Chapter XIX: 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.