John Dana, his wife and little ones, attended Ida to Sunnybank. They arrived late at night, tired and sleepy; but their sunrise matins were caroled by Ida, as she sang a lively hymn in the breakfast-room, under the guest-chamber. She roamed briskly to and fro, rummaging side-boards and peeping into closets.
"Jest like you used to do, Miss Ida!" said Aunt Judy. "Law me! this comes of faith. I allers said I should live to deliver up them keys into your hands. And you've come home for good, honey?"
"Yes, Aunt Judy—come to stay with, and take care of you. That's 'for good,' isn't it?"
"To be sure! It's a mighty 'sponsibility, honey!"
"She'll have strength given her to bear it!" said Will, behind her. "It's time your biscuits were baking, Aunt Judy, and you're talking about 'sponsibility!"
"I shall depend upon you, Uncle Will," said Ida. "The servants were easily controlled while mother's influence was at work. How they will submit to one of my age and experience remains to be seen."
"Mr. Grant keeps them tolerably straight, ma'am. I can't say it's exactly as 'twas in her time, but they'll break in pretty easy, I reckon. An overseer, no matter how smart and good, ain't a marster or mistis. We get our victuals and clothes, and look just the same, but there's nobody to ride down from 'the house,' after planting, and hoeing, and harvesting's done, and say, well done, boys!' and at night, when we, whose quarters are in the yard, come up, it's so dark and lonesome, and still, and the doors and windows all shut, it makes us low-spirited—like 'twas no use to work—and Sunday—we feel itthen!"
"So you are rather glad I am back again?"
"Glad! mistis! I couldn't be more pleased if you was my own child! We need you, ma'am; we need you!"
"Still, as Aunt Judy says, it's a great responsibility."
"You're one of the Lord's lambs, mistis. He will provide."
He went out, and Ida caught up his last words, and through the dark nooks and reverberating galleries of the old house, sounded the refrain—
"His call we obey, like Abram of old,Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold,For 'though we are strangers, we have a good guide,And trust in all dangers, the Lord will provide!'"
"His call we obey, like Abram of old,Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold,For 'though we are strangers, we have a good guide,And trust in all dangers, the Lord will provide!'"
"His call we obey, like Abram of old,Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold,For 'though we are strangers, we have a good guide,And trust in all dangers, the Lord will provide!'"
She met her guests with a kiss, and a jingle of the key-basket, and seating them at table, poured out the coffee; refuting Mr. Dana's objection that his was too sweet, by the Irish lady's answer to a similar complaint from General Washington—"Shure, and if 'twas all sugar, 'twouldn't be too good for yer Honor!"—piled the children's plates with buttered cakes—rattling all the while of her dignities, possessions and "'sponsibility." After finding a clean grass plat for the children's playground, she challenged Mrs. Dana to a stroll over the house and garden. It was an old-fashioned family mansion, rambling and picturesque; some rooms wainscotted to the ceiling, and lighted by rows of narrow windows, with surprisingly small panes. These were chambers: the lower story, the parlour, dining-room, and the apartments appropriated to her mother and herself, were light, large, and finished in a more modern style. Mrs. Dana preferred the antique. The massive furniture suited them so well, and it was interesting to think of the generations they had known—what stories they would relate if the panelled oak could speak.
"With a little variation, they would tell one of all," replied Ida. "They were born, suffered, joyed and died!" And she thought how she had gone through all, except the last, within these walls. The garden was ploughed up. There was no comeliness in it, but it was less desolate than when overgrown with weed.
"The soil is fertile," said Mr. Grant. "We shall have vegetables worth showing this summer, Miss Ida. Mr. Dana sends his respects, and will you step into the parlour? we would like to consult you."
Ida composed her face into a Malvolio expression of solemnity and conceit: pompously apologised to Mrs. Dana, and obeyed.But the account books were shut, and her guardian was luxuriating in an arm-chair and a cigar.
"Mr. Grant and myself have been investigating and comparing accounts, Ida," he said; "and the result is highly creditable to him and those in his service. Without wearying you with particulars, I have set down the sums total here. You perceive that the crops have met the expenditures of the plantation; and each year, the net profits have surpassed those of the preceding—a proof that your land is constantly improving. This, as I said, is to be attributed to Mr. Grant's judicious management. Your servants are well fed and clothed, and the doctor's bill trifling in its amount. Praise is also due to Mr. Read. I approve entirely of the investments he has made of the funds, left after the necessary disbursements for expenses. Your money is safe and not idle. You were fortunate in your stewards, and assume the control of an unincumbered estate, under most favorable auspices."
"I am indeed grateful to Providence, and to them, sir. It is not my wish, however, to release you from your guardianship. I cannot do it nominally, as yet, and after the law shall permit it, I shall still rely upon you for direction. A woman is not fitted to be a financier. It is a trespass upon your time and goodness, but I cannot endure that you should give me up."
"Nor I, my child. You will never ask advice or assistance from me in vain. If your measures are ill-advised, I shall oppose them, and forward your interest by every means in my power."
"Thank you, sir. I was unjust to question this for an instant. You feared to weary me with particulars;—you have no other objection to my looking into them?"
"None, certainly."
She pored over the columns attentively, and her guardian felt his respect for her rising still higher, as the deep thoughtfulness which had its home in the eyes and brow, slowly covered the face. It was no common mind speaking there—it was competent to its work. A gleam of pleasure shot across her countenance, as she concluded the examination. Dipping a pen into the standish, she sketched rapidly a calculation upon a sheet of paper, and spread it before Mr. Dana.
"I registered a vow, years ago, that my maiden enterprise, when I should come into office, should be the establishment of a charity school. You have there an estimate of the amount needed to put it into operation—not guess-work, but the actual sums I will have to expend for teacher's salary, books and furniture, repair of the room, and a small remainder for contingent expenses. This knowledge I have gained by inquiry of those familiar with these things. I am confounded at the paltry total—I interpret that arch of the eyebrows," she continued, laughing, "but before you cast any obstacle in my way, listen—dear Mr. Dana! I have kept an 'expense-book' ever since I can recollect. During the first winter and spring of my going into society in Richmond, I spent more than that in dresses and ornaments—the two summers I passed with Carry, previous to her marriage, as much more,—for it was a fashionable country neighborhood, and in such, the passion for show and ostentation is not a whit less than in the city. The price I should pay for board elsewhere, will meet my personal expenses here; I have no near relatives for whom to economise, and there are scores of children, growing up around me, destitute of education, except that bestowed gratis by poverty and vice."
"I commend your resolution, my daughter,"—this was his phrase of greatest endearment—"but it is a weighty undertaking for a young person, and a woman. If commenced, it must be prosecuted vigorously, or it will do more harm than good. One session will hardly suffice for a beginning. This appropriation, which is a liberal deduction from your income, small as you deem it, is not for this year alone. Hitherto your affairs have prospered, but you may have reverses. A failure of crops, which not unfrequently happens to others, would embarrass you considerably."
"I would draw upon my invested funds."
"And if stocks fall, or a bank breaks?"
"And what is more probable than that all these misfortunes will crowd upon me at once, I may die!" said Ida, with persuasive gravity, "and when my Heavenly Master demands the reckoning of my stewardship, I shall render in the plea, 'Lo! here is Thy talent, hid in a napkin!' He has given me—if not riches—more than a competency for my wants. It may notbe worldly-wise, dear guardian, but it is Christian-like, to give of my present abundance, and trust that he will be as bountiful in time to come, as He has been until now."
"There's sense and religion in that!" commented Mr. Grant, admiringly.
"He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord," said Ida, smiling in her guardian's face. "What think you of the security, Mr. Dana?"
"That your faith shames my caution. Assuming that the plan is feasible and prudent in its main points, let us descend to the minutiæ—'Repairs of building'—where is the room?"
Ida pointed from the window to a house in the yard. "My father built it for an office—my mother used it as a lumber-room. The plastering has fallen, and the roof leaks, but Will tells me the plantation carpenter and bricklayer can put it in good order. They can make the desks and benches too."
"'Books'—this is the probable outlay, I suppose."
"It is computed from a list of prices, furnished by a book-seller."
"Now, last and most important—the teacher. Is it to be a girls' or a boys' school?"
"For girls, mainly; but small boys will be admitted. Large ones might be refractory to a lady."
"You will have an instructress, then? Where will she board?"
"Here. Shall I not have a spinster household?"
"With Miss Betsey to matronise you. You will be fastidious in your selection, as she is to be a member of your family. Your provident brain has not picked her out, surely?"
"You will laugh when I say that I have one in view; but I am hesitating as to the propriety of making her an offer. I have no false pride to prevent me from engaging in honest labor; but very sensible people, in other respects, are troubled with this weakness. Neither do I mean to term mine a 'charity school,' in consideration for pride of a more commendable kind, which the parents may have. The teacher will be my equal and companion. Without interfering with her government, I shall be as well known to the pupils as herself; if she is absent or sick, be her substitute; yet she may regard the situation astoo humble. Did you ever see a school-fellow of Carry's named Emma Glenn, a modest, sweet-looking girl?"
"Glenn! I cannot recall her. She is your choice?"
"Yes, sir. She is, like myself, an orphan. Anna Talbot awakened my sympathies for her, by relating how and where she saw her last summer. She is dependent upon her own exertions, and for two years has taught in the family of an uncle, for the miserable stipend—think of it, sir! of fifty dollars a year! for instructing six children, two of whom, sleep in her chamber; and her position is uncomfortable from various other causes. She was universally beloved at school; and her standing for scholarship, unquestionable. Can it be more humiliating to labor as my colleague, than the despised beneficiary of a niggardly relative?"
"I imagine not," he rejoined, smiling. "What is your notion, Mr. Grant, of this hair-brained young lady?"
"That we should all be better, and I am not sure, but wiser too, for some of her spirit;" he replied.
"I am not, I hope, thoughtlessly sanguine, Mr. Dana;" pursued Ida. "I expect discouragement and difficulties, for I know the class I have to deal with. It is no girl's ambition to play lady patroness that spurs me on in this task. The idea originated with my mother, and was a darling scheme of hers and mine; but was laid low with many other benevolent plans—laid by, I should say—for my prayer and aim are to prove myself worthy of my parentage. Few females at my age are placed in my circumstances; and I do not court notoriety or responsibility, although some will have it so. Constant, stirring exercise is as indispensable to my mind as body. Forgive me, dear sir; but I have been distressed by an occasional misgiving, that you thought me unfeminine, regardless of public opinion. I love my friends as dearly, truly as any one; I have no relish for masculine pursuits; I would have woman move in her God-appointed sphere;—but if He has endowed me with talents and opportunity for extending my usefulness, Ifearnot to improve them. Do you understand me?"
"My daughter! must I say, that next to my wife, you are nearer to me than any woman living? and I respect and honor, as much as I love you. Where is the mammet of fashion Iwould consult and trust as I do you? You are honestly striving with a purpose, and hoping for no plaudit but 'she hath done what she could.' How many mistake the limit of their 'could!' Go on as you have begun, and you will develope the highest type of female character. That I have not said this much before, is because I am a man of few words; and you appeared to shun open praise."
Mr. Grant, seeing they were forgetting him, had, with native delicacy, stepped without the door, upon pretext of speaking to a passing laborer.
Ida was moved even to tears, by her guardian's unqualified encomium, so feelingly uttered. The esteem of such a man was, of itself a reward for her conflicts with self and outward temptations. She had so much to be thankful for! she said over and over, that day. She was at home! at Sunnybank! the air was purer—the water clearer—the birds merrier, there than anywhere else; and there was abiding tranquillity in the thought that she might live and die under the roof-tree that sheltered her cradle; an enlargement of heart and kindliness as she beheld her dependents rejoicing in her restoration to them; looking to her for support and happiness. And that mother's grave was there! She sat there a long hour at even-tide. The willow leaflets were just putting out, and the swaying of the flexile boughs was slight and noiseless. There was a hush in the air—not a dead calm—but a solemn pause, as if Nature had folded her busy hands to return devout thanks for mercies past, and gather strength for future labor. Ida was no sickly dreamer now. She knew life, as it is—a day! only a day—divide and sub-divide as we may,—the morning hallowed by some with early prayer—squandered by more in trifling; the noon, waxing to its height over reeking brows and panting chests, and straining arms; the evening, relaxing the strung muscles, and curdling the bounding blood, and bringing to each his meed,—righteous recompense for his deeds, fair or foul; and the night—black-browed angel, saying to the vexed brain, "Thy work is ended!" spreading his hands over the swelling heart-wave, and it is still! bidding the harassed body—"Sleep on now and take your rest." She knew life, and that to the God-fearing toiler in His vineyard, there is no rest until night. He is not denied the inhalation ofthe odorous breeze, and a pause in the shade to wipe his heated brow; but he must not swerve from his furrow to seek it. Flowers, whose kindred blossom in Paradise, smile up from the unsightly clods, and these he may wear in his bosom, leaving unculled the poppies and almond-laurel which flaunt near by; content in knowing but this, what ishiswork, and bending, training every power to the strenuous endeavor to do it.
Mr. Dana stayed but three days; his family prolonged their visit into as many weeks; nor would Ida have resigned them then, had not Emma been daily expected; for the school was a fixed fact. Accompanied and guarded by the faithful Will, Ida had explored the woods, gullies and old fields for recruits. Her determined spirit bore her out, or she would have thrown up the project by the end of the first day. She chose what Will called the "toughest cases" for her freshest energies.
"The Digganses" lived in a rickety hut, in the exact centre of a common of broom straw, mowed down to stubble, for ten feet around the door—said area populated at Ida's visit, by five white-headed children, three hounds, and two terrier puppies, a full-grown grunter and a brood of little ones, and half a dozen meagre fowls. The hounds bayed; the terriers squeaked their shrill treble; the pigs squealed, and made for the high straw; the human animals scampered squallingly, into the house; while Ida's horse—to complete the hubbub—set up a frightened neigh, and would have run, but for Will's grip. Without waiting for Mrs. Diggans' "Light! won't you?" she sprang from the saddle. The hostess came to the door with a greasy, steaming kettle in one hand, and the flesh-fork in the other. She deposited them upon the ground, wiped her hands upon her begrimmed apron, and offered her right. Ida blessed the ignorance of Fashion's laws in these regions, which did not compel her to remove her gloves. The cabin did not belie the promise of the exterior. It was dingy and dirty, scented with bacon and cabbage, and an indescribable smell, as of a musty cupboard, converted into a sleeping-room. Yet these people were not disreputable, in the ordinary acceptation of the word. They had never been convicted of theft or drunkenness. Indolence and improvidence kept them down, for they were never "up." They were as well off now as when they married; if the children came fasterthan the bread, they begged or borrowed of their "lucky" neighbors.
"I'm mighty pleased to see you!" said Mrs. Diggans, dusting a wooden cricket with the convenient apron. "How much you've growed like your mother.GoodFathers! I never see two folks more alike. You've done come home to live, I've heern."
"I hope so, ma'am."
"You didn't like town-folks, I 'spose?"
"Yes, ma'am; I have some good friends there, but I think my place is here."
"Um-hum! well—you ain't married?"
"Oh! no, ma'am."
"But you're goin' to be, I reckon?" slyly.
"Not that I know of. But how are you getting on, Mrs. Diggans?"
"Ah, Miss Idy! in the same old way;—can't never make both ends jine, but somehow we lives and fattens."
"How many children have you?"
"Six—my biggest girl is out, visitin' her father's kin."
"Is it possible! I must be growing old. I recollect when you were married. You wore your wedding-dress the next Sunday, and I thought it was so fine."
"I wonder if you do?" said the flattered Mrs. Diggans. "Who'd a thought it?—and you so young! One of my children's named after you—Ide-e-e!" with a car-whistle termination. "Come here this minute! I liked it, 'cause 'twas a pretty name—sort o' high-soundin' you know—Ide-e-e-e!"
Ida had occular evidence of this new beauty of her cognomen.
"And your mother was allers mighty kind to me—ah! she was a lady—every inch of her!—Ide-e-e-e! if you don't come 'long, I'll spank you well!"
And "Idee" sneaked in, fist in her mouth, and scraped her bare toes in a frightfully flesh-crawling, provoking manner, while her namesake informed her of their relation to each other.
"How old are you, Ida?"
"Going on seven;" answered the mother.
"Can you read?"
"Bless your life, Miss Idy! I don't have time to teach them,nor their father neither. Mercy knows how they are to git any learnin'. Poor folks don't need much, but its morere-spectable to know how to read and write."
"But you can read, Mrs. Diggans."
"I used to could."
"You do not object to their being taught if you are not troubled about it?"
"No-o. I reckon not—but who's a goin' to do it? thar's the rub!"
"I will have it done."
"You! Miss Ida! oh-oh! teachin' poor folk's chillen ain't for the likes of you. We've scuffled along without edication, and so must they."
"Say you will send them, Mrs. Diggans, and I pledge you my word they shall be as carefully attended to, as if they were the richest in the land."
She explained her plan. Mrs. Diggans demurred.
"She couldn't spar Maria Julia, and Anne Marthy was too little to walk so far;—then their clothes warn't fitten. She was mighty obliged, jest as much as if she had a-sent' em."
"I amverysorry," said Ida. "I came here first, knowing your attachment to our family. I am really desirous you should oblige me. I amsodisappointed."
Mrs. Diggans relented. "If they had decent clothes, Miss Idy.—See them dirty rags!"
"Their clothing must be whole and clean, certainly. Promise they shall attend all the session, and I will give them a suit apiece."
"You're too good, Miss Idy—jest like your ma! We'll talk about it."
"I must have an answer now. My number is limited, as there will be but one teacher. How many shall I put down?" producing paper and pencil.
"Only two! but that is better than none. 'For the entire session,' Mrs. Diggans; I trust to your word."
"I keeps a promise when I makes it. Set 'em down."
"Hard customers, Mistis!" said Will, as they remounted.
"Rather, Uncle Will; yet I dread our next visit as much. Does Mr. Pinely drink now?"
"When he can get money or beg liquor. I feel mean, when he stops me in the road, to borrow a fourpence. 'Ah, Will!' he says, 'thriving and likely as when you drove your master's carriage after his bride—your late lamented mistis! You don't happen to have a fourpence in your pocket, my boy? Unfortunately, I'm out of change. Thank you, my fine fellow—I'll remember you my lad!' I can't deny him, Mistis. He knowed your father well, when they were both young men—a smart, handsome gentleman he was! and to think!"
"And to see!" thought Ida, as the house peeped through the trees, with unglazed windows, crumbling chimney, and sunken roof. It was presented to him by her father—a neat, comfortable cottage. His wife died of a broken heart; the children were saved from starvation and freezing, times without number, by her mother. How they subsisted now, was an impenetrable mystery; for the father never did a stroke of work, and loafed around the country, thrusting himself upon the hospitality of those with whom he had associated in former years, wearing his welcome—not threadbare, but into shreds, before he let go. In a beggar's garb, and soliciting alms from the slaves of his old companions, he retained the boastful swagger and ornate language which earned for him, in youth, the soubriquet of "Pompous Pinely."
The eldest daughter was sitting upon the door-step, dressed almost in tatters; her matted hair twisted up with a tinsel comb—a gift from her father, in a generously drunken fit; and the remnants of a pair of silk stockings hanging about a neatly turned foot and ankle. Her face was clean; and Ida could not but observe its beauty, as she blushed and smiled an embarrassed welcome.
"You have not forgotten me, Laura; but you have grown so, I scarcely knew you. Are you all well?"
"Except papa, who has a headache. Walk in."
"No, thank you. It is pleasant out here." She seated herself upon a block beside the door. "Where are the children?"
"Gone to look for strawberries."
"Isn't it too early for them?"
"I'm afraid so—but they wanted some so badly."
Ida suspected, from her stammering, that more substantial food would have been as acceptable.
"I came partly on business, Laura," she hastened to say, apprehending an irruption from the interior. "I am trying to get up a school in the neighborhood, to be taught at Sunnybank, by a friend of mine—"
"Miss Ross! do I in truth, have the felicity?" Ida groaned in spirit. "The softened image of my ever lamented friend!" continued the inebriate, whose headache was easily accounted for. Putting his hand to his heart, he heaved a profound sigh. "Ah! my dear young lady! may you have the inheritance of his transcendant virtues, as of his faultless physiognomy! Laura, my daughter—have you offered our guest refreshments?"
"Excuse me, sir! I have not time to partake of them. I was apologising to Laura for my first visit being a business call."
"She wants to open a school up at Sunnybank, papa.Dolet us go!" cried the girl, eagerly. His face wore a mask of extreme concern.
"It cannot be! the righteous Fates can never be so oblivious to unparalleled excellence as to ordain that you—the solitary scion of an aristocratic race, shall be reduced by unpropitious vicissitudes, to the necessity of maintaining yourself by the arduous employment of imparting instruction to the juvenile mind!"
"A friend is to be the instructress, sir. I shall exercise a general supervision."
"What a mountain you remove! I trembled at the supposition that you were precipitated upon the frozen charities of a mercenary world. Ah, my young friend! the most shameful part of human hypocrisy is the heartless repudiation of unmerited exigency!"
"May we go, papa?" persisted the daughter. "I so want to learn!"
"My beloved! wariness is indispensable in the adjudication of a measure vitally affecting your intellectual progress. Is your friend versed in classical lore, Miss Ross?"
This absurdity was almost a match for Ida's forbearance. "Her recommendations cannot be impeached, Mr. Pinely," she said, spiritedly.
"I solicit no further assurance, Miss Ross, than your approbation of her qualifications. You have my paternal sanction, my daughter. Moderate your transports, my love!" She had clapped her hands. "Pray assign her extravaganzas to the intensity of her admiration of your lovesome self, Miss Ross. I blush at the trivialness of the reference—but my income is not what it was, when your father and myself were twin-souls. The remorseless falchion of Time cleaves down rank and fortune in his flight. The remuneration,—Miss Ross! If the scanty pecuniary assistance I can render your fair friend will ameliorate her hardships, my 'bosom's lord will sit lightly on its throne!'"
Ida curtly told him, "no tuition fees were demanded."
"That materially alters the aspect of your proposition. My munificent lady! this is a flagrant spoliation of yourself!"
"I do not consider it as such, sir."
"Your enthusiastic philanthropy misleads you.Icannot be an accomplice to this generous fraud. My children remain in their own habitation unless your friend accepts compensation for her toils."
Laura looked ashamed and sorrowful, and Ida restrained her indignant contempt. "We will not differ about a trifle, Mr. Pinely. The terms and time of payment are subject to your discretion and convenience. I may enter your little ones—Laura included? There are three, besides yourself, Laura?"
"They are docile to the flower-wreathed wand of moral suasion, Miss Ross, but may betray obduration if sterner means are employed. Of corporeal punishment we will not speak; the rod would fall barbless, from the lily digits of gentle woman."
"You will come to school, Monday week;" Ida was saying to Laura: "but do not wait until then to pay me a visit. I must have a long talk with you. Good bye."
Tears stood in Laura's eyes. Already she regarded her benefactress with feelings bordering upon devotion. Ida, in her sober ride, turning over the degradation and misery whose alleviation seemed impracticable, had no suspicion of the leaven she had hidden in the heavy lump.
Anna Talbot's sketch of Emma's privations was not over-drawn. If her condition had been tolerable, an offer from Ida Ross, as she recollected her,—proud and unsociable,—would not have tempted her to change it. But Ida was honorable and liberal, despite her haughtiness; and in her uncle's family, she was an ill-paid under-servant. Ida sent her carriage and servants for her; and this regard for her comfort, while it called forth the contumely of her employers, raised her hopes of a friendly reception.
"There's my mistis in the porch," said Will, leaning down from his perch, to speak to his fair passenger. They were driving up an avenue, closed by a house, which, to Emma's modest eyes, was an imposing architectural pile. A haze dimmed her vision; in her agitation, she saw nothing of the awful figure Will pointed out, but the flutter of white drapery. The great yard-gates were open, and the carriage rolled over the gravelled circle which swept by the main entrance. She did not recognise the frank, sweet face that appeared at the carriage-door, but the voice was not to be forgotten. "I amveryglad you are come!" it said, and the kiss and the embrace verified the welcome. "How changed!" was the thought of each. Emma was thin, and when the glow of the meeting faded—dejected. She looked, to Ida, like one who had been subjected to a constant weight, bending body and heart, almost to breaking,—as if the one feather more would end the torture. And her own spirit, gaining buoyancy day by day, under its discipline, gathered force from the necessity of restoring the lost elasticity to another's. She conducted her school-fellow to a chamber, once hers, and adjoining that she now occupied; divested her of her heavy hat and shawl, and commanded her imperatively to "lie down." Emma reposed her weary limbs upon a luxurious mattress; the breeze waving the spotless curtains, and whispering of green hills, and cool forests and violet banks; her hostess, after vainly attemptingto persuade her that she required sleep—bathing her head with fragrant waters, and talking in inspiriting, affectionate tones, which were more than manna to her hungry heart. Mrs. Dana had gone the preceding day, and Emma was soon convinced that she had done a charitable—most meritorious deed, in arriving when she did; but she smiled, as she heard the lively voice dilate upon the "horrors" and "azure imps," that had infested the house while she was sole occupant—"always excepting my chaperon andsoi-disanthousekeeper, good Miss Betsey—soi-disantas I am, in point of fact, housekeeper myself. I have a great fancy to see to everything with my own eyes. We are retired here—I wrote this, you know—but there are some agreeable families within visiting distance. I am delighted at having a helper in the labor of receiving and returning visits; and my rides and walks will be doubly pleasant. Are you fond of out-door exercise?"
"Very—but I have neglected the duty for a year or two past."
"You shall not be so remiss here. I intend to be exacting. A gallop before breakfast, and a walk—not a promenade—before tea, will plant bright roses in these white cheeks. When you are rested, we will unlock our budget of news. Having been apart for so long, each will have a week's steady talk."
When she arose, revived in spirits and strength, she was taken over the premises "to see her home." Mr. Grant was introduced, and doffed his hat as to a queen; the negroes were respectfully cordial to the friend of their mistress; but more than all, Ida's bearing assured the trampled-down orphan, that she was here second to none—superior in command and importance to all, except the head of the establishment. It may have been the earnestness, which was the prevailing element of Ida's character, or her sympathetic nature, (Charley affirmed it was the latter,) which made it impossible for those who knew her, to be indifferent, or lukewarm in their sentiments towards her. Mr. Read, Josephine and Pemberton, having seen the wrong side of her disposition, hated her with a rancor, benefits nor patient efforts could appease. Her chosen intimates found no mate for their affection, but in their esteem and respect. Lynn's love for her was more like worship than that he entertained forEllen—adored as she was; with Carry, she had no compeer of her sex; the exceeding tenderness of John Dana and his wife was a mystery to themselves; and in Charley's heart she had the highest place—taking rank even of the brother, to whom he had sacrificed his hopes of earthly bliss. Emma experienced, and yielded to the charm; she could not have resisted successfully, if she would; for Ida was determined to attach her to herself, and her indomitable resolution would have accomplished this, had her attractive qualities been less winningly displayed. From the moment of her arrival, Emma improved, and as the beautiful tracery of her character came out, to reward the warm rays love poured over it, Ida was confirmed in her satisfaction at her choice. She had not entire confidence in her ability to control the restive spirits, which had run wild, without rule or rein; but this fear vanished with a careful observation of her government and its results. If the "wand" was "flower-wreathed," it was no supple or brittle reed, to bend or snap in the storm. None, who had once rebelled against her mild authority, were ever inclined to repeat the offence.
If, as had been asserted, Ida sought the Utopia of her fanciful dreams in her "return to Palestine," as she playfully styled it; if her ideas of country life were drawn from pastorals and romances, she would have sunk under the drawbacks and iron realities she encountered. Her influence over her servants was strong; but among so many, insubordination reared its head, now and then. The idle and sulky, deceived by her amenity and care for their welfare, appealed from Mr. Grant's decisions to her clemency; and with so much plausibility, that when this mode of undermining his laws was new, she was ready to sustain them. Consistent, however, to her principle of examining both sides of a question, she refused to reverse any decree, before hearing all the circumstances; and invariably, when this was done, ratified the original judgment. There were old and privileged supernumeraries who talked of her father's childhood, as a thing of yesterday; and volunteering the advantage of their experience for the benefit of the "poor chile,"—tossed their heads high at the idea of her controlling or enlightening them. Adding to self-righteousness, the whims and peevishnessof age, they caused Ida more annoyance than the management of the whole estate besides; and hardly less than the never-ending vexations of the Digganses, and their neighbors of the same stamp, not to mention Pinely—most wearisome of all. He penned voluminous epistles, to complain of "a trivial oversight in her otherwise irreproachable system of philanthropy," or to convey a "father's acknowledgments for the soul-elevating teachings of which his beloved offspring were accipients;" and when they were unnoticed, his visits were frequent. She received him with distant politeness; and strove to repress his forwardness by chilling dignity—and he came again next day. At last he presented himself in the parlor, where were Emma and herself—so intoxicated, that he could not stand upright. His tongue was oily as ever, notwithstanding his limbs refused to do their office; and when Will entered, in answer to the vehement ring, he was holding the door with both hands, swinging it with him in his attempts to bow to the ladies, he was addressing as, "incomparable pair! whose supereminent enchantments are confessed by the most hebete of created intelligences."
Emma had shrunk into a corner, and Ida, her hand still upon the bell-rope—her brow frowning—spoke in a lofty tone, "Uncle Will! you will conduct thisgentlemanto the porch, and as much further as he shall see convenient to go. It is necessary to teach him to exercise some discrimination as to the times of his visits."
For Laura, the girls were strongly interested. Her progress in her studies was incredibly rapid; and their wretched home, if comfortless, was clean. She had no means of providing wardrobes or furniture; and Ida, hailing the dawning reformation, contributed as delicately as she could, such articles as they needed most. Laura's taste was good; and her aptitude enabled her to catch the ways and language of her friends, with fidelity and quickness. In six months after Ida's business call, she would not have been ashamed to introduce her in any company, however polished. But how was this to end? Would it not be wiser benevolence to content themselves with bestowing the rudiments of a common education, without exciting aspirations after pursuits, so incongruous with the occupations of her lowlystation, as belles lettres, music and drawing? Ida put the objection down with an irreversible negative.
"The girl has a mind! and every intellect which God makes, should receive all the nutriment it can absorb. Let us give her her quantum, and in time she will reach her level. She is below it at present. If that odious father were out of her way!"
"He will be a drag to her as long as he lives;" said Emma.
"Yes, and alas! he is more fit to live than to die. You have read of the beggar idiot, who told Sir Walter Scott that he would be perfectly happy, but for the 'Bubly Jock,' (turkey gobbler,) that followed him everywhere. Pinely is my 'Bubly Jock,' I listen to hear him gobble whenever he comes near me."
"Laura has an uncommon talent for music;" said Emma.
"I have remarked it;" replied Ida, "and we have thought of the same thing, that her surest path to independence, and the position in society his vice has lost, is to qualify herself for a teacher. I waited to consult you before recommending it to her."
"And that delay was unnecessary. You can take my consent for granted in everything your judgment approves. Now, Laura has no motive but her love for knowledge and us. With a definite aim, she will surmount every difficulty, for her energy is as remarkable as her ability."
This was one of their twilight talks in the roomy porch.
"I believe," said Ida, laughing; "Miss Betsey fears the Ross pride is extinct in me. It costs her a twinge to see me teach my sable class, and she modestly hinted, this morning, that her chamber, or the dining-room would be a more proper place for their recitations, than mine. I represented to her that they were not there more than an hour in the day, and came in groups of three or four—one set retiring as another entered; and that they felt a pride in being neat and orderly, because they were in 'Mistis' room,'—but the dear old creature was not satisfied, although she held her peace."
"And you are the Ida Ross, whose pride kept the whole school at a distance!" exclaimed Emma. "How you were misunderstood!"
"Understood, my dear! if I appeared disagreeable and selfish. That was my dark age, Emma. How much has transpired since! how much of sorrow—how much of joy!"
"You are not unhappy now!" said Emma, in a tone of surprised inquiry.
"No, my love! happy and busy—and thankful for my Father's love and favors—not the least of which is His gift of a companion."
Carry had asked her a similar question during her first summer at Poplar grove—with what different emotions she had replied!
"But," she resumed, "the unbending will is not dead yet. Dr. Hall and lady called on me to-day, and I unfolded our prospectus of a Sabbath-school. The doctor pursed up his mouth in his quizzical way. 'The Church is four miles from you.'
"'But only three fromyou,' said I.
"'There is preaching there, on an average, two Sabbaths in a month. Will not that interfere with your instructions?'
"'Not at all, sir. We shall be through by the hour for public worship.'
'"But there will not be time to go to another church, where there is no service.'
"'Can't help it, sir. We must go home and read a sermon, seasoned by the consciousness of duty performed.'
"'You have a school-mania;' said he.
"'The grown trees are so stubbornly crooked, that I have no hope but in the twigs.'
"'A fair hit, doctor!' said Mrs. Hall. 'Submit with a good grace. He was wishing, the other day, for something to keep 'idle men' and children off of 'Satan's ground.' He is feigning objections, Ida.'
'"A bad game, doctor,' answered I. 'Wewillhave the school, and what is more,—you for superintendent.'
"He remonstrated now in earnest, but we out-talked him. He and Mr. Latham are to circulate the information, and solicit aid and scholars."
"Who says unmarried women can do nothing in the work of the world's reformation?" said Emma. "How many inyour situation, would be wrapped up in self, with a churlish delight that the claims of their fellow-creatures upon them were so feeble."
"A woman's heart, in its healthy state, must have something to love;" returned Ida. "The fountain is perennial, so long as its waters are drawn off. Stop their outgoings—stagnation—poisonous miasma—dryness ensue. The more we have to love, the better we feel—the better weare, Emma—for the closer is our approximation to the Being, who is all love!"
"This time, a year ago, I was disposed to think that in the economy of His Providence, crosses and trials were all His children's portion in this life. Sweetly has He rebuked my want of faith!" said Emma.
"Nota year ago," rejoined Ida, "His ways to me were past finding out. I wished to stay here in peaceful seclusion, and He sent me again into the world. The 'silver lining' of the cloud, impervious then, is already visible. Leaving out the experience I have acquired in that time, I should have commenced my residence here under a guardianship, which made interest and appearance the gauge of fidelity; should have missed Mr. Dana's invaluable assistance; have lost an opportunity to forget past grievances, and return good for evil—more than one, indeed. I had not heard then, that you were teaching, and should not, therefore, have thought of you as a co-laborer. Uncle Will would say we 'ought to be happy in the Lord's appointed way.'"
"There is no other path of peace," said Emma. "Yet I am foolishly ungrateful sometimes, in misinterpreting what He has done, and peering into the 'shadowy future.'"
"That was, formerly, my besetting sin. Now I have to guard against 'looking mournfully into the past.' What a world of meaning in those few words! And how like a trumpet-call to the 'world's field of battle,' sound the inspired exhortations of the same poet—