CHAPTER VI.
drop-cap
“Oneof us must certainly go to the picnic,” papa said; and he did not see why both could not go.
“Mrs. Whitcomb will have to leave us to-morrow,” mamma rejoined. “I do not believe I could spare you both. On the other hand, we do not desire to slight Mrs. Hyde’s kind invitation.”
“Let Fannie go then,” I exclaimed; “she and Stuart get along so nicely!”
“I am always ready,” said Fan. “But, at the same time, I do not feel as if I ought, in every case, to have the first choice and all the pleasures. I am willing to take my turn in staying at home.”
“But I would rather.”
“And Rose is used to the nursing now.”
“I thought Mrs. Whitcomb was going to helpus sew,” said Fan. “No one, save the baby, has anything to wear.”
“She has been so confined to the sick room, my dear! And Mr. Sprague sent word that he should come for her to-morrow.”
“When I get rich, I shall hire Mrs. Whitcomb by the year,” Fan announced. “She shall sew, and knit, and tend babies, and turn old dresses; and we will have a perpetual holiday.”
Mamma laughed at that.
“It is very nice to have invitations to select picnics,” Fanny began when we were up stairs. “But, since we arenotlilies of the field, it behooves us to ask, wherewith shall we be clothed? Nelly will have to take most of my last summer’s gowns. That sounds rather grand—doesn’t it? The wood-colored lawn I inherited from mamma, my tucked nainsook, and my pique. I can’t begin to squeeze into the waists; and tight-lacing is injurious, even if you should pursue it from the noble motive of economy. I don’t want to wear my new poplin and get it spoiled; and my cambric is faded. I am dying for a new white dress. O, dear, What a houseful there is to provide for, to be sure!”
“You do need the dress sadly. I wonder if we couldn’t get it?”
“We might ask papa for the collection money.”
“O, Fan, you irreverent girl!”
“Well, I am sure that is our only mode of living. It is a good one, but rather limited at times. But won’t there be a jolly rejoicing in the fall! Suppose we should have a new dress all round at the same instant! Would it ruin the parish?”
“Not if we earned it ourselves, surely.”
“As we shall—keeping a hotel.” And she laughed.
Mamma favored the new dress. Fan went down to the store that afternoon and bought it, and Dick Fairlie insisted upon driving her home in the phaeton, telling her again and again how glad he was that she would go to the picnic.
“Why, there would be no lack of girls, Dick,” she said, gayly.
“But they are not like you.”
“And Wachusett would be very stupid and monotonous if all its girls were alike, or all its mountains.”
“But I can talk to you; and some of them I can not get on with at all. I don’t like smart women.”
“O, Dick! I always supposed you liked me on account of my smartness. If I had one virtue above another, I thought it was that.”
Dick blushed to the roots of his hair.
“I did not mean just that, Miss Fanny,” he stammered. “But some of the academy girls have a way of laughing if you are not on your best behavior every moment. And I am a plain, old-fashioned fellow. I like Scotch ballads ever so much better than opera music, that I can’t understand a word of; but I do believe Kate would think it a disgrace to sing in anything but Italian. And woods and trees, and rambles through them, and talks with friends, seem like ballad-singing to me.”
“Now, Dick, that is a nice, pretty idea. You see you do have thoughts quite like other people. And the ballad-singing is delightful. I like it myself.”
“I wish you would keep on down to the pines,” said, Dick wistfully. “It is just a pleasant drive. I have to go for Kate at six; and here I have an hour on my hands.”
“I cannot to-day, though I’m much obliged, Dick,” with a pause and a questioning glance.
“Well.”
“I would like to ask a favor.”
“Anything. I’d be glad to do it for you.”
“Jennie Ryder is just getting over her fever, you know. I was down there yesterday, and she was wishing I owned a carriage—which I never shall. But if you could, andwould, take her out, it would give me as much pleasure as going myself.”
“I will,” returned Dick, with alacrity.
Fan told mamma and me.
“Though I suppose Kate would fancy her phaeton contaminated, if she knew it,” Fan added, with a laugh. “But Dick is bright enough not to say much about it; and I hope Jennie will have a splendid ride. She is just as nice as anybody, even if she does sew for a living. And I wish Dick would take a good honest liking to her.”
“Fan!” said mamma, gravely.
“Which means that I am too young, or too something else, to be thinking of love matters. But theydointerest me, mammamia, and I have a longing to add this one and that one together, and have a sum total of happiness. And then, little mother, you were only seventeen yourself when you promised to love, honor,&c., as Mrs. Brown says; and I shall be seventeen myself at Christmas. And think what an ancient spinster Rose is getting to be!”
Mamma smiled a little, and examined her dress.
“It was thirty-five cents a yard. They had a lovely one for fifty; and I looked at it until the flesh began to grow weak; then I fortified myself by counting my money. And now comes the tug of war to get it made.”
“We will all help a little,” returned mamma.
There was a general outcry the next morning when Mrs. Whitcomb went away. Everybody besieged her to set a day for her return.
“I’ll save out a fortnight for you in September, if I possibly can,” she said, with her sweetest smile. “I hope no one will be sick then, and we will have a good, old-fashioned visiting time. Take the best care you can of my patient, Rose.”
I gathered some fresh flowers and carried them up first of all. Louis nodded his head in thanks.
“I am so sorry Mrs. Whitcomb had to go!” I said, by way of making conversation.
“I liked her so much! Do you know—whether any one has written to Stephen?”
“Papa did. He waited until you were out of danger, since he could not send for him.”
“I suppose he would not have cared much either way;” and the thin lip curled.
“Pardon me. I think he has a great deal of love for you. He was so considerate of your comfort and health when he was here!”
“Seemed to be, you mean. When you have learned more of the world, Miss Rose, you will know that there is a good share of glitter that is not gold. He and Stuart would have had ever so much more money.”
“You wrong them both. You are unjust to them.”
“O,” he said, rather sneeringly, “you girls can get up quite a sentiment for each other; but boys take a thing for what it is worth. Neither of them loves me; and I can’t say there is much love lost between us.”
“I wish you felt differently about them. And you have just been so ill, too!”
“I told him that I wouldn’t go nor stay with Stuart. He torments my very life out. I begged him to send me somewhere else. And no, he would not. He treats me as if I were about ten years old, and did not know what was bestfor myself. He cannot think that I am almost as much of a man as he is!”
He uttered this in a rapid breath, and then gasped from exhaustion.
“Don’t excite yourself so,” I pleaded. “If you could have heard Stephen talk of you when he was here! He begged us to make it as pleasant and take as much interest in you as we could.”
“You have been very kind. I do not want to be ungrateful; but he doesn’t care for me in that way. He thwarts every plan, he refuses every wish, and did not even want me to try for college. He would like to keep me a little boy at school half my life, I do believe.”
I went around pretending to tidy the room a bit; but Mrs. Whitcomb had left it as neat as a pin. I could not bear to have him talk this way against Stephen. Then I espied a book, and asked if I should read to him.
“If you will,” was the rather indifferent answer.
But he was soon quite interested. He turned towards me, and his eyes grew eager, and over his whole face came a peaceful light. It seemed then as if there was quite a resemblance betweenhim and the elder brother, for I remembered that Stephen had a stern way of shutting his mouth. Louis’s eyes were dark, and that gave him a more desperate look when he was angry.
He was very full of whims and wants, but a while after dinner concluded he would take a nap. As baby Edith had gone to peaceful slumbers, and Nelly sat in the nursery, mamma had taken this opportunity to begin cutting Fan’s dress. So I joined the conclave, and helped discuss the momentous question.
Mamma was a born genius. I don’t know which gift or grace was the strongest. I think she must have had a very evenly-balanced head. And yet she used to tell us how really helpless she was at her marriage. She had lived with a great-aunt, who was a whimsical invalid, and did nothing but go to school, and read to, or amuse, her. Still, I suppose, she learned those grand lessons of sweetness and patience which helped so much in her after-life. And when she had to do, she went to work bravely. She could cook equal to anybody in the parish; she could make dresses and bonnets; and when you came to the altering, she was superb. That was why I calledher a born genius. Then she had kept up with her music to some extent, and painted a little in water colors. Three of papa’s birthday gifts had been pictures of her painting; and some of the daintiest fruit-pieces in our dining-room were done by her in colored crayons on a tinted background. No wonder we were proud of her.
Now we talked about overskirt and underskirt, basque, and ruffles, and bands, and trimmings of various kinds.
“It is quite a fearful undertaking,” said Fan, with a sigh. “If I had a little more courage, I’d make it perfectly plain; but, then, when I went out and saw other people all furbelows and frills, I am afraid I should be dissatisfied. And no one would believe it was a new dress.”
“It is better to take a little more trouble and be satisfied. But I would not have any ruffles—they are so difficult to iron.”
“Not even one on the skirt?”
“No. I should cut a bias piece in points, and bind them; or you could have two narrow ones.”
“And I will bind them, as you cannot do that on the machine very well,” I said.
“You are a good girl, Rose of the World.—Mamma, I think I’ll have a polonaise.”
“A sensible conclusion. It will make a nice outside garment for all summer.”
“And I will just point the sleeves and the skirt. There is cheap trimming for you. Give me credit for another bright idea. And a bias-band pointed on both sides for the underskirt. So there is the whole garment provided for. Then I shall have another errand to the store, to get some pique braid;” and Fan gave a droll little smile.
Mamma began to cut. Fan opened the machine, and sewed the skirt breadths together. The trimming was measured, and she shaped the points to her fancy. Then mamma fitted the waist with fingers as deft as anymodiste.
“Mamma, if you were reduced to absolute penury, you could set up dress-making,” Fanny said.
“I have found it very useful without the absolute penury,” returned mamma, with a wise smile. “When one has seven girls, a good many dresses are needed.”
“Are you sorry there are so many of us?”
“I do not know which one I would like to give up,” was the grave reply.
“It would be like the Irishman with his flock—wouldn’tit? Every one of us has some special gift or grace. Mine is simply a grace—winning ways and curly hair. O, there’s Miss Churchill, and this hall all in a litter!”
The hall was so wide and airy that we used to sit there and sew in the summer. Mamma was cutting on the table; so she just gathered the pieces together, and pushed out papa’s chintz-covered arm-chair. I sat by the window, crocheting some tiny garments for baby Edith. Fan opened the hall door wide before Miss Churchill could ring to announce herself. Mamma shook hands with her cordially.
The Churchills were some of the old families in the town. Oddly enough, they had never intermarried with their neighbors, but kept to themselves, and were considered rather haughty and exclusive. They lived over on the west side, which was the aristocratic part of the town, there being no mills or factories near.
Miss Esther Churchill, our visitor, was a tall, elegant woman of perhaps forty-five. Mr. Kenton Churchill, the head of the family, was about ten years older. Next to him came Mrs. Ogden, who had lived abroad a great deal, and was now a widow, but wealthy, with one sonand one daughter. Then there was Miss Lucy, much younger, an invalid, injured quite early in life by being thrown from a horse. They were refined and particularly nice people, with those little formal ways that always kept us in awe. Their house was very handsome, and it seemed as if they must have everything that heart could wish for. They always paid for two of the best pews in church, one of which they used, while the other was considered free. Then Mr. Churchill subscribed liberally to nearly every charitable object; but, somehow, they never mixed much with the congregation; yet they were always spoken of in the highest terms. Papa and mamma were always invited over to tea once a year, and they called occasionally. Miss Esther had made a state call upon baby Edith, bringing her a handsome cap and cloak. Mamma had not returned that; so we were a little surprised, and, to use a provincialism, “put about,” for an instant. But mamma has such a wonderful grace and self-possession that there was no awkwardness.
“How do you do, young ladies? Quite busy, I see;” and she shook hands with both. “How cosy and summery you look here. Why, it is quite like a picture!”
The broad hall was covered with matting. There was a large, old-fashioned hat-stand on one side, very much like the beautiful new ones coming into fashion. It had quite a large glass, and drawers under it, with branching arms out both sides. On either side of it was a quaint, high-backed chair. They might have come over in the Mayflower, but I don’t suppose they did. A tall vase of ivy stood on the floor, the green branches climbing over some picture-frames; and there were several brackets hanging about, holding vases of flowers, besides a luxuriant fernery, that had received contributions from all of us. The hall door opened on one side, while the stairs went up on the other, and in this sort of shut-off corner was our work-room.
“Yes, it is quite like a picture,” she went on. “It seems to me that a hall should be the largest and most beautiful part of the house, and that the family ought to be gathered there. I like the old-fashioned descriptions of people dining in their hall, or giving audience.”
“And we add sewing on to that,” said Fan, with a little laugh. “Instead of Carrara marble, we have multiplication tables.”
“We have been somewhat straitened for roomlatterly,” mamma explained; “for, when baby is asleep we like to keep it quiet in the nursery; and papa’s study is the one spot that we never invade with sewing.”
“It is like keeping one grand lady in the house,” Fan added, in her bright way. “And it gives one a feeling of the utmost respectability.”
Miss Churchill smiled at that. She would always be a handsome woman, though I don’t imagine any one had ever called her a pretty girl; she was too large and grand. Her forehead was broad, her hair smooth as satin, a peculiar unglossy brown, and it always gave me the idea of a rich lustreless silk. Her eyes were very nearly of the same shade; her chin broad and firm, and her teeth wonderfully white, strong and even. Then she had a rather pale but perfect complexion.
“What a quaint child you are!” and she seated herself gracefully in the arm-chair, “Mrs. Endicott, you might be some historical personage with her maids of honor about her. That is whatmythought is like. And youdolook so sociable! I have been calling on the Maynards; and you would be surprised at theamount of thinking I have done between there and here. My seeing you has just put it into shape. Or, I suppose, it started with something that Lucy said as I was coming out.”
“How is Lucy?!” asked mamma.
“Rather poorly. And then she has been a good deal disappointed. We were expecting Mrs. Ogden and Helen; and Lucy counts so much on that every summer! But the Fates have overruled. They go to Newport for the whole season. Word came three days ago. I have hardly known how to entertain Lucy since.”
“Does she not go out?”
“Only for about half an hour; her back is so weak that it fatigues her.”
“Yet I should not think she would ever get tired of reading and looking at your beautiful pictures, and all the rest. There is so much, that by the time I reached the end, the first part would be new to me again,” Fan said.
“You think that, because you can have a constant variety. And sixteen carries with it a glamour which fades afterwards. Do you not find it so, Mrs. Endicott?”
Mamma blushed and looked puzzled.
“We have another sight at youth through our children’s eyes,” she answered, softly.
“I do believe it is true. That is why you keep your youth and freshness through all the—”
“Hard work and worries,” appended mamma, with a smile.
“I did not like to say quite that. The people of now-a-days seldom approve of such wholesome confessions.”
“But it is our business to set a good example, and not to be ashamed of the duties of that state of life unto which it pleases God to call us,” mamma returned.
“We get out of that safe fold sometimes, I am afraid; or, perhaps, we contract the ‘state,’ make it narrower than God meant it should be.”
What had happened to Miss Churchill? I glanced at her in shy amaze. She was gracious, elegant, and formal on most of the occasions when I had met her.
“Yes; we are rather prone to put up fences. And we never know how much pleasure we shut out along with the persons.”
“That is like my thought, too. I was going to tell you of my call at the Maynards. First, though, I must acknowledge that I was feelinga trifle down-hearted on Lucy’s account. I have my house-keeping, and gardening, and driving out with brother, and rarely get lonesome. But Lucy stays so much in her room, and Kenton is so fond of being in his study, that we may be said to lead almost separate lives. I was thinking it over as I came along. The servant ushered me into the shaded drawing-room, where the atmosphere was close and sultry with the odor of flowers. Then Mrs. Maynard sent for me to come to her room, where she was taking comfort in a dressing-sacque. She bewailed the loneliness and stupidity of the place, and thought of going to Saratoga. Then Etta Silverthorne called me into her room. She was lying on the bed reading a novel, and had the same story to tell. I asked for the young ladies, and found that Josephine wanted to see me particularly about a list of books. Would I come to her? Emily was copying one of Lucy’s paintings, and I must journey to her studio up-stairs. Then I had to make a call on grandmother, who was very lonesome, and glad to have a little talk with some one. The girls were so busy they could only run in a moment at a time; Mrs. Silverthorne was so fond of reading thatshe could not bear to be disturbed, and she hated to read aloud; Mrs. Maynard had the care of the house, of course. ‘And so I sit here alone pretty nearly all the time,’ said poor old grandmother.”
“And she is such a nice, enjoyable old lady, too!” mamma remarked.
“There were five women, capable of interesting and amusing each other, all longing for society. Why did it not occur to them that they might have a sociable at home? I came directly here, and saw three little girls having a tea-party under a tree, and three here, looking bright and animated. You don’t wonder now that I was taken with the picture!”
“An interior. Still life, after—” mamma said, quaintly, as if she were reading a title.
“And we were not so very still either,” added Fanny. “We were taxing our inventive faculties in the dress-making line. We wanted something pretty with a little work and a little money. A new dress is a great event in our lives. We generally step into each other’s, have them taken up a trifle on the shoulders, and the skirts shortened. But I have had the misfortune to outgrow Rose; so the family exchequer has to be squeezed now and then.”
I was amazed at her daring to say so much to Miss Churchill. However, she laughed in such a pretty, whole-hearted way that I had no further misgiving.
“Seven girls! Is that the number? How do you ever get the dress-making done? It is the staple grievance of nearly every one I know.”
“We do not have many dresses,” said irrepressible Fan; “and our pattern being small, the puffs and rufflings have to be dispensed with. So we are saved the trouble of deciding between biassed tucking up and down the gores, and of fluted bobbinet insertion box-plaited beyond the equator, that drove the man crazy when he tried to carry his wife’s message to the dress maker.”
“I should think it would.” And this time Miss Churchill laughed heartily. “How fortunate you are to be able to do your own! though I think every woman ought to have some knowledge of it.”
“Every woman ought to know enough of something to support herself by it, if the necessity comes.”
“Yes. And do you know, now that there is so much talk of independence, I am afraid many of our girls are making a sad mistake? They areall trying to rush into the very front ranks, whether they are geniuses or not; and some of them will be crowded out. There will be no nice home girls left. But perhaps these young ladies have a vocation?” and she glanced up with a charming, lady-like hesitation.
“Rose will be a home girl, Miss Churchill. The credit of our family will be saved. But I can’t decide whether I have a great deal of genius, and could do anything, or whether my range is so limited that the right thing would be difficult to find. I could not write a book, or lecture, or edit a newspaper. I might paint a second-rate picture, or, possibly, teach school; but I should not like the last.”
“Fanny!” said mamma in mild reproof.
“I know what she would be excellently fitted for,” replied Miss Churchill, quickly. “And that emboldens me to offer my plea, or, rather, my sister’s. But how thoughtless I am! Mrs. Endicott, I did not hear of your added burden and anxiety until a few days ago. I am sincerely sorry that you should have had so much trouble outside of your own family, as the serious illness of this young Duncan.”
“Yes, it has been rather unfortunate; but weare through the worst, I hope. Mr. Endicott is guardian for these boys.”
“He is extremely kind and conscientious, I am sure. But I can hardly understand how you manage, with all the rest of your work. There comes Kenton and the carriage, and I feel as if I had not made half a call.”
“I am sure you need not hurry,” exclaimed mamma, who had warmed wonderfully towards our visitor. “And you had something to ask—for your sister.”
“O, I am positively ashamed to. I ought to help instead of hindering.”
“Ask it, nevertheless,” said mamma.
“I told Lucy that I was going to call here; and, as I said, she was feeling quite dispirited and lonesome. ‘Give them all my kindest regards,’ she said, ‘and ask Mrs. Endicott if she cannot spare one of the girls to spend the day with me. I’d like to have the one who talks a good deal.’ Is it a compliment to you, Miss Fanny?”
Fan blushed scarlet.
“I was thinking, a few moments ago, that you, with your bright spirits, would be invaluable to invalids. But I suppose you can hardlyspare her out of your sick room.” And she glanced at mamma.
“O, Miss Churchill, you rate me too highly,” returned Fanny. “Rose is a charming and sensible nurse. I never try nursing.”
“Mrs. Whitcomb has been staying with us, and our sick room has had to be kept very quiet,” said mamma. “Fanny would do better where society is needed.”
“And that is just Lucy’s case. Now, Miss Fanny, if your mammacanspare you, I will sew on your dress, or do anything to help make up the time.”
“If it would really be any pleasure, I can readily consent to her going,” mamma responded.
“It would, indeed. I do not think I realized how busy you all must be, or I should not have had the courage to prefer my request. And I hope you will not consider that I have taken a liberty in bringing a few articles for your patient.”
With that she rose, and went down the path to her brother, who handed a snowy basket out to her.
“I ventured to put in a few fine summer pears besides: those are for the children. Andnow, Mrs. Endicott, what day will your daughter be most at liberty? Are you quite sure that I am not asking too much?”
“We shall be very glad to grant what you desire,” was the sweet reply. “Our days are pretty much alike.”
“Would to-morrow be too soon? And bring your dress, for I can sew beautifully on a machine, and I fancy I have some skill in that art. I have had such a pleasant call that I hate to go. Miss Rose, come over any time; we shall be glad to see you. My kindest regards to Mr. Endicott. Is there anything that I can do for you?”
“Not just now. Thank you most kindly.” And mamma walked with her to the gate.
“Don’t they look lovely together!” exclaimed Fan. “Mamma is as much of a lady as Miss Churchill.”