The children began to repeat these stories at home. Miss Priscilla Davis, who had wanted the school for herself, pronounced it queer kind of teaching,—making a geography lesson like a novel. But Mr. Bassett declared he meant to put on a roundabout and pinafore, and come to school himself.
"I have a very interesting letter to read to you, girls, if you like to stay a few minutes after school," said Ida one day. "You can do just as you please about it."
All chose to stay; and Miss Van Zandt produced her letter, which was from a friend engaged in the flower mission in New York.
"What is a flower mission?" asked Ednah Fletcher.
Ida explained the matter as well as it could be explained to children who had never seen a tenement-house or a city court, and whose notions of the state of poor people were taken from Aunt Betsy and others like her.
"How dreadful!" said Faith "But, Miss Van Zandt, what makes people stay in such places?"
"Many are obliged to do so. They must live near their work, and rents are fearfully high in New York. Others know no better, and if they did, have no means to get away. But, suppose you lived in such a place as my friend describes, would not you be glad to see some one who came to you with a bunch of flowers or a nice little plant?"
"Yes, indeed!" answered several voices.
And Ednah added regretfully, "I do like to go to Ma Bassett's in winter, and see her plants. They look so nice when there is nothing but ice and snow outside!"
"Then you can think how nice such plants would be if there were nothing but dirty streets and courts to be seen outside," said Ida. "But, Ednah, does not your sister keep plants?"
"No, ma'am. She says they make so much dirt in the house."
"Miss Van Zandt, why couldn't we send a box of flowers to your friend?" said Ruth Jewsbury. "The golden-rods are beautiful now, and they last a long time."
"I declare! That is an excellent idea," said Agnes. "If we sent buds, they would bloom out in water."
"Golden-rod is so common, I should not think that they would care for that," said one of the children.
"Not very common in New York, my dear."
"Don't it grow by the side of the road in New York?" asked Eben Fletcher innocently.
The older children laughed, and Miss Van Zandt explained the matter.
"Well, I wouldn't live in such a place, not if you was to give me fifty dollars," said the little boy positively.
"Nor I, not long at a time," replied Miss Van Zandt. "But you must remember, Eben, that there are advantages and disadvantages everywhere.—I will talk this matter of sending flowers over with my aunt, girls, and we will see what can be done."
The next day, Ida again asked the girls to stay after school.
"My aunt is much pleased with your idea of sending a box of flowers, girls," said she. "Now, how many of you are willing to take your holiday to-morrow afternoon instead of Saturday, and give the time to gathering flowers and ferns?"
All the children were more than willing, only Faith Fletcher demurred.
"I should like it very much," said she, "but I was counting on Saturday afternoon to help sister. She isn't well at all, and I thought I could take some of the work off her hands on Saturday."
"What ails your sister?" asked Ida.
"She won't allow that any thing ails her," replied Faith, "and she will keep at work all the time. But she grows thin and pale, and I know she has a pain in her side. Father wants to have a girl, but she won't hear of it."
"She will find that very poor economy in the end," remarked Ida. "Well, I will tell you what we can do. You can come to school at half-past eight, instead of nine, and we will have only half an hour's intermission at noon, and no recess. Then I can let you go at three o'clock, which will give plenty of time for the flower-gathering. And I must not forget to say that aunt Barbara hopes you will all come to her house to tea at six o'clock, and bring your flowers."
"Sha'n't we go home and get dressed?" asked Jenny Hurd. "We sha'n't look very nice."
"By no means," answered Ida. "Come straight from your flower-gathering. Soap and water are plenty, and that is all you will need."
"What kind of flowers shall we bring? Any thing but golden-rod?"
"Oh, yes! All the flowers you can lay hands on,—yarrow and daisies and cockle, and, above all, plenty of green."
"I think a parcel of ferns would be nice," observed Kit. "I know where there are lovely ones,—ever so many kinds."
"They will be just the thing."
It was a very pretty sight that greeted the eyes of Mrs. Van Zandt and her nieces as the children presented themselves the next evening at six o'clock, laden with flowers of all sorts, wild and tame. Mrs. Bassett had not dared to let little Emma, who was a delicate child, go out with the others. But to make amends, she had cut almost every flower in her garden,—dahlias, foxgloves, great spears of hollyhocks, and a huge bunch of lemon-thyme and sweet basil. Others brought sheaves of golden-rod as big as themselves. There were not many flowers in Oldfield County that were not represented in the collection. Kit brought a basket of ferns of all sorts, and a bunch of lady's-slippers, which she had found in a shady hollow, and another of the branching "bear's-grass," or lycopodium. Finally, to crown the whole, appeared Edward Kettle with half a wagon-load of laurel. He had heard what the young ladies were about, he said, and he and his wife took the liberty to help them.
"What lovely laurel!" said Amity. "I thought it was all gone long ago."
Edward explained that he had found it, by his grandfather's direction, in a shady hollow far up on Indian Hill. "You see, the old gentleman has always lived right there. And there ain't many plants nor animals round these parts that he don't know."
"I should like to make his acquaintance," said Amity. "I have often seen him in church. Do you think he would be pleased to have us come and see him?"
"Oh, yes, miss. He's like other old folks, the old gentleman is," said Edward: "he loves to tell over his old stories. Some folks thinks it tiresome, but I don't,—I think it is real interesting; and anyhow, it pleases him."
"Well, you will see us up on Indian Hill some day soon," said Amity. "Meantime, I should like to send him some tobacco-money, if he won't be affronted. I know he smokes sometimes."
"Oh, yes, miss. I don't think it's a very good habit, myself, but grandfather has done it all his life. And I says to Maria, says I, 'When an old man, and especially an old Indian, gets to be a hundred years old, it ain't much worth while to try to teach him new tricks,' says I. Not that Maria would want to interfere either,—'tain't her way. But Mrs. Hills had been talking to her about it, and saying she wouldn't have it if it was her. I can stay and wait on the table, miss, if it would be any accommodation."
"I dare say Aggy will be glad of your help," said Mrs. Van Zandt, to whom Amity referred the matter.
And having thus carried the point he had in mind when he started from home, Edward proceeded to display his gifts in that line, which were not small. Never was a more successful tea-party, after the first shyness of the children wore off. Old Alice had made a bountiful provision of sweets and substantials. Mrs. Van Zandt had sent to Oldbury for a supply of candy, which was put up in pretty boxes, and given to the children to carry home, with the addition of some nice little present to each.
"I wonder if Aunt Betsy would be offended if I were to send her some cake," said Ida to Myra Bassett, who had been specially invited, as she was putting up a parcel of good things for old Abner.
"Oh, yes, she'll be offended. But she will eat the cake, all the same," answered Myra, laughing. "That's her way. I'll take it to her if you like: I'm used to her."
MRS. ORME.
MISS ARMSTRONG had not returned with Mrs. Van Zandt, finding business to keep her in New York, and hearing that the school was not suffering from her absence. When she did come back, she was able to tell the children of the safe arrival of their box of flowers. And she brought an urgent request from the lady to whom they had been consigned, for another box of leaves when the foliage should begin to turn. She also brought a quantity of missionary documents, which the children carried home to their parents, and talked over among themselves.
"Ma," said Myra Bassett as she finished reading one of these same papers, "why can't we have a mission band in our Sunday school? Just think! Here is an Indian church in Minnesota, as poor as poverty, giving eighteen dollars in money and beadwork for the cause of missions; ¹ and our school don't give a cent."
¹ The White Earth church, which is a pattern in more ways than one.
See Bishop Whipple's reports.
"We take up a collection every Sunday," said Mrs. Bassett; "to be sure, it goes to keep up the library."
"Exactly; and I don't call that giving, at all. It is just like taking money out of one pocket and putting it into another. In Oldfield, the Sunday school supports a Bible-woman in China."
"It wouldn't do to undertake quite as much as that at first, but we might do something," said Mrs. Bassett. "I expect we should have opposition from some quarters."
"So we did about cleaning the church, and yet we did it," said Myra.
"Very true. Well, I'll talk to your father. And if he don't see any objection, I'll ask him to speak to Mr. Brace."
"I wish Mr. Brace had a wife," said Myra, who had "a true lover and a sweetheart of her own" sailing on the seas, and was therefore not afraid to speak. "It would seem so much more natural and easy to go to him."
"It is just possible your wish may come to pass," said Mrs. Bassett. "But, as to this notion of the mission band, I must say I like it for the children's sake. How much they were interested in the flowers they sent to New York!"
"Yes, and their interest did them good too."
Ma Bassett talked to her husband, and he in turn to Mr. Brace. The subject was then brought up in teachers' meeting. Miss Armstrong was present, and being called upon, said what she thought,—that such efforts were as beneficial to those who made them as to those for whom they were made. Mr. Brace seconded her warmly, and gave anecdotes from his experience in other places. There was some opposition, of course. But most of the teachers took up the idea with enthusiasm, and in the course of a few weeks, the Oldham mission band was a fixed and prosperous fact.
But we must now follow the fortunes of another of our Oldham acquaintances. Selina was down at Oldbury staying with her sister, and taking singing-lessons of Mr. Schultz, the professor in the famous Oldbury schools. Lizzy was fond of Selina, and had begun by being much pleased with the arrangement. But she was growing uneasy, and wishing her sister at home again. Selina had made the acquaintance of a certain Mrs. Orme, who had come up from New York, and taken a house for the summer. Mrs. Orme was apparently rich,—at least, she spent her money freely,—she was handsome, and had a frank, not to say free, manner, which took Selina's fancy greatly.
There was nothing to be said against the woman, but Oldbury did not take to her. Mrs. Orme's garden joined Mr. Woodbury's, and at her first coming, Lizzy had shown her some neighborly civilities, though she had never responded to her attempts at intimacy. Nevertheless, the two families spoke together, and Mrs. Orme introduced herself to Selina over the garden hedge. She had heard her singing, and been struck with her fine voice. Mrs. Orme had a piano, and was no mean performer herself. She asked Selina to sing with her, and lent her the latest music. Mrs. Orme was in ecstasies over Selina's voice, and threw out broad hints of having her young friend to spend the winter with her, that she might have proper instruction.
"With that voice, and a few lessons in elocution, you might do any thing," said Mrs. Orme. "You might make your fortune."
"Singing at concerts, do you mean?" asked Selina.
"Yes, of course, or on the stage. You needn't look so shocked, child. A great many society ladies go on the stage now, just for fun. And, if you don't care to do that, there are always church choirs in New York where they will pay almost any price for a good soprano voice. You must practise diligently, and especially singing at sight, for that is all-important."
"Mr. Schultz says I improve in that, but he was very severe on me at the last lesson," observed Selina. "He said, 'Miss Weston, you do not improve in style. You are imitating your friend Mrs. Orme, or whatever you call her, who sings in the manner of the beer-garden.'"
"Spiteful old hunchback!" said Mrs. Orme, coloring. "His mind is as crooked as his body, and his own style is that of a broken-down church-organ. But never mind. Wait till I get you to New York, my dear."
"I don't believe my father and mother will ever let me go," said Selina regretfully.
"They are not your own father and mother, and I don't see that you are bound to obey them," returned Mrs. Orme. "According to your own account, you have done work enough to pay for all they ever gave you. I don't doubt that they are very nice people," she hastened to add, seeing that Selina looked rather shocked: "I am sure Mrs. Woodbury is charming, if she would condescend to be friendly. But she seems to have taken a dislike to me, for some reason. Ah, well, my dear, take pains with your music, and improve as fast as possible; and we shall see what can be done."
Mrs. Orme was right. Lizzy did not like her, and she was annoyed at the intimacy that Selina had struck up with her.
"I do wish you would not go to Mrs. Orme's so often," she said to Selina one day. "I am sure mother would not approve of it."
"What have you against Mrs. Orme, I should like to know?" asked Selina in a tone which said, "What business is it of yours?"
"I have nothing against her personally; that is, she has done nothing to me," answered Lizzy gently. "But I do not like her manners, and I don't like such intimacy with a stranger. We know nothing at all about Mrs. Orme."
"There spoke all Oldham," said Selina. "We don't know her, therefore she must be bad."
"I did not say she was bad," returned Lizzy. "But I do say that it is better to know something of a person's antecedents and present standing, before rushing into a violent friendship with them."
"Don't you see what an advantage it is to me to sing with her?"
"I am not so sure of that. Mrs. Orme has a fine voice, and plays well. But I don't think she has improved your style at all. Just compare her singing with Miss Van Zandt's."
"Oh, Miss Van Zandt! I hate the very name of Miss Van Zandt; and I wish she and her model, Miss Armstrong, had never come near Oldham. They have set father and mother against me, and got me into disgrace; and all for what? Because I would not play the hypocrite, and pretend to be religious. I believe Miss Armstrong is a humbug, if ever there was one; but then, she can talk pious, and whoever can do that goes down with mother."
"I have no more to say, Selina," returned Lizzy. "Only I hope the time will never come when you will need the love and kindness you despise. But one thing I must add: I will not have my mother treated disrespectfully under my roof by any one. Remember that."
"Who treats her disrespectfully?" said Selina. "I guess I love mother as well as you do, any day, and would do as much for her, if I don't flatter her, and swear that every thing is right because she does it. But everybody is against me," she added, bursting into tears. "I have always been alone in the world; and when I make a friend, I can't be allowed to enjoy her, because you are jealous of her. I should think you would be ashamed to show such a spirit."
"Heyday! What is that?" asked Mr. Woodbury from the other room, where he was taking off his boots preparatory to reading the evening paper in comfort. "I don't allow any one to scold my wife but myself, Selina. What is that Lizzy is to be ashamed of?"
Selina deigned no answer, but retreated to her own room to have her cry out. Having accomplished this act to her satisfaction, having told herself what a sad thing it was to be an orphan; having said to herself that every joy had its sting, and every rose its thorn, and that, while she must expect an ordinary person like Lizzy to be jealous of her musical talents, it was very hard that she should be placed in her power,—having said all this to herself, and a great deal more, she began to think, which is quite a different thing from talking to one's self. She reflected that she would be very foolish to quarrel with Lizzy and her husband. Suppose Mr. Woodbury should say that he would not keep her any longer; suppose he should complain to her father: there would be an end of the singing-lessons, for which she had longed, and on which she built so many hopes.
She had already thrown away one chance of improvement,—that of singing with Ida Van Zandt. Would it not be the greatest folly to lose another? Then another voice began to make itself heard,—that of conscience; a voice which Selina had not succeeded in silencing, and had not yet learned wholly to disregard. She was an orphan, with no claim of relationship to any human being that she knew of. She had never known of any home but the asylum in Oldbury, till Mr. and Mrs. Weston came and took her home to the ease and plenty of the Oldham farmhouse. But for them, she might still be living in the red-brick house on Elm Street, dressing on week-days in pink or lilac calico, and walking to church on Sunday with the other children, if indeed, she had not been bound out as a servant somewhere. She could not deny, even to herself, that Mr. and Mrs. Weston had always treated her like a daughter, that there was not a girl in Oldham who had more pretty things or more chances for education.
Mr. Weston had bought the piano expressly for her, for Lizzy was not musical, and he had given her every advantage that the place afforded; while Mrs. Weston and Lizzy had done more than their share of the work, that she might have time to practise. Pursuing the subject with the obstinacy which belongs to that inconvenient counsellor, conscience further informed her that she had heretofore made a very inadequate return for all that had been done for her, that she had been often ill-natured and disrespectful, often careless, and always jealous lest perhaps Lizzy might have something which she had not. She knew that Mrs. Weston had made a great sacrifice in letting her come to Oldbury in the very busiest time of the year, that she might have the benefit of Professor Schultz's instructions before he went to New York.
Mrs. Weston, like many notable housewives, disliked having hired help; yet she had taken in Mariette Jewsbury to assist through harvest-time, in order that she, Selina, might have a nice time in Oldbury; only making the condition that she should be guided by Lizzy in all things. What sort of a return was she making?
But Selina did not care to listen to the voice of conscience. She said to herself that she would be more cautious; that she would not quarrel with Lizzy, or come across her prejudices. It was perhaps only natural that Lizzy should be jealous of her friendship with a superior person like Mrs. Orme, and she must be careful not to annoy her. She would go to work that very evening, and knit a pair of shoes for the baby, and that would make every thing right. She had just arrived at this conclusion when Lizzy called her to tea. She bathed her face and eyes, smoothed her hair, and went down prepared to be amiable.
"Horace and myself are going up to see mother Woodbury a little while," said Lizzy, after tea. "Will you go with us? Mother sent word this afternoon that she would like to have us come over."
"I don't think I will," answered Selina. "But I will go as far as Smith's: I want to buy a little yarn. But what about baby?"
"Oh, Jane will look after him. She likes nothing better, you know." Jane was the girl whom Mr. Woodbury, asserting his authority, had insisted on his wife's keeping,—a proceeding severely commented upon by Aunt Betsy and old Miss Jewsbury as an extravagant and "up-setting" proceeding.
"You know mother will be very glad to see you, Selina," remarked Mr. Woodbury. "You are a favorite with her, and she loves to hear you sing."
"She is very kind, I am sure," said Selina. "I will go some other time, but to-night I have something I want to do."
"I hope she won't go into Mrs. Orme's," said Lizzy as they walked away.
"And so do I. The fact is, Lizzy, that intimacy must be broken up, if Selina goes home to do it. I don't like the woman; and I like still less the style of visitors she has, the men especially."
"Some of them are not nice-looking, certainly. However, I don't think Selina has ever been there when Mrs. Orme has had company. Well, we will think about it, and try to see our way. I rather wish we had not left her at home alone. However, I don't believe she will go there to-night."
Nevertheless, Selina did go to Mrs. Orme's. She persuaded herself that there was something she did not understand in the pattern for a baby's shoe that Mrs. Orme had lent her, and that it was necessary for her to seek information. It could do no harm to run in just for a minute.
Mrs. Orme received her with open arms, and introduced her to a friend of her own from Boston,—Mr. Pyncheon, a member of one of the oldest Beacon-street families. No, she said playfully, they would not waste time over the stupid knitting; Mr. Pyncheon was an excellent judge of music, and he must hear her sing.
Mr. Pyncheon seconded his hostess. He was a comparatively young-looking man, with very white hair and whiskers. He delighted Selina by his praise of her music.
"I have not heard such a voice since I lost my own daughter," said he. "Miss Weston reminds me of her."
"She is like poor Angelina," said Mrs. Orme. "I noticed it myself. Isn't it a shame, Mr. Pyncheon, that such a voice should be buried in the wilds of Oldfield, and never heard except in the village choir?"
"It is indeed. Miss Weston ought to go to some of the great German schools. Even now her voice would be noticed in New York."
It is useless to repeat any more of the compliments by which Selina was fooled to the top of her bent.
She sang song after song, alone and with Mrs. Orme, till, warned by the striking of the clock, she returned just in time to meet Mr. and Mrs. Woodbury as they returned from their evening visit. Lizzy was greatly annoyed, and spoke more sharply than was at all common with her.
"I only went in to get a pattern Mrs. Orme promised me," said Selina, restraining herself by a great effort. "Mrs. Orme had some new music, and kept me to try it. I am sorry you are vexed, Lizzy, but you know I can't break off with her all at once, when she has been so kind to me in lending me music, and so on. I won't go there if you don't want me to, though I must say I can't see any harm in her."
Already sorry for her severity, Lizzy said no more.
And Selina, warned by what had happened, actually staid away from Mrs. Orme's for three whole days.
TROUBLE AT HOME.
"WHERE have you been all this time?" said Mrs. Orme to Selina, waylaying her as she came from her music-lesson. "I have not had even a glimpse of you."
"It hasn't been my fault, Mrs. Orme," answered Selina.
"Call me Eva," interrupted her friend: "'Orme' sounds so cold and formal. Why haven't you been in? Mr. Pyncheon was so anxious to hear you sing again. I wanted you to be friends with him, Selina: he has neither chick nor child, and he has no end of money. He said, after you went out, 'How I wish that child belonged to me! I should be so glad to give her a first-rate musical education.'"
"Did he?" asked Selina. "I know he said my voice was like his daughter's."
"Yes. Poor thing, she went to the bad,—made a runaway match, and he never saw her afterward; though he heard that she died somewhere in this neighborhood, and left a child. It was that brought him to Oldbury,—to see if he could find any trace of her. Just think, Selina, if you should turn out to be Mr. Pyncheon's grand-daughter, what a grand thing for you!"
"I don't believe there is any chance of that," said Selina. "I never asked any questions, but I always supposed my parents lived here, and were very poor people."
"They would naturally want you to think so," said Mrs. Orme reflectively, more as if she were addressing herself than speaking to Selina. Then, catching herself up, "But that might be true too. Poor Matilda married beneath her; as I said, a very common sort of man,—her father's coachman, in fact, and I dare say she might have died very poor. It was a terrible blow to her parents, and fairly killed her mother. After the first natural heat of his anger was over, Mr. Pyncheon made every effort to find his daughter, but without success. Then he went abroad, and has just come home. He has gone back to Boston now, but when he returns, we will talk to him. Come in and spend the evening with me. I have a lot of new songs for you to try."
"Mr. Schultz does not want me to sing any more songs just now," replied Selina. "He has given me a parcel of scales and exercises to practise."
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Orme. "However, singing scales is very good practice. But you can come over and see me, all the same."
"I don't believe I can, but I will see. I must go now, at any rate, Mrs. Orme,—Eva, I mean: it is dinner-time."
"Barbarous hours!" said Mrs. Orme. "Well, good-by, dear. I will contrive to meet you somehow."
Selina went home as if she were treading on air, her imagination all on fire with the news she had heard, and the brilliant prospect which seemed opening before her. As she said, she had never asked about her own parents, being restrained by a vague feeling that she might hear something she would not like. It was pleasanter to dream of wealthy and distinguished relatives coming to claim her, than to know for certain that her mother was a poor laundress or something of that sort.
And now it really seemed as if her day-dreams were coming true. Mr. Pyncheon's grand-daughter! Pyncheon was such an aristocratic name, that of one of the oldest New England families. It was worth while to have such an ancestry as that, Selina said to herself. She did not reflect that this grand ancestry had not kept her mother from running away with the coachman, who certainly could not be considered a very aristocratic connection. Still less did it occur to her to suspect, what was the fact, that Mrs. Orme had invented the whole story to serve her own purposes. Mrs. Orme had a plan with regard to Selina, and she was not likely to spare any amount of lying needful to carry it out.
Selina saw a great deal of her for the next week. Old Mrs. Woodbury was ailing; and, as she had no own daughter, Lizzy naturally devoted as much time as possible to waiting upon and comforting her mother-in-law. Whenever she went out, Mrs. Orme popped in, or called Selina into her own house. As the two grew more intimate, Mrs. Orme was more off her guard; and she did and said some things which certainly struck Selina as peculiar. For example, she drank wine and beer very freely, and on several occasions there was an odor of tobacco-smoke about the house which Selina could not account for. Selina, who had been brought up on strict total-abstinence principles, ventured to remonstrate. But she was met with a torrent of ridicule, which speedily silenced her.
"You poor little chicken, brought up in a coop among the daisies! It is really refreshing to meet with such innocence. But you must put these straitlaced Puritanical notions out of your head before you come to New York, or we shall have you making a laughing-stock of yourself. Fancy any one talking like that to my friend Mrs. Robert Livingstone on Fifth Avenue! Why, the wine alone at Mrs. Livingstone's last lunch-party cost three hundred dollars."
The idea of making herself a laughing-stock to an unknown Mrs. Livingstone on Fifth Avenue was enough to silence Selina. But happily for her, even the name of that great lady could not make her break her Sunday school pledge by taking the glass of champagne Mrs. Orme urged upon her.
"I can't, Eva; I have promised not to touch it, and I can't break my word."
"Oh, well, if you have promised, of course that is all about it," said Mrs. Orme, adding to herself, "I will drive all that nonsense out of you, my lady, before I have had you long."
But Selina was not destined to enjoy any longer the dangerous delights of Mrs. Orme's society. The very day after the temperance lecture, Mr. Bassett came for her. Mr. Weston had fallen from the barn-loft, and broken his leg. It was a bad fracture; he was perfectly helpless, and Selina must come home and help wait upon him. There was nothing for it but to go. And to do Selina justice, she never thought of any thing else till she ran in to bid Mrs. Orme good-by.
"What a shame," said that lady, "to take you away from your music and all, just to wait on that old farmer, who is not related to you!"
"I should not have had many music-lessons only for that old farmer, as you call him," said Selina indignantly, her better nature roused for the moment.
"Well, don't be angry. I did not mean any disrespect," said Mrs. Orme, perceiving she had overshot her mark. "Of course it is very kind and self-sacrificing in you to go. I suppose you will be back before long."
"I can't tell. It will depend upon how father is. Good-by, Eva; I must not keep Mr. Bassett waiting.
"Don't you want something to read?" asked Mrs. Orme, hastily gathering together and tying up a quantity of paper books, with which her room was always strewed.
"I don't believe I shall have much time to read, but I will take them," replied Selina. "Good-by, Eva, and thank you for all your kindness."
"Good-by, dear, till I see you again. I shall write to you. And see here, Selina, don't hamper yourself by any more pledges and promises. And I wouldn't say any thing about Mr. Pyncheon, if I were you. Your friends would not like it, and might put obstacles in your way. And you must see, that, if he is really your grandfather, he has the best right to you."
"Of course," said Selina. "I really must go, Eva. Good-by."
Selina could not restrain her tears as she took her seat in the miller's comfortable carriage.
And Mr. Bassett, respecting her grief, was silent for the first mile or two. By that time Selina had recovered her self-control, and began to ask questions.
"Is Miss Armstrong at our house?"
"Oh, yes! Ma wanted her to come to us, and Mrs. Van Zandt sent for her up there. But she left it to your ma, and she said Miss Armstrong made no trouble in the house, and was such a comfort she couldn't bear to part with her."
"Well, I wonder she should care to stay," said Selina. "She and Mrs. Van Zandt are such great friends, and she would be much more comfortable up there."
"Miss Armstrong isn't the woman to be always thinking first of her own comfort," replied Mr. Bassett. "She and I together took care of your pa last night, and persuaded your ma to go to bed; and a better nurse, I never saw. She knows where to put her hand every time. Symantha Mallory was down in the afternoon to see if there was any thing she could do."
"I should not think mother would care to have 'her' about," said Selina.
"Oh, well, I don't think there is any harm in Symantha. Every one agrees that she took good care of her stepmother. And she keeps Kit just as neat as a pin, though she hasn't much to do with, I fancy, for Phin isn't going on very well. Kit comes to church and Sunday school regularly now; and ma says she never had a better scholar, only she asks such queer questions. We have another new scholar, too,—a great friend of yours."
"You don't mean Milly Richmond!" exclaimed Selina. "What brings her to Sunday school, of all people?"
"I don't know, I'm sure, unless she wants to learn something. I can't think how she has grown-up to know so little about the Bible. Poor Kit is a good Bible scholar compared to her. But she behaves very well, I must say that for her, and seems interested in her lessons."
"I should not think Mrs. Richmond would allow it," said Selina, "she is so very liberal in her views."
"So liberal that she doesn't want her daughter to have any opinion of her own, eh? Isn't that a funny kind of liberality?"
"Perhaps so. But I have heard her say that she did not wish to bring up her daughters to any religion; when they were old enough, they could choose for themselves."
"That might do, perhaps, if trouble and death would only wait till people are grown-up," remarked Mr. Bassett. "But they don't, as Mrs. Richmond ought to know by this time. Poor Cordelia is failing fast, as Mrs. Gleason thinks. But her mother won't allow it at all."
"I suppose Agnes was confirmed last Sunday."
"Yes; and her mother too, and Sarah Leet, and my Abner, and about ten more. It was a blessed day, I can tell you. We all wished you were there, Selina."
"What makes you turn up this way?" asked Selina as Mr. Bassett turned his horses into a cross-road.
"Well, it cuts off quite a piece of the distance, and it is good enough this time of year. It is rather lonesome, but we needn't mind that as long as we take daylight with us."
"I don't mind it: I like it," said Selina, "the woods are so pretty. Do you think father will be laid up long?"
"Well, yes, I'm afraid he'll have a tedious time. You see, he is getting an elderly man; and beside the broken bone, it was a pretty severe shake for him. I hope he will get well, I'm sure; for beside the blow to his own family, he would be a dreadful loss to the neighborhood. But he is in the Lord's hands, my girl, and there we must leave him."
"How is mother?"
"Just what she ought to be, neither more nor less," said Mr. Bassett with emphasis: "never thinking about herself, always doing and saying the right thing at the right time. I'll tell you what, Selina, if you don't turn out a good girl, you'll have a great deal to answer for. Never girl had a better father and mother than you have, nor a pleasanter home."
"Well, I hope I shall turn out a good girl," said Selina. "Why should you think I won't, Mr. Bassett? I don't think I have been a very bad girl so far."
"I don't say you have,—far from it," answered Mr. Bassett. "Only, if you'll excuse my plain speaking, Selina, I don't think you have always appreciated your advantages. But then, none of us do that; and perhaps it isn't to be expected of young folks. I tell my boys, sometimes, I believe they think money grows on bushes, like blueberries."
"How did Miss Van Zandt get on with the school?" asked Selina, willing to turn the conversation.
"Oh, famously,—as well as Miss Armstrong herself. That young lady has a genius for other things beside music. She knows how to teach what she has learned. The children think her perfection."
"Yes, she gets on nicely with little ones," said Selina. "She knows how to amuse them, and she is so childish herself she is like a companion to them."
"Childlike, if you choose, not childish," replied the miller. "There is a difference."
"I don't see it."
"Well, it seems others do. St. Paul says, when he became a man, he put away childish things; but our Lord says we must become as little children, or we cannot enter the kingdom of heaven. There is just the same difference between 'childish' and 'child-like' as between 'womanish' and 'womanly.' 'Womanish' implies all the weakness, and 'womanly' all the strength, of a woman. Miss Van Zandt has all the simple, frank, unaffected ways of a nice child. She never seems to think whether any one is looking at her or not."
"There it goes!" thought Selina. "I never was so tired of any one's name in my life."
"Isn't there some one on the road there before us, Selina?" said Mr. Bassett. "I am rather short-sighted, and I have forgotten my glasses."
"Yes, two men; one looks like Phin Mallory," said Selina, bending forward to look. "Yes, it 'is' Phin Mallory. There, they have turned into the woods. Why!" exclaimed Selina in a tone of great surprise, and then she checked herself.
"Why, what?"
"I thought the man with him looked like a gentleman I saw in Oldbury; but it couldn't be, of course."
"Well, they won't interfere with us," said Mr. Bassett.
They had now come to the place where the two men had disappeared, and discovered Phin in the act of lighting a cigar, but nothing was to be seen of his companion.
"Halloo, Phin! Have a ride?" said the miller, pulling up.
"No, thank'ee, Mr. Bassett; I'm going up through the woods to look for a stray critter of mine. You didn't see him, did you,—a red steer with a ball on one horn?"
"I saw him in your pasture-lot when I drove by, this morning."
"All right, then: he has got home before me. No, thank'ee, I won't ride. My cigar might annoy the young lady. How's the squire?"
"Much about the same, only his head is all right to-day."
"Tell his folks I'll come and sit up any night. I used to be reckoned a good hand in sickness."
"I dare say. I'll tell Mrs. Weston. Well, good-by, if you won't ride. Take care of that cigar of yours in the woods, for every thing is as dry as tinder. By the way, who was that you were talking with just before we came up?"
"Talking with? Nobody," replied Phin with a curious tremor in his voice. "Oh, yes: a tramp asked me the way to the village. You'll pass him farther on, I dare say."
"Poor Phin! He has good streaks in him, after all," said Mr. Bassett as they drove on. "They say he was kind to his wife. And it was neighborly in him to offer to sit up with your pa. You might have thanked him, Selina."
"I was thinking of something else," said Selina, with perfect truth.
It could not be possible, she thought, and yet certainly the man she had seen talking with Phin Mallory bore a very strong resemblance to Mrs. Orme's aristocratic Boston friend, Mr. Pyncheon.
OLDHAM AFFAIRS.
WITH the atmosphere of home, Selina's better nature revived for a time. The sight of her father's resolutely endured suffering, and of her mother's pale, cheerful, patient face, brought back the old respect and affection. Then, she felt herself to be a person of consequence, and that was agreeable to her, as it is to most people. She took the whole care of the dairy, and most of the housekeeping, off her mother's hands, and attended to it with an efficiency and quietness which equally pleased and surprised Mrs. Weston. She spoke of the matter to Miss Armstrong.
"I always thought Selina had great capabilities," said Miss Armstrong. "All she needs is to forget herself; and you see she can do so when the motive is strong enough. Certainly her style of doing things is very unlike Mariette's. I shall never have any opinion of that girl again."
For Mariette had taken herself home at the very beginning of the trouble, alleging, as an excuse, that she never could endure to be where there was sickness, it made her feel so bad to see any one suffer.
"What can you expect?" said Mrs. Weston. "Those girls have been brought up to think of nothing on earth but pleasing themselves,—having a good time, as they say; and no better motive than self-pleasing has ever been put before them. The notion of duty has never entered their heads. Their aunt is just the same. When she was young, she found pleasure in finery and such dissipation as came within her reach. Now she finds it in the laudanum-bottle. I do think that a passion for dress and amusement is almost as ruinous to women as drink is to men."
"You might say so if you had seen what I have," replied Miss Armstrong. "More girls are utterly destroyed by the passion for finery than from any other one cause."
Selina had begun by heartily wishing Miss Armstrong away. And she had even ventured, in her mother's absence, to give some broad hints that she thought Miss Armstrong would be much more comfortable somewhere else, and, in fact, that her room would be better than her company. But Miss Armstrong paid no attention to these hints. She knew that her presence in the house added nothing to the work, and was a comfort to Mr. and Mrs. Weston, for whom she had conceived a very earnest friendship. She was very careful not to interfere with Selina in any way, and to lighten her labors whenever it was possible. And by degrees, Selina became reconciled to her presence, and even admitted to herself that Miss Armstrong was a great help in the sick-room. She had been at home more than a week, and Mr. Weston had been pronounced out of danger, when Mrs. Weston called Selina into the dairy, or milk-room as they call it in those parts.
"Daughter, suppose you take a pitcher of this nice buttermilk up to Cordelia Richmond," said she. "Mrs. Gleason was telling me yesterday that it is almost the only thing the poor child fancies. It will be a nice walk for you, and you can stay and have a visit with the girls."
"Well, I will," answered Selina. "I have not seen Milly since I came home. And I will come round by the post-office, and get the mail. What do you think of my churning, mother?"
"It is beautiful," answered her mother. "I don't see but I may give up the care of the milk to you altogether, Selina: you manage every thing as well as I could myself. But you must let Jerry lift the pails for you. God bless you, my child! You are a great comfort to us."
Selina took up her jug of buttermilk, and went on her way, well satisfied with herself and with all the world. She found Milly and Agnes sitting together on the porch, their heads closely bent over a large book which they held between them, and their attention so absorbed that they did not hear her till she spoke to them.
"What in the world are you so busy with?" asked Selina. "You started, when I spoke, as if you had been shot."
"Studying in my grandfather's old 'Matthew Henry,'" answered Agnes, closing the volume, and laying it aside.
"That is something new for you, Milly. You did not use to care much about the Bible."
"No," answered Milly with none of the embarrassment which Selina had expected, and perhaps had hoped to see. "One doesn't care for things that one knows nothing about. But I am beginning to find out that it is worth reading as a story-book, if for nothing more. What have you in that pretty old blue-and-white pitcher? If mother sees it, you will hardly get it back. She has a mania for blue-and-white."
"It is a very old pitcher, but I never supposed there was any thing precious about it," replied Selina. "It is only earthenware, not china."
"Only earthenware! Just hear her! Lovely old Liverpool blue, and an American piece at that. Do let me look at it. See, Agnes, here is the State-house on one side, and—let me see what—actually Faneuil Hall on the other."
"Don't spill Cordelia's buttermilk in your admiration of the pitcher. It is just churned, and mother thought she might like it. How is she?"
"I don't see that she is a bit better, though mother thinks so," answered Milly sadly. "I think she fails all the time. She likes the buttermilk, and it seems to suit her. I am ever so much obliged, Selina."
"I am sure you are very welcome. I wish I could do more than that for her, poor thing."
"There is one thing I wish you or some one would do for her," said Milly as Agnes carried away the blue jug to dispose of its contents, "and that is to persuade mother to let Cordelia see a minister. The poor child wants it so much!"
"Why, won't your mother allow it?" asked Selina.
"No, she won't hear of it. ¹ She would not see Mr. Brace herself when he called. I was in hopes Dr. Madison would come, but he has gone back to New York. I think perhaps mother would have seen him for the fashion of the thing."
¹ I wish this were an exaggeration; but it is a literal fact, occurring
within my own knowledge.
"Miss Armstrong told me she called to see Cordelia, but your mother said she was not fit to receive company."
"I believe it was for the same reason. She is so afraid some one will say a word to Cordelia about dying. She won't let Agnes, or even Mrs. Gleason, stay with her. I read the Bible to her, and she likes it, but of course there is a great deal I can't explain."
"Is she afraid of dying?"
"Not always. She said to-day, if she could know her sins were forgiven, she should be happy. But she does not see how she can be sure, so Agnes and I were looking out the texts about it. I'm sure I should like to comfort her if I could, poor thing. Do sit down a little, Selina. I have hardly seen you since you came home, and I want to hear what kind of time you had in Oldbury."
"Here is your pitcher, Selina. But you will have to excuse me," said Agnes, re-appearing: "My bread has come up so suddenly that I must mould it up directly, or it will be running over."
"Why, where is your mother?"
"She has gone up to see Patience Fletcher, who is sick in bed."
"Is she? What is the matter?"
"Only overwork, the doctor says. You know she always would do every thing herself,—never would let Faith or any one help her, for fear they would not set all the teacups with the handles the same way. So now she can't set them up at all. Martha Jane Kettle is staying there to help, and she told me she wouldn't mind the work a bit if only Patience wouldn't fret so."
"Does she suffer so much?"
"Oh, it isn't that. She bears her pain like a martyr, but she is so afraid Martha Jane won't do every thing just in her way, though she is as neat as wax, and a splendid cook.
"Martha Jane said to her one day, 'See here, Miss Patience, if you was in heaven, do you think you would be worrying about the work all the time?'
"And Patience said, No, she supposed not.
"'Well, then,' says Martha Jane, 'try to think you are in heaven, and leave me and Faith to manage the things on earth.'
"But there, I must go; my bread will be walking about the floor. Stay to tea, Selina, and see what nice rolls I'll have for you."
"So you are really going to Sunday school, Milly?" said Selina when they were left alone.
"I really am; and, what is more, I like it."
"Whose class are you in?"
"Miss Celia Claxton's, only old Mrs. Van Zandt has it now."
"Oh," said Selina, as who should say, "Now I understand."
Milly colored.
"Yes, that was it exactly, to begin with," said she frankly. "I did want to be acquainted with the Van Zandts, and I thought it would be a good way to bring it about. So, when I heard that Miss Celia had gone to Elmfield for a month or so, and Mrs. Van Zandt had taken the class, I told Agnes I would go with her."
"A fine motive for going to Sunday school, I must say," said Selina sarcastically.
"Wasn't it? Well, that was the beginning. But I got interested in spite of myself. Madam Van Zandt makes every thing so real; and she was very kind to me, and made me feel so mean—'that' wasn't nice a bit, I can tell you. So one day when she walked home, I walked with her; and then I just told her all about it."
"Amelia Richmond! You didn't."
"I did, then, just as I am telling you."
"What did she say?"
"I can't tell you all, only she was just as good as she could be, and didn't despise me as I was afraid she would. She talked about the danger of loving the world, and how little it was worth, after all."
"Yes, it is very well for her to say so, when she has every thing that money can buy," interrupted Selina.
"But think how many things money can't buy, Selina. It can't give her back all the children she has lost. Just think! Nine children she has had, and not one left. All the money in the world won't make Cordelia well again. Well, I can't tell you all she said, but she asked me to keep on coming; and I have, because I like it, as I said. And, after all, Selina, if religion is any thing, as Agnes says, it must be every thing."
"What does your mother say?"
"I don't think she likes it very well; but it is Mrs. Van Zandt, so she won't say I shall not go."
"And do you really mean to be a Christian out-and-out?"
"That is just the point. You see, if I do, I am afraid I shall have to give up a great many things that I should like to keep. To be sure, I know a great many church-members who are just as gay as those who are not, but I could not be like that. It would be all or nothing, with me. But now tell me about yourself. Did you have a nice time? Your mother said you had made a great friend of some New York lady. Who was she?"
Selina poured out the story of her intimacy with Mrs. Orme.
Milly listened seriously.
But when Selina came to the story of Mrs. Robert Livingstone's lunch-party, she broke out,—
"Nonsense, Selina! The Robert Livingstones are the most straitlaced temperance people in the world, and never give wine at all. Mrs. Livingstone gives beautiful lunch-parties,—or so I have heard, for of course I never went to one: she is a long way above our mark,—but every one knows how they feel about wine."
"Perhaps it was some other Mrs. Robert Livingstone," said Selina. "Mrs. Orme said they lived on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Nth Street."
"It is the very same, but I don't believe 'she' ever visited them. She has been humbugging you," said Milly with her usual bluntness. "Did she bring any letters of introduction, or any such thing?"
"Not that I ever heard of. The ladies in Oldbury don't like her, and don't visit her much. But she has a good deal of company,—gentlemen friends from New York."
"And she has asked you to spend the winter with her?"
"Yes; and she says she will give me every advantage of lessons from the best masters, and introduce me to all her friends in society."
"Well, Selina," said Milly seriously, "if you will take my advice, you will let this Mrs. Orme alone; at least, till you know something more about her. I must say I don't think it very nice for her to try to get you to leave Mr. and Mrs. Weston for her. And as to society, you had better know what kind of society she keeps. She may be the mistress of a beer-garden, for aught you know."
An uncomfortable remembrance of Mr. Schultz's remarks upon Mrs. Orme's singing returned to Selina's mind, and kept her silent. In truth, since she had been away from Mrs. Orme's personal influence, a good many things in that lady's conduct and conversation had come back to her in a new light, especially when she compared her with Miss Armstrong and the Van Zandts. The dreams of life in New York as Mrs. Orme's guest, or in Boston as Mr. Pyncheon's grand-daughter, had been too agreeable to be at once relinquished, but they had been of late gradually fading away in the clear, bright light of her refined Christian home.
Certain misgivings had arisen in her mind as to the gentlemen she had met at Mrs. Orme's, and the way in which Mrs. Orme treated them and was treated by them. Milly's plain-spoken remarks chimed in with these same misgivings, and irritated her accordingly.
"You have taken up the true Oldham cant, Milly," said she: "'I don't know her, therefore she must be bad.'"
"'I don't know her, therefore I won't be intimate with her,' would be a better way of putting it," answered Milly, not in the least ruffled. "But, Selina, I don't think your father and mother would let you go, at least, till they know more about this Mrs. Orme. Have you said any thing about it to them?"
"No, of course not. It would be a nice time to talk about it now, wouldn't it? What do you take me for?"
"For a goose," was Milly's inward reply, but she did not utter it. She was silent a moment, and then turned the conversation into another channel by inquiring about Selina's musical studies. The seed which Mrs. Van Zandt had sowed in Milly's heart had already brought forth fruit in the shape of some consideration for the feelings of other people.
"I must go, Milly," said Selina, starting as the clock struck five. "I have to go to the village on my way home."
"I wish you could stay to tea."
"I wish so too, but, you see, I have the care of the dairy now. Come and see me."
"I will. I would walk part of the way with you, but Cordelia is sure to ask for me the minute she wakes. She has taken a great liking to me, poor thing; I'm sure I don't know why, for I have never been very kind to her."
Selina was not very sorry to be left to a solitary walk. She had been vexed at Milly's remarks about Mrs. Orme, and as I have already said, all the more because they chimed in with her own misgivings.
"But I don't care, I will believe in her anyhow," she said to herself. "Milly says that the Livingstones are above their mark, and I dare say Eva knows more about them than she does. I do hope I shall have a letter from her!"
Selina's hope was destined to fulfilment. She found a long letter from Mrs. Orme, written on the most elegant perfumed paper, in the most fashionable of hands,—so very scratchy and sharp-pointed, indeed, as to be almost illegible. She took the short way home, which led through a somewhat deep and shady ravine by the side of the river. Once in the shadow of the woods, she walked along reading her letter. It was full of protestations of affection. Mrs. Orme told how she missed her young friend, and how she longed for the time when she should have that same young friend all to herself.
"Of course you cannot leave Mr. and Mrs. Weston, as things are at
present," she wrote, "but it is absurd to think of your being bound
to them forever. The idea of a girl of your sort being bound an
apprentice! The very idea is degrading; and your own self-respect,
if nothing else, ought to make you throw off such a yoke, laid upon
you without your own consent. To think of my noble, beautiful Selina
apprenticed like a boy from the workhouse put out to learn a trade!"
There was much more to the same effect in Mrs. Orme's letter, which filled no less than three sheets of paper.
Selina had always known that she had been legally bound to Mr. Weston at the time of her adoption,—a precaution usually very advisable in such cases. It had never occurred to her to think of this binding as any degradation, or as any thing more than a legal form, always observed when a child was put out from the Oldbury asylum. Now, as she read Mrs. Orme's letter, her cheeks flamed, and she clenched her hands, and stamped her foot, in shame and anger.
"I am a slave,—that is the truth. Mother scolds me for calling myself a hired girl, but it seems I am not even that. But I won't endure it: I will never be a slave, never! I wonder why Eva does not say a word about Mr. Pyncheon."
As she spoke, Selina came to where the path made a sudden turn round a projecting angle of the rocky bank. As she did so, she started violently; for she stood face to face with a man, and that man was Mr. Pyncheon himself. For a moment, he seemed as startled as herself. Then he recovered his presence of mind.
"My dear Miss—I beg pardon, I have forgotten the name. But I am sure I met you in Oldbury."
"Miss Weston," said Selina, feeling as she spoke, a pang of mortification that Mr. Pyncheon should have forgotten her already. "Have you seen Mrs. Orme lately? I have just received a letter from her."
"Mrs. Orme? Oh, yes, our friend in Oldbury," said Mr. Pyncheon, recovering his usual ease, not to say freedom, of manner. "That was where I met you. No, I have not seen her in some time. Did you say you had a letter from her? I hope she is well."
"She is very well," answered Selina. "I wonder she did not tell me you had returned. Are you staying at Oldbury?"
"No—yes, for a day or two. I drove over with a friend who will be waiting for me, so I must ask you to excuse me. Perhaps we shall meet again at Mrs. Orme's. Good-afternoon."
He held out his hand.
And Selina, though deeply mortified, could not refuse it.
At that moment, Kit Mallory came down the path singing as usual. The moment she caught sight of Mr. Pyncheon and Selina, she stopped short an instant, as if petrified. Then turning, she fled up the path, as if pursued by a wolf.
"Who is that child?" asked Mr. Pyncheon, looking after her with an expression which seemed to Selina equally compounded of fear and anger.
"Her name is Kit Mallory. She is a kind of adopted child of a family who live up on the hill. You can see the end of the house a little farther on. Do you know them?" she could not help asking, remembering what she had seen or fancied on the cross-road.
"Mallory? No. In fact, I don't know anybody about here. Good evening, Miss Wilson."
And turning round the rock, he was out of sight so quickly that Selina could not help thinking he must have climbed the bank and hidden himself among the bushes. Thoroughly confused by this strange interview, she walked hastily homeward, till, just where the path came out into the open field, she found Kit evidently waiting for her.
"Selina," said Kit, speaking under her breath, and looking around her, "you must not talk to that man: he is a very wicked, bad man."
"Nonsense, you little goose! He is a gentleman from Boston whom I met in Oldbury. His name is Pyncheon."
Kit shook her head. "He is no more Mr. Pyncheon from Boston than you are. I know him, if he changes his hair a dozen times a day. He is a bad, wicked man, and if you talk to him you will be sorry."
"Nonsense!" said Selina again. "You are a very silly little girl, and very impertinent besides, to say such things about a gentleman. Don't you think my friend Mrs. Orme knows him?"
Kit shook her head, but said no more. She had apparently discharged her conscience. And bidding Selina good-night, she turned again toward the village,—not by the ravine this time, but by the high road,—and Selina saw her look behind her more than once, as if fearing pursuit.
Selina took her own way homeward, a good deal mortified and still more puzzled by the conduct of her late acquaintance. Certainly his recognition of her, such as it was, had not been flattering. He had seemed in a great hurry to get away; and if Kit had been scared at the sight of Mr. Pyncheon, Selina could not get rid of the idea that Mr. Pyncheon had been equally scared at her. In short, she could not tell what to make of it. And between the meeting and Mrs. Orme's letter, she returned home in any thing but a comfortable frame of mind.