CHAPTER V—OLD MAIDS AND YOUNG
MONDAY morning broke. Such a cold, dismal, drizzly morning! The wind whistled and blew about the cottage, until Lilia suggested tying the clothes-line round the chimneys and fastening it to the strong pine-trees in front, for greater safety. It snowed at six o'clock, it hailed at seven, rained at eight, stopped at nine, and presently began to go through the same varied programme. After breakfast, Bell went to the window and stood dreamily flattening her nose against the pane, while the others busied themselves about their several tasks.
“Well, girls,” said she at length, “we've had four different kinds of weather this morning, so it may clear off after all, though I confess it doesn't look like it. It's too stormy to go anywhere, or for anybody to come to us, so we shall have to try violently in every possible way to amuse ourselves. I must run over to Miss Miranda's for the milk before it rains harder. Perhaps I shall stumble into some excitement on the way; who knows!”
So saying, she ran out, and in a few minutes appeared in the yard wrapped in a bright red water-proof, the hood pulled over her head, and framing her roguish, rosy face. In ten minutes she returned breathless from a race across the garden, and a vain attempt to keep her umbrella right side out. She entered the room in her usual breezy way, leaving the doors all open, and sank into a chair, with an expression of mysterious mirth in her eyes.
“Guess what's happened!” she asked, with sparkling eyes. “I have the most enormous, improbable, unguessable surprise for you; you never will think, and anyway I can't wait to tell, so here it is: We are all invited to tea this afternoon with Miss Miranda and Miss Jane! Isn't that 'ridikilis'?”
“Do tell, Isabel,” squeaked Jo, with a comically irreverent imitation of Miss Sawyer, “air you a-going to accept?”
“Oh, yes, Bell, we'd better go,” said Edith Lambert. “I should like to see the inside of that old house. I dare say we shall enjoy it, and it saves cooking.”
“We are remarkably favored,” laughed Bell. “I don't believe that anybody has been invited there since the Sewing Circle met with them three years ago. They live such a quiet, strange, lonely life! Their mother and father died when they were very young, more than thirty years ago. They were quite rich for the times, and left their daughters this big house all furnished and quantities of lovely old-fashioned dishes and pictures. All the rooms are locked, but I'll try and melt Miss Miranda's heart, and get her to show us some of her relics. Scarcely anything has been changed in all these years, except that they have bought a cooking-stove. Miss Jane hates new-fangled things, and is really ashamed of the stove, I think; as to having a sewing-machine, or an egg-beater, or a carpet-sweeper,—why, she would as soon think of changing the fashion of her bonnet! I believe there isn't such a curious house, nor another pair of such dried-up, half-nice, half-disagreeable people in the country. There's Emma Jane with the butter! I'll meet her at the back door, get her to peel some potatoes and apples, make her sew a white ruffle in her neck, and make some original remark.”
Bell's criticism of the Misses Sawyer and their home was quite just. The old brick house stood in a garden which, in the spring-time, was filled with odorous lilacs, blossoming apple-trees, and long rows of currant and gooseberry bushes. In the summer, too, there were actual groves of asparagus, gaudy sunflowers, bright hollyhocks, gay marigolds, royal flower-de-luce,—all respectable, old-fashioned posies, into whose hearts the humming-birds loved to thrust their dainty beaks and steal their sweetness. Then there were beds paved round with white clam-shells, where were growing trembling little bride's-tears, bachelor's-buttons, larkspur, and china pinks. No modern blossoms would Miss Miranda allow within these sacred ancient places, no begonias, gladioli, and “sech,” with their new-fangled, heathenish, unpronounceable names. The old flowers were good enough for her; and, certainly, they made a blooming spot about the dark house.
Now, indeed, there was neither a leaf nor a bud to be seen; snow-birds perched and twittered on the naked apple-boughs, and rifts of snow lay over the sleeping seed-souls of the hollyhocks and marigolds, keeping them just alive and no more, in a freezing, cold-blooded sort of way common to snow.
But if the garden outside looked like a relic of the olden time, the rooms inside seemed even more so. The “keeping-room” had been refurnished fifteen or twenty years before, but so well had it been kept, that there still hovered about it a painful air of newness. Over the stiff black hair-cloth sofa hung a funeral wreath in a shell frame, surrounded by the Sawyer family photographs—husbands and wives always taken in affectionate attitudes, that their relations might never be misunderstood. In a corner stood the mahogany “what-not” with its bead watch-cases, shells, and glass globes covering worsted-work flowers, together with more family pictures, daguerreotypes in black cases on the top shelf, and a marvelous blue china vase holding peacock feathers. Then there was a gorgeous “drawn in” rug before the fireplace, with impossible purple roses and pink leaves on its surface, and a marble-topped table holding a magnificent lamp with a glass fringe around it, and a large piece of red flannel floating in the kerosene.
All these glories the girls were allowed to view as a great favor granted at Bell's earnest request. They examined the parlor and the curiosities in the diningroom cupboard with awe-struck faces, though their sobriety was almost overcome at the sight of some of the works of art which Miss Miranda held up for their reverential admiration.
Upstairs there were rooms scarcely ever opened. The bedsteads were four-posted, and so high with many feather beds that their sleepy occupants must have ascended a step-ladder to get into them, or climbed up the posts hand over hand and dropped down into the downy depths. The counterpanes and comforters were quilted in wonderful patterns. There was the “wild-goose chase,” the “log cabin,” the “rocky mountain,” the “Irish plaid,” and a “charm quilt,” in twelve hundred pieces, no two of which were alike. The windows in the best chamber had white cotton curtains with elaborate fringes; the looking-glass was long and narrow with a yellow-painted frame, and a picture, in the upper half, of Napoleon crossing the Alps, the Alps in question being very pointed and of a sky-blue color, while Napoleon, in full-dress uniform, with never an outrider nor a guide, was galloping up and over the dizzy peaks on a skittish-looking pony.
These things nearly upset Jo's gravity, and she quite lost Miss Sawyer's favor by coughing down an irrepressible giggle when she was shown a painting of Burns and His Mary, done in oil by Miss Hannah, the oldest sister of the family, and long since dead. Miss Sawyer had no doubt that Hannah's genius was of the highest order, although the specimens of her skill handed down would astonish a modern artist. Burns and His Mary were seated on a bank belonging to a landscape certainly not Scottish; His Mary, with a pink tarlatan dress on, tucked to the waist; while a brook was seemingly purling over Burns' coat-tails spread out behind him on the bank. It was this peculiar detail which aroused Jo's mirth, as well it might, so that she could not trust herself to examine with the others Miss Hannah's last and finest effort—“Maidens welcoming General Washington in the streets of Alexandria.” The maidens, thirteen in number, were precisely alike in form and feature, all very smooth as to hair, long as to waist, short as to skirt, pointed as to toe, and carrying bouquets of exactly the same size and structure, tied up with green ribbon.
The tour of inspection finished, the girls sat down to chat over their tatting and crochet work, while the two ladies went out to prepare supper.
“My reputation is gone,” whispered Jo, solemnly. “To think that I should have laughed when I had been behaving so beautifully all the afternoon; but Robbie Burns was the last straw that broke the camel's back of my politeness; I couldn't have helped it if Miss Miranda had eaten me instead of frowning at me.”
“What do you think?” cried Lilia, jumping up impulsively and knocking down her chair in so doing, “I'm going to beard the lion in his den, and see if they won't let me help them get supper. Don't you want to come, Jo?”
The two girls ran across the long, cold hall, opened the kitchen door stealthily, and Jo asked in her sweetest tones, “Can't we set the table or help in any way, Miss Miranda?”
“No, I thank you, Josephine; there is nothing to do, or leastways you wouldn't know where things are, and wouldn't be any good. The Porter girl may come in if she wants to, but two of you would only clutter up the kitchen.”
So Lilia went in meekly, and poor Jo flew back to the parlor, smarting under a bitter sense of disgrace. The sisters fortunately knew nothing of Lilia's aptitude for blunders, else she never would have been suffered to touch their precious household gods. As it was, by dint of extreme care, she managed to get the plum sauce on the table, and to set the chairs around it, without any serious disaster. To be sure, in cutting the dried beef, she notched a memorandum of the pieces shaved on each of her fingers, so that when she finished they were perfect little calendars of suffering; however, this only concerned herself, and she did not murmur, as most of her mistakes implicated other people.
At half-past five they sat down to supper; and such a supper! Miss Miranda was evidently anxious to impress the young people. The best pink “chany” set had been unearthed, and there were besides other old dishes of great magnificence. Quaint British lustre pitchers held the milk and cream, a green dragon plate the cookies, and the “Sheltered Peasant” saucers came in for general admiration.
The china was not more notable than the food. There were light soda biscuits, large in size and thick, and there was cold buttermilk bread; a blue and white bowl held tomato preserves, while a glass one was full of delicious applesauce cooked in maple-syrup; then there was a round, creamy cottage-cheese, white as a snow-ball; a golden, dried-pumpkin pie, baked in a deep yellow plate; the brownest and plummiest and indigestible-est of all plummy cakes, with doughnuts and sugar gingerbread besides. This array of good things being taken in with rapid and rabid glances, the girls exchanged involuntary looks of delight, and even emitted audible signs of happiness. To say that they did justice to the repast would be a feeble expression, for in truth the meals of their own preparation were irregular as to time, indifferent as to quality, and sometimes, when they calculated carelessly and unwisely, even small as to quantity.
After tea was over, each of the girls was required to give, in answer to a string of questions asked, her entire family history; for no tidbit of information concerning other people's affairs was uninteresting to Miss Jane or Miss Miranda. This cross-examination being finished, they rose to go, unable to hear any longer the quiet, proper, suppressed atmosphere that pervaded the house. While they had been admiring the quaint, old-fashioned relics and busy devouring the appetizing New England goodies, they were quite at ease, but an hour or two of conversation had exhausted their adaptability. When they had taken their leave, and the sound of their merry voices and ringing laughter floated in from the country road, Miss Miranda sank into a chair, and waved a fan excitedly to and fro, her mouse-colored complexion quite flushed and pink from the unwonted dissipation.
“Wall, Jane,” said she, “it's over now, and we've done our dooty by Mis' Winship; she's a good neighbor, and I wanted to act right by Isabel when her Ma was away, but of all the crazy, 'stivering' girls I ever see, them do beat all; though they did behave tolerable well this afternoon.”
“They seemed to enjoy their supper,” said Miss Jane; “I never saw girls make a heartier meal.”
“They did for certain,” continued Miranda, “too hearty most. I thought. That light-haired girl with the blue ear-rings left her meat hash, that'll sour before we can warm it over again, and et and et fruit cake till I was afraid she'd have fits at the table. We ought to be very thankful we hevn't any young ones or men-folks to cook for, Jane.”
And with that expression of gratitude on her lips, she lighted a candle, and after locking up the house securely, the two spinsters went to their bedrooms to sleep the sleep of the calm and the virtuous.
Their merry visitors, undisturbed by the pelting rain from above, and the deep “slush” beneath, waded over into their own grounds with many a hearty laugh and jest.
“Oh, how delightful our own sitting-room looks!” exclaimed Patty, as they opened the door and gathered about the cheerful fire on the hearth. And, indeed, it did, after the stiff, prim arrangement of the rooms they had left. The flickering blaze cast soft shadows on the walls, and touched the marbles on the brackets with rosy tints; the canary-birds were fast asleep with their heads hidden under their wings, and the dog and cat were snoozing peacefully together on the hearth-rug. The young people, as well as the room, belonged to another generation than Miss Miranda's and Miss Jane's, a brighter, freer, fresher one, with a wider outlook, and quite different problems and responsibilities.
“We never can be jollier than this!” cried Lilia, in an irrepressible burst of appreciation. “Oh, that it might last forever, and that seminaries for young ladies might be turned into zoological gardens! Then we could keep house here this week, the next week, and eternally, taking tea with Miss Miranda whenever she asked us to come. What a good supper that was, girls! Oh, Bell and Jo, you ought to be overcome with remorse when you think what you might give us to eat, if you were only skillful, energetic, and ingenious!”
“You're the very essence of thanklessness!” answered Bell, in high dudgeon. “It's nothing less than fiery martyrdom to cook for you girls, when you are so ungrateful. Your special seminary will not be so far removed from a zoological garden when you return to it, that is certain!”
“My dear child, I am sorry already for my remark,” said Lilia, in feigned repentance. “It was very thoughtless in me to arouse your anger until after the next meal. Any impertinence of ours is sure to be visited upon us in the form of oatmeal porridge, or salt fish and crackers.”
“Lilia Porter, if you want to be an angel by and by, it would be better to draw your thoughts away from eatables for a time; you talk quite too much about food,” said Edith Lambert, who had a very hearty appetite, but never called attention to it. “When you have done with your nonsense, I have something to propose for our final 'good time.' We have only four days, 'tis true, and 'pity 'tis 'tis true; but we must go away with flying colors, and so astonish the natives with our genius that the village will talk of us for months to come.”
“Si-lence in court!” cried Jo, impressively. “Let me offer you the coal hod for a platform; it won't tip over; go on, you look as dignified as a policeman.”
“Stop your nonsense, Jo. You remember, Bell, the evening when we made a comic pantomime of 'Young Lochinvar,' and acted it before the teachers and seniors?”
“Indeed I do,” laughed Bell, in recollection. “We girls took all the characters. What fun it was!”
“Why can't we do that again, changing and improving it, of course? The boys are so clever and bright about anything of the kind that they would be irresistibly funny. What do you think?”
“I like the idea,” exclaimed Patty Weld. “Uncle Harry's large hall would be just the place for it, and the stage is already there.”
“So it is; how fortunate,” agreed Alice; “we couldn't think of anything that would be greater fun. How shall we cast the characters! You must be the bride, Bell, the 'fair Ellen!' you will do it better than anybody. Jo will make up into the funniest old lady for a mother, and the rest of us can be the bride-maidens. Hugh Pennell will be a glorious Young Lochinvar, if he can be persuaded to run away with Bell—” this with a sly glance at her hostess.
“Yes,” said Edith, “and poor Jack will have to be the 'craven bridegroom,' who loses his bride, and Geoff, the stern parent.”
“Uncle Harry will read the poem for us, I know,” continued Bell; “he does that sort of thing often at the church, and does it beautifully. Phil Howard, Royal Lawrence, and Harry will be bridemen. We'll perform the piece in such a tragic way that each separate hair in the audience will stand erect.”
“But, oh, the labor of it, girls!” sighed Patty—“wooden horses to be made for the elopement scene, Scottish dresses, and all sorts of toggery to be hunted up; can we ever do it in time, with our house-cleaning before us?”
“Nonsense, of course we can,” rejoined Bell, energetically. “We will consult every book on private theatricals, Scottish history, manners, and costumes in this house, and Uncle Harry's, too. Let us get up at five to-morrow morning, have a simple breakfast of—”
“Cornmeal mush or dry bread and milk,” finished Lilia, with grim sarcasm. “If time must be saved, of course, it must come out of the cooking! How are we to do this amount of work on a low diet, I should like to know?”
“How are the cooks to get time for anything outside the kitchen if they humor your unnatural appetites! Out of kindness, we propose to lower you gradually, meal by meal, into the pit of boarding-school fare.”
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' I don't care to be starved beforehand by way of getting used to it,” retorted Lilia, as she lighted the bedroom candles. “Come, dears, do cover the fire; it was sleepy-time an hour ago, and if you want to see something beautiful, look through the piazza window.”
Beneath them lay the steep river bank, smooth with its white, glittering crust, above which a few naked alders pushed their snow-weighted finger-tips; one rugged old pine-tree stood in the garden, grand, dark, and fearless; the quiet part of the river had been turned by King Winter into an icy mirror; but over the dam a hundred yards below, the waters tumbled too furiously to be frozen. The old bridge looked like a silver string tying together the two little villages, and over all was the dazzling winter moonlight.
Six dreamy faces now at the cottage window. Six girlish figures, all drawn closely together, with arms lovingly clasped. The white beauty, and the solemn stillness of the picture hushed them into quietness. One minute passed and then another, while the spell was working, till at length Bell impulsively bent her brown head, and said softly: “If the minister were here he would say, 'Let us pray.' It makes me want to whisper, 'Dear Lord, make us pure and white within, as thy world is without.'”
“Amen,” murmured Edith and Patty, in the same breath.
“Pull down the curtain,” sighed Jo; “it makes me feel wicked!”
“Ah, don't, don't, not quite yet!” pleaded Edith, “it is too heavenly and it can't do us any harm to feel wicked. It reminds me of Tennyson's 'St. Agnes' Eve,' of the white, white picture she looked out upon from her convent window the night she was lifted to the golden doors of heaven—the poem you recited for the medal, Alice,—say a verse of it.” And Alice, half under her breath, repeated the lovely lines:
“As these white robes are soil'd and
dark
To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shines my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am
To that I hope to be!”