บทที่ บทที่ 19 · DEACON ISRAEL'S SUCCESSOR

. DEACON ISRAEL'S SUCCESSOR

DEACON ISRAEL'S SUCCESSOR

"It was a very small meeting, aunt Miranda," began Rebecca, "and the

missionary and his wife are lovely people, and they are coming here to

stay all night and to-morrow with you. I hope you won't mind."

"Coming here!" exclaimed Miranda, letting her knitting fall in her lap,

and taking her spectacles off, as she always did in moments of extreme

excitement. "Did they invite themselves?"

"No," Rebecca answered. "I had to invite them for you; but I thought

you'd like to have such interesting company. It was this way"--

"Stop your explainin', and tell me first when they'll be here. Right

away?"

"No, not for two hours--about half past five."

"Then you can explain, if you can, who gave you any authority to invite

a passel of strangers to stop here over night, when you know we ain't

had any company for twenty years, and don't intend to have any for

another twenty,--or at any rate while I'm the head of the house."

"Don't blame her, Miranda, till you've heard her story," said Jane. "It

was in my mind right along, if we went to the meeting, some such thing

might happen, on account of Mr. Burch knowing father."

"The meeting was a small one," began Rebecca "I gave all your messages,

and everybody was disappointed you couldn't come, for the president

wasn't there, and Mrs. Matthews took the chair, which was a pity, for

the seat wasn't nearly big enough for her, and she reminded me of a

line in a hymn we sang, 'Wide as the heathen nations are,' and she wore

that kind of a beaver garden-hat that always gets on one side. And Mr.

Burch talked beautifully about the Syrian heathen, and the singing went

real well, and there looked to be about forty cents in the basket that

was passed on our side. And that wouldn't save even a heathen baby,

would it? Then Mr. Burch said, if any sister would offer entertainment,

they would pass the night, and have a parlor meeting in Riverboro

to-morrow, with Mrs. Burch in Syrian costume, and lovely foreign things

to show. Then he waited and waited, and nobody said a word. I was so

mortified I didn't know what to do. And then he repeated what he said,

and explained why he wanted to stay, and you could see he thought it was

his duty. Just then Mrs. Robinson whispered to me and said the

missionaries always used to go to the brick house when grandfather was

alive, and that he never would let them sleep anywhere else. I didn't

know you had stopped having them because no traveling ministers have

been here, except just for a Sunday morning, since I came to Riverboro.

So I thought I ought to invite them, as you weren't there to do it for

yourself, and you told me to represent the family."

"What did you do--go up and introduce yourself as folks was goin' out?"

"No; I stood right up in meeting. I had to, for Mr. Burch's feelings

were getting hurt at nobody's speaking. So I said, 'My aunts, Miss

Miranda and Miss Jane Sawyer would be happy to have you visit at the

brick house, just as the missionaries always did when their father was

alive, and they sent their respects by me.' Then I sat down; and Mr.

Burch prayed for grandfather, and called him a man of God, and thanked

our Heavenly Father that his spirit was still alive in his descendants

(that was you), and that the good old house where so many of the

brethren had been cheered and helped, and from which so many had gone

out strengthened for the fight, was still hospitably open for the

stranger and wayfarer."

Sometimes, when the heavenly bodies are in just the right conjunction,

nature seems to be the most perfect art. The word or the deed coming

straight from the heart, without any thought of effect, seems inspired.

A certain gateway in Miranda Sawyer's soul had been closed for years;

not all at once had it been done, but gradually, and without her full

knowledge. If Rebecca had plotted for days, and with the utmost

cunning, she could not have effected an entrance into that forbidden

country, and now, unknown to both of them, the gate swung on its stiff

and rusty hinges, and the favoring wind of opportunity opened it wider

and wider as time went on. All things had worked together amazingly for

good. The memory of old days had been evoked, and the daily life of a

pious and venerated father called to mind; the Sawyer name had been

publicly dignified and praised; Rebecca had comported herself as the

granddaughter of Deacon Israel Sawyer should, and showed conclusively

that she was not "all Randall," as had been supposed. Miranda was

rather mollified by and pleased with the turn of events, although she

did not intend to show it, or give anybody any reason to expect that

this expression of hospitality was to serve for a precedent on any

subsequent occasion.

"Well, I see you did only what you was obliged to do, Rebecca," she

said, "and you worded your invitation as nice as anybody could have

done. I wish your aunt Jane and me wasn't both so worthless with these

colds; but it only shows the good of havin' a clean house, with every

room in order, whether open or shut, and enough victuals cooked so 't

you can't be surprised and belittled by anybody, whatever happens.

There was half a dozen there that might have entertained the Burches as

easy as not, if they hadn't 'a' been too mean or lazy. Why didn't your

missionaries come right along with you?"

"They had to go to the station for their valise and their children."

"Are there children?" groaned Miranda.

"Yes, aunt Miranda, all born under Syrian skies."

"Syrian grandmother!" ejaculated Miranda (and it was not a fact). "How

many?"

"I didn't think to ask; but I will get two rooms ready, and if there

are any over I'll take 'em into my bed," said Rebecca, secretly hoping

that this would be the case. "Now, as you're both half sick, couldn't

you trust me just once to get ready for the company? You can come up

when I call. Will you?"

"I believe I will," sighed Miranda reluctantly. "I'll lay down side o'

Jane in our bedroom and see if I can get strength to cook supper. It's

half past three--don't you let me lay a minute past five. I kep' a good

fire in the kitchen stove. I don't know, I'm sure, why I should have

baked a pot o' beans in the middle of the week, but they'll come in

handy. Father used to say there was nothing that went right to the spot

with returned missionaries like pork 'n' beans 'n' brown bread. Fix up

the two south chambers, Rebecca."

Rebecca, given a free hand for the only time in her life, dashed

upstairs like a whirlwind. Every room in the brick house was as neat as

wax, and she had only to pull up the shades, go over the floors with a

whisk broom, and dust the furniture. The aunts could hear her scurrying

to and fro, beating up pillows and feather beds, flapping towels,

jingling crockery, singing meanwhile in her clear voice:--

"In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strown;

The heathen in his blindness

Bows down to wood and stone."

She had grown to be a handy little creature, and tasks she was capable

of doing at all she did like a flash, so that when she called her aunts

at five o'clock to pass judgment, she had accomplished wonders. There

were fresh towels on bureaus and washstands, the beds were fair and

smooth, the pitchers were filled, and soap and matches were laid out;

newspaper, kindling, and wood were in the boxes, and a large stick

burned slowly in each air-tight stove. "I thought I'd better just take

the chill off," she explained, "as they're right from Syria; and that

reminds me, I must look it up in the geography before they get here."

There was nothing to disapprove, so the two sisters went downstairs to

make some slight changes in their dress. As they passed the parlor door

Miranda thought she heard a crackle and looked in. The shades were up,

there was a cheerful blaze in the open stove in the front parlor, and a

fire laid on the hearth in the back room. Rebecca's own lamp, her

second Christmas present from Mr. Aladdin, stood on a marble-topped

table in the corner, the light that came softly through its

rose-colored shade transforming the stiff and gloomy ugliness of the

room into a place where one could sit and love one's neighbor.

"For massy's sake, Rebecca," called Miss Miranda up the stairs, "did

you think we'd better open the parlor?"

Rebecca came out on the landing braiding her hair.

"We did on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I thought this was about as

great an occasion," she said. "I moved the wax flowers off the

mantelpiece so they wouldn't melt, and put the shells, the coral, and

the green stuffed bird on top of the what-not, so the children wouldn't

ask to play with them. Brother Milliken's coming over to see Mr. Burch

about business, and I shouldn't wonder if Brother and Sister Cobb

happened in. Don't go down cellar, I'll be there in a minute to do the

running."

Miranda and Jane exchanged glances.

"Ain't she the beatin'est creetur that ever was born int' the world!"

exclaimed Miranda; "but she can turn off work when she's got a mind to!"

At quarter past five everything was ready, and the neighbors, those at

least who were within sight of the brick house (a prominent object in

the landscape when there were no leaves on the trees), were curious

almost to desperation. Shades up in both parlors! Shades up in the two

south bedrooms! And fires--if human vision was to be relied on--fires

in about every room. If it had not been for the kind offices of a lady

who had been at the meeting, and who charitably called in at one or two

houses and explained the reason of all this preparation, there would

have been no sleep in many families.

The missionary party arrived promptly, and there were but two children,

seven or eight having been left with the brethren in Portland, to

diminish traveling expenses. Jane escorted them all upstairs, while

Miranda watched the cooking of the supper; but Rebecca promptly took

the two little girls away from their mother, divested them of their

wraps, smoothed their hair, and brought them down to the kitchen to

smell the beans.

There was a bountiful supper, and the presence of the young people

robbed it of all possible stiffness. Aunt Jane helped clear the table

and put away the food, while Miranda entertained in the parlor; but

Rebecca and the infant Burches washed the dishes and held high carnival

in the kitchen, doing only trifling damage--breaking a cup and plate

that had been cracked before, emptying a silver spoon with some

dishwater out of the back door (an act never permitted at the brick

house), and putting coffee grounds in the sink. All evidences of crime

having been removed by Rebecca, and damages repaired in all possible

cases, the three entered the parlor, where Mr. and Mrs. Cobb and Deacon

and Mrs. Milliken had already appeared.

It was such a pleasant evening! Occasionally they left the heathen in

his blindness bowing down to wood and stone, not for long, but just to

give themselves (and him) time enough to breathe, and then the Burches

told strange, beautiful, marvelous things. The two smaller children

sang together, and Rebecca, at the urgent request of Mrs. Burch, seated

herself at the tinkling old piano and gave "Wild roved an Indian girl,

bright Alfarata" with considerable spirit and style.

At eight o'clock she crossed the room, handed a palm-leaf fan to her

aunt Miranda, ostensibly that she might shade her eyes from the

lamplight; but it was a piece of strategy that gave her an opportunity

to whisper, "How about cookies?"

"Do you think it's worth while?" sibilated Miss Miranda in answer.

"The Perkinses always do."

"All right. You know where they be."

Rebecca moved quietly towards the door, and the young Burches

cataracted after her as if they could not bear a second's separation.

In five minutes they returned, the little ones bearing plates of thin

caraway wafers,--hearts, diamonds, and circles daintily sugared, and

flecked with caraway seed raised in the garden behind the house. These

were a specialty of Miss Jane's, and Rebecca carried a tray with six

tiny crystal glasses filled with dandelion wine, for which Miss Miranda

had been famous in years gone by. Old Deacon Israel had always had it

passed, and he had bought the glasses himself in Boston. Miranda

admired them greatly, not only for their beauty but because they held

so little. Before their advent the dandelion wine had been served in

sherry glasses.

As soon as these refreshments--commonly called a "colation" in

Riverboro--had been genteelly partaken of, Rebecca looked at the clock,

rose from her chair in the children's corner, and said cheerfully,

"Come! time for little missionaries to be in bed!"

Everybody laughed at this, the big missionaries most of all, as the

young people shook hands and disappeared with Rebecca.