University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

OF course when our Philadelphia friends arrived, we felt
bound to call and see them; but further than that we
could not go. Entertainments were out of our power, and
so many were given by other families, that the strangers
had small time or inclination for mere tea-drinkings. Thus
our intercourse with them rather languished; their visits
were seldom, their invitations Mrs. Howard usually declined.

“So you wouldn't come to the party!” said Mrs. Willet
with a slight air of pique, as she reclined in our dormeuse
one morning.

“Mr. Howard was not at home to go with us,” said my
stepmother.

“Why didn't you tell me that was the reason!” exclaimed
the lady, “I could have sent you quite a bodyguard.
Plenty of young men that would like nothing
better. Well you're coming next week?”

Mrs. Howard shook her head.

“Now don't say one word—I shall be really hurt if you
don't. Kate, I know it will do you good, and your husband
will be here to go with you—your father I mean,” she
added as the flush on Kate's cheeks disentangled her
thoughts,—“la, child, I never think what I'm saying. But
will you come?—I know it's good for these girls—I want
Grace to come too.”

It was a plea my stepmother felt, and still she hesitated.

“Now if you're thinking of dresses,” Mrs. Willet proceeded,
“that makes no sort of difference—just come in
your country clothes—nothing can be prettier. Simplicity's
the true style after all,” said the lady arranging her volants.

“They are in no danger of adopting any other style,”
said Mrs. Howard, who could not forbear smiling.

“Yes, but it don't do to be too simple. Now Kate my
dear, never be afraid to put a bow of ribbon in your hair,
or under your collar here,”—she said, touching the little crescent
which fastened the band of lace round Kate's throat,—
“or loop up your sleeves with it—so,—pink, if you like it,
or blue would look well—you have such white arms—it's
so sweet and becoming. And if you want a dress a little
nicer than usual,” said Mrs. Willet, while Kate's face took
for a moment an expression of proud and somewhat scornful
self-respect, “just get tarleton,—it costs very little, and
it's the prettiest thing a young girl can wear.—I keep Caroline
in it all winter, (I'm so sorry she's away now,) and
when one wears out, I get her another. Just have it made
with three deep tucks, and boddice, or sash if you like, and
wear a bow of the same ribbon in your hair. There can't
be anything more pretty and suitable. Now goodbye—I
shall expect you.”

“I wonder if she thinks we don't know how to dress
ourselves!” said Kate as the door closed.

“She means it all kindly,” said Mrs. Howard smiling.

“I should like to see myself with a bow of ribbon in my
hair!” was Kate's uncompromising reply.

And if any style could have told Mrs. Willet as much,
Kate would probably have adopted it for that evening,—as
it was, she had to content herself with the negative teaching
of beautiful hair, in its usual quiet arrangement.

Mrs. Willet's house was lavishly lined with comfort and
money, but the first came in per favour of the second; for
there was no particular taste or judgment displayed anywhere.
Yet the purse will do a good deal if you give it
carte blanche, and the rooms shewed not the wants of their
mistress.

She herself in a white turban, came forward from a circle
of new and old friends; and receiving us very graciously,
carried off Mrs. Howard to the circle; while my father

gazed abstractedly at the bisque on the mantelpiece, and
Miss Suydam called Kate and me to take seats by her.

Unlucky request! Mrs. Willet presently came up in
dismay.

“My dear girls what can you possibly be thinking of?
Why I never heard of such a thing!”

“As what ma'am?”

“Why—bless me!—here you are three ladies on this
sofa and no gentlemen even near you.”

“So much the better,” said Miss Suydam—“then they
won't overhear our conversation, Mrs. Willet.”

“Why Jane!—how can you talk so! here,” she said
turning about and laying hold of the first three coat-sleeves
that came in her way, “your services are wanted in this
direction. Mr. Elliot—Miss Howard, Miss Grace Howard
—my nephew Mr. La Roche,—Miss Suydam, Captain
De Camp. Now for pity's sake don't sit two ladies
together.” And giving a downward glance at her frock
waist, Mrs. Willet walked away.

“Is this what you call `open ranks,' Captain?” said Miss
Suydam as with a gesture of impatience she moved to one
corner of the sofa and motioned me to the other. But
Kate, not well pleased with such manifest manœuvres, sat
in absolute gravity as two of the gentlemen laughingly
placed themselves on either side of her; while Mr. La
Roche perceiving that a sixth place was not, folded his
arms and taking a position in front of me, remarked,

“Well Miss Grace, I suppose I am to stand up and do
the agreeable to you.”—

The resignation of this speech set us all to laughing,
and Mrs. Willet looked back quite satisfied with her
arrangements. So were also the gentlemen on the sofa;
but Mr. La Roche grew weary of some part of his position,
and after a few sentences he walked off to bestow his time
and talents elsewhere. Thus left to amuse myself, the
loud talking of sundry people furnished a fair supply of
thoughts and information—using the common meaning of
both. Now a voluble lady would pour out a long string
of news and descriptions; or a delicate city-made gentleman
would utter compliments and commonplaces in a tone
that was perfumed like his pocket-handkerchief. Exclamations

of all sorts came with so little discrimination,
that one had need to be told, “this is for joy and this
for sorrow.” Then a word from Miss Easy or my stepmother
would reach my ear—speaking truth, heart and
simplicity; or one of my father's energetic, pointed expressions,
had all the pleasant effect of a straight line in a picture
of curves.

“My dear Kate,” said Mrs. Willet while I was drawing
comparisons, “do go and sing us something—there's nothing
so pleasant as music. Couldn't you sing a duet with
somebody to accompany you?”

“No ma'am, I don't think I could,” said Kate gravely.

“Well anything else then. Come my dear—a prompt
compliance!”

And as Kate went to the piano, Mrs. Willet with a touch
and whisper sent Mr. La Roche in the same direction, while
herself flitted about observantly. Then seating herself by
my father,

“O Mr. Howard, I do take such an interest in the love
affairs of young people!”

“Do you?” said my father at no pains to repress his
smile.

“O very great! Amelia,” she said looking towards the
piano and beckoning her daughter—“tell your cousin to
come here.”

And with another whisper Mr. La Roche was ordered
somewhere else.

“You see,” said Mrs. Willet turning again to my father,
“I sent him to turn over the leaves for Kate—I wanted to
see if it would disturb her.”

“Did you?” said Mr. Howard again.

“Yes, and I found it did; so I called him away.”

My father gave an involuntary glance towards the piano,
but the unconscious victim of curiosity had returned to her
seat and was talking with Capt. De Camp.

“Very fine young man, that!” said Mrs. Willet.

“Is he?” said my father, who had fallen into the laconics.

“O very fine!”—then raising her voice, “Captain, can't
you give us a song? some little military ballad?”

“No ma'am, I never went further than military exercises,”
was the chuckling reply.

“O but you can sing something!”

“No I can't ma'am,” said the Captain bowing.

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Willet, “that is very extraordinary.”

“Not at all ma'am,” said my father,—“there are many
fine young men that have not fine voices—even in the
army. I presume the `Ha!—hum!' adjurations tend
rather to power than sweetness.”

Mrs. Willet looked puzzled, and my father looked at the
ceiling.

“Nothing up there worth your notice, Mr. Howard,”
said Squire Suydam pausing in his perambulation.

“Where then?” said my father with a half smile.

“Miss Avarintha!” called out Mrs. Bulger across the
room,—“Miss Avarintha! look at Squire Suydam—he is
absolutely sporting a moustache!”

“Squire Suydam!” said the echo—“I would not have
thought it! You, sir, of all men! Well I am surprised!”

The Squire turned, and bowed his acknowledgements.

“Daresay ma'am,—don't doubt I shall astonish you a
good many times before I die, Miss Avarintha; but as to
a moustache, I haven't a sign of such a thing—unless they're
catching,—I took a ride with the Captain this morning—
maybe that's how it is.”

Nobody laughed louder at this than the gentleman referred
to, who evidently thought himself complimented.

“`Pale faces'!” said my father musingly and half to
himself,—“the Indians would have to invent some new
name for us now. If any part of a man's face shews its
natural colour, it's because he can't help it.” And then,
still in an under tone my father proceeded.

Think of the world's travelling back to 1630!”

“Well remembered!” said Mr. Suydam laughing, “I
should think you might have missed some of the varieties.”

“Couldn't”— said my father,—“just look about you.
There's a stiletto opposite, and an oval by the fireplace,
and triangles enough to make one think the world is standing
on end. My dear sir I can't find any plain surface to
look at, but the ceiling,—and there's a bearded Silenus in
the mouldings up there!”

Mr. Howard roused himself from his gloomy contemplations
and talked briskly with the Squire till the little
French clock jogged his elbow,—then he came to where
we sat and gave us sundry taps on the shoulder as a gentle
intimation that he was ready to go. And Mrs. Willet's
arguments failed to convince him that the hour was very
early or our house very near.

“This is a great deal pleasanter than all those people!”
I said as we walked home; and when by two or three deep
exhalations I had purified my lungs from the atmosphere
of bouquet and badinage.

“Our Katie sang better than her little namesakes,
though,” said Miss Easy with a smile. We were on our
way to the Bird's Nest.

“But Kate is one of these people,” I said laughing, “and
that is quite different you know, Miss Easy.”

“Quite another thing, Gracie.”

“And yet one cannot help being amused,” said Kate—
“I'm sure I have been.”

“What an interesting woman is Mrs. Willet!” said Miss
Avarintha from behind; “I think she is quite remarkable.”

“She certainly is,” said my father dryly—“especially in
point of judgment.”

“Yes, especially, as you say sir.”

“But Miss Easy,” said Kate, “you don't speak—don't
you like to see people?”

“Yes,” said Miss Easy—“some people and sometimes,
yes,—and yet I rather agree with Grace, and like stars better
than gas-lights.”

“I'm sure I do,” said Kate. “But I believe I like company
better than Grace does.”

“I wish she liked it better,” said Miss Easy. “You
needn't wear such a grave face Gracie, till you are as old
as I am at least.”

“As old as you are! dear Miss Easy,” said Kate.

“Yes,” she answered affectionately, “I am what most
people call old, Katie—yes. But I don't feel old, that's
one great blessing; and it doesn't trouble me to think of
it—that's another.”

“Isn't Mr. Rodney coming home any more, Miss Easy?”
I said: “isn't there any hope of his coming soon?”

“I don't know whether I ought to say hope or fear,” she
said, with a tone that had lost its bright cheerfulness.
“Yes, I expect him—he will not come if his father continues
better, but that can hardly be.”

“Do you think so Miss Easy?” said Kate; “that last
letter was grave, certainly, but was it more sad than
usual?”

“It seemed to me less hopeful. And then these journies—I
know, I have seen them tried—they do so little
good. I think we shall hear worse news.”

She was right. Farmer Collingwood's health which
had at first improved rapidly, declined as fast; and he died
in Bermuda just a year from the time of his leaving Daisy
Lea. Close upon this came another loss, and to us a much
nearer one—the death of Mr. Ned Howard. We had expected
it, he had never been well since the year before,—
but though surprise might have increased the first shock,
it could hardly have added to our grief,—that was to be
of years.

The autumn leaves had meaning in them now, as they
fell fluttering from the branches, and the wind took up our
half stifled sighs, and breathed them out over the strewn
earth, till we could have wept at the expression of our own
thoughts. Perhaps it was well for us that smaller cares
ceased not at the coming of the great; though they were
felt with double annoyance.

My father sat before the fire one morning early in December,
with a most perplexed face.

“I do not know how I am to manage,”—he said at
length,—“I do not know.”

“Manage what?” said my stepmother.

“To raise a hundred dollars immediately. Here's this
man McCarthy going somewhere—back to Ireland I hope
—and wants his money, says he must have it; and where
it's to come from I don't profess to know. I could pay
him by degrees, but that won't do; and how to get so
much at once—unless—” and he paused.

“Unless what?”

“Unless I raise it upon some of our plate.”

Mrs. Howard looked grave.

“But for Kate and Grace, I would say yes, in a moment.”

“I know—that is the only doubt. But I shall have
money by and by, and then we can redeem it,—I should
lodge it with some friend.”

“Pray don't think of us papa!” said we both, and Kate
added,

“You know papa what does it signify? so long as your
way is made easier—that is the best thing for us.”

“It will be in the end, I trust,” said my father.

So our company tea-set was packed up and taken to
Philadelphia, and McCarthy received his money. But I
think we all felt the poorer for this transaction. It might
be long before we should need any thing better than the
service we had in use,—we had the right to redeem the
pledged one at any time,—but when should we have the
power? At what future day should we have a hundred
dollars to spare?—and for what we could do without?
We were like to have more than one hundred engaged
beforehand.

Things were changed. Our fine English live-stock had
dwindled—some sold, others dead; and those still on hand
were all too many for the hay. Just in the mowing season
Ezra Barrington had been ill and my father away—
the consequences we were now meeting. Our Yankee
would come in with,

“Squire to home, Mrs. Howard?”

“Not yet.”

“Ain't an airthly thing for them critters to eat; and
they're as hungry as can be.” And Ezra would place his

hat upon the floor and straighten himself up as if he were
supposed to be at his wits' end—not at all as if he was.
And with a passing shadow on her face my stepmother
would look up and say,

“Is all that hay gone already?”

“Ain't three straws left, ma'am, if I was to take a rake
and count 'em; and the cows is eatin' the mangers. They
do put away the most fodder!” he added with a shake of
the head—“there ain't no sense into it.”

“Well what will you do? Mr. Howard is not coming
till Saturday.”

“Then 'twon't answer to wait for him, that's a fact,” said
Ezra. “I s'pose I'll just have to make tracks to Squire
Bulger's, and back down a couple of bundles—ain't snow
enough for the sled. That'll do 'em till Saturday I reckon;
but it beats all my wife's relations to be scant o' hay afore
Jinooary.”

We longed for the spring and its supply of grass. There
were other things too—for the house, for ourselves,—things
wanting and not got. A pair of shoes “if it should be convenient
to get them,”—or sheets and towels with a conditional
“never mind.” Still my father always said “Have
everything you want,” or, “Shall I bring you some silk
dresses.” But we knew better, and while so many dollars
were needed elsewhere, we could not bear to use any for
ourselves.

Sometimes we did question whether the money was
going in the best direction; but if improvements were not
finished, how were we to recover the dollars which had begun
them? how ever get our heads above water unless the
mill set the example? And then we did enjoy things when
they came; and when my father said “there are your shoes,
my dear—I hope they will fit,” I felt even tearfully, the
kindness that had found time and means to get them. And
when after a long waiting he would bring home some needed
piece of stuff, we set to work upon it with much more alacrity
than if it had come at our call. Yes, there are pleasures
in poverty; and the very appreciation of my father's
trouble of mind lightened all things else to us. So we worked
away, smoothed down all things to him, and kept them
from every other eye and ear. By dint of carefulness, our

nice clothes long kept their good appearance; and though
people knew we had had losses, they were far from guessing
how nearly it was low water with our dollars. While we
said privately,
And so amid the changing light of doubtful weather, that
year which had seen the end of so many things, drew near
its own.