University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
FEEDING THE BEES.

The afternoon passed much as the morning—the
usual conversation, varied by occasional
remarks upon the weather, which continued
“soft” and threatening for the homeward
flight of the bees. Needles, however,
flew as actively as tongues, and by five o'clock
three bed-quilts, including the famous album-quilt,
and four comforters lay completed upon
the floor of the guest-chamber: the frames
were rapidly dismembered and taken to the
garret, the rooms cleared of litter, and the ladies
requested to amuse themselves for half
an hour, when supper would be served. Complying
with this invitation, the elders, after
smoothing their black silk or alpaca dresses,
and adjusting their cap-ribbons, repaired in
squads of two and three to the east room, to
pay their respects to the patriarchs, while the
younger women, after devoting a little more
time and pains to the renovation of their toilets,
collected in groups, gossiping in low
voices and with much-suppressed giggle, or
hanging around the window to watch the arrival
of the gentlemen who had been invited
for the supper and evening frolic offered to the
bees by way of recompense for the toils of the
day.

This supper, as it was justly styled—for certainly
it was neither breakfast, dinner, nor tea
—was a feast such as never perhaps is spread
out of New-England, and, alas! is rarely seen
in these degenerate days even in that favored
region. It was spread upon two extempore tables
extending the length of the dining-room,
and crowded upon both sides with plates; for
Miss Rachel strongly condemned the inhospitable
fashion of “stand-up teas,” and declared
that if she was to have any thing to eat, she
also wished a comfortable place to eat it in, or
wanting that, had rather go unfed. Upon these
tables, then, were set the dishes, including an
enormous round of spiced beef at either end,
roasted turkeys and geese as central ornaments,
and such trifles as roasted and boiled
fowls, hams, tongues, headcheese, and smoked
beef between. Varying these meats were
plates of smoking-hot fried doughnuts, hot
biscuit, brown bread, dipped toast, and shortcakes,
and to succeed them upon the bill of
fare came pies of every imaginable variety,
cake of every hue and description, sweetmeats,
pickles, cheese, custards, and fruit.

At a smaller table across the head of the
room stood Miss Barstow and Beatrice, pouring
cups of coffee and tea, which Nancy smilingly
distributed; while Dr. Bliss, Mr. Monckton,
and a few other gentlemen, waited upon
the fair guests at the tables, carving the pièces
de resistance, and urging them upon the delicate
creatures whose creed of manners peremptorily
inculcated resistance to all such
overtures, however much exhausted nature
might crave support. This point, however,
being thoroughly understood among the jocund
swains of these shy Daphnes, was easily
disposed of, and somewhat in this fashion:

“Have a piece of the turkey, Miss Welch?”

“No; I'm obliged to you, Mr. Snell; I can't
get through what I've got on my plate.”

“You ha'n't got nothing but a piece of
bread, as I see. Better have some turkey, it's
first-rate.”

“La! no, I couldn't eat it if I was to take
it.”

“Well, if you don't, maybe it'll eat you, for
one of you's got to suffer, and there it is.”

“O my! Mr. Snell, what be you doing?
Well, then, I shall leave it on my plate.”

Which she did not do.

Mr. Monckton, everywhere at once, attentive
to every one, rather preferring the older
and less attractive of the guests to the younger
and prettier ones, proved an invaluable auxiliary,
and won for himself more golden opinions
than have often crowned more real self-sacrifice.

The admiration excited by his fine face and
polished manner among the younger ladies
might, indeed, have become dangerous to the
peace of their respective swains, had it not
been tempered by the information, dropped
early in the day by Miss Rachel, and industriously
circulated ever since, to the effect that
this was “Beatrice Wansted's beau,” and
therefore not available for any other aspirant.
At a later day, Miss Barstow defended herself
with considerable skill from the charge of
setting a false rumor in circulation, with the
remark:

“Well, if he wasn't, he ought to have been,
unless my eyes deceived me when I came in
with that loaf of cake.”

But with all Mr. Monckton's efforts, he never
lost sight or thought of the friend whose
grief was to him as his own. He saw that
the exertions she forced herself to make were
too great to be sustained; he was sure that
presently she must fail utterly, either in muscle

or nerve—must faint or burst into hysterical
weeping; and he well knew how cruelly
she would afterward reproach herself for either
betrayal.

Watching her with ever-increasing anxiety,
he saw her eyes glazing with the inward fever
that burned upon her cheeks and lips—wander
about the room with the appealing gaze of
some timid creature trapped and doomed to
death, yet seeking despairingly an impossible
escape. He saw her totter and grasp at the
back of a chair for support, and in the next
moment he was at her side, her hand within
his arm.

“One last effort—look about you and try to
smile—don't fail now—remember all these
people!” murmured he in her ear, supporting
her as well as he could without attracting attention,
and leading her rapidly from the
room. In the hall she tottered, and would have
fallen, but with his arm around her waist, he
raised and carried her into the deserted parlor
and laid her upon a sofa. The cool air and
tender twilight of the place revived her, and
opening her eyes, she whispered:

“Thank you. I am so glad—”

“I did not mean to let you spoil all your
effort by breaking down at the last. You have
done nobly.”

Beatrice opened her eyes more consciously,
and fixed them upon his face. Then she said
half defiantly:

“Yes, I have been growing tired for some
time.”

Mr. Monckton bowed with a face which
neither denied nor accepted the proposition,
and Beatrice blushed scarlet.

“You should teach me how to say those
things better,” said she bitterly.

“You need first some food; then warmth
and rest,” replied Monckton quietly. “Go
to your own room, and I will send you something
to eat and drink. You have taken nothing
since breakfast.”

“How do you know?”

“Am I not your friend?”

“I do not like surveillance.”

“You like nothing to-night; but after eating
you will wrap yourself very warmly, and
go to sleep—to oblige me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I cannot be happy unless you are
at least physically comfortable—because I am
your friend.”

“Ah!” shivered Beatrice, as if the word
had hurt her; and with a sudden, uncontrollable
impulse, she laid both her hands in his,
and fixed those piteous, eloquent eyes upon
his face.

“My friend! Are you indeed my friend?”
moaned she. “Then pray that I may die to-night.”

“Beatrice! No, child, you shall not be
alone through the sharpness of this agony—
you could not bear it yet. Come into the other
room, and sit beside that saintly old man;
the peace and perfectness of his calm will
soothe you, and the thought of the battles he
has fought and conquered will give you
strength for your own. Come.”

She suffered him to raise and lead her from
the room, just as the advance guard of the
devastating army in the dining-room appeared
at the lower end of the hall, returning upon
their footsteps. Monckton quickly opened
the door of the east room, entered with Beatrice,
and closed it behind them. The grandparents,
sitting placidly at either side the fire,
with a little tea-table between them, looked
up and smiled.

“Miss Wansted is so much fatigued with
her hospitable efforts that I persuaded her to
come in and rest a little, and, if I might venture,
I should suggest to Mrs. Barstow to
make her drink a cup of tea.”

So speaking, with the easy manner of one
who knows his presence and his proposition
sure to be favorably received, Mr. Monckton
seated Beatrice in a comfortable chair near her
grandmother, left the room in search of a cup
and saucer, and brought back with them a
plate containing some bits of chicken and a
piece of bread.

“Now, Miss Beatrice, if you will allow me,
I shall recommend as much chicken and
bread as you can possibly dispose of; and to
show that I really believe in my own prescription,
I shall go and bring yet another plate,
cup and saucer, and set you a good example.
You see, Mrs. Barstow, we have been so busy
in waiting upon other people that we have as
yet done nothing for ourselves, and I fear
this young lady is quite exhausted.”

“I haven't a doubt of it.” replied the old
lady, with emphasis. “It was always the way
with her from a child; if she got excited, or
tired, or any thing, she wouldn't eat perhaps
not a mouthful in a day, and then, of course,
she'd break down. She isn't very rugged at
the best of times, nor her mother wasn't before

[ILLUSTRATION]

"The Bees going home."

[Description: 454EAF. Page 079. In-line image of a sled carrying a family and driven by horses heads through a snowy forest, their path lit by hand-held lanterns.] her. Somehow, these pretty creters don't
seem to wear so well as the plain, home-spun
ones—like Rachel, say.”

“My wife probably wishes to say, sir, that,
without unnaturally giving the preference to
either of her daughters, she values each for
her own peculiar gifts,” said the patriarch,
somewhat severely; and his wife, stirring her
tea, vehemently exclaimed:

“Certain, certain; that is what I meant.”

Mr. Monckton, replying to both with a smile
that conveyed every thing or nothing, as the
receiver chose, left the room, and presently returning
with his own supper, drew a chair to
the table; and while eating and drinking
with unfeigned relish, contrived to insist upon
Beatrice's doing the same. When she would
take no more, he contrived that her grandmother
should suggest her reclining upon the
soft, old-fashioned couch, and himself threw a
shawl across her feet. Then, returning with
a smile her look of gratitude, he set aside the
little tea-table, and devoted himself to conversation
with the deacon and his wife upon
topics which he knew to be especially interesting
to his silent auditor.

Thus was he still engaged when the jingle
of sleigh-bells announced that the guests were
about to depart; and Mr. Monckton feeling
that he also owed a duty to Miss Rachel, rose
to fulfil it, seeing, with quiet satisfaction, as
he passed the couch, that Beatrice had fallen
fast asleep.

“Ef there a'n't some hosses' legs broke 'fore we
all get home, why I lose my guess,” remarked
the father of a family, standing rather discontentedly
upon the doorstep, and examining
the gray, watery sky, the plashy and uneven
road, and the erratic movements of the sleigh
just driving from the door.

“Now, look out, girls, for some fun. If you
don't get upset before you reach Four Corners,
it won't be my fault!” exclaimed a jolly
young farmer, escorting a bevy of shrieking,
exclamatory girls to the same point. And half
an hour later the last guest had said good-night,
and the Old Garrison returned to its
usual condition of quiet and repose.