University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
COUSIN EMMA.

Agnes had been in town about two weeks, when my
home was one morning thrown into a state of unusual excitement
by the arrival of a letter from Boston, containing
the intelligence that Cousin Emma Rushton, who had
been an invalid for more than a year, was about to try
the effect of country life and country air.

This piece of news operated differently upon different
members of our family. Juliet exclaimed, “Good, good;
Carrie Howard won't hold her head quite so high, now,
for we shall have a city lady, too.” Anna was delighted,
because she would thus have an opportunity of acquiring
city manners and city fashions. Sally said, snappishly,
“There's enough to wait on now, without having a stuck-up
city flirt, faintin' at the sight of a worm, and screachin'
if a fly comes toward her.” Mother had some misgivings
on the subject. She was perfectly willing Emma should
come, but she doubted our ability to entertain her, knowing
that the change would be great from a fashionable
city home to a country farm-house. Grandmother, who
loved to talk of “my daughter in the city,” was pleased,
and to console mother, said, “Never you mind, Fanny;

leave her to me; you find victuals and drink, and I 'll do
the entertaining.”

Among so many opinions it was hard for me to arrive
at a conclusion. On the whole, however, I was glad, until
told that during Cousin Emma's stay our garret gambols
must be given up, and that I must not laugh loud, or
scarcely speak above a whisper, for she was sick, and it
would hurt her head. Then I wished Cousin Emma and
Cousin Emma's head would stay where they belonged.

The letter was received on Monday, but Emma would
not come until Thursday; so there was ample time for
“fixing up.” The parlor-chamber was repapered, the
carpet taken up and shaken, red and white curtains hung
at the windows, a fresh ball of Castile soap bought for
the washstand, and on Thursday morning our pretty
flower beds were shorn of their finest ornaments, with
which to make bouquets for the parlor and parlor-chamber.
Besides that, Sally had filled the pantry with cakes,
pies, gingerbread, and Dutch cheese, to the last of which
I fancied Emma's city taste would not take kindly. Then
there was in the cellar a barrel of fresh beer; so everything
was done which could be expected.

When I went home for my dinner that day, I teased
hard to be allowed to stay out of school for one afternoon,
but mother said “No,” although she suffered me to wear
my pink gingham, with sundry injunctions “not to burst
the hooks and eyes all off before night.” This, by the way,
was my besetting sin; I never could climb a tree, no matter
what the size might be, without invariably coming
down minus at least six hooks and eyes; but I seriously
thought I should get over it when I got older and joined
the church.

That afternoon seemed of interminable length, but at
last I saw father's carriage coming, and quick as thought

I threw my grammar out of the window; after which I
demurely asked “to go out and get a book which I had
dropped.” Permission was granted, and I was out just
in time to courtesy straight down, as father, pointing to
me, said, “There, that's our little crazy Mollie,” and then
I got a glimpse of a remarkably sweet face, which made
the tears come in my eyes, it was so pale.

Perhaps I wronged our school teacher; I think I did,
for she has since died; but really I fancied she kept us
longer that night on purpose. At least, it was nearly five
before we were dismissed. Then, with my bonnet in
hand, I ran for home, falling down once, and bursting off
the lower hook! I entered the house with a bound, but
was quieted by grandmother, who said Emma was lying
down, and I mustn't disturb her.

After waiting some time for her to make her appearance,
I stole softly up the stairs and looked in where she
was. She saw me, and instantly rising, said, with a smile
that went to my heart: “And this must be Mary, the little
crazy girl; come and kiss your Cousin Emma.”

Twining my arms around her neck, I think I must have
cried, for she repeatedly asked me what was the matter,
and as I could think of no better answer, I at last told her,
“I didn't like to have folks call me crazy. I couldn't help
acting like Sal Furbush, the old crazy woman, who threatened
to toss us up in the umbrella.”

“Forgive me, darling,” said Emma, coaxingly, “I will
not do it again;” then stooping down, she looked intently
into my eyes, soliloquizing, “Yes, it is wrong to tell her so.”

In a few moments I concluded Emma was the most beautiful
creature in the world; I would not even except Carrie
Howard. Emma's features were perfectly regular,
and her complexion white and pure as alabaster. Her
hair, which was a rich auburn, lay around her forehead in

thick waves, but her great beauty consisted in her lustrous
blue eyes, which were very large and dark. When
she was pleased they laughed, and when she was sad
they were sad, too. Her dress was a white muslin
wrapper, confined at the waist by a light blue ribbon,
while one of the same hue encircled her neck, and was
fastened by a small gold pin, which, with the exception
of the costly diamond ring on her finger, was the only ornament
she wore.

When supper was ready, I proudly led her to the dining-room,
casting a look of triumph at Juliet and Anna,
and feeling, it may be, a trifle above grandmother, who
said, “Don't be troublesome, child.”

How grateful I was when Emma answered for me,
“She doesn't trouble me in the least; I am very fond of
children.”

Indeed, she seemed to be very fond of everybody and
everything — all except Sally's Dutch cheese, which, as I
expected, she hardly relished. In less than three days
she was beloved by all the household; Billy whispering to
me confidentially that “never before had he seen any one
except mother, whom he would like to marry.”

Saturday afternoon Carrie and Agnes called on Emma,
and as I saw them together I fancied I had never looked
on three more charming faces. They appeared mutually
pleased with each other, too, although for some reason
there seemed to be more affinity between Emma and Agnes.
Carrie appeared thoughtful and absent-minded,
which made Anna joke her about her “lover, Penoyer.”
As she was about leaving the room, she made no reply,
but after she was gone, Agnes looked searchingly at
Anna and said, “Is it possible, Miss Anna, that you are
so mistaken?”

“How—why?” asked Anna. “Is Penoyer a bad man?
What is his occupation?”

“His occupation is well enough,” returned Agnes. “I
would not think less of him for that, were he right in
other respects. However, he was Carrie's and my own
music teacher.”

“Impossible,” said Anna, but at that moment Carrie
reëntered the room, and, together with Agnes, soon took
her leave.

“Penoyer a music teacher, after all his anger at Lily
Gordon, for suggesting such an idea!” This was now
the theme of Juliet and Anna, although they wondered
what there was so bad about him—something, evidently,
from Agnes' manner, and for many days they puzzled
their brains in vain to solve the mystery.