The little village of D—— was primitive in its tastes and habits. Remote from any populous city or town, it was neither infected by their follies, nor rendered more refined by association. Railway speed had not there conquered both time and space; the journey to the city was yet a tedious one of days, over high hills and rocky roads, consequently, an event not of very frequent occurrence. Yet, however these “dwellers of the valley” might lack for refinement, or the high-bred polish of fashionable society, there was a great deal of honest worth and intelligence among them—true hospitality, and genuine benevolence both of precept and practice.
True, scandal here, as elsewhere, found wherewith to feed her craving appetite; and busy-bodies, more at home in their neighbor’s kitchens than their own, walked the streets inspectingly; yet, as the same may be said of almost every place, let not our little village be therefore condemned.
In the course of a week almost every person in the town had called to see Anna, from various reasons, no doubt; some from real neighborly kindness, others solely out of regard for the young doctor, and not a few from curiosity; yet as they carried not these motives in their hands, Anna, of course, could not determine by their pressure, whose welcome was the most hearty and sincere, and therefore extended to all the same courteous reception. Also, in the same short space of time, her work-basket was filled with all sorts of odd recipes for all sorts of odd things—candles, cake, bread, bruises, beer, puddings, pickles, pies, and plasters, soap and sausages, as gratuitous aids to the young, ignorant housekeeper, by her well-meaning neighbors.
The opinion, by the by, which Anna’s new acquaintances formed of her, may, perhaps, be best gathered from a colloquy which took place one afternoon at Mrs. Peerabout’s, over a social cup of tea.
“Well,” exclaimed that lady, who from her bitterness was generally considered as the aloes of the neighborhood, “well, I, for one, have been to see the bride, as you call her, and of all the affectedest rigged up creatures I ever see, she beats all.”
“She certainly has one of the sweetest faces I ever saw,” said another. “Don’t you think, Mrs. Peerabout, she is very pretty?”
“No, indeed, I don’t! ‘handsome is that handsome does,’ I say. Pretty! why I’d rather look at our Jemima’s doll, that her Aunt Nancy sent her from Boston. Gloves on!—my gracious! At home in the afternoon, a sitting down with gloves on, looking at pictures! A useful wife she’ll make Rupert Forbes, to be sure!”
“And they say, too,” said Miss Krout, “she can’t even cook a beefsteak, and almost cried because she had not a silver fork to eat her dinner with.”
“Yes,” added Mrs. Peerabout, “so she did, and could not even put on a table-cloth without help, Kitty says!”
“Well, but, Aunt,” interposed a pretty girl, “Kitty also said that she was so pleasant, and spoke so pretty to her, that she really loved to help her.”