University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

WE were awaked next morning by a perfect concert of
cat birds and song sparrows,—waked to see the sun
rise on our new habitation, and our untried country life.

Who does not remember some first awaking in a strange
place?—the quiet lying still as the eye takes in unwonted
walls and windows that are bright with the old familiar sunlight,—the
gradual gathering up of the stray ends of remembrance—the
where, the how, and the whence,—and then the
sudden spring of both mind and body at the thought of the
new and unproved things that await one below stairs.

I remember it all, though now what my waking eyes first
rest upon has been so often seen in every variety of early
light, that I can hardly realize its having ever looked strange
to me;—as hardly as that the cat birds which have sung at
my matinées this summer, were then unheard of in the musical
world: or by some remote possibility of long life, were
on that very morning hiding their undeveloped feathers and
faculties together, beneath a blue egg-shell. So have we
both emerged!—they from the nest, I from the child's mist
which was pervious to nothing but sunshine.

Uncle Ned was at the door by the time we had breakfasted;
and after some words of greeting and advice, and a
long message from Mrs. Ned and Mrs. McNamara about
our health and happiness, he and I set forth on a walk. All
new to me,—all glittering with fresh dew-drops!

My uncle was in his element, and talked almost as fast as
I did. Now he led the way through a little thicket of young
trees, charging me to tell my father that there was the place
to transplant from; now he pointed out some fair little
flower and told of his success or failure when he had tried to
inure it to his garden. It was in that walk I first saw
the moccasin flower, or rather its bud, for they were not
near their full size and had scarce begun to show colour.
But we dug them up—vain experiment! and Mr. Ned told
of yellow ones that he had found; and then I hoped that
every green bud a little paler than usual belonged to the
yellow species. We found too the fair pink azalea,—the
shadblossom—with more literal but less spiritual fairness;—
and mosses and ferns, and little nameless white flowers that
to this day I know only by sight.

There is nothing left of that walk but the remembrance.
The child and the man have both passed away:—the slight
flower has raised up its head and shaken out its full petals,
—the stronger plant has withered and been cut down.

We came back in a great heat, for the sun had got the
vantage-ground and was pouring down his beams with as
perfect unconcern as if we had been pine-apples. Mr. Ned
threw himself on the ground in the shade, while I went off
to dispose of my spoils. Presently I heard,

“Grace, Grace! here's a new flower for you!” I ran, but
all I could see at first was my uncle, still on the grass and
laughing very contentedly,—then I espied the object of his
contemplation in a slow-moving mud-turtle. I don't know
why we laughed—unless our spirits were just waiting for a
chance, but the mud-turtle had some reason to turn about
and laugh at us.

“Now run,” said my uncle, “and see if we are to have any
luncheon, for I must be going home.”

“Where's mamma, Caddie?” I called out as I approached
the house.

“Sure I don't know, Miss, but she's got company.”

“Company!” I hesitated, but curiosity carried it over
timidity and I marched on.

“Yes ma'am,” was the first thing I heard as I entered,
“do you think you will like it here, Mrs. Howard? yes, I
do hope so indeed—I shall be so glad,—yes ma'am.”

My stepmother was in the kitchen, cap on head and broom
in hand, and opposite to her stood a lady who looked as if
house-cleaning and moving had formed no chapter of her existence.
Not very tall nor very large, rather delicately
formed indeed,—her morning dress spotless, a nice little
parasol in her hand; while on her head the very pink of pink
handkerchiefs selfdenyingly received the dust wherewith our
atmosphere was loaded.

“And this is one of your daughters, yes,” said the lady as
she caught sight of me,—“the oldest I suppose, yes ma'am.
How old is the youngest?”

“This is the youngest,” replied my stepmother.

“The youngest? but my dear Mrs. Howard you surprise
me indeed, yes. I hope they will come and see me very
often, yes ma'am. And won't you let one of them go home
with me and stay till you get settled?—or both of them,—
yes ma'am, it would give me so much pleasure.”

“There is only this one at home now,” said my stepmother
smiling, and I think she could hardly be prevailed on to leave
me without her important assistance. But we are very
much obliged to you for such a kind offer, Miss Caffery, and
for coming to see us in all this dust and confusion.”

“Dust?” said Miss Caffery,—“O I have seen dust before,
ma'am—yes very often; and I can always breathe where my
friends can. Not obliged at all—it would be only a pleasure
to me, yes. But I wish you could come out of it for a while.”

“I will come and see you as soon as I am out of it,” said
Mrs. Howard, “you may be sure of that.”

“Yes ma'am, pray do. And do send to me if I can be of
any use,—I should be so glad to help you; yes ma'am, I
should indeed.”

And the pink handkerchief departed, somewhat the worse
I fear for its sojourn in our kitchen, and we saw it passing
along the walk till it reached the woods and was hidden
like a rose in the green foliage. Then Mrs. Howard and I
looked at each other and laughed—at least I did—heartily;
but my stepmother soon checked herself and then me.

“Come,” she said, “you must not let your amusement
change into ridicule,—Miss Caffery is by no means a subject
for it.”

“Who is Miss Caffery?”

“One of our neighbours.”

“One of our neighbours! I didn't know we had any.”

“Have you forgotten the smoke that came out of the
woods in two or three places?” said Mrs. Howard smiling.

“No, but mamma you laughed at that, so I thought maybe
it was nothing after all. Where does Miss Caffery live?”

“Some distance below us, on the lake; but I don't think
you have seen her house—it is almost hidden by trees.”

“But what is she?”

“She is a lady.”

“Dear mamma, I know that! I mean who is she, and
what does she do, and who does she live with?”

“She is Miss Easy Caffery, for your first question; and
for the second, I shall know better what she does when I
have seen more of her. She lives with her cousin, Miss
Avarintha Bain—or rather Miss Bain lives with her.”

“Alone?”

“Alone in the parlour,—I presume they have servants in
the kitchen.”

“Well they have got a pair of names between them!” I
remarked. “But mamma, have we any more neighbours?”

“I think it is probable, but Gracie run and call your
father and uncle to lunch. If they had not been more forbearing
than your chickens we should have been deafened
by this time, and they would have been hoarse—which unhappily,
chickens never are.”

This was our last day of fine weather. We had first a
long quaker storm, and then a long storm of some other
kind and of most unquakerlike vehemence, with only a day's
sunshine between. Rain, rain,—the potatoes washed out of
the ground and I kept close prisoner in the house. Now
there was literally not one habitable apartment. The bedroom
walls were so damp that the windows were dripping
with water every morning when we got up,—(Mrs. McNamara
could not imagine why we were not sick); and though
we managed to get three dusted chairs and a fire when
evening came; by day both parlour and kitchen were a
compound of paint and plaster—streams of cold air and of
soapsuds. If I had but been a mason or a cleaner all would
have been well enough. I had no earthly objection to touching
either mortar or soap; but merely to see and smell

them was not pleasant; and danger as well as discomfort
came hand in hand with the damp air from without. As a
last resort I betook myself to the garret, and reigned queen
of the new floor and the old lumber. It was a dear-bought
eminence. There I sat, hour after hour and day after day,
with nothing to do, with no one to speak to: sometimes
watching the carpenter bees, who thought our rafters were
laid for their express accommodation,—sometimes looking
over at the misty Moon across the lake; and then wondering
wearily what Kate was doing, and whether she wanted
me as I wanted her. I wonder at myself now for those long
lonely days.

I had besought our whitewasher to get me a cat, but the
cat was long in coming,—still the mere hope was good, as
far as it went. Now and then when I got very tired I
clambered down the steep ladder-like steps, and wrapping
myself up, went and stood by the painter to watch his upstrokes
and down-strokes.

Then when the weather held up a little I would run out
to see my chickens; but the poor things with their half-grown
wings drooping to the ground, looked as desolate as
I was; and their shrill piercing “peep! peep!” rang in my
ears for an hour after, and gave me the heartache.

At length I bethought me of overhauling some of the
boxes that encumbered my dominions,—it would be employment
if nothing more; and dragging one out to front the
window, I set to work. The amount of will in my finger-ends
supplied the place of strength; and as the fastenings
were also wanting in that last particular, the box—not
exactly flew open—but was with some hard work forced to
reveal its contents. They were numerous—odds and ends
of all sorts; but among them I did find one little volume—a
prayer-book. It may be questioned whether prayer-book
was ever so devoured. Not the service part—I cared little
for that—but the hymns,—they gave me something to do;
and many a one I learned in those solitary days in the garret.
This held me some time, and then I had another search
which produced Mrs. Sherwood's “Roxobel.” The intensity
of delight and appreciation with which I read it cannot be
told.

I was poring over my little red volume one morning,

when I heard my name called. Down stairs I went, even
to the kitchen, and there stood Mrs. Howard holding in her
arms a little grey and white kitten. I should despair of
making anybody who had never felt the like, understand how
glad I was. My frock was immediately outstretched to receive
her, and I carried off my new companion with a charge
from Mrs. Howard “not to spoil the cat.” To which I
replied,

“Ah but she has just come!”

And with this universal reason for spoiling—whether
cats or children—I was quite satisfied, and petted my kitty
to her heart's content and mine. I was alone no longer;
and to do the little thing justice, she seemed to think almost
as much of my playmate qualifications as I thought of hers.
I might have quoted Montaigne. “Who knows whether
puss is not more amused with me than I am with puss?”—
It was my delight to run dancing towards her, and then to
see the raised back and sidelong jump as with outstretched
paws she darted to catch my foot. A couple of kittens,
kind reader! I fear you think them scarce worth writing
about: yet many a time did Mr. and Mrs. Howard stand
with pleased eyes and relaxed muscles to watch our gambols
on the gravel-walk which was now laid in front of the house.

We were taking a walk one day—I and my little cat;
and puss was quietly sleeping in my arms, except when
some misstep of mine giving her a slight jar she would purr
a sleepy little acknowledgement; and wandering on I came
at last to the western boundary of our premises,—in this
direction not very far from the house. The fence did not
divide us from the turnpike, but from the grounds of our
next neighbour, Mr. Collingwood. Formerly he had owned
our glen, and then a farm road had come through without
interruption,—now, where I stood, a barplace cut it in two,
and on either hand stretched away the young thorn hedge
and its guardian fence. I stood a long time looking over.

The road went naturally on, though now the tracks were
almost overgrown, and at a little distance from me took a
short turn to the right behind the woods. Woods hemmed
it in on the left also; but just beyond the turn there was an
opening through which I could see a field of spring grain, then
more woods, and further still and to the left—as the ground

sunk towards the lake—a gleam of its bright waters. The
spring air brought almost as sweet ideas as odours; and
two phœbe birds were telling each other just what I felt.

I had a longing desire to pass on, and to sit in the shade
of a beautiful cedar that was drooping over the road. I tried
the bars—they were fast, or too heavy for me to move. No
matter, I could climb well enough; so putting down my
sleepy cat that she might run under I went over, took up
puss and sat down beneath the cedar tree. I know not how
long I had been there, but I was lost in the attempt to
find out how phœbe No. 1 could understand phœbe No. 2,
when I heard a loud impatient bark; and as a great dog
dashed out of the woods, kitty sprang from my arms with a
farewell scratch, and up into the tree.

Here was a situation!

I was somewhat afraid of the dog, and still more for the
cat; so backing up against the tree I alternated between
“poor kitty!” and “go away sir!”—while the dog threw his
head back, and barked at the limb of the tree with his whole
heart.

Then in a moment a voice had called the dog off and
ordered him home, and the owner of the voice had walked
up to me.

I believe I looked at him as if he might have been a party
to the onset, but a pleasant smile reassured me; and I
pointed out the only visible white paw of my little companion
where she lay hid, far out of my reach, and asked if
he would not keep the dog away till my kitten came down.
The danger had frightened me out of my usual shyness.

“The dog will not come back,” said the gentleman; and
reaching up his hand he disengaged the cat—after some
efforts and though she spit at him vigorously—and deposited
her in my apron.

“I am very sorry my dog has frightened you,” he said,—
“does this little cat belong to Miss Howard?”

“No sir.”

“No?”

“It belongs to me sir.”

“But me is very indefinite,” said the gentleman smiling.
“I thought you must be one of the young ladies from Glen
Luna.”

“Yes sir, I do live there—at least I am going to;—but I
am not Miss Howard, I am only Grace.”

“And why not Miss Howard?”

“Because my sister is not married yet.”

The gentleman laughed, and then as we walked along to
the bar-place he said,

“I hope this little felina of yours will not be the worse for
her fright.”

“No sir, but—that isn't her name.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes sir,—at least I never gave it to her. Do you think
it is a pretty one?”

He laughed again.—

“I see I must call things by their right names,” he said.
“Well, when you know latin you may call your cat felina,
—at present I would recommend Muff or Tippet; and now
shall I put you both over the fence together?—or stay, I can
let down these bars.”

His strength readily accomplished this, and with a very
pleasant farewell we parted.

“I am very much obliged to you, sir!” I said, turning
round again with the little cat in my arms just as the last bar
was replaced.

The gentleman rested both hands on the topmost one, and
smilingly inquired,

“For what?”

“For getting kitty down from the tree.”

“That was rather an act of justice to kitty than of favour
to you, Miss Grace. I was bound to repair the mischief I
had occasioned.”

“But it was the dog's mischief.”

“I am afraid the dog's mischief will always be visited
upon me—he is not a responsible person.”

“Well I thank you very much sir,—and for letting down
the bars for me, too.”