AUNT BETTY’S RECEPTION OF HER GUEST.
When the sleigh stopped before the back door, it was slowly opened, and Marion saw a tall, lank old woman with thin gray hair, small, faded blue eyes, a long, sharp nose, and thin lips, standing in it.
“I hope I see you well,” said a not unkindly voice, and something like a smile played over the hard old face. A knotty hand was held out toward her, and when she put hers timidly within it, it drew her into a large kitchen, where a cooking-stove, that shone like a mirror, sent out rays of heat even to the open door.
It was like Kate Underwood’s “Tableau kitchen,” yet how different! It had such an air of cleanliness and comfort, that everything, even to the old chairs and tables, the long rows of bright pewter that adorned a swinging shelf, the hams clothed in spotless bags, hanging from the old crane in the big chimney, all had a certain air of refinement which went at once to Marion’s heart.
Aunt Betty took off one of the lids of the stove, jammed in all the wood it could be made to hold, then moved a straw-bottomed chair, laced and interlaced 144 with twine to keep the broken straw in place, close to the stove, and motioned Marion to sit down in it.
Then she stood at a little distance looking at her curiously. “You don’t favor the Parkes,” she said, after a slow examination. “You look more like your Aunt Jerushy; she was on my mother’s side. Your brown hair is hern, and your gray eyes; you feature her too. When you’re warm through, you can go up-stairs and lay off your things. I don’t have folks staying with me often, but I’m glad to see you.”
This she said with a certain heartiness that went straight to Marion’s heart. She held up her face for a welcoming kiss, and, blushing like a young girl, Aunt Betty, after a quick look around the room, as if to be sure no one saw her, bent down, and kissed for the first time in twenty years.
Then Marion followed her up some steep stairs, leading from the kitchen to an unfinished room under the rafters. Here everything again was as neat as wax, but how desolate! An unpainted bedstead of pine wood, holding a round feather-bed covered with a blue-and-white homespun bed-quilt; a strip of rag carpet on a floor grown beautiful from the care bestowed upon it; a small table covered with a homespun linen towel, a Bible in exactly the middle of it; two old yellow chairs, and not another thing.
It was lighted by a three-cornered window, which 145 Marion learned afterward, being over the front door, was considered the one choice ornament of the house.
In spite of its desolation, its neatness was still a charm to her. It was, as she knew, the family homestead, and that subtile influence, so strong yet so indescribable, seemed to her to brood over the room. Here generation after generation of those whose blood was running now so blithely through her veins had lived, died, and gone out from it. Gently reverent she stood on its threshold. Aunt Betty, looking at her curiously, wondered at her.
It had never been warmed excepting from the heat that had come up from the kitchen stove. For the first time in her long life, Aunt Betty found herself wishing there was a chimney and a large air-tight stove in it; it would be fitter for a young girl like this visitor.
But Marion had been by no means accustomed to luxuries. She made herself at home at once. She hung her hat upon a nail which was carefully covered with white cloth to prevent its rusting anything, and put her valise, not upon the table with the Bible, or on the clean, blue bed-quilt, but up in a corner by itself.
Aunt Betty watched all these movements, every now and then nodding her gray head in silent approval.
Then they went back to the kitchen, Marion taking a Greek play with her to read,—one of Euripides. She had promised herself much pleasure during this 146 short vacation in finishing the play which her class were studying at the end of the term.
Aunt Betty, walking back and forth around the kitchen, stopped now and then at her elbow, and peeped curiously inside the open leaves.
An object of Marion’s in taking the book had been to relieve her aunt of any feeling that she must entertain her; if she had been older and wiser she would have seen her mistake.
She was trying to puzzle out a line of the chorus, when a voice said close to her ear,—
“Be that a Bible you are readin’?”
Marion gave a little start, certainly there was nothing very Scriptural in the play.
“No-o-o,” she stammered; “it’s a Greek play, a—a tragedy.”
“A tragedy! you don’t read none of them wicked things!” severely.
“Why, yes, auntie, when they come in the course of my study. It’s in Greek!”
“Greek! and you’re a gal! Your father allers was cracked about it, but this beats all!”
Marion failed to see it in just that light, but she said pleasantly, “I’ll put it away if it troubles you.”
A long arm pointed up-stairs, and Marion followed its direction.
When she came down, it seemed to Aunt Betty, in spite of her displeasure, that the rays of sunlight that were glimmering so faintly at the head of the 147 stairs came down with her and lighted up the dingy old kitchen.
“Now give me something to do,” said Marion dancing up to her with one of the prettiest steps she had learned at the academy. “It’s Thanksgiving, you know, to-morrow, and we have such lots and lots to do at home; there’s pies and puddings and cakes and a big turkey to prepare, and a chicken pie, and nuts to crack, and apples to rub until you can see your face in them.”
Aunt Betty’s mouth and eyes opened as wide as they could for the wrinkles that held them while Marion told of the festival dinner, then she looked down at Marion’s feet, and, not satisfied with the glimpse she caught of a pair of little boots, she lifted Marion’s dress, then asked,—
“Be you lame?”
At first Marion was puzzled, then she remembered how she had danced into the room, so, with a merry peal of laughter, instead of answering, off she went into a series of pirouettes that might have astonished more accustomed eyes than those of her old Aunt Betty.
When she had danced herself out of breath she said, “Does that look like being lame? Better set me at work and let me use my feet to some more useful purpose!”
So still and stiff Aunt Betty stood that Marion could hardly restrain herself from catching hold of her and whirling her around in a waltz. 148
But fortunately she did not, for the first words her aunt said were,—
“Do you have Satan for a principal at your school, Marion Parke?”
“Satan! Why, auntie, we have Miss Ashton, and she’s the loveliest Christian lady you ever saw. We girls think she is almost an angel! Do you think it’s wicked to dance?”
“Sartain I do;” and the shake of Aunt Betty’s gray head left no doubt she was in earnest.
“Then I’ll not dance while I am here,” and Marion sat herself down demurely in the nearest chair.
Aunt Betty looked at the big clock in the corner of the kitchen. The early dark was already creeping into the room, hiding itself under table and chair, showing the light of the isinglass doors of the cooking-stove with a fitful radiance, making Marion lonely and homesick, for you could hear the clock tick, the room was so still. Then Aunt Betty lighted two yellow tallow candles that stood in iron candlesticks on the mantel-shelf, put up a leaf of the kitchen table, covered it with a clean homespun cloth, put upon it two blue delft plates and cups, a “chunk” of cold boiled pork, a bowl of cider apple-sauce, a loaf of snow-white bread, and a plate of doughnuts.
“Come to supper!” she said, and Marion went. How hungry she was, and how good everything, even the cold boiled pork, looked, she will not soon forget!
Before they seated themselves, Aunt Betty stood 149 at the back of her chair, and, leaning on its upper round with her eyes fixed on the pork, she said,—
“For all our vittles and other marcies we thank Thee.”
Marion, when she became aware of what was taking place, bowed her head reverently; but when she raised it she could not conceal the smile that played around her mouth.
She did not know this was the same grace which had been said over that table for one hundred and twenty years; yet it made her feel more at home, and she began to chat with her quaint old relative in her pleasant way, telling her of her home, of their daily life there, of the good her father was doing, and how every one loved and respected him.
Aunt Betty listened in silence, only now and then uttering a grunt, which, whether it was commendatory or condemnatory, Marion could not tell. It was a long, dull evening that followed. At eight, one of the tallow candles, much to her joy, lighted Marion to her bed.