COUSIN EMMA.
Agnes had been in town about two weeks, when my home was one morning thrown into a state of unusual excitement by the arrival of a letter from Boston, containing the intelligence that Cousin Emma Rushton, who had been an invalid for more than a year, was about to try the effect of country life and country air.
This piece of news operated differently upon different members of our family. Juliet exclaimed, "Good, good; Carrie Howard won't hold her head quite so high now, for we shall have a city lady, too." Anna was delighted, because she would thus have an opportunity of acquiring city manners and city fashions. Sally said snappishly, "There's enough to wait on now, without having a stuck-up city flirt, faintin' at the sight of a worm, and screechin' if a fly comes toward her." Mother had some misgivings on the subject. She was perfectly willing Emma should come, but she doubted our ability to entertain her, knowing that the change would be great from a fashionable city home to a country farmhouse. Grandmother, who loved to talk of "my daughter in the city," was pleased, and to console mother, said:
"Never you mind, Fanny, leave her to me; you find victuals and drink, and I'll do the entertaining."
Among so many opinions it was hard for me to arrive at a conclusion. On the whole, however, I was glad, until told that during Cousin Emma's stay our garret gambols must be given up, and that I must not laugh loud, or scarcely speak above a whisper, for she was sick, and it would hurt her head. Then I wished Cousin Emma and Cousin Emma's head would stay where they belonged.
The letter was received on Monday, but Emma would not come until Thursday; so there was ample time for "fixing up." The parlor-chamber was repapered, the carpet taken up and shaken, red and white curtains hung at the windows, a fresh ball of Castile soap bought for the washstand, and on Thursday morning our pretty flower beds were shorn of their finest ornaments with which to make bouquets for the parlor and parlor-chamber. Besides that, Sally had filled the pantry with cakes, pies, gingerbread, and Dutch cheese, to the last of which I fancied Emma's city taste would not take kindly. Then there was in the cellar a barrel of fresh beer; so everything was done which could be expected.
When I went home for my dinner that day I teased hard to be allowed to stay out of school for one afternoon, but mother said "No," although she suffered me to wear my pink gingham, with sundry injunctions "not to burst the hooks and eyes all off before night." This, by the way, was my besetting sin; I never could climb a tree, no matter what the size might be without invariably coming down minus at least six hooks and eyes; but I seriously thought I should get over it when I got older and joined the church.
That afternoon seemed of interminable length, but at last I saw father's carriage coming, and quick as thought I threw my grammar out of the window; after which I demurely asked "to go out and get a book which I had dropped." Permission was granted and I was out just in time to courtesy straight down, as father pointing to me, said: "There, that's our little crazy Mollie," and then I got a glimpse of a remarkably sweet face, which made the tears come in my eyes, it was so pale.
Perhaps I wronged our school-teacher; I think I did, for she has since died; but really I fancied she kept us longer that night on purpose. At least, it was nearly five before we were dismissed. Then, with my bonnet in hand, I ran for home, falling down once and bursting off the lower hook! I entered the house with a bound, but was quieted by grandmother, who said Emma was lying down, and I mustn't disturb her.
After waiting some time for her to make her appearance, I stole softly up the stairs and looked in where she was. She saw me, and instantly rising, said with a smile that went to my heart:
"And this must be Mary, the little crazy girl; come and kiss your Cousin Emma."
Twining my arms around her neck, I think I must have cried, for she repeatedly asked me what was the matter, and as I could think of no better answer, I at last told her "I didn't like to have folks call me crazy. I couldn't help acting like Sal Furbush, the old crazy woman, who threatened to toss us up in the umbrella."
"Forgive me, darling," said Emma coaxingly; "I will not do it again;" then stooping down, she looked intently into my eyes, soliloquizing, "Yes, it is wrong to tell her so."
In a few moments I concluded Emma was the most beautiful creature in the world; I would not even except Carrie Howard. Emma's features were perfectly regular, and her complexion white and pure as alabaster. Her hair, which was a rich auburn, lay around her forehead in thick waves, but her great beauty consisted in her lustrous blue eyes, which were very large and dark. When she was pleased they laughed, and when she was sad they were sad too. Her dress was a white muslin wrapper, confined at the waist by a light blue ribbon, while one of the same hue encircled her neck, and was fastened by a small gold pin, which, with the exception of the costly diamond ring on her finger, was the only ornament she wore.
When supper was ready I proudly led her to the dining-room, casting a look of triumph at Juliet and Anna, and feeling, it may be, a trifle above grandmother, who said, "Don't be troublesome, child."
How grateful I was when Emma answered for me, "She doesn't trouble me in the least; I am very fond of children."
Indeed, she seemed to be very fond of everybody and everything—all except Sally's Dutch cheese, which, as I expected, she hardly relished. In less than three days she was beloved by all the household, Billy whispering to me confidentially that "never before had he seen any one except mother, whom he would like to marry."
Saturday afternoon Carrie and Agnes called on Emma, and as I saw them together I fancied I had never looked on three more charming faces. They appeared mutually pleased with each other, too, although for some reason there seemed to be more affinity between Emma and Agnes. Carrie appeared thoughtful and absent-minded, which made Anna joke her about her "lover, Penoyer." As she was about leaving the room she made no reply, but after she was gone Agnes looked searchingly at Anna and said:
"Is it possible, Miss Anna, that you are so mistaken?"
"How—why?" asked Emma. "Is Penoyer a bad man? What is his occupation?"
"His occupation is well enough," returned Agnes. "I would not think less of him for that, were he right in other respects. However, he was Carrie's and my own music teacher."
"Impossible," said Anna, but at that moment Carrie reentered the room, and, together with Agnes, soon took her leave.
"Penoyer a music teacher, after all his anger at Lily Gordon for suggesting such an idea!" This was now the theme of Juliet and Anna, although they wondered what there was so bad about him—something, evidently, from Agnes' manner, and for many days they puzzled their brains in vain to solve the mystery.