A NEW LIFE.
(In Three Instalments.)
BY FLORENCE HALLOWELL HOYT.
CHAPTER IV.
When Aunt Patty and Ida went into the house together, Cynthia was not to be seen. She was upstairs in her own room, with the door locked, and when Aunt Patty knocked she answered in a smothered voice that she would be out in a few minutes.
"I don't know what under the canopy can be the matter with Cynthia," said Aunt Patty, when she came down stairs again, after removing her old black straw bonnet and silk cape. "I never knew the child to shut herself up that way before."
Ida said nothing; she was sewing by a window, and did not look up. There was a look of constraint and annoyance on her face.
Cynthia's eyes were swollen and red when she entered the kitchen a few minutes later. It was quite apparent that she had been weeping, and of course Aunt Patty was deeply concerned. She peered at Cynthia over her steel-bowed spectacles, and insisted on knowing what was the matter.
"It is only that I am a little disappointed about something," said Cynthia, when she saw that her aunt would not be put off. "But it was foolish of me to cry. I'm ashamed of being such a baby."
"And what disappointed you?" asked her aunt.
Before Cynthia had time to reply, Ida rose abruptly and left the kitchen. She went into the stuffy parlor, and sat down by a window overlooking the road. The blinds were closed, but she could see through the half-open slats. There was no one in sight, however, and nothing more interesting to gaze upon than Squire Cord's old spavined horse, which was cropping the grass by the road-side. He raised his hind legs, whenever he moved, in a stiff fashion that would have made Ida smile at any other time; but now she felt too much depressed for even the shadow of a smile to curve her lips. Her conscience was troubling her. She knew she had done wrong, had been unsisterly and deceitful, but she had not the moral courage to confess her fault. Because she knew that Cynthia had no suitable dress for such an occasion she had not wanted her to attend the lawn party. She didn't want Angela Leverton to meet either Cynthia or Aunt Patty.
"I didn't say Mrs. Lennox hadn't invited her," thought Ida, trying to stifle the reproaches of her conscience. "I simply let her think so. And I really think I was justified to some extent; for it would spoil all my pleasure to have her at the lawn party in that old pink organdie. It's a shame Aunt Patty hasn't provided her with decent clothes. She might have strained a point to get her one nice summer dress at least."
If Ida had only known how often a point had been strained at the old farm-house to provide her with nice clothing during the six years she had spent at Aunt Stina's, and how cheerfully Cynthia had turned, dyed, and made over her old garments that her absent sister might have new! Ida remembered suddenly that she had not heard the "something grand" which Aunt Patty had been so eager to tell. She concluded that she had better return to the kitchen.
She found Aunt Patty making biscuit. Cynthia was setting the table for supper. She smiled brightly as Ida came in.
"We've been waiting for you, Ida," she said. "Aunt Patty wants you to hear the great news. What do you think it is?"
"Oh, I could never guess."
"Well, Aunt Patty has sold the yellow heifer. Mr. Coswell will give twenty-eight dollars for her."
"Is that the something grand?" Ida's lip curled a little. "Well, I suppose I ought to be interested. I will be if Aunt Patty will buy herself some new clothes with the money."
Aunt Patty and Cynthia exchanged a look.
"Well, I d'know," said Aunt Patty, with some hesitation. "Seems like it would be downright sinful for me to spend all that money trickin' myself out. It's needed on other things a sight more. I'm old, an' it don't matter much how I'm dressed. Folks are so used to seein' me in my old clothes that they don't notice me no more. It's diff'rent with you girls. You're young, 'n' it's natural for you to want to look pretty 'n' fash'nable."
"I think we all ought to take pride in looking nice, whether we are old or young," said Ida, looking a little irritated. "Aunt Stina thinks a great deal of personal appearance."
"Well, I don't wonder at it. Your Aunt Stina's a fine-looking woman, 'n' she's been wrapped up in pink cotton all her life." Aunt Patty smiled as she spoke. "But it's diff'rent with me. I'm used to hard work, 'n' I never had the money to buy fine feathers. Look at my hands." She held out two knotted brown hands, rough and stained with toil. "I guess they ain't much like your Aunt Stina's, but I'm thankful for 'em, all the same."
"Most of the work your hands have done has been for others," said Cynthia, warmly.
"Suppose we go back to the question of spending that money," said Ida. "Aunt Patty, won't you buy at least one new dress for yourself?"
"I won't make no promises," answered Aunt Patty. "I c'n tell better about it later on."
Ida felt vexed, and she allowed herself to make several unkind little speeches which caused a flush to rise to Aunt Patty's kindly old face, and once tears gathered thickly in her faded dark eyes.
But she concealed her emotion by making a trip to the pantry for some pineapple jam, of which Ida was particularly fond, and she said nothing unkind in return.
"It's hard on her to have to stay in this dull place all summer, after the gay times she's had in the city," the old lady said to Cynthia, during Ida's temporary absence from the kitchen. "We mustn't mind it if she says sharp little things once in a while. Ida's got a good heart; it's only crusted over."
"If I thought it would be of any use I'd ask Aunt Stina to take her abroad," said Cynthia, for Mrs. Chase's departure had been unavoidably delayed by some business complications, and she was still in the city, boarding at a fashionable hotel, having closed her house.
"It wouldn't be no use, dearie," said Aunt Patty, with a sigh.
Ida's entrance at that moment prevented Cynthia from making any reply, and they all sat down to supper. They no longer ate their meals in the kitchen, Ida having arranged the former sitting-room as a dining-room. The change made a great deal more work for Aunt Patty and Cynthia, but they had not complained. Half a dozen times during each meal Cynthia was obliged to go into the kitchen on some errand, but no shadow of impatience or annoyance ever crossed her face. That Ida found the change desirable and pleasant was quite enough to cause Cynthia to feel glad that it had been made. Often when Ida would have risen to attend to some errand to the pantry her sister would forestall her.
"I know better than you do where things are," she would say, as she hurried from the room.
That evening, after Ida had gone upstairs to her own chamber, pleading a headache, Cynthia and Aunt Patty employed themselves with the composition of a letter. When finished it was addressed to Mrs. Chase.
"I will get up early and take it to the post-office, so it will go out in the six-o'clock mail," said Cynthia, as she sealed the envelope. "Oh, Aunt Patty, isn't it nice to have this splendid secret?"