 | CHAPTER XXII.
A LETTER FROM AUNT RACHEL. The shadow of Moloch mountain |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
A LETTER FROM AUNT RACHEL.
“My Dear Niece Beatrice: It is a long time
since we heard any thing from you, and I trust that
both you and brother Israel are in good health
and prospered in your undertakings. We are all
in the enjoyment of our usual health, except your
grandmother, who has an attack of rheumatism,
from standing at the porch-door talking to Jacob,
our hired man, about the new calf. This calf is
the daughter of Polly, the red and white heifer
that you liked so well and dressed with a garland
of wild flowers, which she pulled off and eat up.
That was last Independence-day, you remember, and
you got mostly blue flowers, because, you said, she
must be red, blue, and white. The new calf is very
pretty, and we think of raising it; but we shall not
name it until you come home, as you may have a
choice in the matter. Grandfather is very well, considering,
and often speaks of you. He says he wants
to see you very much, and hopes you will not have
grown out of knowledge. He forgets, being old, that
you are grown up already, and will not change outwardly
any more until you begin to grow old, which I
suppose will not be yet.
“Nancy is well, I suppose, but she tires me very
much through forgetting what I tell her. Yesterday
she set a flat dish under the churn-stand, pulled out
the plug and let the buttermilk run, and then forgot to
stop it until it had flashed out of the dish all over the
floor. Then she forgets to make grandma's farina for
breakfast until I go out and do it, and that disturbs
grandma very much. But we all have our trials, and I
know these are not as great as those some are called to
bear.
“There is no news in Milvor, except that Joachim
Brewster and Semanthy Brewster are married, which
many of us think a burning shame—not but what it is
better than some other ways of living which I will not
allude to. Last month they found the bones of poor
little Ruthie in Black Briar Pool, with the remains of
her dress and shoes still on her. The body had drifted
under the bank where it shelves over, and lay hid among
the weeds. It was Joachim found it, going fishing,
and a good many knew the piece of calico clinging to
the poor arm-bones. It all seems straight enough, and
they had a funeral, and a coroner's inquest, and it was
put down in the town records that it was Ruth Brewster
that died; but somehow my mind misgives me that
it is not all exactly right. I am sure I do not know
how it can be wrong, but I would not trust Semanthy
Brewster with a dish of apple-parings if I was particular
the pig should get them; and as for Joachim, he
never had much force anyway, and I guess she trains
him round pretty much as she has a mind to.
“I do not know of any more news, my dear niece,
except some that I suppose will surprise you a good
deal—and that is, that I have concluded to be married
to Wyman Bliss, and we shall have the wedding next
fourth of March, the same day that the new President
of date to start from. I hope, my dear niece, that you
will not feel that I am doing any thing unbecoming in
a maiden lady who is no longer young; but it seemed
to me as good as any thing that could be done, for
your grandfather is getting so old it seems as if there
ought to be some other man round the house, and Wyman,
being a doctor, makes it real comfortable in case
of sudden sickness or any thing happening unexpectedly.
“Grandfather and grandmother seem very well
pleased with the arrangement, and grandfather is going
to give up the farm to us—which, I suppose, means
to me, for the doctor has his hands full with his profession—as
is no wonder when you consider that there
is not so good a doctor in the country. But though we
take the farm now, you need not be afraid, my dear
niece, that you are to be cheated out of your rights, or
Israel either, as I shall explain to him when I see him,
which I hope will be soon, for neither Wyman nor I
would do any thing unfair or try to get the upper hand,
especially when you know, Trix, that you've always
been like a child—I will not say to me, being a maiden
lady, but in the house, and we all take an interest in
you just as we always did. I have begun to get ready
somewhat, but I should be glad of a little of your taste
about my new gown—I refer to the one I shall be married
in, and also to know whether I had better wear a
bonnet; for as for flowers on my head, or a veil, or any
such nonsense, I must say I should not consider it respectable.
Also, grandmamma would like a new blonde
cap, she says, and perhaps you will buy the material
for her. Also for the dress, for which I enclose the
money, twenty dollars. It is a large sum for one dress,
but I want it good and handsome, and something that
will be serviceable. I should say a cinnamon brown
bearing on a chocolate would be a good color, but perhaps
a gray would be better. For service, I should prefer
a black silk, but I suppose that would not be considered
proper for a bride—that is, for a person going
to be married.
“But, above all things, my dear Trix, I want to see
you. We shall have a quilting-bee here all day Thursday
of next week, and I wish you could make it so as
to be at home. To-day is Tuesday; so that gives you
ten days to say good-by in, and to buy the lace for
grandmother and the other that I mentioned.
“Give my love to your uncle, and, if you please, you
can mention what I say.
With this letter in her hand, and a smile
upon her lips, Beatrice sought her uncle in his
dressing-room, and tapping gently at the door,
was bidden to enter. Obeying, she started
back in some surprise—hardly recognizing her
relative beneath the mask of soap-suds with
which his manly visage was adorned.
“The deuce! Is it you, Trix? I thought
it was the fellow with my boots. But come
in, little girl—come in, if you're not afraid to.
I'm almost through dressing, and then I must
hurry off down-town; so you might as well
say what you have to say here as anywhere.
You'd like a little money, eh? See how sharp
your old uncle is at guessing.”
“No, indeed, uncle; I have not half spent
what you gave me last time. You are so
generous I never have the opportunity to ask
for money. I came this time to give you
some news.”
“What! you're not going to be married?”
asked Mr. Barstow, turning from the glass,
razor in hand, and contemplating his niece
with comic dismay.
“Oh! no, uncle, I have no thoughts of it;
but I will read you Aunt Rachel's letter, and
then you will know all about it.”
“Rachel! The old folks aren't dead! No
—you wouldn't look so smiling. Well, there!
I am a fool to keep guessing, when, if I hold
my tongue, I shall know all about it; so, go
ahead, Trix.”
And Mr. Barstow effectually sealed his own
lips with a fresh brushful of lather, while his
niece, perching herself upon the edge of the
writing-table which adorned the merchant's
dressing-room, read the letter through without
interruption. As she finished, Mr. Barstow's
face issued from the napkin, which finished
his tonsorial operations, rubicund, smiling,
and smooth as a new-shaven lawn.
“The jolly old sister going to get married
at last!” exclaimed he. “Well, if that isn't
the last dodge! And Wyman Bliss, too!
Why, I knew him when he was a boy, and
he's always been hanging round after Rachel
ever since. Well, we must go to the wedding,
and have a rousing good time, and we'll make
them some presents. What do you say to a
dinner-service of plate with the coat-of-arms,
and all just as we have here at home?”
“I am afraid they would never use it, uncle,”
replied Beatrice gently. “But there are a
great many things that would be delightful
to give them. Aunt Rachel has sent to me to
buy her wedding-dress, you know—”
“And sent twenty dollars to pay for it! Ha,
ha!” laughed Mr. Barstow. “Why, a first-rate
silk gown, fit for a—`a person that is going
to be married'—ha, ha!—would cost a
hundred, wouldn't it?”
“The silk itself would cost about fifty, and
the trimming as much as any one chose to
give,” said Trix.
“Well, you go down-town and pick out the
very best and handsomest silk in the shops,
and the nicest sort of trimming to go with it,
and mind there's plenty of it—both gown and
trimming—and send the bills to me; or had
you rather have the cost in hand?”
“A little of both, please, uncle. I may have
places.”
“Very well; here is a check for two hundred
dollars; and when that is gone, just
drive down to the office, and send up for me,
or if I am out, for Rowley. As for credit, you
can use that at discretion. And while you are
about it, Trix, you might as well get yourself
and June new dresses for the wedding—something
handsome, but not showy enough to
make the good Milvor folks feel ashamed of
their own rig. That wouldn't be good manners,
you know.”
“No, indeed, uncle; and for my own part, I do
not need a single thing; I have a great plenty
of dresses for a year to come. But, uncle, do
you think Mrs. Charlton had better go to the
wedding?”
“Why, she's one of ourselves, isn't she?”
demanded Mr. Barstow, in considerable surprise.
“I supposed of course she would go.”
Beatrice, folding and creasing the corner of
the envelope she held in her hand, made no
reply.
Mr. Barstow looked at her a moment in
much perplexity, whisked an atom of dust
from his coat-sleeve, and then asked:
“Don't you want her, Trix?”
“To tell the truth, uncle, I think she would
be rather out of place at Milvor, and I do not
believe Aunt Rachel would enjoy seeing her.”
“Oh! well, that alters the case. Very likely
Rachel might feel a little troubled about
the country ways and homely fashions of the
Old Garrison House—”
“Uncle Israel! you don't suppose I meant
that there was any thing to be ashamed of in
our dear old home? I am sure I wish every
one was as honest, and truthful, and reliable
as Aunt Rachel, or that other people's ways
were half as good as the country ways and
homely fashions of the Old Garrison House.
No matter who goes to Aunt Rachel's wedding,
there will not be a better woman there
than herself.”
If Mr. Barstow had been surprised before,
he was now actually petrified, and stood
staring at his niece, who never, in the whole
course of her life, had spoken so vehemently
in his presence before.
Beatrice, looking up, met his eyes, and her
own filled with tears of shame. Springing
suddenly from her seat, she threw her arms
about his neck.
“Oh! forgive me, Uncle Israel! I was
very, very wrong to speak so to you, but I—I
am not well, I believe—I am hardly myself.
It will do me good to go home and be quiet
for a while. Let me go to-day.”
“Not to-day, dearie, or to-morrow, but as
soon as we can make you suitably ready,” said
Uncle Israel, tenderly smoothing the bright
hair straying over his breast, while his honest
face never lost its look of wonder and concern.
“Yes, little girl, you shall go and stay until
after the wedding; but then, you know, you
are to come home for good and all. This is
home, remember.”
“Thank you, dear, dear uncle.”
“Thank you for nothing, you mean. Don't
you know that I can't get on without you, you
monkey? And as for asking June to the
wedding, I believe you are right. She would
be a little out of place, and it might be uncomfortable
all round. She can stay with her
uncle at the Grandarc while we are away, eh?”
“Just as you please, uncle,” murmured
Beatrice.
“Then that's settled; and now give me a
kiss and let me go, and you take the carriage
and go buy the wedding-finery.”
| CHAPTER XXII.
A LETTER FROM AUNT RACHEL. The shadow of Moloch mountain | |