University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
MRS. MARKHAM'S WAYS.

THEY were very peculiar, and no one knew this
better than Mrs. Jones and her daughter Melinda,
sister and mother to the deceased Abigail and
the redoubtable Tim. Naturally bright and quick-witted,
Melinda caught readily at any new improvement, and the
consequence was that the Jones house bore unmistakable
signs of having in it a grown-up daughter whose new ideas

of things kept the old ideas from rusting. After Melinda
came home from boarding-school the Joneses did not set
the table in the kitchen close to the hissing cook-stove, but
in the pleasant dining-room, where there gradually came
to be crochetted tidies on the backs of the rocking-chairs,
and crayon sketches on the wall, and a pot of geraniums
in the window, with a canary bird singing in his cage near
by. At first, Mrs. Markham, who felt a greater interest in
the Joneses than in any other family, looked askance at
these “new-fangled notions,” wondering how “Miss Jones
expected to keep the flies out of her house if she had all
the doors a flyin' three times a day,” and fearing lest
Melinda was getting “stuck-up notions in her head, which
would make her fit for nothing.”

But when she found there were no more flies in farmer
Jones' kitchen than in her own, and that Melinda worked
as much as ever, and was just as willing to lend a helping
hand when there was need of haste at the Markham house,
her anxiety subsided, and the Joneses were welcome to eat
wherever they chose, or even to have to wait upon the
table, when there was company, the little black boy Pete,
whom Tim had bought at a slave auction in New Orleans,
whither he had gone on a flat-boat expedition two or three
years before. But she never thought of introducing any
of Melinda's notions into her own household. She “could
not fuss” to keep so many rooms clean. If in winter time
she had a fire in the front room, where in one corner her
own bed was curtained off, and if in summer she always
sat there when her work was done, it was all that could be
required of her, and was just as they used to do at her
father's, in Vermont, thirty years ago. Her kitchen was
larger than Mrs. Jones', which was rather uncomfortable on

a hot day when there was washing to be done; the odor
of the soap-suds was a little sickening then, she admitted,
but in her kitchen it was different; she had had an eye to
comfort when they were building, and had seen that the
kitchen was the largest, airiest, lightest room in the house,
with four windows, two outside doors, and a fire-place,
where, although they had a stove, she dearly loved to cook
just as her mother had done in Vermont, and where hung
an old-fashioned crane, with iron hooks suspended from it.
Here she washed, and ironed, and ate, and performed her
ablutions in the bright tin basin which stood in the sink
near to the pail, with the gourd swinging on the top, and
wiped her on the rolling towel near by, and combed her
hair before the clock, which served the double purpose of
looking-glass and time-piece both. When company came,
—and Mrs. Markham was not inhospitable,—the east room,
where the bed stood, was opened; and if the company, as
was sometimes the case, chanced to be Richard's friends,
she used the west room across the hall, where the chocolate-colored
paper and Daisy's picture hung, and where,
upon the high mantel, there was a plaster image of little
Samuel, and two plaster vases filled with colored fruit.
The carpet was a very pretty Brussels, but it did not quite
cover the floor on either side. It was a small pattern, and
on this account had been offered a shilling cheaper a yard,
and so the economical Mrs. Markham had bought it, intending
to eke out the deficiency with drugget of a corresponding
shade; but the merchant did not bring the
drugget, and the carpet was put down, and time went on,
and the strips of painted board were still uncovered, save
by the straight row of hair-cloth chairs, which stood upon
one side, and the old-fashioned sofa, which had cost fifty
dollars, and ought to last at least as many years. There
was a Boston rocker, and a centre-table, with the family
bible on it, and a volume of Scott's Commentaries, and
frosted candlesticks on the mantel and two sperm candles
in them, with colored paper, pink and green, all fancifully
notched and put around them, and a bureau in the corner,
which held the boys' Sunday shirts and Mrs. Markham's
black silk dress, with Daisy's clothes in the bottom drawer,
and the silver plate taken from her coffin. There was a
gilt-framed looking-glass on the wall, and blue paper curtains
at the windows, which were further ornamented with
muslin drapery. This was the great room,—the parlor,—
where Daisy had died, and which, on that account, was a
sacred place to those who held the memory of that sweet
little prairie blossom as the dearest memory of their lives.
Had she lived, with her naturally refined tastes, and her
nicety of perceptions, there was no guessing what that
farm-house might have been, for a young girl makes a deal
of difference in any family. But she died, and so the house,
which, when she died, was not quite flnished, remained
much as it was,—a large, square building, minus blinds,
with a wide hall in the centre, opening in front upon a
broad piazza, and opening back upon a stoop, the side
entrance to the kitchen. There was a picket fence in
front; but the yard was bare of ornament, if we except
the lilac bushes under the parlor windows, the red peony
in the corner, and the clumps of violets and daisies, which
grew in what was intended for borders to the walk, from
the front gate to the door. Sometimes the summer showed
here a growth of marigolds, with sweet peas and china
asters, for Andy was fond of flowers, and when he had
leisure he did a little floral gardening; but this year, owing
to Richard's absence, there had been more to do on the
farm, consequently the ornamental had been neglected, and
the late autumn flowers which, in honor of Ethelyn's arrival,
were standing in vases on the centre-table and the
mantel, were contributed by Melinda Jones, who had been
very busy in other portions of the house working for the
bride.

She could do this now without a single pang of jealousy,
for she was a sensible girl, and after a night and a day of
heaviness, and a vague sense of disappointment, she had
sung as merrily as ever, and no one was more interested in
the arrival of Richard's bride than she, from the time when
Richard started eastward for her. Between herself and her
mother there had been a long, confidential conversation,
touching Mrs. Markham's ways and the best means of circumventing
them, so that the new wife might not be utterly
crushed with home-sickness and surprise when she first
arrived. No one could manage Mrs. Markham as well as
Melinda, and it was owing to her influence that the large,
pleasant chamber, which had been Richard's ever since he
became a growing man, was renovated and improved until
it presented a very inviting appearance. The rag carpet,
which for years had done duty, and bore many traces of
Richard's muddy boots, had been exchanged for a new ingrain,—not
very pretty in design, or very stylish either, but
possessing the merit of being fresh and clean. To get the
carpet Melinda had labored assiduously, and had enlisted
all three of the brothers, James, and John, and Andy, in
the cause before the economical mother consented to the
purchase. The rag carpet, if cleaned and mended, was as
good as ever, she insisted; and even if it were not, she
could put down one that had not seen so much actual service.

It was Andy who finally decided her to indulge in
the extravagance urged by Melinda Jones. There were
reasons why Andy was very near to his mother's heart, and
when he offered to sell his brown pony, which he loved
as he did his eyes, his mother yielded the point, and taking
with her both Mrs. Jones and Melinda, went to Camden,
and sat two hours upon rolls of carpeting while she decided
which to take.

Mrs. Markham was not stingy with regard to her table;
that was always loaded with the choicest of everything,
while many a poor family blessed her as an angel. But
the articles she ate were mostly the products of their large,
well cultivated farm; they did not cost money directly out
of her hand, and it was the money she disliked parting
with, so she talked, and beat the Camden merchant down five
cents on a yard, and made him cut it a little short, to save
a waste, and made him throw in the thread and binding,
and swear when she was gone, wondering who “the stingy
old woman was.” And yet the very day after her return
from Camden “the stingy old woman” sent to her minister
a loaf of bread and a pail of butter, and to a poor sick
woman, who lived in a leaky cabin off the prairie, a nice
warm blanket for her bed, with a basket of delicacies to
tempt her capricious appetite.

In due time the carpet was made, Melinda Jones sewing
up three of the seams, while Andy, who knew how to use
the needle almost as well as a girl, claimed the privilege of
sewing at least half a seam on the new sister's carpet.
Adjoining Richard's chamber was a little room where Mrs.
Markham's flour, and meal, and corn, were kept, but which,
with a little fitting up, would answer nicely for a bed-room;
and after an amount of engineering, which would have done

credit to the general of an army, Melinda succeeded in
coaxing Mrs. Markham to move her barrels and bags, and
give up the room for Ethelyn's bed, which looked very
nice and inviting, notwithstanding that the pillows were
small, and the bedstead a high poster, which had been in
use for twenty years. Mrs. Markham knew all about the
boxes, as she called them. There was one in Mrs. Jones'
front chamber, but she had never bought one, for what
then would she do with her old ones,—“with the laced
cords,” so greatly preferable to the hard slats, which nearly
broke her back the night she slept on some at a friend's
house in Olney.

Richard was fond of books, and had collected form time
to time a well-selected library, which was the only ornament
in his room when Melinda first took it in hand; but when
she had finished her work,—when the carpet was down, and
the neat, white shades were up at the windows; when the
books which used to be on the floor, and table, and chairs,
and mantel, and window sills, and anywhere, were neatly
arranged in the very respectable shelves which Andy made
and James painted; when the little sewing chair designed
for Ethelyn was put before one window, and Richard's arm-chair
before the other, and the drab lounge was drawn a
little into the room, and the bureau stood corner-ways, with
a bottle of cologne upon it, which John had bought, and a
pot of pomade Andy had made, and two little pink and
white mats Melinda had crocheted, the room was very presentable.
Great, womanish Andy was sure Ethelyn would
be pleased, and rubbed his hands jubilantly over the result
of his labors, while Melinda was certainly pardonable for
feeling that in return for what she had done for Richard's
wife she might venture to suggest that the huge box,

marked piano, which for ten days had been standing on the
front piazza, be opened, and the piano set up, so that she
could try its tone. This box had cost Andy a world of
trouble, keeping him awake nights, and taking him from
his bed more than once, as he fancied he heard a mysterious
sound, and feared some one might be stealing the
ponderous thing, which it took four men to lift. With
the utmost alacrity he helped in the unpacking, nearly
bursting a blood-vessel as he tugged at the heaviest end,
and then running to the village with all his speed, to borrow
Mrs. Crandall's piano-key, which fortunately fitted Ethelyn's,
so that Melinda Jones was soon seated in state, and
running her fingers over the superb five-hundred-dollar
instrument, Ethelyn's gift from Aunt Barbara on her birthday.

Melinda's fingers were stained and cut with carpet thread,
and pricked with carpet tacks, and red with washing dishes,
but they moved nimbly over the keys, striking out with a
will the few tunes she had learned during her two quarters'
instruction. She had acquired a great deal of knowledge
in a short time, for she was passionately fond of music, and
every spare moment had been devoted to it, so that she had
mastered the scales with innumerable exercises, besides
learning several pieces, of which Moneymusk was one.
This she now played with a sprightliness and energy which
brought Andy to his feet, while his cowhides moved to the
stirring music in a fashion which would have utterly confounded
poor Ethelyn could she have seen them. But Ethelyn
was miles and miles away. She was not coming for a week
or more, and in that time Andy tried his hand at Yankee
Doodle, playing with one finger, and succeeding far beyond
his most sanguine expectations. Andy was delighted with

the piano, and so was Eunice, the hired girl, who left her
ironing and her dishes, and stood with wiping towel or flat
iron in hand, humming an accompaniment to Andy's playing,
and sometimes helping find the proper key to touch
next.

Eunice was not an Irish girl, nor a German, nor a Scotch,
but a full-blooded American, and “just as good as her employers,”
with whom she always ate and sat. It was not
Mrs. Markham's custom to keep a girl the year round, but
when she did it was Eunice Plympton, the daughter of the
drunken fiddler who earned his livelihood by playing for
the dances the young people of Olney sometimes got up.
He was anticipating quite a windfall from the infair it was
confidently expected would be given by Mrs. Markham in
honor of her son's marriage; and Eunice herself had washed
and starched and ironed the white waist she intended to
wear on the same occasion. Of course she knew she would
have to wait and tend and do the running, she said to Melinda,
to whom she confided her thoughts, but after the
supper was over she surely might have one little dance, if
with nobody but Andy.

This was Eunice, and she had been with Mrs. Markham
during the past summer; but her time was drawing to a
close. All the heavy work was over, the harvests were
gathered in, the soap was made, the cleaning done, the
house made ready for Richard's wife, and it was the understanding
that when that lady came and was somewhat
domesticated, Miss Eunice was to leave. There was not
much to do in the winter, Mrs. Markham said, and with
Richard's wife's help she should get along. Alas! how
little Ethelyn was prepared for the home which awaited
her, and for the really good woman, who, on the afternoon

of her son's arrival, saw into the oven the young turkey
which Andy had been feeding for so long with a view to
this very day, and then helped Eunice set the table for the
expected guests.

It did occur to Mrs. Markham that there might be a
great propriety in Eunice's waiting for once, inasmuch as
there were plates to change, and custard pie and minced,
and pudding, to be brought upon the table; but the good
woman did not dare hint at such a thing, so the seven
plates were put upon the table, and the china cups brought
from the little cupboard at the side of the chimney, and
the silver teapot, which was a family heir-loom, and had
been given Mrs. Markham by her mother, was brought also
and rubbed up; and the pickles, and preserves, and honey,
and cheese, and jellies, and white raised biscuit, and fresh
brown bread, and shredded cabbage, and cranberry sauce,
with golden butter, and pitchers of cream, were all arranged
according to Eunice's ideas. The turkey was browning
nicely, and the vegetables were cooking upon the stove.
Eunice was grinding the coffee, and the clock said it wanted
but half an hour of car-time, when Mrs. Markham finally
left the kitchen, and proceeded to make her toilet.

Eunice's had been made some time ago, and the large-sized
hoop she wore had already upset a pail and dragged
a griddle from the stove-hearth, greatly to the discomfiture
of Mrs. Markham, who did not fancy hoops, though she
wore a small one this afternoon under her clean and stiffly-starched
dress of purple calico. St. Paul would have made
her an exception in his restrictions with regard to women's
apparel, for neither gold nor silver ornaments nor braided
hair found any tolerance in her. She followed St. Paul
strictly, except at such times as the good people in the

Methodist Church at the east end of the village held a
protracted meeting, when she deviated so far from his injunctions
as to speak her mind and tell her experience.

She was a good and a conscientious woman, believing
more in the inner than the outer adorning; and she looked
very neat this afternoon in her purple calico, with a motherly
white apron tied around her waist, and her soft, silvery hair
combed smoothly back from her forehead, and twisted in a
knot behind, about the size of a half dollar. This knot,
however, was hidden by the head-dress which Melinda had
made from bits of black lace and purple ribbon, and which,
though not at all like aunt Barbara's Boston caps, was still
very respectable, and even tasteful-looking. Almost too
tasteful, Mrs. Markham thought, as she glanced at the tiny
artificial flower tucked in among the bows of ribbon. But
Mrs. Markham did not remove the flower, for it was a
daisy, and it made her think of the Daisy who died fourteen
years ago, and who, had she lived till now, would
have been twenty-eight.

“A married woman, most likely, and I might have been
grandmother,” Mrs. Markham sighed; and then, as she
heard in fancy the patter of little feet at her side, and saw
before her little faces with a look like Daisy in them, her
thoughts went softly out to Richard's bride, through whom
this coveted blessing might come to her quiet household,
and her heart throbbed with a quick, sudden yearning for
the young daughter-in-law, now just alighting at the Olney
station, for the Eastern train had come, and James was
there with the democrat wagon to meet it.