What She Could. Warner Susan
might have escaped the eyes so keen set to find them. The paper grew better than a novel. It furnished a great deal of matter for conversation, besides; for all the steamers which had got in were talked over, with their dates of sailing, and number of days on the passage; with each of which the times, certain and probable, of the City of Pride were compared. Then there was the question, whether Aunt Candy might have changed her mind at the last minute, and waited for another steamer; and the reports of the weather lately experienced at sea were anxiously read and put alongside of the weather lately experienced at Shadywalk.
Preparations in the house went on diligently; whatever might help it to make a better impression, or afford greater comfort to the expected guests, was carefully done. Mrs. Englefield even talked of getting a new stair-carpet, but contented herself with having the old one taken up and put down again, the stairs washed, and the stair-rods brightened; the spare room, the large corner chamber looking to the north and west, was scrupulously swept and dusted; furniture rubbed; little white knitted mats laid on the dressing-table; the chintz curtains taken down and put up again; a new nice chamber set of white china was bought, for the pitcher of the old set had an ugly nick in it and looked shabby; the towel rack was filled with white napery; the handsomest Marseilles quilt was spread on the bed; the stove was blackened and polished. It looked "very respectable," Anne said, when all was done.
What private preparations went on, besides, on the part of the girls, it would be hard to say. Maria worked hard at her braiding – that was open to anybody's observation; but there were less obvious flutings and ironings down in the kitchen, and adjusting of ribbons and flowers in secret consultations up-stairs. And one piece of care was made public by Maria, who announced that Letty had trimmed her old bonnet three times over before she would be suited.
"Very well," said Letty, contentedly. "I should like to know who would wear an old thing when he could have a new; and mine is like new now."
"Things can't be new always," said Matilda.
"What then?" her sisters asked, laughing.
"Then it must be respectable for them to be old, sometimes."
"Respectable! Not very pleasant, when they are to be set alongside of things as new and nice as they can be. I like to be as good as anybody, for my part."
"Mamma," said Matilda, "do you know there is a great hole in the door mat?"
"It is worn out a great deal too soon," said Mrs. Englefield; "I shall tell Mr. Hard that his goods do not last; to be sure, you children do kick it to pieces with the snow."
"But, mamma, I should think you might get another, and let that one go to the kitchen."
"And then, wouldn't you like me to buy a new hall cloth? there is very nearly a hole in that."
"Oh yes, mamma!"
"I cannot do it, children. I am not as rich as your Aunt Candy. You must be contented to let things be as they are."
The girls seemed to take it as a grave fact, to judge by their faces.
"And I think all this is very foolish talking and feeling. People are not any better for being rich."
"But they are a great deal happier," said Letitia.
"I don't know, I am sure. I never was tried. I think you had better put the thought out of your heads. I should be sorry if you were not as happy as your cousin, and with as much reason."
"Mamma's being sorry doesn't help the matter," said Letitia, softly. "I know I should be happier if I had what I want. It is just nonsense to say I should not. And mamma would herself."
That evening, the end of the week it was, the newspaper rewarded the first eyes that looked at its columns, with the intelligence that the City of Pride had been telegraphed. She would be in that night. And the list of passengers duly showed the names of Mrs. Candy and daughter. The family could hardly wait over Sunday now. Monday morning's train, they settled it, would bring the travellers. Sunday was spent in a flutter. But, however, that Monday, as well as that Sunday, was a lost day. The washing was put off, and a special dinner cooked, in vain. The children stayed at home and did not go to school, and did nothing. Nobody did anything to speak of. To be sure, there was a great deal of running up and down stairs; setting and clearing tables; going to and from the post-office; but when night came, the house and everything in it was just where the morning had found them; only, all the humanity in it was tired with looking out of windows.
"That's the worst of expecting people!" Mrs. Englefield observed, as she wearily put herself in an arm-chair, and Letitia drew the window curtains. "You never know what to do, and the thing you do is sure to be the wrong thing. Here Judith might as well have done her washing as not; and now it's to do to-morrow, when we don't want it in the way, and it will be in the way."
"Don't you think they will come to-night, mamma?" said Matilda.
"I don't know, I am sure. I know no more than you do. How can I tell? Only don't ask me any more questions."
"Would you have tea yet, mamma?" said Letitia.
"There's a question, now! I tell you, don't ask me. Just when you like."
"There's no train due for a good while, mamma; they couldn't come for two or three hours. I think we had better have tea."
So she went off to prepare it, just as Matilda who had put her face outside of the window curtain, proclaimed that somebody was coming to the door.
"Only one person though, mamma. Mamma! it's Miss Redwood – Mr. Richmond's Miss Redwood."
"It wanted but that!" Mrs. Englefield exclaimed, with a sort of resigned despair. "Let her in, Matilda. I locked the door."
The person who followed Matilda to the sitting-room was a slim woman, in black costume, neither new nor fashionable. Indeed, it had no such pretensions; for the fashion at that time was for small bonnets, but Miss Redwood's shadowed her face with a reminiscence of the coal-scuttle shapes, once worn many years before. The face under the bonnet was thin and sharp-featured; yet a certain delicate softness of skin saved it from being harsh; there was even a little peachy bloom on the cheeks. The eyes were soft and keen at once; at least there was no want of benevolence in them, while their glance was swift and shrewd enough, and full of business activity.
"Miss Redwood, how do you do? I am glad to see you. Do sit down," was Mrs. Englefield's salutation, made without rising.
"How do you do, Mis' Englefield? Why – seems as if you was expectin' folks here?"
"Just what we are doing; and it is some of the hardest work one can do."
"Depends on who you expect, seems to me. And I guess 'tain't harder work than what I've been doing to-day. I've been makin' soap. Got it done, too. And 'tain't to do agin till this time next year comes round."
"Can you make enough at once for the whole year? I cannot."
"'Spects you use a passel, don't ye?"
"Of course – in so large a family. But you're a great hand for soap, Miss Redwood, if folks say true?"
"Cellar ain't never out of it," said Miss Redwood, shaking her head. "It's strong, mine is; that's where it is. You see I've my own leach sot up, and there's lots o' ashes; the minister, he likes to burn wood, and I like it, for it gives me my ley; and I don't have no trouble with it; the minister, he saws it and splits it and chops it, and then when all's done he brings it in, and he puts it on. All I have to do is to get my ashes. I did think, when I first come, and the minister he told me he calculated to burn wood in his room, I did think I should give up. 'Why sir,' says I, 'it'll take a load o' wood a day, to fill that ere chimney; and I hate to see a chimney standin' empty with two or three sticks a makin' believe have a fire in the bottom of it. Besides,' says I, 'stoves is a sight cleaner and nicer, Mr. Richmond, and they don't smoke nor nothin', and they're always ready.' 'I'll take care of the fire,' says he, 'if you'll take care of the ashes.' Well, it had to be; but I declare I thought I should have enough to do to take care of the ashes; a-flyin' over everything in the world as they would, and nobody but my two hands to dust with; but I do believe the minister's wood burns quieter than other folks', and somehow it don't fly nor smoke nor nothin', and the room keeps decent."
"Your