking around. "Well, Letty, I beg your pardon. I did not know what I was about; and that is the truth."
"Do come in and have some tea," said Letty, passing her arm through his. "You look tired out."
"I am!" said John, emphatically.
He sat down to the table, but could not eat a mouthful. The prattle of the baby, now beginning to talk, seemed to annoy him; and, for the first time in his life, he spoke sharply to the child and bade him be quiet.
Alick looked astonished and distressed, and put out his lip to cry.
Letty hastened to divert his attention, and set him down on the floor to share a piece of cake with Ginger.
John soon rose from the table, and, going out, sat down on the step.
Letty hastened to get her dishes out of the way, put the baby to bed, and then went out and sat down beside her husband.
"Is any thing the matter more than weariness, John?" she asked, earnestly.
"Yes, Letty." He paused again, and then went on, in a firmer voice: "Your legacy is all gone!"
"Gone!" repeated Letty. "What do you mean?"
"It is hopelessly gone," said John, "and all my year's earnings with it!" He threw his pipe from him with such force that it was broken into a hundred pieces, and, as if relieved by the action, added, more calmly, "Beckman's bank has failed. Why don't you say, 'I told you so'?" he added, bitterly.
Letty was one of those peculiarly constituted persons with whom there is no medium between entire calmness and extreme agitation. She was aware of this; and it had given her a habit of self-control, and of enduring in silence any sudden blow or discomfort. This peculiarity had its disadvantages, and more than once had she been called sullen or cross, for going about with compressed lips when her heart was overwhelmed with grief or with a sense of injury. At present she sat quite still, with her eyes fixed on the western sky, for some minutes.
"Are you sure? Who told you?" she asked, presently.
"Of course I am sure. Should I bring you such a piece of news if I were not sure?" asked John, in a tone of irritation. "It is all over town. His office is shut; and they say he has run off."
"Well," said Letty, after another interval of silence, "if it is gone, it is gone; that is all. It might have been worse: there is that about it."
"I don't see how."
"You might have deposited all the money, instead of using part of it to pay our debt. What is in the house is safe. You acted for the best, and that is all any one can do."
"That is what cuts me to the heart, I did not act for the best. I knew all the time that there was a risk in it; but I was so greedy after the few additional dollars of interest that I would not consider it. Mr. Trescott advised me against it, too. He said he did not believe Beckman understood his business. But no:—I must have the last penny; and now I have lost your money as well as my own. If it had been only mine, I would not care; but to rob you—"
"Well, then, John, we will at least get a lesson out of the trouble," said Letty, trying to speak cheerfully. "Perhaps we have both been growing too fond of money,—too careful for the things of this world. 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,' you know," she added, in a lower tone; "and, after all, he has left us far more than he has taken away. We can never be very poor so long as we have each other."
John took her hand and kissed it; and Letty nestled close to his side. They were still sitting in silence, when Mrs. De Witt came through the garden-gate, her eyes red with crying. Mrs. De Witt was one of those who cry easily and find great comfort in it.
"Are you talking about Beckman's failure?" said she. "Of course you are: no one can think of any thing else. A'n't it a shame, though? And such a man as he was thought to be! He was a member of your church: wasn't he?"
"That's the worst of it," said Letty; "and people talk so about such things."
"Exactly," said John, rousing himself; "and they have a right to talk. People talk about this and that hurting the cause of religion. I do verily believe that the thing which hurts it most and is the greatest hindrance to the conversion of sinners is the downright dishonesty, in such matters, of people who pass for Christians. How many do we know, active in the church and at prayer-meetings, who have made failures which no stretch of charity can call any thing but dishonest!"
"What do you call a dishonest failure?" asked Letty, glad of the chance to effect a little diversion.
"I call it a dishonest failure when a man puts his property out of his hands to save it from his honest creditors. I call it a dishonest failure when a man goes on living in all the comfort and luxury to which he has been accustomed, when he owes money to tradespeople and merchants which he does not try to pay, or with whom he has compounded for fifty cents on a dollar. I call it the meanest kind of dishonesty when a man pleads usury to get off from paying back money which he has borrowed and used. And I say that these things, happening as they do among members of the church, are a shame and a disgrace, and put a stumbling-block in the way of really sincere people; while they make a ready excuse for hardened sinners. And I do not believe God looks with more favour upon the prayers of such a man than if he had come to meeting with his pockets full of counterfeit bills which he meant to pass."
"That is just the way my husband talks," said Mrs. De Witt. "He feels worse than you do about this matter, I can tell you. He says he led you into it, and that you would never have gone to Beckman's but for him, and that he has robbed you and your child. I never saw him go on so. You would not think it was in him. I feel really concerned about him, lest he should get a brain-fever, or something. It a'n't his own loss he thinks of,—though that is enough,—but yours. He declares he shall be ashamed ever to look you in the face again."
"Nonsense!" said John, rising. "He mustn't talk like that. Where is he?"
"At home, in the kitchen," replied his wife, wiping her eyes. "I tried to make him come over here; but he wouldn't."
"Then I must go to him: that's all," said John. He looked round for his pipe; and, not seeing it, turned inquiringly to Letty, who silently pointed out the pieces lying on the door-stone.
John smiled, nodded, and went his way.
"There! That's just what I wanted!" said Mrs. De Witt. "I thought, 'If I can only get them two men together, they will smoke and talk, and kind of comfort each other.' Mr. De Witt does feel dreadful bad; but I tell him we are young yet, and don't owe a cent, and, with the Lord's blessing, we will make it up somehow to ourselves and you too. Has your gladiolus blowed out yet?"
"I really don't know," replied Letty. "It had not opened early this morning; and I have been so busy since, I have not looked at it."
"Let us go and see," said Mrs. De Witt.
Letty did not feel as though she cared much about flowers just then; but she felt the intended kindness, and rose to follow her friend to the spot where the valued lilies (six varieties) stood in a cluster, lifting their stately spikes of exquisitely shaped flower-buds. Two of them were expanded, and shone in full beauty.
"A'n't they lovely, though?" exclaimed Mrs. De Witt, with all the enthusiasm of a florist. "Just look at the colour of those large leaves! Mr. De Witt tries to make me say petals; but I never can remember. Do you call it crimson, or scarlet, now?"
"I should say it was between the two," said Letty, interested in spite of herself. "See the beautiful turn of the lip and the shape of the half-opened bud! How perfect!"
"The things that God makes are always perfect, seems to me," said Mrs. De Witt. "He don't slight any of his work. Think of the beautiful things deep down in the sea and hid away in lonesome places of the earth, where no man will ever see them! It seems as though he must take pleasure in them himself: don't it?"
"'The Lord shall rejoice in his works,' the Bible says," observed Letty.
"That's true." She stooped once more to look at the flowers, and added, "There's a verse about these very lilies that you and I ought to take to heart at this present time:—'Consider the lilies of the field,' you know. Mr. De Witt says some of our most beautiful flowers come from Palestine."
"Every thing puts you in mind of something in the Bible: doesn't it?" said Letty.
"To be sure. As I was telling Agnes, you know, that's what it is for. But there was a good while, when I was young,—about Gatty's age,—that I was very fond of reading; and the Bible was almost the only book we had. My parents died when I was a baby, and left me to my grandmother's care. She was old and almost blind; and I used to read the Bible to her over and over again, till I came to know it almost by heart; and I can repeat whole chapters. Grandmother used to point out these very things to me,—how that nothing ever did or could happen to us that we did not find something just to match it in the Bible. So I got into the habit of it, you see."
"I am sure it is an excellent habit," said Letty. "Aunt Eunice was just so. The Bible was her daily food. Didn't I hear our gate shut?"
The new-comers were Agnes and Joseph, who had heard the news down-town, and now came to sympathize with their cousins in their trouble. Agnes, as usual, began on the wrong tack. Priding herself on her tact and management, she was sure to say the wrong thing, or to say the right thing in the wrong place, simply because she had no capacity for entering into the feelings of other people.
"How vexed you must be, Letty! If John had only taken your advice, all this would not have happened. But I believe all men are alike about that: they would rather be influenced by anybody else than their own wives."
"You are much mistaken, Agnes," said Letty, with more spirit, perhaps, than was absolutely called for. "I gave no advice on the subject, simply because I knew nothing about the matter, one way or the other. John said he would do as I wished; but I preferred to leave it to him. He acted for the best, however it has turned out; and that is all any one can do."
"Then you didn't say, 'I told you so'?" said Joe, with a tone of great interest.
"Of course not! How should I? I did not tell him so; and, even if I had, I should not be apt to cast it up to him, now that he is in trouble."
Joe clapped his hands. "There, Agnes! You have lost your bet. You will have to hand over. I made a bet with Aggy that you wouldn't say so, and she bet you would. You have lost your new dress this time, Aggy."
"I will thank you not to make me the subject of any more bets," said Letty, good-humouredly. "I don't believe in betting: it is entirely against my principles."
"Well, I won't," said Joe. "But this was too good. But, Letty, I am very sorry about this matter. Can nothing be done? Is it a dead loss?"
"I suppose it is."
"Where is John? How does he bear it?"
"Why, as well as you could expect. He blames himself for not putting the money in the savings-bank; but I tell him there is no use in that now. He has gone over to see Mr. De Witt, who feels much worse than we do."
"So he ought!" exclaimed Agnes. "If I were you, I would never speak to him again."
"Oh, Agnes!"
"Indeed I would not; nor his wife either. I always knew that no good could come of your intimacy with such low, vulgar people. He has gained such an influence over John that he can wind him round his finger; and he has just drawn him into a trap,—that is all. It is just what you might expect from a psalm-singing man like him."
"Agnes, stop!" said Letty, with emphasis. "Mr. and Mrs. De Witt are among the kindest friends we have; and I will not hear them spoken of in that way. Mr. De Witt made a mistake by which he has lost fully as much as my husband, if not more. What possible object could he have in such a course as you impute to him? What could he gain by it?"
"None so blind as those that won't see!" said Agnes, significantly. "I don't believe his losses will hurt him much. We have all heard of decoy-ducks."
"Let me advise you not to repeat any such remarks," said Letty. "You do not know any harm of the De Witts; and you would look rather silly if they should call for your proof in court, some day."
"Dear me! What did I say?" returned Agnes, rather alarmed. "You do make such a fuss about nothing! However, scold away, if it does you any good. I suppose you are afraid to give it to your husband, and so you take it out on me. I am used to it: that is one thing. I have never in my life tried to sympathize with and console any one, without meeting ingratitude in return."
"I don't wonder at it, if that is your usual style of consolation," said Joe. "Come, Letty; never mind! We all know Agnes has her ways. But I am sorry for your loss. You might better have taken the comfort of this money as you went along, like us. Now it is all gone, and you have had no good of it at all."
"Oh, yes, we have,—a great deal of good," replied Letty, recovering her good humour. "What we gave for the house and our improvements is safe, you know; then John has just paid his life and fire insurance, and we owe no man a cent: so we are in no one's power."
Joe winced a little at this. He had been dunned that very day by Carr the builder, who declared that he would wait on him no longer.
"There is Mr. Trescott coming in," said he, willing to change the subject. "Shall I call John?"
"Do!" said Letty. "And Joe, don't say a word to De Witt: he feels badly enough now."
"Not I," said Joe. "I am no hand to shy stones at a lame dog."
He went off whistling, and came back with John before Mr. Trescott had done greeting Letty and Agnes.
"I want to tell you one thing, Caswell," said Mr. Trescott, at once. "I don't believe Beckman has intended to act dishonestly. He is a thick-headed man, and utterly unfit for the business he undertook; but I do not believe he meant to wrong any one."
"I don't see what difference that makes," said Joe. "If the money is lost, it is lost; and that is all about it."
"I beg your pardon, Emerson; it does make a great deal of difference," said John. "One of the hardest things to me in the whole affair was the thought that a man who was a member of the church, and so active too, should have laid a plan to rob others. I felt like David:—If it were an enemy, 'I could have borne it.' You have taken a great load off my mind, Mr. Trescott. But is it true that he has gone to Europe?"
"No: he is at home, sick in bed with jaundice. He sent for me to come and talk with him this afternoon; and really, Caswell, if you had seen him, I don't think you would find it hard to forgive him. The man is completely broken down. All his old pompous way is gone. He cried like a little child when I spoke to him; and when I came away, he grasped my hand and sobbed,—
"'Trescott, if you see any of those poor people, beg them to try and forgive me.'
"Think of such a speech as that coming from Beckman!"
"Poor man!" said Letty, with tears in her eyes. "I am sure we will forgive him: won't we, John?"
"I should have tried to do so, at any rate," replied John. "If you think it will do him any good, Mr. Trescott, please tell him so."
"I will: All his property, without exception, has been placed in the hands of Street & Brothers, to see if any thing can be done towards satisfying the creditors. They will clear matters up, if any one can; and perhaps it will not be a dead loss, after all; though Mr. Street tells me he never saw such confusion as the accounts and papers are in. There is the trouble.
"Beckman would not be content to go on quietly in a business which he thoroughly understood: he must make money fast. And, moreover, what I think influenced him even more than the desire of making money,—he wanted to be fashionable. Mr. Beckman the banker sounded much better in his ears than Mr. Beckman the soap and candle maker."
"Any thing to be genteel," said John. "I hate the very sound of it. I wish there wasn't any such word in the language."
"They say his wife was very extravagant," observed Agnes. "Mrs. Van Horn says she never saw such lace as she wears; and I have noticed that myself," she added, hastily, as a smile went round the circle.
"I do not think she has been greatly to blame," said Mr. Trescott. "Mr. Beckman never allowed his wife or daughter to know any thing about his affairs. I heard him say, once, it was a maxim of his that no woman should know any thing of his business. His wife doubtless supposed him to be immensely rich, and regulated her expenses accordingly."
"It will be hard for her to come down if they have to give up every thing," said Agnes.
"I do not think she will mind it so much. She was sensibly brought up; knows how to work, and is strong and active. I fancy she will lay down all these fine things as easily as she took them up. She said to me this afternoon,—
"'For myself I do not care. I shall be glad to go back to my little house in Green Street. We were happier there than we have ever been since; and if my husband's credit is saved, I shall have nothing to regret.'
"But, Caswell, I want to talk over a little business with you. Are your hands full of work?"
"Not at present. Indeed, I am doing very little."
Mr. Trescott entered at once upon his business. He wanted three first-class houses built upon some lots belonging to his wife, and if John would undertake them, he should be very glad to give him the job.
"And I shall be glad to take it," said John; "but I shall have to ask you to advance part of the money, as all my capital is swept away."
"That I shall do, of course. Come up to my office early to-morrow morning, and we will talk about it. Meantime, Letty, think of what you have left, more than of what you have lost."
"Oh, I do," said Letty, smiling. "I tell John we are richer than when we were married, by a house and a baby."
"That is the right way to look at it. Good-night; and God bless you!"
[CHAPTER VIII.]
BABY.
BUT a greater trial than the loss of money was hanging over the homes in Myrtle Street. The summer had been an unhealthy one for children. At many a door the black crape tied with white ribbon (as was the custom of the place) announced that there were aching hearts within, and drew a sigh from many a mother who saw the token. Myrtle Street had thus far escaped better than most parts of the city; but its time was to come; and one morning in September it was told among the neighbours that the Wilbur children had the scarlet fever.
Letty had the greatest horror of this disorder. She had seen enough of its effects in the Trescott family to make her regard it as more to be dreaded than the plague. She kept Alick closely within the limits of her own premises, and watched him with a vigilant eye, that the malignant disease, if it appeared, might at least be taken in time; but as yet the little boy seemed as well as a mother could wish.
There were two or three deaths in the neighbourhood, and then the cloud seemed to pass away.
One cold, raw, damp day towards the end of October, Agnes came into Number Nine, bringing Madge, who was now considerably grown.
"I wish you would let Madge stay here while I go down-town," she said. "I don't know how it is, but she has been so fractious the last two or three days that there is no living with her. I know if I leave her with Mary there will be trouble all the time; but she is always good with you."
Letty made no objections, and Madge was soon playing on the floor with Alick. She was usually a merry child, and as active as a kitten; but to-day she seemed tired and languid, and when Alick was taking his usual noonday nap, she crept up and lay down beside him, and was soon asleep.
Letty glanced at the children two or three times as she went about her work, and thought what a pretty picture they would make.
After a long nap, Madge awoke, crying. Her hands were hot and dry, her lips parched, and her eyes bloodshot and heavy. Letty took her up without waking Alick, and, as she still complained of being thirsty, set her in the rocking-chair, while she went for some cool water. When she came back, Madge was dozing again. Presently Agnes came in, full of all she had seen.
"Do look at this child," said Letty. "Isn't her throat swollen?"
"Yes, I know," replied Agnes, warming her feet composedly. "It was so yesterday; but she did not seem to be sick,—only cross."
"Yesterday!" repeated Letty, in amazement. "You don't mean to say that her throat was so yesterday, when you had her out in the damp and cold half the afternoon? Why, you are crazy!"
"Nonsense!" said Agnes, lightly. "She is used to the open air, and as tough as a knot. I suppose it is the mumps."
"Well, I should think that was enough to call for more care; for if a child takes cold with them it goes very hard, I can tell you. I must say, Agnes, it was presumption to take Madge out under such circumstances. At any rate, you might have reflected before you exposed Alick to the disease. You would not be very well pleased if I had done so by you."
Agnes looked a little ashamed. "Well, Letty, to say the truth, I forgot all about it, I know she was out of sorts yesterday; but she seemed well enough this morning, only that she was fretful. They say children never are very sick when they are cross, you know."
"I believe that is a great mistake," said Letty. "A pleasant child like Madge seldom or never becomes cross and fretful without some good reason."
"Oh, I don't know. Children take all sorts of fits. Mrs. Van Horn wanted me to go down-town with her and see Rosenblatt's opening of fall fashions,—the loveliest bonnets you ever saw, only so very small: they hardly come on the head at all, and are perfectly covered with lace and flowers; you never saw any thing so pretty."
"Well, well, never mind the bonnets," said Letty, a little impatiently. "What are you going to do about Madge?"
"Dear me, Letty, you need not be so short! One would think I had made the child sick on purpose. I am sure I think as much of my children as you do of yours, if I don't make quite such a parade about it. What had I better do?"
"Take her home and send for your physician at once."
"Come, Madge; come with mother," said Agnes, rising,—"your naughty mother, who don't care any thing about her children."
But Madge would not come. She cried, and declared she could not walk; and Agnes was obliged to carry her. Towards evening she came over again, looking very much frightened.
"Madge is really sick. I wish you would come and look at her."
Alick was playing with Gatty; and Letty ran across the road with Agnes. Madge was crying and very restless; and the moment Letty looked at her, she felt as though she should drop.
"It is scarlet fever!" said Letty, in a trembling voice. "Oh, Agnes, how could you be so careless? And she was playing with Alick all this morning!"
"How could I tell?" said Agnes, the impulse to blame some one else being uppermost, as usual. "You ought to have known yourself. You had seen scarlet fever, and I never had. But you cannot think of a thing but yourself and your baby! So selfish!"
Letty could not trust her voice to answer.
"And what will Joe say?" pursued Agnes. "It will all be my fault, of course: every thing always is! And I dare say she will die, and the baby too. I am the most miserable woman on earth!" And Agnes burst into tears, thereby frightening Madge, whose sobs became shrieks.
"Listen to me, Agnes," said Letty, who by this time had regained in some measure her usual self-control. "Madge is very sick, and you must put by every thing else and take care of her: keep her quiet, and let Joe go for the doctor as soon as he comes home."
"But don't go, Letty!" sobbed Agnes. "Do stay all night. I am sure you ought to. I never can take care of Madge alone."
"You forget that I have Alick to attend to. He has been exposed just at the worst time to catch the disease; and I must be careful that he takes no cold, and does not eat any thing improper for him. If the fever cannot be kept off, at least it may be lightened by proper care."
"Yes; that is always the way," said Agnes. "Every one thinks of herself, and no one thinks or cares what becomes of me. I never saw such selfishness."
"Of whom did you think when you ran off with Mrs. Van Horn, looking after millinery, and left Madge to any one who chose to take care of her?" asked Letty, thoroughly exasperated. "Of whom did you think when you exposed my delicate little boy to the chance of mumps,—to say nothing of scarlet fever,—merely to gratify your own senseless curiosity about the fashions? You have always gone on, pleasing yourself and caring for nothing and nobody else, ever since you were born; and now you reap the consequences. It will be well if your self-pleasing does not cost the lives of two innocent children; for, to say nothing of this morning, it was nothing short of murder to expose Madge as you did yesterday."
Never, since Letty was a passionate little girl, had Agnes seen her so roused.
"I will do what I can for you," continued Letty, speaking more calmly; "but you must not expect me to leave my own boy to attend upon you. You had better send for your mother to come and stay with you."
"I know she won't come; and it won't do any good if she does," said Agnes, recovering herself. "I know she will die, and the baby, too; and Joe will say it is all my fault."
But Letty was beyond the reach of her voice; and she found herself compelled to attend to Madge.
When Joe came home, there was the usual scene of recrimination,—which, however, was cut shorter than common by his going after the doctor and Mrs. Train.
Madge was very ill from the first; and Dr. Woodman looked very grave when he saw her. In a few days the baby sickened. He had always been a sturdy little fellow; and every one hoped he might have the disease lightly; but the hope was destined to disappointment. The fever ran its course in a wonderfully short time; and in four days the little boy was in his coffin. On the same day with the baby, Alick came down, and was pronounced very ill.
For once, Letty had neither thought nor feeling for another's trouble. She would not leave Alick for a moment,—not even when Agnes's baby died. Indeed, it was not easy for her to do so; for he cried after her the moment she left the room, and would hardly take food or medicine from any one else. She went about her duties outwardly calm, but with a heavy burden on her heart and with one thought in her mind:
"I can never forgive Agnes!—Never! Never!"
She could not think. She could not pray. She could not rest in any of those divine promises which had heretofore been her stay in times of trouble. She walked in darkness and saw no light. She felt that the whole universe was cruel to her,—even God himself. For once she was self-willed. Mrs. De Witt would have persuaded her to lie down and take some rest while the child slept; but she would, not go,—not even for John's entreaty. She had naturally a strong, passionate nature; and its whole force rose in rebellion against the threatened stroke. She could not and would not submit.
Of course this could not go on. Little Alick died after some days' illness,—died on Thanksgiving-day, which seemed to make the trial harder to endure. Letty went through the funeral service with the same outward composure which had alarmed her friends from the beginning; but on returning from the grave, she fainted away several times, and the next day was too ill to sit up.
In this emergency, Mrs. De Witt came out in all her strength. If ever a woman contrived to be in several places all at once, she was that woman. Her own house was as orderly as ever, and her husband's meals always ready and comfortable: yet she contrived to find time for the care of Letty and her house. She was nurse, housekeeper and mistress to both families at once; and she did it all well.
She had an efficient help in Gatty, who had been trained in ways of usefulness from her cradle. Mrs. De Witt had thought at one time of sending her into the country, to be out of harm's way; but she changed her mind, and contented herself with keeping the child away from Alick during his illness. The reasons she gave for her course were characteristic:—
"You see, it a'n't as if she hadn't been exposed already. She has; and she may come down any time. If she is here, I can keep watch of her; and I know what's what. I sha'n't think she has got the fever every time she sneezes, and I sha'n't send her out in the cold for a walk because her head aches with the rash coming out. Garrett's wife is like enough to do either, or both. Besides, if she is here, she can see to the dinner and wait upon her father, while I am taking care of Alick and helping Mrs. Caswell."
At the end of a week Letty was able to sit up and come down-stairs; but when she tried to take up her household work again, she found it out of her power. She could not work. She had overtaxed her strength, and was now paying the penalty. She struggled in vain against her weakness.
Her strength was becoming less every day; and she could do little but lie on the sofa and think. The doctor came to see her, and prescribed tonics; but nothing seemed to do any good; and every one began to fear that she would soon follow her child.
One day Dr. Woodman came in and found her alone, weeping. A Testament was lying by her, but she was not reading. After a few inquiries, the doctor went to the door, sent away his horse, and then came back and sat down by Letty's side. After a few minutes' silence he took up the Testament.
"You have a good companion here," said he. "I hope you find comfort in it?"
Letty involuntarily shook her head, and the tears started afresh.
"My dear Letty," said the doctor, "it may appear like a strange remark to make to a woman who has just lost her only child, but it seems to me that you are suffering from something more than grief for your little one. Tell me: do you feel that God is with you in this sorrow?"
"No," replied Letty. "He is not. I am alone. God has forsaken me, and refuses to hear my prayers. I am all alone, and must be alone. There is no comfort for me anywhere, and I can never look forward to seeing my child again: I have no hope, and am without God in the world!" Her voice was lost in sobs.
"God can never forsake or forget us, though we forsake and forget Him," said the doctor. "Tell me: have you not given yourself to God to be entirely his?"
"I thought I did, once," said Letty.
"Never mind what you did once. Very likely you did; but you can no more live upon past religious experience than you can upon what you ate last year. Can you give yourself to him NOW?"
"What do you mean by giving myself to him, doctor?" asked Letty.
"I mean that you should put yourself, your hopes and fears, your troubles, sorrows and sins,—all, in short, that goes to make up yourself,—into God's hands. Submit yourself to his will. Lay yourself as it were on the altar before him, and trust that he will accept you. That is what I mean. Can you do that?"
"I have tried," said Letty, sorrowfully; "but—"
"But what?"
"It makes no difference. I cannot feel that I am accepted. I know that I am not."
"How do you know it? Excuse me if I ask very close questions," continued the doctor, as Letty did not answer. "We are old friends, and I want to help you if I can. Let me ask you if you are sure that no cherished sin is keeping you from God?"
"That is it," said Letty. "I know there is." She paused a moment, and then added, abruptly, "I cannot forgive Agnes! I feel as though she had murdered my Alick. I would not forgive her, at first. I would not even go to see her when her child died, though my conscience upbraided me and I felt that I ought to overcome that feeling. And now I cannot forgive her!—I cannot!"
"Do you wish to forgive her?" said the doctor, with one of his penetrating looks. "Would you do so if you could?"
"I don't know."
"But you do know," returned the doctor, in a kind but decided tone; "or you can know if you will. Don't try to deceive yourself. You know that God can give you the power to forgive Agnes. Observe, I don't say that you feel it or realize it; that is quite another matter. But you do know it, because you know that he can do all things."
"Yes," said Letty: "I know it, certainly."
"Well, now, are you willing he should do it? Are you willing to forgive Agnes if he gives you the power to do so?"
Letty was silent for a few minutes.
The doctor saw the struggle, and prayed, inwardly, that grace might conquer.
At last she spoke.
"Yes," said she: "I think I am willing."
"God be praised for that!" said the doctor. "Now think whether there is any thing else."
"I do not know that there is," replied Letty; "but still I do not feel that God will accept me."
"Do you believe that God speaks the truth?"
"Of course," said Letty,—surprised at the question.
"And that the Bible is his word?"
"Yes; certainly."
"Well, then, listen," said the doctor, with energy. "Here is just one brief, simple promise of his, which is all you want:—
"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'
"That ought to be enough for you. But here is another:—
"'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it SHALL be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'
"Those are God's own words. Cast yourself upon the veracity of God. Pray for yourself, and I will pray for you. There are two of us agreed. Come to God just as you are. Give yourself wholly to him, and then believe that he has accepted you. I must leave you now; but I will pray for you, and do you pray for yourself; and be sure that, as there is a God in heaven, so surely he will accept you and make you his own."
A day or two after, the doctor came again. He found his patient more comfortless than ever.
"No light yet?" said he.
Letty shook her head. "No," said she. "I have no light. I have tried to give myself up to him, as you say. I have done it. If I know myself at all, I have done it; but I have no evidence in myself that I am accepted of him."
"Are you not refusing to believe what God has spoken? God says in his word that he will receive you; and that should be enough to satisfy you that he has received you, whether you feel it or not. It is because the way is so easy that you miss it. Why, suppose I tell you that a certain medicine is good for you: you believe me,—don't you?—although you do not feel any immediate effect. Well, just believe God in the same way,—because he says so."
"I am afraid that I do not forgive Agnes, after all. I went over to see her last night."
"Good!" said the doctor. "That shows that you are in earnest; and it ought also to show you that God is with you. Well?"