The Harvest of Years

by Martha Lewis Beckwith Ewell

"Let me wash them, Emily, your hands tremble so." Then I tried to exorcise the demon within, and I said:

"How can we have a stranger here, putting on airs, and Hal going away, and our home probably too homely for her. I know she never washed her hands in a blue wash-bowl in the world, much less in a pewter basin such as we use. She'll want everything we haven't got, and I shall tip everything over, and be as awkward as—oh, dear! Mother, how I do wish I could be ground over and put in good shape before to-morrow night." I never saw my mother laugh so heartily in my life; she laughed till I was fairly frightened and thought she had a hysteric fit, and when she could speak, said:

"Emily, don't borrow trouble, it may make Hal's departure easier for us. It must be right for her to come, else it would not have happened. You are growing so like a careful woman, I doubt not you will be the very one to please her."

Those words were a sort of strengthening cordial, and before I went to sleep I had firmly determined to receive my cousin as I would one of my neighbors, and not allow my spirit to chafe itself against the wall of conditions, whatever they might be.

So when the stage came over the hill, and round the turn in the road leading to our house, I stood quietly with mother in the doorway waiting to give the strange guest welcome in our midst. I was the first to take her hand, for the blundering stage-driver nearly let her fall to the ground, her foot missing the step as she clambered over the side of the old stage. She gave me such a warm smile of recognition, and a moment after turned to us all and said, "My name is Clara Estelle Desmonde, call me Clara,"—and with hearty hand-shaking passed into the house as one of us. Her hat and traveling mantle laid aside, she was soon seated at the table with us, and chatting merrily, praising every dish before her, and since her appetite did justice to her words, we did not feel her praise as flattery. I had made some of my snow cake, and it was the best, I think, I ever made. Mother had cream biscuit, blackberry jelly, some cold fowl, and, to tempt the appetite of our city visitor, a few of the old speckled hen's finest and freshest eggs, dropped on toast. She did not slight any of our cooking, and my cake was particularly praised. When mother told her I made it, the little lady looked at me so brightly as she said, "You must keep plenty of it on hand as long as I stay, I am especially fond of cake and pie," and although I well knew her dainty fingers had never been immersed in pie-crust, still she had made herself acquainted with the modus operandi of various culinary productions and talked as easily with us about them as if she were a real cook. She seemed from the first to take a great liking to Hal, and, seated in our family circle, this first night of our acquaintance, expressed great regret at his early departure, and remarked several times during the evening, that it would have been so nice if Halbert and her son Louis Robert could have been companions here in "Cosy Nook," as she called our house. It seemed anything but a nook to me, situated as it was on high ground, while about us on either side, lay the seventy-five acres which was my father's inheritance, when he attained his majority; but, to her, this living aside from the dusty streets and exciting novelties of the city, was, I suppose, like being deposited in a little quiet nook. When we said "good night," all of us were of one mind regarding our new-found friend. I was perfectly at ease that first evening, and felt no inclination to make an unlucky speech until the next day, which was Sunday, came, and with it the question, "Are you going to church?" It was always our custom to go to the village church each Sabbath, and I enjoyed the sermons of Mr. Davis, then our minister, very much. He was a man of broad soul and genial spirit, and very generally liked. His sermons were never a re-hash but were quickened and brightened by new ideas originally expressed. Now, however, when this little lady asked, "Are you going to church?" I did not think at all of a good sermon, but of the shabbiness of my best bonnet, and I bit my tongue to check the speech which rose to my lips—"We generally go, but I'd rather not go with you"—while mother answered,

"Yes, Mrs. Desmonde" ("Clara, if you please," the lady interposed), "we always go; would you like to go with us?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, it is a delightful day."

I kept thinking about those shabby ribbons and wondering if I could not cover them up with my brown veil, and after breakfast was over, I actually did re-make an old lemon-colored bow to adorn myself with. I felt shabby enough, however, when we were all ready to start and my poor cotton gloves came in contact with the delicate kids of our guest, when she grasped my hand to say, "You cannot know, Emily dear, how happy I am."

Somehow she made me forget all about how I looked, but the sermon that day was all lost. My eyes divided their light between herself and Halbert, and my heart kept thumping heavily, "Hal goes away to-morrow." I think Hal knew my thoughts, for he sat next to me in our pew, and once when tears were in my eyes, tears which came with thoughts of his departure, he took my hand in his and held it firmly, as if to say, "I shall come back, Emily, don't feel badly." I looked him the grateful recognition my heart felt, and I crowded back the tears that were ready to fall, and when we drove home, our little lady chatting all the way, I was happier than before I went.

Monday morning came and with it Hal's departure. We were up betimes. I think Hal slept little, and I heard the old clock strike nearly every hour, and was down stairs before either mother or father were up. He was to take the stage at half-past eight, and ride to the nearest station, and our breakfast was ready at half-past six. It was a sad breakfast, and though mother tried hard to keep up a conversation on different topics, it was useless. Tears would fill our eyes, and brother Ben, though at that time only about thirteen, was forced to leave his breakfast untasted, and, rising hastily, to take himself out of Hal's sight; but the stage came rumbling down the road, and almost ere we knew it, our good-byes were said, and Hal was waving his handkerchief from his high seat beside the driver, from whence he could see the old home for a long distance.