 | CHAPTER III. Dollars and cents |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
There's nought like a blink o' one's ain fireside!
Old Song.
MR. NED HOWARD lived in a village which was the
vis-à-vis of our new home, and which was known in
those regions as “the Moon,”—whether because the two
horns of the lake half enclosed it, or because some early
settler had been learned enough to translate the name of our
watery crescent, I know not; but the Moon it was called,
and in the Moon lived Mr. Ned Howard. Or I should
rather say near it—in the village-ship, if one may coin a
word—and somewhat looked up to by his neighbours for
being rich enough to do nothing.
Thither we came one rainy night in April, weary with the
long journey and with the unsettled state of our affairs and
spirits; and there we took up our abode until both should
be somewhat set in order.
No wet travellers ever received a more stirring welcome.
Mrs. Ned put herself in a bustle, her mother asked all manner
of questions; and bustle and questions went sweetly
down when we caught a glance of my uncle's bright eye,
and saw the glad expression of his face. We had the one
word and look then.
Mrs. Ned Howard was a very different person from her
husband. She had the misfortune to be come of what she
thought a good family, and was not sufficiently ballasted with
sense and fine etceteras to bear her honours meekly. So
her silk dress always rustled, and her hands wore brown
gloves to breakfast and white gloves to dinner; and from
the exceeding erectness of her head you might have supposed
afraid would tumble off.
Neither was the lady forgotten in the minor affairs of life.
Rear meat bordered upon hysterics—a large piece of bread
upon disgust; and as to beginning dinner without at least a
purée à-la-crême—Mrs. Ned would have thought it the extreme
of barbarism. The currants came on table with all
their natural addenda of stems, leaves, and cobwebs—but
free from the pollution of any hands save the gardener's,—
Mrs. Ned's own fingers dipped every cherry that she eat in
a glass of water. Indian corn was a puzzler;—but with her
own peculiar notions about “the least of two evils,” Mrs.
Ned promptly summoned a servant to cut the grains from
the cob, that the delicacy might be within reach of her
fork.
Unhappily, she had never learned to act out the common
but expressive maxim, “Put the best foot foremost.”—Yet
there could be a most kind smile in her eye, a most friendly
tone in her voice; but in her education the good had not
been developed, nor the evil kept down.
Mrs. McNamara had all her daughter's temper and pride,
without the redeeming qualities. Her eye was cold, inquisitive,
or sinister, by turns. No needless toilet labour here;
—if the grey woollen wrapper with which Mrs. McNamara
covered her head in cold weather could have been exchanged
for something more tidy—even for another of its own species
—it would have been a public benefit. And in her combination
there was an ingredient far more disagreeable than
Mrs. Ned's anomaly of sharp bluntness,—the faint shadow
of a second face under the hood, makes the first a thing to
look away from. Perhaps the object on earth to which she
had most regard, was her youngest son, Victor McNamara;
but of him I need only say that inheritance and education
had unhappily combined their forces.
“And how does the house look, Ned?” said my father.
“Well, very well, but you are wanted sadly. I'm sure
Morrison lets his men stand idle one half the time.”
“I doubt whether they stand idle,” said my father.
“Pho—well what you please. They haven't near done
blasting those rocks.”
“Blasting!” said my stepmother. “But I thought the
yet?”
“No, no, my dear—not at all,—this has nothing to do with
the house. I am only taking off the top of a height that came
in the way of a certain view I want.”
“But will the view be as pretty as the height?”
“Of course—if it isn't we can put the rocks back
again.”
“It will be a great comfort to your husband to have you
here to advise him,” said Mrs. McNamara in a soft way that
at once gave one a caution. “Gentlemen know so little how
to get on alone.”
It is fortunate that nothing can be discovered where there
is nothing to conceal. My stepmother's quiet “Do you
think so?” made Mrs. McNamara settle her wrapper and
change her ground.
“What did you do with all your furniture?”
“All that we did not sell we brought with us.”
“I suppose you didn't save any of your parlour furniture?
Dear, dear, what a pity!”
“It was no very great pity to part with what we could
not use here,” said my stepmother smiling,—“and some of
it we kept.”
“Not mirrors or anything of that sort?”
“Of course not!” put in Mrs. Ned. “Do you think they
have no sense?”
“Why my dear I didn't know.”
“I think if you will excuse us,” said my stepmother,
“Grace and I will go to bed,—we are both tired. I suppose
we have the same room as last summer?”
“No,” said Mrs. Ned,—“the front room on the second
floor.”
“But that is your room—I would much prefer the other.”
“No,” said Mrs. Ned again,—“it makes no difference to
me, and that one has been arranged for you.”
My stepmother hesitated a moment, and then saying goodnight,
she preceded me upstairs.
“It seems we are giving a great deal of trouble,” she said
when our door was shut,—“this will hurry our house-cleaning.”
“It wasn't very goodnatured of aunt Harriet to put us in
and I went to bed and dreamed of our umquhile ponies.
There was a bright sun shining when I opened my eyes
next day; and as I looked at the various objects in our room
—the dark carved bedstead, the glass jars of West India
snakes, (I don't think I always felt sure of their prison-walls)
—the blue sofa, the lamp,—there came a thought of something
else that I had wanted to do or see—what was it?
My mind roved about for a minute, and then I had sprung
out of bed and was peeping through the window curtains to
get a distant first view of our new home. There it lay on
the other side of the lake, the fresh boards showing bare and
unhomelike in the sun; and the quiet Sunday morning investing
everything with a character that even the eye could
perceive. It looked pleasant, it looked peaceful;—and
though its appearance suggested neither chandeliers nor long
mirrors, I turned away with only one feeling of dissatisfaction,—I
could not have a nearer view till next day.
Meanwhile the hours were sufficiently uneventful. Mrs.
Howard was in bed all the morning with a headache; and
except that when I was ready for church Mrs. McNamara
inquired, “if that was my last winter's bonnet,” my presence
excited little attention. Happily, I needed it not,—my mind
was full of its own fresh pleasures,—the fountain asked no
supply from anybody's hand. I had never been in that
region before, though my uncle had lived there three or four
years; but since he left Philadelphia none of us had tried
Mrs. Ned's hospitality but my father and mother, and the
latter only once. So everything was quite new to me—I
had not even made its acquaintance at second-hand; and
first impressions came in a delightful stream.
There never was such a walk to church—there never was
such another church at the end of a walk,—and there I was
not far wrong. It stood at the western extremity of the
lake, the beautifully kept groundwork of turf running quite
down to the still water, the boundaries set back among the
trees so as to be invisible. No pillar reared its Corinthian
capital there,—the rough hewn stone, the unpretending, substantial
architecture, gave to the little church an air of truth
and frankness that was very pleasing; and echoes caught
each stroke of the bell, and gave them back with faint and
my stepmother as she sat in the easy-chair by the fire, that
it was “the very loveliest place anybody had ever lived in.”
“And it cannot be so very lonely, mamma,” I added,
“for even on the side where our house is I saw smoke coming
out of the woods in several places. Now mamma, you
need not smile—don't you remember how Mrs. Osborne
talked about there being nobody here?”
“I shall have no fears for your happiness Gracie, when
we are once settled.”
“O I should be very happy to-day—if it was only to-morrow.”
I thought myself so as it was, when afternoon brought
me another walk; and in the few minutes before and after
service I tried to see something of the congregation, and to
decide over which of the assembled heads that smoke was
in the habit of curling; but most probably I chose the wrong
ones.
Monday morning brought a disappointment.
“You will not think of going to Glen Luna yourself?”
said Mrs. Ned as she drew on the brown gloves after breakfast.
“Certainly,” replied my stepmother,—“I am going at
once. But I think I shall not take Grace—the weather looks
threatening.”
“I did not suppose you dreamed of taking her,” said
Mrs. Ned,—“such a child is only in one's way and in danger
of getting sick. I think you are very unwise to go
yourself.”
“Dear me! to be sure!” said Mrs. McNamara with a
voice that made me wonder what concern of hers it could
possibly be.
“Indeed I am never in mamma's way,” I interposed. But
a few drops of rain settled the question, and sorrowfully
enough I watched Mr. and Mrs. Howard drive away.
O the weariness of being left alone! especially where one
does not want to be.
It did not rain after all, and Mrs. Ned and Mrs. McNamara
went out for their usual daily walk in the garden. Perhaps
they feared I might follow them, for at the foot of the steps
Mrs. Ned paused, and called out,
“Victor! take Grace and show her the beauties of the
orchard.”
Nobody wanted me.—Victor, who had grown to that uncomfortable
age which is neither one thing nor the other,
escorted me a little way into the orchard, showed me two
dead pigs which lay in the road, and then went off to his own
pursuits. And I, knowing better than to go after the ladies,
re-entered the house, and sent longing glances to those new
clap-boards which seemed the pleasantest thing in sight.
Now among the peculiarities of Mrs. Ned and her mother
was an insane desire to keep cool—not within but without,—
it was their idiosyncrasy. At that chill time of year when a
fire is wanted almost as much as in winter, there was none
to be seen; unless possibly three sticks at night and two in
the morning. Also the windows were opened immediately
after breakfast, and not shut again until—I hardly know
when. The rules of the house were a very slight lunch and
a very late dinner. I went upstairs with no inward or outward
defence against the cold, and between that and hunger
was fairly driven into dreamland, and slept a good part of
the morning.
It would be hard to describe my satisfaction one evening,
when the weather being cooler than usual or Mrs. Ned more
sensitive, she really wanted a fire—and a fire could not be
had. There was no wood sawn, and the saw was broken,
and nobody to mend it; and the way she shivered and
warmed her hands over the chafingdish comforted me for
a week's freezing.
Three days did Mrs. Howard go and come without me—
ravishing my ears every night with accounts of chickens and
garden;—on the fourth I was again left behind, but with a
promise that I should follow her at midday with Mr. Ned.
With what joy did I set out! with what concentrated
senses did I take note of everything! how little justice I gave
the speed of my uncle's good horses. It was a long drive,
for beyond the church the road swept back from the lake,
and made quite a circuit before it approached Glen Luna.
I wished myself on foot that I might take one of the tantalizing
little paths which promised a shorter route; but as my
uncle said, it would be all the same when we had once got
there,—and it was.
The house itself was not only upside down with carpenters
and masons, plasterers and painters, but literally “turned
out of the windows;” for boxes of furniture were standing
about the lawn in all directions. A child's magnifying-glass
has no lens for troubles. What did I care for the
blasting in one direction, the scraper and oxen in another;
the boards, the nails, the utter and hopeless confusion everywhere?—they
were all hidden, at least from my mind's eye,
by a brood of little soft downy chickens that called a barrel
their home, and a most benign-looking old hen their mother.
So I watched them, brought chips to the little kitchen which
looked like one of our town pantries, examined my new
garden tools, clambered up and jumped down the front door
step—it was then full three feet from the ground,—and
finally went upstairs and seated myself in the midst of
baskets and jars and bundles, to lunch. I had been offered
something to eat before I left the Moon, but preferred to
reserve my appetite for home stores; and with a good will
I now brought it to bear upon bread and butter and raspberry
jam.
Luncheon over, Mr. Ned proposed that I should go home
with him, but my mind was made up to the contrary. So
he departed alone, Mrs. Howard returned to her labours and
I to mine; and surely I wore rose-coloured spectacles that
day, if ever child did. Indeed I careered about rather too
much for Mrs. Howard's comfort, for while I was quietly
digging up flowers at the edge of the woods, or walking
round some rock or knoll to see what was on the other side,
she would get quite frightened about me.
Towards evening my uncle sent a boat for us, as being the
quickest and least fatiguing way of getting back; and after
a last feeding of chickens and locking of doors, we set out to
cross the lake. It was near dark but very quiet, and the
dip of the oars was as good as a lullaby. Gently my spirits
subsided, and I came back to the every-day world.
“How very good dinner will taste!” said I.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Howard, “I begin to feel quite hungry.”
“You had better curb both appetite and expectation,”
said my father,—“it is long past dinner-time.”
“But papa! they must have saved us some, for they knew
we should be very hungry.”
“Hum”—said Mr. Howard as the boat struck the shore,
—“well—must is a strong word no doubt, but you are welcome
to my share of the dinner, Gracie.”
My stepmother and I went directly upstairs, and having
made ourselves presentable we descended to the parlour
with our hopes somewhat cooled by my father's remarks.
He had reason.
The tea-table was set with wafers of bread and butter and
fractions of toast, but dinner might have been an obsolete
meal for all that appeared to the contrary. We took our
seats without a word.
“Harriet,” said my uncle taking a survey of the plates
before him, “didn't you save some dinner for these people?”
“Certainly not Mr. Howard—I thought they knew our
dinner-hour.”
“But when people are cleaning house they can't be tied
down to a minute.”
“I could not possibly tell when they would come,” replied
Mrs. Ned, her face flushing and the imaginary crown
in unusual danger;—“and as to waiting dinner it would
have been absurd—I did not know but they would choose
to dine on the other side.”
“Choose to dine on chips and mortar!” said my uncle
with a mixture of laugh and vexation. “Is there nothing left
from dinner?”
“I really cannot tell, Mr. Howard,” said Mrs. Ned getting
up and ringing the bell with great energy,—“how should
I know what was left from dinner? Charles,” she added as
the waiter came in, “just go down stairs and bring up any
cold meat and vegetables that you can find.”
“And tell Violet to warm them first,” said my uncle.
There was a moment's pause, and then my stepmother
entered her protest,—in vain.
“Certainly we could have dinner,” Mrs. Ned replied—“if
there was any,”—so we half waited and half went on eating,
till the arrival of some boiled fish re-warmed, brown uncomfortable-looking
potatoes, and beets.
By this time Mrs. Ned recollected herself and did the
honours of the Cod as well as might be; but we had eaten
so many of the decimal fractions, and had heard so much
by my father,—who eat his dinner very unconcernedly.
Three weeks passed thus. Every day we went to the
Glen, but having been taught our lesson we took care always
to return by dinner-time. Every day I made some new
discovery,—a strange wild-flower—a nice chicken-coop in
place of the barrel—a moss pincushion of peculiar luxuriance,
or a rock that had some extraordinary advantages as a table
or a lookout. But Mrs. Howard grew very tired of the
punctual-dinner system, and found it most inconvenient to be
so far from the scene of action; and at last she resolved to
take possession of our house before it was quite ready for
us, and let Mrs. Ned have her own room again. So we
removed.
It was near the gloaminst, when we took our first meal at
Glen Luna,—we three. The two older ones thinking gravely
of ways and means, prospects and probabilities,—the
younger with “eyes brimful of delight,” and a mood that
thought herrings and bread and butter the very best things
that ever were eaten.
And a whip-poor-will who knew not of our coming, sat on
a tree close by the house, and sang—as he thought, to himself—but
to us it seemed a strange, wild welcome. We
could not translate his plaintive notes, yet not one of the
listeners but felt an echo of that trill,—as wild, as untranslatable.
And we were fairly established in our new home;—and
one of the number at least, had very bright hopes and forebodings—an
undefined expectation of everything pleasant.
| CHAPTER III. Dollars and cents | |