Congreve Hall, Staunton, Virginia,November, 29th, 18—."Dear precious Mama and Sisters:"I promised to write you a long letter, and tell you all about Congreve Hall, as soon as I had seen everything about it, and felt well enough acquainted to tell it well. It is so beautiful and big that I hardly know how to begin; I do wish the girls could see it, especially Ernestine; she likes splendid, grand things so much."We came out of Staunton, which is a lovely city, in a beautiful carriage, which was waiting for us at the train. It was a lovely day, and the sunshine was so warm that Uncle Ridley had the top all put back, so that I could see everything. The road was so wide and very smooth that the carriage just rolled along like we were on a floor, and the horses were such splendid big black ones, with harness all covered with shiny things, and they acted as if they were as proud as could be. The driver was dressed beautifully, nicer than the gentlemen dress at home for every day, and when I got into the carriage he lifted his tall hat, and called me 'Miss Dering.' It sounded so funny I pretty nearly laughed; but Uncle Ridley looked as if it was all right, so I thought perhaps I had better not."Pretty soon we began to go up hill, and I thought we must have come very far because the horses went so fast; but we had only come half-way. The leaves had not fallen then, and the mountains reaching up so high, way ahead of us, did look like some beautiful pictures that we used to see when papa took us to the city with him. After awhile we came to a big gate, oh, so tall, and such high posts, withfigures on top of them, holding big lamps with ever so many globes, and Uncle Ridley says some night, he will light them, so I can see how bright it makes it all around, and way down the road. We went through, and then the road began to wind around, and it was perfectly lovely; we went up and up, under the grandest trees, and after a little ways, there began to be statuary sitting around under them, and beautiful seats made like the limbs of trees, all twisted together. I saw a flight of stone steps, and they came up the hill from another gate, for people that walk, and they look as white as snow in the green grass. All of a sudden we turned around a big curve, and I just screamed right out; I was so surprised, and Uncle Ridley said that was Congreve Hall. Why, mama, it is big enough to be a hotel in the city, and ever so many people could go in the front door all at once, it is so wide, and such lovely marble steps go up to it. There are two big towers, and two funny little squatty ones, with a big stone railing around the top, and there are porches, terraces Uncle Ridley says they call them, all of stone. They go pretty near around the house, and then end in steps, broad ones, that make a big curve and come down to the ground. I think that's a mighty funny way to build them. The house is such a pretty grey color, and some places there is moss growing all over the sides, and there are ever so many vines too, that Uncle Ridley says would hold me up, they are so old and strong. Inside everything is so big and grand and dark, that I was afraid at first, and never went around anywhere unless uncle went with me; but I'm getting more used to it now, and like to hunt around, in the big rooms, and walk around in the splendid halls. My rooms, I have four you know, are all furnished so sweet in blue and white, with thedearest little easy chairs and sofas, and the cunningest little bed, with an angel on top holding the pretty curtains that come down all around. I just thought at first that I would want to stay in bed all the time. My maid has a little room just off my bath room, and she is such a funny girl. She combs my hair and dresses me, and all that, and talks all the time just like a monkey. Her name is Bettine, and she always calls me Miss Jean. My governess, Miss Serle, is such a dear, kind lady, and I'm going to study awful hard, so as to know lots and make you happy, dear mama, when I come home. Uncle Ridley is just the dearest, nicest, kindest uncle that ever lived, I'm sure. He is so good to me, and I love him like everything. Sometimes he tells me about Mabel, and then he takes out his big red handkerchief and cries; and I'm almost glad I'm lame so I can look like her, and make him happier. Mabel Congreve must have been a very sweet little girl, and very pretty; there are pictures of her all over the house, but the one in the library is the prettiest. She is all dressed in white, with such lovely yellow curls, and sitting in the very little blue velvet chair that I ride around in now. Uncle Ridley always sits in there, and I do believe he talks to her. I have all of her things, except her pony; he died, and mine is a new white one; such a darling, and I go to ride every pleasant day in her little buggy, with beautiful soft cushions and silk curtains. Her chair is on wheels, and I can ride all over the house by myself, or have Bettine draw me, whichever I want. All of her things are just as nice as new, because Uncle Ridley has been so careful of them. Yesterday he brought me her crutch, and said he wanted me to use it. It is such a shiny, beautiful black wood, with a silver rim and pad on thebottom, so it don't make any noise, and a soft top covered with blue velvet."I always take my breakfast in my room, because Uncle Ridley does not get up until so late, and it would be very dreary in the big dining-room for me. After breakfast I take a ride either in the house or out, then play awhile, or do as I please until ten; then Miss Serle comes to my room, and my lessons last until twelve. Dinner is gloomy. There is a servant stands behind Uncle Ridley, and he is so tall and solemn looking in his white vest and necktie, that I don't feel comfortable at all. After dinner I play or ride until two o'clock, then I have my lessons and my music 'till four, and after that Miss Serle almost always reads to me awhile. I practice from five o'clock for a half an hour, then play 'till eight o'clock, and that is time for me to go to bed. Some days Uncle Ridley takes me into Staunton with him."I believe I have told you everything now that you asked me about, and I've tried hard to write a nice letter, because you were always so particular about it, I've looked in the dictionary for all the words I wasn't sure of, and I hope you will not find many mistakes. Do please, dear mama and girls, write me long, long letters, because I get so lonesome and homesick for you all. Every night when I say my prayers and ask God to take care of you all, I can hardly keep from crying, and sometimes I do, and then Bettine looks so sorry and most like she wanted to cry too."The doctor that Uncle Ridley wants to have me see first, is very sick, you know I told you, but he is getting better, and perhaps I will not have to wait so long. Oh, my dear mama, I know you ask God to let me grow straight, but please askHim a very great many times, so that He will be quite sure to hear. I do."I am going into Staunton with Uncle Ridley to put this in the office myself, so you will know it came right from me with a kiss on it."Good-bye, my dear, darling mama and sisters,"Your own"JEANIE."
Congreve Hall, Staunton, Virginia,November, 29th, 18—.
"Dear precious Mama and Sisters:
"I promised to write you a long letter, and tell you all about Congreve Hall, as soon as I had seen everything about it, and felt well enough acquainted to tell it well. It is so beautiful and big that I hardly know how to begin; I do wish the girls could see it, especially Ernestine; she likes splendid, grand things so much.
"We came out of Staunton, which is a lovely city, in a beautiful carriage, which was waiting for us at the train. It was a lovely day, and the sunshine was so warm that Uncle Ridley had the top all put back, so that I could see everything. The road was so wide and very smooth that the carriage just rolled along like we were on a floor, and the horses were such splendid big black ones, with harness all covered with shiny things, and they acted as if they were as proud as could be. The driver was dressed beautifully, nicer than the gentlemen dress at home for every day, and when I got into the carriage he lifted his tall hat, and called me 'Miss Dering.' It sounded so funny I pretty nearly laughed; but Uncle Ridley looked as if it was all right, so I thought perhaps I had better not.
"Pretty soon we began to go up hill, and I thought we must have come very far because the horses went so fast; but we had only come half-way. The leaves had not fallen then, and the mountains reaching up so high, way ahead of us, did look like some beautiful pictures that we used to see when papa took us to the city with him. After awhile we came to a big gate, oh, so tall, and such high posts, withfigures on top of them, holding big lamps with ever so many globes, and Uncle Ridley says some night, he will light them, so I can see how bright it makes it all around, and way down the road. We went through, and then the road began to wind around, and it was perfectly lovely; we went up and up, under the grandest trees, and after a little ways, there began to be statuary sitting around under them, and beautiful seats made like the limbs of trees, all twisted together. I saw a flight of stone steps, and they came up the hill from another gate, for people that walk, and they look as white as snow in the green grass. All of a sudden we turned around a big curve, and I just screamed right out; I was so surprised, and Uncle Ridley said that was Congreve Hall. Why, mama, it is big enough to be a hotel in the city, and ever so many people could go in the front door all at once, it is so wide, and such lovely marble steps go up to it. There are two big towers, and two funny little squatty ones, with a big stone railing around the top, and there are porches, terraces Uncle Ridley says they call them, all of stone. They go pretty near around the house, and then end in steps, broad ones, that make a big curve and come down to the ground. I think that's a mighty funny way to build them. The house is such a pretty grey color, and some places there is moss growing all over the sides, and there are ever so many vines too, that Uncle Ridley says would hold me up, they are so old and strong. Inside everything is so big and grand and dark, that I was afraid at first, and never went around anywhere unless uncle went with me; but I'm getting more used to it now, and like to hunt around, in the big rooms, and walk around in the splendid halls. My rooms, I have four you know, are all furnished so sweet in blue and white, with thedearest little easy chairs and sofas, and the cunningest little bed, with an angel on top holding the pretty curtains that come down all around. I just thought at first that I would want to stay in bed all the time. My maid has a little room just off my bath room, and she is such a funny girl. She combs my hair and dresses me, and all that, and talks all the time just like a monkey. Her name is Bettine, and she always calls me Miss Jean. My governess, Miss Serle, is such a dear, kind lady, and I'm going to study awful hard, so as to know lots and make you happy, dear mama, when I come home. Uncle Ridley is just the dearest, nicest, kindest uncle that ever lived, I'm sure. He is so good to me, and I love him like everything. Sometimes he tells me about Mabel, and then he takes out his big red handkerchief and cries; and I'm almost glad I'm lame so I can look like her, and make him happier. Mabel Congreve must have been a very sweet little girl, and very pretty; there are pictures of her all over the house, but the one in the library is the prettiest. She is all dressed in white, with such lovely yellow curls, and sitting in the very little blue velvet chair that I ride around in now. Uncle Ridley always sits in there, and I do believe he talks to her. I have all of her things, except her pony; he died, and mine is a new white one; such a darling, and I go to ride every pleasant day in her little buggy, with beautiful soft cushions and silk curtains. Her chair is on wheels, and I can ride all over the house by myself, or have Bettine draw me, whichever I want. All of her things are just as nice as new, because Uncle Ridley has been so careful of them. Yesterday he brought me her crutch, and said he wanted me to use it. It is such a shiny, beautiful black wood, with a silver rim and pad on thebottom, so it don't make any noise, and a soft top covered with blue velvet.
"I always take my breakfast in my room, because Uncle Ridley does not get up until so late, and it would be very dreary in the big dining-room for me. After breakfast I take a ride either in the house or out, then play awhile, or do as I please until ten; then Miss Serle comes to my room, and my lessons last until twelve. Dinner is gloomy. There is a servant stands behind Uncle Ridley, and he is so tall and solemn looking in his white vest and necktie, that I don't feel comfortable at all. After dinner I play or ride until two o'clock, then I have my lessons and my music 'till four, and after that Miss Serle almost always reads to me awhile. I practice from five o'clock for a half an hour, then play 'till eight o'clock, and that is time for me to go to bed. Some days Uncle Ridley takes me into Staunton with him.
"I believe I have told you everything now that you asked me about, and I've tried hard to write a nice letter, because you were always so particular about it, I've looked in the dictionary for all the words I wasn't sure of, and I hope you will not find many mistakes. Do please, dear mama and girls, write me long, long letters, because I get so lonesome and homesick for you all. Every night when I say my prayers and ask God to take care of you all, I can hardly keep from crying, and sometimes I do, and then Bettine looks so sorry and most like she wanted to cry too.
"The doctor that Uncle Ridley wants to have me see first, is very sick, you know I told you, but he is getting better, and perhaps I will not have to wait so long. Oh, my dear mama, I know you ask God to let me grow straight, but please askHim a very great many times, so that He will be quite sure to hear. I do.
"I am going into Staunton with Uncle Ridley to put this in the office myself, so you will know it came right from me with a kiss on it.
"Good-bye, my dear, darling mama and sisters,
"Your own
"JEANIE."
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Mr. Danehad closed his office at four o'clock. Nobody cared why he did so, and when he informed his book-keeper that she could go home, she never stopped to wonder why, but wiped her pens, straightened her desk, got into her wrappings and went, with her mind fixed on a certain picture that needed much that these two vacation hours could give.
It was snowing very hard, great blinding flakes that came whirling defiantly into your eyes, nose, and mouth; almost preventing a necessary amount of sight and breath: and they had collected to such depth, that walking was a matter of much labor, and only a few plucky pedestrians were out to enliven the quiet shrouded streets. Olive plunged rapidly along with her head down and seemed more engrossed with her own thoughts, than with any contemplation of the weather, for she whisked the impudentflakes aside and seemed to be looking down at something that was neither of earth, earthy, or of snow, snowy, but quite beyond the realm of either. She was scowling much the same as usual only in something of a puzzled way, that had less of the impatient dissatisfied tinge to it than was customary. In fact she was thinking of that last talk she had had with her mother, before Mr. Congreve went back to Virginia, when she had resolved in a vague hasty way, that she was going to do differently; and really, how little good, or change, had come from the resolution. She didn't think, to begin with, that she was any worse than the rest, or that she needed changing any more, but rather any thing, than be like Mr. Congreve! So she summed up all she knew of him, resolved on what was disagreeable, and began to model herself accordingly. So to begin with she was no longer so hasty or bitter, in speech I mean, for her inner-self was not touched, she only kept it all to herself now, instead of speaking it out as formerly, but if she thought herself changed there, she was the only one deceived, for our inner minds do not always require the aid of language to photograph themselves before the world. Next, instead of staying with the girls out of store hours, and running the risk of losing her temper, she held herself sternly aloof, always in the security of her own room, and at the end of a week was apt to say to herself with some satisfaction:
"There, I surely have done well; haven't been madwith any one this week, which is more than the other girls can say;" and there never came any thought that the sisters were hurt over her manner, for, indeed, she had worked herself up to the bitter belief, that they did not want her, she was so ugly, and so unlike them in all ways.
Now what puzzled her was the girls. Here she had worked (yes, she thought she had worked), she certainly ought to be improved, and yet they seemed to think no more of her than before. Way down in Olive's heart, was a longing,—choked and starved, that was beginning to assert itself. When home held mother and father and everything that could make a girl contented, she had not felt, or rather, listened to it; she compelled herself to be without it; but now, when they were left alone, when their daily life and happiness was so utterly dependent upon each other, she began to realize how she was out of the loving circle that bound her sisters together, and what a gulf of her own make, seemed to lie between them. She stood beside it in frequent contemplation, but never recognized her own handiwork, so she eyed it bitterly, and thought them cruelly unkind.
This was what she was thinking about as she plunged through the storm, looking like an animated snow-figure, so powdered was she; and regarding herself for a moment, Olive went round to the back door, so as to dispose of her ladened garments and brush off her shoesThis done, she went into the kitchen, where a warm atmosphere still lingered, and, preferring to be alone, sat down there, with her feet in the oven and her chin in her hands, and once more fell into a brown study. Only a few minutes later, Kittie came into the dining-room for something, and on going back, failed to close the door, so that the murmur of voices came quite distinctly out to the quiet kitchen. A discussion was warmly in progress, and in a minute Olive started out of her reverie at hearing her name spoken.
"What's the use? Olive knows, or ought to know better." It was Ernestine's voice.
"But, mama says," interposed Bea, mildly persuasive, "that we don't try hard enough; we give up too soon."
"Bother," cried Kat, "would she have us always playing the 'gentle sister, meek and mild,' and go whining about Olive as though her company was a great honor. I'm sure we had a season of always begging her to go with us, and didn't she snap us up like a rat-trap?"
"She—well—she's very odd you know," said Bea, wondering if her quiver of defense would outlast the arrows of complaint.
"Yes, odd, as an odd shoe," laughed Kat with a yawn.
"What did mama say to you, Bea?" asked Ernestine.
"She said that Olive's greatest fault was being sonasty and sensitive, and that because she was rather plain and—"
"She isn't," interrupted Kittie, with much energy. "I think she has beautiful eyes, if she just wouldn't scowl so much, and when she laughs her mouth and teeth are just as pretty, only she never laughs more'n once a month, so people don't know it. Not one of us has such lovely thick hair as she has, and if she just would wave or crimp it a little bit in front, I think—well, I think she would be real pretty." And overcome with this valuable earnest defence, Kittie sat down and looked complacent.
"When I see Olive Dering crimping her hair, and laughing instead of scowling, I will look for the end of the world," said Ernestine, with some asperity, as she walked over to the glass and surveyed her own hair, which Kittie had intimated was inferior to Olive's. "She can't do it, she was made to frown and stay by herself and she better do it."
"You don't mean it, Ernestine, you know you don't," said Bea, in a tone of calm conviction, and beginning to feel that the duties of elder sister imposed a warmer defense of this abused one, upon her. "I want to tell you how I feel, though it may be nothing as you all do. I really believe Olive thinks we do not want her, because, for so long time lately, we have just let her alone, and she always goes——"
"None of us ever receive a special invitation to join this circle," interrupted Kat, briskly. "Why should she?"
"I don't know, but she is so strange," answered Bea, rather helplessly, but not giving up. "And because she is so, we have sort a' stayed together and let her alone. When we used to try to get her to go with us, I think she always refused, because she thought she was ugly, and we did not try long enough to overcome this feeling, and now she imagines we don't want her."
"Stuff," persisted Kat, "I wouldn't act that way if I was as ugly as a wilted pumpkin and cross-eyed. What's the use?"
"None," promptly responded Beatrice. "But if you were like her, very likely you'd feel as she does."
"Catch me," laughed Kat, jumping up and making a scornful spin on her heel. "What do you say, Kittie?"
"I had my say a minute ago," answered Kittie, who was evidently thinking out something over the flames.
"I wonder what makes her hate Uncle Ridley so?" was Ernestine's query, as she turned from the glass, having satisfied herself that Kittie was certainly wrong about Olive's hair.
"I never could imagine," answered Bea, with evident curiosity.
"She won't call him, uncle, and the dress he sent her is in mama's room, and Olive says, she'll never wear it."
"May be she would give it me," suggested Kat. "I think hers was prettier than any of the rest."
"Well, I don't," said Ernestine, taking exceptions to this remark also. "Why hers is black?"
"I'm perfectly aware of that, also, that yours is purple, Bea's brown, mine and Kittie's grey; tell me something I don't know," said Kat flippantly. "I wish ours were black, it's so stylish."
That black was more stylish than purple, was an idea quite beneath Ernestine's notice, so she went back to her former query.
"I would like to know, anyhow, what makes Olive dislike him so." For Mrs. Dering had not thought it necessary that the girls should know of their father's final appeal, and Mr. Congreve's reception thereof; so they were all equally curious, and so, nobody being able to give an answer, Kat ventured an assertion.
"She hates him just because it's a part of her religion to hate everybody, and, to go around with her fist doubled up ready to fight. I believe she'd hate us with a little trying."
"Kat," cried Beatrice, with some severity. "You must not speak so, it is wrong, and you don't mean it Why, if any one else was to say such things about Olive, you'd pretty near fight."
"To be sure I would," said Kat with ready inconsistency. "I truly think Olive is a trump, and I'dcheerfully knock anybody down who said she wasn't. I don't know what we would have done without her in the trouble, and I do wish she wasn't so odd, and stayed away from us so."
"She makes me think of a chestnut burr," said Kittie resorting to figurative comparisons. "There's lots of good in her, but she won't let any one get at it. If we try, she shuts up and gets prickly. I never thought much about it, until here lately, and then she was so splendid, and knew how to do everything; and, I begin to think that there is ever so much more to her than we think, even if she is queer, and don't seem to like us much."
"Well, I wouldn't worry so about her," interposed Ernestine, as though the subject wearied her. "She evidently don't like us excessively, or care about being with us, so leave her alone. Bea, come let's try our duet."
Olive had sat perfectly still, and heard all this, quite unconscious that her feet were getting chilly in the cold oven, or that, perhaps, she should have notified them of her presence. She had a vague feeling, as of one trying hard to solve a problem, and pausing suddenly in her vain efforts, to listen to some one solving it for her. But surely they could not be right! Olive left her seat noiselessly, and went up the back stairs to her room. It was bitterly cold there, but she wrapped her shawl about her, and sat down by the window, where the fast fallingsnow was almost hidden in a heavy wrap of early twilight. Olive did not often pray. To be sure she said her prayers every night, as properly and methodical as clockwork, and was very particular about always kneeling down, as though position could atone for any lacking earnestness; for she was just as apt to be thinking of her account-book, or Mr. Dane's last order, as of anything, in the hurried words that slid over her lips. Yes, she prayed in this way once in every twenty-four hours, but there never came to her any of those sudden, passionate appeals for help or strength, when the whole heart leaps to the lips, or pleads dumbly, in its great need. Notwithstanding all teachings to the point, it never really occurred to her that God had as quick and sympathetic an ear for a little prayer of few words over some trivial worry, given silently in the busy kitchen, or on the crowded street, as He had for those when she knelt down at night, and absently asked for her daily bread, and to forgive as she was forgiven, and then get properly into bed and refrained from speaking again, lest she spoilt the effect. At any rate, the first prayer that had ever sprung to her lips, with the suddenness of utter helplessness, came from them now, as she sat there, trying to think and battle with hasty conclusions that would spring up:
"Oh God, please don't let me try to think it out alone, because I will get it all wrong if I do. If it is myfault, make me feel it and know how to act, and don't let me be so odd, or whatever it is that makes me feel as I do."
With the earnestness of the request, came a quiet feeling that she felt to be her answer, and all the time she sat there, which was until the supper-bell rang, she felt more contented than ever before with her thoughts. Not that God immediately took away her faults, and left her placid and quiet, with nothing to battle against, because He does not do that way; it can never be said to us: "Well done, good and faithful servant," if we've done nothing; and the battling with our faults and worries is just as much our work, as the successful doing of some great deed that may bring both God's pleasure and an earthly halo.
When Mrs. Dering came home on Friday evening, she was quick to note a change of some kind, not but what every one seemed the same at a quick observation, but, there was a something. Now don't think that any thing so unnatural and improbable had happened, as Olive being bereft of all faults, and suddenly clothed in the guise of a household angel, because there hadn't, there never does; but she had thought much, and Olive had a mind capable of more deep reasoning thought than most girls of fifteen; she stopped fighting herself with weapons solely of her own make, but sent many a little wordless prayer for a different feeling, and then shefound that it came more easily, and more completely triumphed over its enemy. To-night she had a little ribbon tied in her hair, only a small thing, but something unusual for Olive, and Mrs. Dering noticed that the bow at her throat was just of the same shade, also something unusual. Now over just this little thing, Olive had stood in silence, while two feelings within her held an argument:
"What's the use," said one; "you're as ugly as fate, and the girls will laugh; besides if you go in the sitting-room after supper, they will say you just did it to make them say something."
"No such thing," retorted the other, "You've no right to think such things, when they've given you no reason. Go on right down stairs, you know they want you, they said they did." And so she had gone down immediately,—perhaps she took a little pleasure in defying herself,—and though the girls saw the ribbons the moment she came in, no one said anything, for there came a feeling to each, that she would not want them spoken of.
Mrs. Dering noticed also that when they were gathered in the sitting-room after supper, that instead of sitting off in the far corner of the lounge as usual, she had joined the circle about the table, and was busy on some worsted work.
Ernestine was rocking idly with her pretty feet displayed on the fender, and her prettier hands claspedabove her head, in an attitude both graceful and becoming. She was surveying the group about the table, where all hands were busy, and all tongues going merrily, and more than once her eyes went from Olive's ribbon's to Olive's face, so changed under the effect of a smile. They were talking of father now, with their voices lowered a little, and looking up frequently to the large portrait, as if expecting him to answer, and she wondered a little, what could be the matter with Olive, that she talked so much more than usual.
"A penny for your thoughts Ernestine," said Bea, in a pause that came presently.
"I was just thinking how hard it was to be disappointed," answered Ernestine, as pathetically as though the whole world had grieved her in some way.
"What's your disappointment! tell us," cried Kittie with interest; and everybody looked up expectant at the young lady who "had a disappointment."
"Why, I want to study with great masters and be a splendid wonderful singer, with the whole world at my feet, and sending me elegant presents," said Ernestine, who always liked to tell her little grievances or wants, and receive condolence or help.
"What a modest desire," laughed Kat. "Hasn't some one else got a disappointment, because they can't sit on a gold throne and eat sauce made of pearls with a gold spoon?"
"I've got one," said Bea, with her head over her sewing. "I'd like to have mama stay home and be easy, and I'd like to have lots of pretty clothes and some real lace."
"Well, I've got one," announced Kat briskly. "I don't like being poor. I hate pots and kettles worse than mad dogs. I would like a wheel-barrow full of butter-scotch every day and a pair of slippers with blue tops and French heels. I haven't got any talent, so I needn't worry about never being able to bring it out; it would scare me to death if I had one, because talented people are always expected to do something big. That's all, and I don't know really where the disappointment is, but I guess it's the butter-scotch and slippers. What's yours Kittie?"
"I don't know," answered Kittie, with a sigh and a glance at her hands. "I guess mine's having to wash dishes, and not having black eyes, and not being able to travel all over the world."
"Well, I've got one too," said Olive, to every one's intense surprise, as they did not suppose that she was paying any attention to what they were saying, much less to join them. "I'd like to be as beautiful as the loveliest portrait ever seen, and be able to paint the grandest pictures in the world."
Everyone was silent with astonishment. For Olive to express two wishes, and such exaggerated ones, beforethem all, was something no one could fully appreciate who had not heard her repeatedly ridicule the same when uttered by the others.
Mrs. Dering had been sewing and listening with a smile, but now she glanced up, met Olive's eyes, and the smile brightened warmly, and there was something in it that made Olive's heart feel happy and glad that she had made her little speech, though she had hesitated before doing so.
"I don't suppose anybody cares to hear about my disappointments," said Mrs. Dering, not looking as if she had any.
"Yes, we do; I was just going to ask," exclaimed Kittie, moving closer. "I know you've got heaps, and they're not about clothes and butter-scotch, and eyes, and doing great things either. Now tell us all."
"I don't see why I should have heaps," began Mrs. Dering, with a laugh. "Is it because I am so old, or do I look as though I had been weighted down with them?"
"Why, no indeed; but didn't you ever have any, really?"
"Yes, indeed, my dear girls, many; that at the time, perhaps seemed very hard and bitter; but I came through them, and have seen some happy, happy days where their shadow never fell. I tell you what would be a very bitter disappointment to me now, and that would beto have my girls grow to womanhood, and each be discontented with her lot. I would feel as though all my love and labor had been in vain. It is my constant regret that I cannot give you each a complete and finished education, and supply home with all the comforts we love; but when I look at you now, all working so bravely, and receiving with so little complaint your rigid discipline, it makes me happy indeed, because I see in you, a womanly strength and character, that a life of ease, comfort, and few self-denials, could never have brought out clearly, and I know that God has chosen this way to make our girls the dear noble women we want them. I would that He had seen best to leave father with us, but He did not, so we must just feel that He still loves, and is interested in us, and have just as much thought for His approval as whenhewas with us. Now, about your disappointments;" and there she paused to glance around, but each young face was warm with interest, so she went on with her cheery smile:
"Here Ernestine, to begin with, wants to conquer the world with song, and receive elegant presents. Dearie, to conquer the world, the great, many-faced world, one's head and heart must be capable and willing to assume any and every guise; to stoop to every form of policy that secures the fickle smile; to bend to all its freaks, until it is subjectto yours; and after you had done this, after you had spent your life's sweetest and purest years in studying the art of deceit and triumph, and had brought the beautiful wicked world to your feet, would you be quite happy? Could you ever be again the fresh, untouched, pure hearted creature that you are now? I'm afraid not, dear; and your warmest, greatest longing, would come back to home and girlhood, when you only knew the world's wickedness by hearsay, when you owed it nothing, and never heard its grasping cry for pay for its homage.
"Bea wants pretty clothes, and regrets that mother must work. Quite natural, dear, we all love pretty clothes, and I hope some time we can have all we want, providing it does not become a chief and selfish desire. Mother loves to work for her girls, and only regrets that it must take her from them so much of the time, for the dearest light to a mother's life, the brightest cloud that receives that life's setting sun, is found in the circle of her children's faces. To go back to Bea, she wants some real lace; I hope she may have it some time; it is a beautiful and valuable addition to a lady's wardrobe. But I am quite sure that the face of my Beatrice could never look lovelier over a garb of rarest and most exquisite workmanship than it does to-night, over a pretty linen band, with its womanly thoughtfulness and care."
Bea flushed joyfully, and bent lower over her sewing,while mother went on, with a glance at Kat's expectant face:
"Next comes one of papa's 'boys' with such a hodgepodge of a disappointment, that I can hardly make out which part of it grieves her, or if any does. She don't like pots and kettles, but they often teach us unromantic but necessary lessons that fans and perfumery never could. A wheel-barrow per day of butter-scotch would soon leave her more than she could manage or desire, and slippers with satin tops and high heels, would only prove themselves useless and injurious. She also says she has no talent, but she has a rare and valuable one, that of making the best of all her little trials and grievances, of keeping her daily sunshine free from clouds, and making home happy with her cheerful, happy heart."
Kittie gave her mother's hand a grateful squeeze, for praise given to either of the twins was dear to the other; and Kat sank out of her sight in her chair, quite overcome, and resolved heartily to cultivate her talent to the uttermost.
"Now, our other 'boy,'" continued Mrs. Dering, smiling down into Kittie's upturned face, "wants black eyes, don't like dish-washing, and would like to travel. I wonder if she thinks I would give up these brave, true, trusty blue eyes, for all the black ones in the universe. They show what a warm, faithful heart lies within, aheart that shares its twin's talent for making sunshine out of shadows, and home happy with its laughter. A life without a dish-pan misses a good disciplinarian, and, sometimes, a teacher of patience; it's like pots and kettles—unpleasant but necessary, so the sooner we take hold, when we have it to handle, and the better the grace with which we handle it, just so much have we brought our rebellious likes and dislikes under control, and made the best of our duty. While you are getting ready to travel, dear, read the works of those who have travelled, have your mind fresh and ready to more heartily enjoy what others have seen and made immortal through the power of their pen, and if it is best that that pleasure should be given you, it will come at the right time.
"Our Olive next. I wonder if she thinks that though her face was as exquisitely beautiful as the rarest picture ever painted, that it could be any more precious to our sight, than it is now; or if beauty of the loveliest type would be taken in exchange for the strong, earnest character and brave, true heart that is stamped in it. The most beautiful face may sometimes, by nature's indelible portrayer, reveal itself soulless in heart and mind; and the plainest face possess an irresistible charm, if it is allowed to interpret the emotions of a truly noble heart. I have no ambition that my little girl should paint the grandest pictures in the world, but Ihope before long to give her instructions in the art that she loves, and then I want her to use to the uttermost, the beautiful talent God has given her, and though it should fall far short of being the grandest picture, I should be very happy, and quite content."
Mrs. Dering began folding up her sewing as she finished, and the girls did likewise, looking as though they had taken the little talk to heart and were thinking over it. Olive went out for her account-books and her face wore a happier look, than any one could remember seeing there lately. Before they got through examining and comparing accounts, the other girls said good-night and went up stairs, and when the last book was pushed aside, Mrs. Dering put her arm around Olive, who sat on the stool at her feet, and looked down at her with a smile.
"I like this, dear," she said, touching the ribbons. "And you have made me so much happier to-night, by looking more happy, what is it dear?"
"Nothing, mama," answered Olive. "Only I came home early one day, when the girls didn't know it, and I heard them talking about me. They said how queer and odd I was, and how they felt hurt, because I always stayed away from them, and some more things, and mama, I was so amazed. I always thought they didn't want me, and I didn't know which way to believe and I,—I just asked God to help me; and I guess He did.It's terrible hard work, though I've only tried it a few days. I'm so ugly, and I've got such a dreadful temper, and always want to think the wrong way, but I notice that I really have been happier these few days; and mama, to-night, you—" Olive paused and looked up shyly, she did not often say such things and it cost something of a little effort to begin—"you looked so happy and I couldn't help but feel that it was because you were glad, and I really am going to try all the harder now."
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WhenSpring came, spirits and strength began to flag. Everything without was so alluring, that indoors and duties grew dreadfully monotonous and tiresome. Bea found that her sweeping and dusting fell terribly behind, because she spent so much time sitting in the window-sills, and standing in the doors, where the sunshine was so temptingly clear and warm, and from where the yard and trees, so rapidly budding out, could be enjoyed. Olive dreaded her close dark counting-room, but said little about it, in the belief that complaining wouldn't help. Ernestine's four scholars lessened to two, and as the days grew warmer she spent much of the time on the lounge, looking listless, and betraying little interest in anything.
Kittie and Kat, found that snatching moments from work, to take a race down the yard, or gather some particularcluster of fresh young blossoms, gave dish-water a chance to cool; or dust, left ready for taking up, to blow back to all corners of the room. Meals began to fall behind, but everybody was too warm and listless to eat much, or mind the tardiness. In short, everybody had the spring fever, but such ordinary complaint was not noticed, until, as the heat grew more debilitating, Bea said to her mother one evening, as they stood in the door, looking out into the soft still moonlight that lay so purely over the fresh early grass and blossoms:—"Mama, seems to me Ernestine is not well."
Bea could not understand why her mother should start so, at such a slight intimation, or why her face should look so anxious as she turned it.
"Why, dear?"
"She lies down so much; it may be because the weather has turned warm so suddenly, but seems to me, she is so pale and quiet, and it is something so unusual, that I couldn't help but notice it; but then, may be, it's nothing after all."
"Only the weather, I fancy," answered Mrs. Dering; but Bea saw that she looked uneasy, and that all that evening she watched Ernestine, who lay on the lounge, more lively than she had been for several days, with a sparkling light in her eyes, and a rich color in her face, that made her more beautiful than mother or sisters had ever seen her before. Bea watched her mother withsome anxiety and no little curiosity. How sad and troubled her eyes looked, as they rested on Ernestine's radiant face, while every now and then a tremble seized her lips, even while she smiled at the continual merry nonsense that seemed to possess the girls that night.
"Ernestine's going to run away," announced Kittie, presently, with some abruptness; but no one but Bea, who was on the alert, saw how her mother started, with a force that ran her needle clear under her thumb nail, or how excessively pale she was as she wiped off the little drops of blood.
"That I am," laughed Ernestine gayly. "Some of these fine mornings I'll be gone, and you'll find a touching little note on my pin-cushion; and after I've earned piles of glory and money, I'll come back in an elegant carriage, and set you all up in luxury."
Everybody laughed, and professed much impatience for the delightful time to arrive; but Mrs. Dering pushed her sewing aside with an impatient hand that trembled, and proposed that Ernestine sing for them, which she immediately did, with a bewildering bird-like witchery, that held them all entranced, and made the girls sigh more than once, that some of the flute-like tones had not been given to them, as their talent.
Mrs. Dering's last look and words, when she left next morning, were for Ernestine, who looked languidand pale in the sunshine, with all her radiant sparkle and color gone, and no sound or look of song about her lips; and after the hack had gone, and the girls returned to the house, Kat said to Kittie, with much resentment in her voice:
"Ernestine always was the petted one in this family. Just see how anxious mama is about her having a little spring fever, and what an easy time she has, anyhow. Only two music scholars! I guess we've got the spring fever just as bad as she has, but we have to work just as hard as ever, and I don't think it is fair."
And Kittie, notwithstanding she had some such thoughts herself, answered promptly:
"Well, I suppose there's a reason of some kind, because you know Kat, mama never would do anything unfair. Perhaps she thinks Ernestine is more delicate than we are."
"Delicate—fiddlesticks! I've three minds to believe it's because she's got such big brown eyes and yellow hair, and is so—well—so—"
"Ain't you ashamed," interrupted Kittie, slamming down her dishes. "To hint at such a thing, Kat Dering!"
The very next evening that brought Mrs. Dering home, brought her with a proposition for Ernestine to go into the country for a week or two, giving her two pupils a vacation for that length of time. Perhaps it occurredto each of the girls that they needed the rest just as much, if not a little more than Ernestine, and perhaps Mrs. Dering detected the look in their faces, for she sighed, and Bea discovered that the same sad look, only deepened and more anxious, lingered in her eyes; and to show her repentance for a moment's complaining thought, she entered heartily into Ernestine's selfish joy.
"Just think how I will ride horseback," cried Ernestine, gayly. "I must fix out a habit some way, mama, and girls, you must let me have all your pretty things, because Mrs. Raymond's girls dress beautifully, and entertain a great deal."
"But my dear," spoke her mother, "I am sending you out there to rest, to enjoy their lovely home, and to grow stronger on country air, not to frolic and waste all your strength."
"Oh, mama, what an idea!" laughed Ernestine. "Why, I'm not sick, I don't need rest, all I want is a little fun and something gay. Look at Bea; she's as pale as a little ghost; you might talk about sending her out to the country to be quiet, and drink milk, but not me. I don't need it." And Ernestine nodded gayly to her own radiant reflection in the glass opposite; then without waiting for any answer, jumped up and waltzed around the room.
"What a blessing it is that Uncle Ridley gave usthe dresses. My purple is just as stylish as can be, only I do wish, mama, you'd have let me had a train to it; I'm so tall, and plenty old enough. Bea, will you let me have that pretty gilt butterfly that you fixed for your hair, and your gold cuff pins? I've lost one of mine, and they are always such an addition to one's dress. Olive, you never wore your new black kids much; let me take them, will you? mine look worn, and I do love nice gloves; they always mark a lady. And your new dress. I do need a black one dreadfully, and you say you never will wear yours, so you might just as well give it to me,—loan it, anyhow."
"You may have it, for all I care," answered Olive. "But my gloves are one of the things that I cannot loan."
"Nor the dress," said Mrs. Dering, quickly. "You have quite enough dresses, Ernestine, and besides, Olive's is from her Uncle Ridley, and she cannot give it away."
Ernestine couldn't see any sense of having it lay upstairs in the drawer, though she did not say so; and privately thought that perhaps she could coax her mother around, since Olive was so willing. It proved quite a vain idea, however, though she made it her last request in the morning, before her mother left.
"No, Ernestine, I spoke quite as decidedly the first time you asked me. Be all ready to go by this day week,you have not much sewing to do. Good-bye, once more, my girls; be careful of the lights, take good care of yourselves and do not get sick. Write to Jean to-morrow, a nice long letter and tell her everything. Good-bye."
So she went away again, and nothing discouraged at her inability to secure Olive's dress, Ernestine danced gayly into the house and off to her room, to overlook, for the dozenth time, her little collection of trinkets, and to sing blithely over her dresses; for she did possess the spirit of coming down cheerfully to any thing inevitable excepting work, and then, perhaps, mama would relent at the final moment, when she saw how much a black dress was really needed.
"It's as lonesome as a desert, and Ernestine is selfish as a pig," declared Kittie, subsiding gloomily on to the stairs as the hack rattled out of sight.
"Two solemn facts, but they won't wash the dishes," rejoined Kat, balancing over the bannisters, in a way that threatened immediate perpendicularity, with a change of base from what was customary.
"I hate dishes and dish-pans and everything," exclaimed Kittie with much vehemence. "Any how, this is your week to wash, and mine to wipe; go along and get the old things ready, and I'll be out in a minute."
"I'll change with you next week," said Beatrice turning from the door, where she had stood contemplatively. "You and Kat may tend to all the sweeping, and dusting,and keeping the house in order, and I'll do the kitchen work."
"Hurrah, will you?" cried Kittie, flying up from her despondent attitude. "You're a jewel, Bea, shake hands."
Bea surrendered her hand with some misgiving, rightfully conjecturing that it would receive a shake and twist of over-powering heartiness in the high tide of Kittie's spirits; and that young lady, having done her best to dislocate that useful member, rushed off to impart the news to Kat, and swing her dish rag jubilantly.
The change of instruments, as the girls said, took place Monday morning. Bea awoke, to find her bed-posts ornamented variously, with a dish-pan, a flaunting rag and two scrupulously neat towels, while there was a sound of revelry in the lower hall, which would indicate that the twins were up, and at their new branch of work, with a vigor which novelty always imparts to labor. Not that there was anything so novel to a broom or dust-pan, but they were so tired of their work, that Bea's really seemed delightful and easy and much to be envied.
"You must have been anxious to get to work," said that sister, coming down the stairs with her post ornaments, and interrupting a lively skirmish, where brooms flew around through the air, with a cheerful disregard for the swinging lamp, or any one's head.
"Anxious to get through, you mean," laughed Kat, throwing down her weapon, and tumbling her dishevelledhair into a net. "Hollo, Kittie, your corners are swept cleaner'n mine."
"Of course," answered Kittie complacently, and turning her broom right end up, in a spasm of housewifely care. "You better go to work and do yours over; that's in the bargain, isn't it, Bea?"
"Work to be done well," said Bea, surveying Kat's corners with a critical eye. "And those are not clean; you've slipped right by them."
"Just as well," asserted Kat, whisking her broom about and scattering the dust that disgraced a small corner over such extent of surface that it could not be noticed. "That's the way. What's the use of being so particular?"
Bea shook her head and declared it wouldn't do, then gave to Kittie the overwhelming responsibility of keeping Kat straight, and departed for the kitchen.
"Set the blind to lead the blind," laughed Kat, spinning about on her heels, and finishing up with a hearty hug for Kittie, and the penitent remark: "You are getting lots better than I, that's a fact; and I must begin to brush up and sober down, or I'll be the black sheep of the flock,—as if I wasn't always that. But you really are getting terrible good, Kittie; I've seen it for a long time and it makes me uncomfortable; spin around and be gay like you used to."
"Nonsense," laughed Kittie, then looked sober, and sat down upon the stairs suddenly. "I'm not good, Kat,it isn't that; I don't know how to be; but some way, I can't be as terribly wild and gay as I used to be, there seems to be so much more to think about now, and seems to me we ought to help think as much as the others, and besides, I don't think we ought to be so wild any more; why, Kat, we're in our teens!"
"Suppose we are, dear me!" cried Kat, standing off and surveying her sister with a sort of vague alarm, "what ever is the matter with this family? Olive is getting so pleasant, and wears ribbons, and you're not going to be wild any more, and have gone to thinking; you'll both die next thing, good people always die; and anyhow, my fun's all up. I never can be gay if you sit around so solemn and goody-goody;" and Kat rumpled up her hair and looked desperate.
"The idea, what a speech!" exclaimed Kittie, looking as if her new resolutions had received a shock. "As if I couldn't be sensible without being goody-goody, whatever that is. Pick up your broom and don't worry, my dear. I'll never die of being too good."
Nevertheless, Kat looked forlorn all the rest of the day, and had spells of solemnly surveying Kittie, as though some wonderful change had taken place, and a pair of wings, or some equally astonishing thing might be the result. Next morning was as beautiful as a spring morning ever could be, and Kat took much comfort in the fact, that, in her haste to get out to the pond, Kittie flewabout the sitting-room in a hurry, whisked the dirt under the stove, didn't stop to dust, except a rapid skim over the top, left the piano shut, neglected to put fresh flowers under father's portrait, and shut the blinds so as to hide all defects under a comfortable shielding gloom. Kat looked on and felt relieved. Kittie wasn't going to be so dreadfully good and proper after all, and much consoled, Kat put on her hat, and dashed out to the pond, where Kittie was already sailing about, with her head still ornamented in a dust-cap.
Bea had watched their early departure from the field of work, with some misgiving, and decided to go and take a view of the house as soon as she got the dishes put away, but just at that moment, the door bell rang; and dear me, what should she do? The twins were at the farthest end of the pond, yelling like bedlamites, Bea declared. Ernestine had finished her small share of work, then put on her cocked-up hat with a blue bow, and gone down town; so there was no one left to see to the door, and smoothing down her hair, Bea hurried through the hall with flushed cheeks and some anxiety.
True to a prophetic feeling which possessed her, the opening of the door disclosed to view the last person to be desired, on that or any other morning: Miss Strong, a regular Dickensonian old maid.
"Good morning, sweet child!" she exclaimed, the moment Bea's dismayed face presented itself.
"Good morning, Miss Strong; will you come in?"
"Come in? Surely, dear. I want to see you all; and then I hear that you and your sisters are such model little housekeepers, and I think it is so lovely that you all, in your heart-rending afflictions, should bow so meekly beneath God's chastening rod, and put your shoulders to the wheel."
Bea opened the sitting-room door in fear and trembling, and blinded by the spring sunshine, Miss Strong walked into the dark room, in her girlish, hasty way, and immediately stumbled over a footstool, and landed at full length on the lounge, with such force that she dropped her beaded reticule, and knocked her bonnet off.
"Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bea, running to pick up the things, and return them to the startled and scarlet-faced spinster. "I don't know why Kittie shut the blinds, she oughtn't to."
"No, I should say she hadn't, I should, indeed," returned Miss Strong, putting on her bonnet with a jerk, and snapping her reticule. "It's a sinful shame, the way some people keep their houses dark as dungeons, to hide dirt and dust. I have heard that you were neat housekeepers, but I can't help having my opinion of people who shut out every speck of light, and trip up respectable people in this way."
Poor Bea's face burned and burned, and her heartthrobbed faster as she went to the window, to open the blinds, feeling that her reputation was at stake, and that the first ray of light would kindle the faggots. Not a speck of dust, from the ceiling down, would escape Miss Strong's eagle eyes, and oh, how she would talk about it! Well, it was done; she threw them open, and turned around in the calmness of despair. The glaring sunshine came boldly in, and danced over the dusty table, over the top of the piano, where you might have written your name, right under the stove where the dirt lay thick, all around the corners, into Miss Strong's scornful, roving eyes, and into Bea's burning face. Miss Strong was angry. She never liked to be seen or heard under a disadvantage, and she surely had received an unreconcilable insult just now. Besides, she always went about seeking whom she might devour; she wore little spit-curls all over her sallow, wrinkled forehead, had a hooked nose, a long, sharp chin, a dried-apple mouth, and two fiercely bright eyes, that looked clear through you, and plainly indicated that she thought you all wrong, and at fault. Whenever she heard any one praised, she immediately set about finding a flaw somewhere, and heralded it to the world, as soon as found. She knew the Dering family were not as nice and worthy of praise and sympathy, as people seemed to think, and she had come this morning on purpose to find out, and then correct the deluded public mind. She was quite satisfied, and the "I-told-you-so"spirit was so jubilant within her, that she could hardly keep from flaunting it before Bea's distressed face. She satisfied herself, however, with looking at each dusty article with great care, brushing some imaginary specks from her dress, settling her bonnet, and asking abruptly:
"How's your mother? I haven't long to stay."
"She was quite well, thank you, the last time she was home," answered Bea, watching those eagle eyes in terror.
"Umph! Pity she can't stay home," said Miss Strong, once more taking in the room with an unmistakable glance.
"It's very lonely without her," assented Bea, catching sight of the wilted flowers under her father's portrait, and fervently hoping that her visitor's eye would not see them. But vain hope! Miss Strong's eyes went straight from the dirt under the stove up to the neglected vase, and she smiled in a way, that made Bea long to jump up and scream.
"I have often wanted to see your father's portrait, and I have heard what beautiful flowers you always kept under it. So lovely!"
"We do," answered Bea, with much dignity, and flashing a resentful glance at Miss Strong. "Papa loved flowers dearly, and we always love to have them under his picture; but Kittie must have been in a hurry, and forgotten it this morning."
"In-deed," said Miss Strong slowly. "But excuse me, pray do, I wouldn't have spoken of it, but I supposed, of course, that this room had not been arranged for the day yet."
"Well, it is very early," retorted Bea, stung quite out of her patient politeness; and Miss Strong got up immediately, shutting her mouth with a vicious snap.
"I'm sure I wouldn't have called so early," she said shortly. "But I am soliciting for the Church Fund, and having heard how exceedingly generous and willing you all were to give to all such causes, I made my first call here, confident that it would yield me encouragement."
Poor Bea colored violently again, remembering that she only had enough money to pay the grocery bill, due to-morrow, and yet Miss Strong had made her feel as though she must give something; every one would expect it.
"I'm very sorry," she said, slowly. "But I really cannot this morning."
"In-deed," said Miss Strong again. "But then, people will be mistaken once in a while; I must bid you good morning, Miss Dering;" and out she stalked, before Bea could gain her breath.
When Kittie and Kat came in from the pond a little while later, they found Bea, lying on the lounge and sobbing, with a despairing energy, that excited their liveliest alarm, and made all horrible things seem possible,from mother's death down to the breaking of the cherished family tea-pot. Bea told her story, but hadn't room to remonstrate, for the sobs that caught her breath; and the girls listened in grave alarm.
"Who cares for old Polly Strong?" cried Kat, with defiant irreverence, and throwing her hat to the ceiling.
"Well, I'm sorry," cried Kittie, running to comfort the prostrate chief. "It's all my fault; Kat swept the parlor this morning and I cleaned in here. Oh, I am ashamed, and so sorry, Bea dear."
"Well—well, I think it's too—too bad," sobbed Bea, uncomforted. "She talked so mean, and—and—she'll tell everybody that—that—I'm no housekeeper, and then—then, mama—"
"If she does," interrupted Kat fiercely, "I'll tell every mortal man, woman and child, in turn, that she's a meddling old thing, if they don't know it already; and I'll tell them just the truth about this room, too."
"It was horrible in me," sighed Kittie in great self-reproach. "And when you were so kind as to change, too. We'll go right back to the dishes, Bea, and not disgrace your work any more, and I'll go right to work and clean this room decent, so that everything will shine until you can see your face in it."
By this time Ernestine's wardrobe was pretty near ready to go upon her visit. She had exercised her ingenuityin making few things look their best and go a long way; and her selfishness in getting every available thing from the girls, without ever expressing a wish that they were going to share the pleasure; because, she reasoned in her mind, if they were going, she couldn't have all their pretty things, so better be still, than express an untruthful desire. On the day after the Strong visit, she came from down-town, and walked up to the house, very much as if she were a little ashamed to go in, but which she did, with an assumption of indifference, and came into the room where the girls were sitting.
"I've got the last things," she said with a laugh, tinged with an uneasiness that no one noticed, and unwrapping a small parcel.
"What?" asked Bea, glancing up with interest; then looked at the open paper, and did not say another word.
Kittie and Kat did likewise, and in a moment Ernestine broke the silence with an impatient laugh.
"Well, what do you all look so horrified at? It was my own money, I guess, and precious little at that."
"What did you pay for them?" asked Bea gravely.
"These—" Ernestine held up a pair of snowy kids, with three buttons—"I got for a dollar and a half, cheap, because one finger is a little soiled. This—" lifting a creamy tip, with pale blue shading—"was two dollars. Won't it look lovely in my black hat?"
"Yes, it will look lovely," said Bea slowly; she was really too astonished and hurt to say any more; but Kat cried out explosively:
"Oh Ernestine Dering! you selfish, selfish, old—pig, you—" "Know mama wants shoes," interrupted Kittie, with her voice full of indignant tears. "And you heard her say the last time she was home, that she did not want to spend the money for them, and here you spend three dollars and a half for—"
"Things that I want," finished Ernestine, getting up and pushing her chair away. "I've worked hard, and I think I might spend a very little bit of my own money. You all don't seem to think so, and you're not very pleasant, so I'll just leave you until you are in a better humor."
With that she went out, feeling really as though she were more aggrieved than aggressor, and stillness followed her departure.
"She's worked hard?" cried Kittie at length, with indignant scorn. "Very hard; but mama hasn't, nor we haven't—"
"Oh don't, please," exclaimed Bea, bursting into tears. "Don't say anything, girls; I don't know what I hadn't rather have, than for mama to know that Ernestine would do such a thing. Oh, I wish she need never to know it."
It did not take much thought to decide Ernestine, that she was much abused, and though her usually laggardconscience insisted on being touched, she solaced it by putting the tip in her hat, and seeing how becoming it was, and by trying on the gloves, which were a perfect fit. Then putting them away, she stole off to the garret, to carry out a plan, made in secrecy—that of rummaging the packed trunks there, and perhaps finding something that could be turned into a party dress, which she was quite sure she would need. The garret was roomy and sunny, and all the rest of the afternoon, Ernestine comforted herself, and her abused feelings by hunting among the old trunks, and spinning many gay dreams, wherein she dwelt in luxury, and all that heart could wish. She had selected a pale green silk, and a fine soft lawn from her mother's put aside wardrobe, and her mind's eye saw herself most becomingly, and beautifully dressed in them—if mama would only consent.
Over in the corner, something caught her eye presently, that she had never seen before. Only a small dark trunk with an air of secrecy about it; and something irresistibly took her right over to it, with her arm load of gay things.
"I wonder what it is," she mused, fingering the lock curiously, and feeling so strange as she did so.
"Go away!" something seemed to say imperatively; but she lingered, and fingered more curiously than ever the small key attached to a faded ribbon.
"Go away! Go away!" seemed to come again that voice, and she felt it to her inmost soul; but the very realization of an inward warning against it, urged her on. She put the key in the lock,—and hesitated; turned it slowly,—and hesitated again; then broke into a nervous little laugh, and tossed the cover open.