 | CHAPTER XI. Dollars and cents |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
Of more arrivance.
Shakspeare.
WE had a busy week of it. Time was, when both
Christmas and Newyear were days of expectation
and gilt books,—now, having to make all our presents, one
day seemed enough to prepare for; and as we were somewhat
belated we had agreed to keep Newyear. Each one had
her secrets—each chose her particular workroom or corner;
and any other eyes or feet that ventured within the
tabooed region were met with little screams of prohibition
and dismay. The house was full of mystery,—on the
carpet lay strange scraps of silk and paper—from the pantry
came no less unaccountable poundings. Things were
made of nobody could tell what, and savours came from
nobody could tell where. We were kept in a state of
delightful uncertainty.
“O Kate my dear! how you do smell of varnish!” said
I when she came up to bed, Newyear's eve.
“I!” said Kate.
“You.—What have you been doing?”
“Papa has been varnishing a picture—do you suppose
that could infect my clothes?”
“Can't tell—something has. O me! you are all mastick
or copal—whichever it is.”
And Kate bent down over me and gave me, as she said,
the last kiss for that year. But I think she gave me another
when I was half asleep.
We had been busy about things we knew not of,—busy
all that week in making wings for our spirits—in brightening
up our hearts to reflect the sunbeams on that Newyear's
doubled—quadrupled. O people may talk of the spring
of the year! there is no spring like that of a young heart.
Its fresh leaves, its unexpected flowers, the new life inhaled
at every breath; till the spirit swells like a mountain
stream, with the numberless rills of pleasure,—like the
throat of one of May's early songsters that would fain tell
what it feels, but cannot. And so on that bitter cold first
of January, we young ones had spring.
Our presents were but simple, except that my father gave
us each a handsome book: for the rest we had worked
slippers and ruffles and needle-books, and homemade bonbonières,—whence
the varnish. Then Miss Caffery sent
us each a little geranium, and Farmer Collingwood an
Indian basket of lady-apples,—so we thought ourselves
well off.
The moment breakfast was over, Stephanie began to
hurry herself and us.
“You see,” she said, “it will take us some time to dress,
and I wouldn't miss a visiter for anything.”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Howard, “you forget that
we are in the country. What visiters can you expect?”
“But some might come, mamma,” said Kate, “and it's
just as well to be ready.”
“They always visit here”—said Stephanie,—“the Captain
told me so himself.”
So while I went over everything in the drawing-room
with my eye and hand (voted the quickest and carefullest
in the house) they arranged the cake-basket.
“What's all this for?” said Mr. Howard pausing before
the table where Kate had just placed it, and coolly helping
himself to a macaroon. “Your cake will be nothing but
chips by tea-time.”
“But it isn't meant for tea.”
“What then?”
“Company.”
“Company!—” it was quite unnecessary to say more;
and presently my father helped himself to macaroon the
second, remarking,
“I suppose I'm in no danger of interfering with anybody.”
“Why not?” said Stephanie.
“Because there is nobody to interfere with.”
“Well now, Mr. Howard, why shouldn't gentlemen
come here to-day?”
“Why should they?—even granting there were any to
come. To be sure I could go over to the Moon and beat
up recruits—I daresay I could pick up somebody that is
fond of macaroons;”—and Mr. Howard took a third.
“Now papa,” said Kate putting her little finger in his
buttonhole, “will you please to let my cake-basket alone?
—our resources are not inexhaustible.”
“But so long as I have enough, my dear, what does it
matter?—you can eat poundcake for tea.”
Our gravity was so completely overset, that even Mr.
Howard's face relaxed a little.
“Why should they come, indeed!” said Stephanie.
“Because there are three ladies here, and ladies are not as
plenty as blackberries in this quarter of the world.”
My father shook his head, as if the blackberries had
the advantage in more respects than one.
“Three ladies!—I wonder where you studied multiplication!”
“There is Mrs. Howard, one, and I am two”—
“I always thought you were something besides yourself,”—remarked
my father.
—“And Kate makes three,” concluded Stephanie not
noticing the interruption.
“Kate is nothing but a rosebud,” said my father looking
at her fondly and arranging her hair after his own fashion,—
“you need not put her in your grown-up class; and as I
am in no haste to have her gathered, the longer she stays
out of it the better.”
“I have heard of people's doing such strange things as to
admire rosebuds and pick 'em too,” said Stephanie.
“Not in my garden!” said Mr. Howard, roused to an
extraordinary fit of communicativeness—“and if they do
admire it shall be across the fence. Let the bud open of
itself, but don't try to force it. A terra incognita has its
own peculiar advantages. Ah Katie!” he added, half smiling
and yet half sadly too, “you are certainly showing
colour in spite of me!” And with one kiss on her forehead
had been any Newyear's folly in Kate's head, my father's
words had quite cured it. If the colour came the tears
came too. But with Miss Holbrook “to the fore” there
was nothing to do but dress.
“My gracious me!” said Stephanie, “this cold weather
sends my hair flying fifty ways, and I should like to keep a
little of it at home; for I am firmly persuaded that somebody
will come—Mr. and Mrs. Howard to the contrary.
Though by the way, Kate, if your father hadn't been sure
of it too, he wouldn't have said all he did. But you have
your instructions now, my dear,—you can copy the children
in the Fairchild family—`stand behind your mamma's
chair and nobody will take any notice of you.' Except of
course those people who come to look at nothing else. I
am afraid to think,” added Stephanie with a mischievous
glance, “how large a proportion of our visiters will fall under
that head.”
But Kate's mind lay too high for the subject—as a mountain-top
rears itself pure and fair above the lower strata of
clouds.
“It don't much matter—” concluded Miss Holbrook,—
“so that somebody only comes.”
Somebody came,—and first of all, Squire Bulger. He
was a heavy weighing and looking man, with a very “slow”
face, that seemed as if it must be always in the last century
—and a light brown wig; but nothing could be more
marked than his politeness. Approaching my stepmother
he stood before her with his feet in the first position, and
making a very low bow he ejaculated,
“Compliments of the season, ma'am.”
Then stepping off to the left where Stephanie sat he made
a bow some inches smaller, and repeated,
“Compliments of the season, miss.”
Kate was served with a still fainter performance; and
when my turn came, Squire Bulger so nearly stood upright,
and gave me so little but “the season,” that I felt not at all
flattered.
Then appeared Mr. McLoon—in a small whirl of coattails.
“Good morning, Mrs. Howard! happy Newyear! How
Miss Grace, hope you're well? happy Newyear! Mr.
Howard's out I suppose?”
“Yes, he walked down to the Bird's Nest.”
“Ah! yes—ladies are so scarce here that one has to
make the most of them. But my dear Miss Howard, bless
my soul! is that a grave you're digging in the garden?”
“No,” said Kate, who would have laughed if she hadn't
been vexed; “papa wanted some kind of a frame for cauliflowers,
but the ground froze before it was finished.”
“Oh—must have been what they call a `cold frame', I
should think,—I congratulate the cauliflowers. But do you
know it startled me dreadfully,—really Mr. Howard ought
to have it covered with boards or something till the `cold
frame' gets there. It's quite shocking, you know, to have
such things even suggested. Good morning Mrs. Howard,
good morning young ladies;” and Mr. McLoon took his
disagreeable face and laugh away.
We abused him for a while to our hearts' content: then
came quick smart footsteps over the frozen ground.
“`Scarlet's asy seen at a distance, anyway,'” said Kate
laughing. “I am sure that is our marching friend.”
Captain De Camp it was, and Lieutenant Henderson,
and Mr. Snow Freeman—who had come to see his namesake
and help the two officers spend their furlough.
“It is a perfectly beautiful day,” said the Captain, his
eyes quite rivalling the sky,—“really beautiful!”
“We have been birdth-nethting, Mith Holbrook,” said
Lieutenant Henderson.
“Well,” said Stephanie, “and what did you bring
away?”
“Only a few straws,” said the Captain laughing.
“I should hope so,” said Kate,—“spoils from such expeditions
are not creditable.”
“I do athure you,” said Mr. Henderson, whose moral
nature wanted the archetype, “that when any gentleman
thaid `Happy Newyear, Mith Bain,' the replied `Thame to
you, thir.'”
We all laughed in spite of ourselves; but more at the
speaker than with him—if he had only known it.
“And then,” said Mr. Freeman, “when Miss Caffery
six feet in our lodgings, ma'am.' Too bad, isn't it, Miss
Howard, to pun upon my unlucky name?”
“And why unlucky?” said Mrs. Howard when the Captain's
little rolling fire of a laugh had subsided.
“Upon my word I don't know ma'am—except that it's a
cold, uncomfortable kind of a name.”
“It carries no uncomfortable look with it,” said my stepmother
smiling; “and as to coldness, Mr. Freeman, people
will have the pleasure of finding out that you are warmer
than they had supposed.”
“To be sure ma'am,—that never occurred to me before;
—and capable of being melted—ha! ha!”
“At any season of the year,” said the Captain.
“And even by thtarths,” said Mr. Henderson.
“I think you are all making a snow-ball of me,” said
Mr. Freeman, trying hard not to laugh at his own wit.
“Then you'll grow bigger, which ithn't to be dethired,”
said Mr. Henderson.
Not laugh!—there is a degree of absurdity which unchains
all one's muscles,—we laughed till we cried; or till
as Mr. Henderson expressed it, “the thtarths were obthcured.”
Our next and last visiters were Squire Suydam and Mr.
Collingwood, who came rather late and together.
“Same to you Squire,” said Stephanie in reply to his
greeting; but when Mr. Rodney shook hands with her, the
intention to give him a like answer failed; for as she remarked
afterwards, “his eyes looked so much like dark
port-holes, that she didn't care to throw in a match.”
“My father was not well enough to come out to-day,
ma'am,” he said addressing Mrs. Howard, “and could only
send his good wishes.”
“And you must carry back ours,—I think Mr. Howard
has gone to the Lea himself.”
“I am sure he has mamma—at least I am sure he said he
would.”
“Is that a corner wherein Mr. Howard may change his
mind?” said Mr. Rodney smiling.
“He seldom changes his mind—it is only a corner where
there might be hindrances.”
“And pray,” said Squire Suydam glancing at the book
which lay by her on the causeuse, “is it the fashion now
Miss Kate to humbug gentlemen into the belief that you
read between visits?”
“The last Philadelphia novelty, sir,” said Kate laughing.
“And what have you got here?—Plutarch! as I am
alive! Comparing Captain De Camp with Cæsar?”
There was the slightest possible curl of the lips that
answered,
“No sir.”
“And what do you think of the gentleman in question?”
“I should think more of him if he had been a gentleman,”
said Kate with a cool misapplication of his words,—“I have
no great fancy for savage heroes.”
“I'll tell you what I think, Squire Suydam,” said Stephanie,
“that when a man gets leave of absence for a day
to see his mother, it's absurd to spend half of it in visiting
somebody else.”
“That's what he does with his furloughs, is it?” said Mr.
Suydam,—“I thought they came pretty fast. But you
can't tell what he gets them for, Miss Stephanie—the present
Mrs. De Camp has little to do with it, maybe. So you
like modern heroes best, Miss Kate?”
“If I could find them, sir,”—she said with a voice and cheek
a little at variance.
“Find 'em, eh? Well, look sharp and maybe you will.”
“Looking sharp might be a destructive mode of proceeding,”
said Stephanie, as the Squire turned to speak to Mrs.
Howard. “Mr. Collingwood, you are well read in the
ancient poets I suppose—do you believe that a coup d'œil is
ever a coup de grace?”
“I have heard an old saying which may perhaps answer
as well, Miss Holbrook—`un coup de langue est pire qu'un
coup de lance.'”
“I think some people have the habit of using both,” said
Stephanie with a little vexed abandonment of her raillery.
“Pray Mr. Collingwood are you of the family of Nelson's
friend?”
“I have heard various things said on the subject,” he said
with a somewhat amused look.
“Why don't you go to England and find out?”
“To find out whether I am a gentleman?” said Mr. Rodney
smiling. “I could not afford the time, Miss Holbrook,
—I prefer to ascertain the fact here.”
“But for aught you know you may be entitled to a
coronet.”
He answered with a smile and a slight shake of the head,
as if many things might be “for aught he knew.”
“If I had lived a few centuries ago, Miss Holbrook, my
patent would have been clearly made out. At present
Wolfgang is only a friend.”
“Wolfgang?” said Kate looking up.
“You know Miss Kate, a hound was one of the three
animals that entitled their owner to the name of gentleman,
or nobleman.”
“No, I never knew that,—what were the other two?”
“A hawk was one, and I believe a horse the other.”
Stephanie went off to the window, and Mr. Rodney sat
down by us.
“What do you say to Mah-ta-to-pah, among savage
heroes?” he said.
“O I like him very much—but he was only an heroick
savage,—when a man gets half way into civilization, the
contrast strikes one,—I think he shews less well than in the
all savage state. Unless he be such a man as Alfred, with
light within that makes up for the darkness without.”
“Yet Cæsar had great qualities.”
“Yes, but I like or dislike people as a whole.”
“Cannot admire the good and pass by the evil?” said
Mr. Collingwood,—“are you looking for some Utopian
corner of the earth, Miss Kate?”
“No indeed—of course one must pass by some things;
but when the prominent ones are disagreeable, I am inclined
to pass by the person.”
“What do you think of Napoleon? his most prominent
qualities hardly deserve the epithet disagreeable—they
were certainly wonderful.”
“But they were the less important, Mr. Collingwood
—who would care for head without heart?” said Kate
quickly, and then looking down a little abashed at the smile
which met her words.
“You think heart more important than head?”
“I think it can better stand alone.”
“Then you do not call Napoleon a hero, Miss Kate?”
“A man who would sacrifice the whole world to himself?
Oh no!—the scales must turn the other way before he could
even enter the lists as a hero.”
“Hoity-toity!” said the Squire, “what are you talking
about? Sacrifices, indeed!—fiddlesticks! Sacrifices don't
pay, Miss Kate.”
Kate laughed, but did not seem disposed to take up the
cudgels.
“Who have you been sacrificing yourself to?” said the
Squire.
“No one, sir—it is not my habit.”
“Here comes Mr. Howard!” said Stephanie returning
from the window as he entered.
“I hope you have been eating macaroons, gentlemen?”
was his first remark.
“What for?” said the Squire. “I haven't thought of
such a thing.”
“It's not too late yet,” said my father, seizing the cake-basket.
“There was a premium offered this morning for
somebody to eat macaroons, and—but bless me! there isn't
one here!”
“The premium was taken up,” said Stephanie.
“Absolutely eat 'em yourselves for want of somebody
else to do it!” said Mr. Howard. “Well, then there is
nothing worth offering but dinner. Squire Suydam and
Mr. Collingwood will you please to sit down and wait
patiently?”
“Not I!” said the Squire,—“I must be going in two
minutes.”
“Why Mr. Suydam,” said Kate, “do you think it is right
to treat your friends so?”
“And do you Miss Kate, think it is right to leave a little
old lady at home, all alone, and waiting for me?”
“O if Mrs. Suydam is in the case,” said my stepmother,
“we may not urge our claims. But you, Mr. Collingwood
—cannot you disregard Mrs. Crown's turkey for once and
eat part of ours?”
He smiled.
“No ma'am, not possibly—even if I had not already
refused part of Miss Easy's.”
“I shouldn't think they would cook anything but robins,
down there,” observed Stephanie.
“I'll tell you what, Miss,” said the Squire, taking hold
of her ear and giving it a gentle pinch; “you want a lit-tle
o-ver-hauling. Now Mr. Rodney, if you've looked long
enough at these roses we'll betake ourselves to the snow-wreaths.”
So they went and we sat down to dinner.
“Why does one always enjoy everything more on such
a day, papa?” said Kate—“even little things that at another
time one would hardly notice.”
“One does not always, my dear—sometimes one enjoys
everything less,—that, I trust, you may never prove. But
a young gay spirit on such a day, is like a snow-ball at play
in its own element,—every turn adds something, and
every something but furnishes new points to sparkle in the
sunlight.”
“That is not much like Mr. Freeman,” said Kate smiling.
“But everybody seems to look better and brighter than
they ever did before—even Squire Bulger.”
“You know there are certain states of the weather,”
replied Mr. Howard, “in which we say `nothing can help
looking beautiful': so are there states of the spirits that
form an embellishing medium for everything. The mind
pleased and content with itself looks charitably at all the
world. Put Squire Bulger in such a mental sunshine,”
added my father smiling, “and it lights up even his brown
wig. But when we look through tears we judge more
truly,—it is only here and there an intrinsically fine scene
or character that can abide the atmosphere of storms and
clouds.”
“Like Mr. Collingwood!” cried I.
“I don't believe you ever looked at him through anything
but clear air, Gracie,” said my father smiling.
“However, I am not disposed to deny his radiance,—he is
a star at home, certainly,—very different from that man in
the Moon who shines only on his shoulders.”
“I don't think you do Captain De Camp justice,” said
and his mother is as proud of him as possible.”
“Is she? very likely,” said my father, “but I don't
believe he'll ever set fire to anything; and as to his being
the best son in the world, that I deny—a man cannot go
beyond his qualifications. That Sulphur spring,” he continued,
suddenly changing his tone, “is like to bring us and
the world near enough together. They are putting up
hotels and cottages and nobody knows what all, over there;
and the Egertons have bought a place, and the Osbornes,
and Mrs. Willet. It will make our own land more valuable,
that's one thing.”
“Not our old friend Mrs. Willet?”
“The very same.”
“Why that will be good fun,” said Kate,—“I should
like to see them again. Will they be there next summer,
papa?”
“Probably not, for their houses are to build. But if
you'll have patience my dear, you'll have neighbours
enough.”
| CHAPTER XI. Dollars and cents | |