Chapter II: Neighborhood News

"WELL," said Aunt Betsy as she finished buttering her biscuit, and began stirring up her tea, "well, and how do you like your school?"

"Very well, so far," answered Miss Armstrong, "but these are early times, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Aunt Betsy, with a solemn shake of the head. "New brooms sweep clean. There was Malvina Spencer: she was going to do great things, but she almost broke up the school with her nonsense. And there was that Miss O'Hara. But what could any one expect of 'her?'" added Aunt Betsy with scornful emphasis. "Any one might have known how it would turn out."

"Yes, it was easy to see how it would turn out," said Mr. Weston dryly. "So long as so many were prejudiced against her beforehand, and determined not to see any good in her, whatever she did, it was no great wonder she failed."

"Why were they prejudiced against her?" asked Miss Armstrong. "She had a pretty name in her favor, and a distinguished one, if that is any thing."

"Pretty, indeed!" said Aunt Betsy with a sniff. "Why, her father was an Irishman,—just a regular Irishman,—who came here, and hired out to old Judge Davis down at the cross-roads. No, it was to Abner Davis, up at the Corners, he went first, come to think. When he had saved a little money, he bought the Mudge place, and mended up the old house so it was quite smart. But he was a regular Irishman, for all that, and came from Ireland, for I heard him say so. And he said he wasn't ashamed of it, that's more!" And Aunt Betsy looked triumphantly at her host, as if to defy him to dispute her position.

"He was a Protestant, and very regular at church and communion; and he was a clever man, too," said Mr. Weston, using the word "clever" in its New England sense. "I remember how he used to do your chores for you, Aunt Betsy, when Uncle Jonathan had the fever."

Aunt Betsy became suddenly busy with her tea.

"But what had the fact of Miss O'Hara's being Irish to do with her success in the school?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Well, you see, it rather set people against her," answered Miss Celia, a mild elderly lady, who had not yet spoken. "We think a great deal of descent in these parts, Miss Armstrong; and though I had nothing against Miss O'Hara myself,—indeed, I always thought her a very nice girl,—yet it did 'not' seem as if she were a fit person to be set over children whose ancestors are buried all over Oldfield County,—the daughter of a new-come-over Irish man."

"According to that, our first teachers in this country must all have been very unsuitable persons," said Mrs. Weston. "They were all new-come-over then, you know."

"To be sure," said Miss Celia. "Really, cousin Abby, I don't know that I ever looked upon it in that light. Certainly, we were all new-come-over once,—at least, our ancestors were, unless they were Indians like old Abner Kettle."

"Indians, indeed! I wonder at you, Celia Claxton," said Aunt Betsy indignantly. "You, whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers are buried in this very graveyard, to compare yourself to old Abner Kettle, whose daughter married a Feejee Islander or something like that! But, as to the school, I am glad Miss Armstrong likes it, though these are new times, as I said. There are some dreadful wild girls in the district. There's—"

"Excuse me, Aunt Betsy, but suppose we leave Miss Armstrong to find out for herself," interposed Mr. Weston. "What is this I hear about the stone house? It seems we are to have new neighbors before long."

Aunt Betsy tossed her head, but the bait was too tempting not to be taken.

"Why, yes, haven't you heard? Of course you know all about it, Celia. You have a right if any one has; for that place ought to belong to you and Delia, if every one had their dues."

"We have never laid the least claim to it," said Miss Celia calmly. "Richard Van Zandt was only a very distant relation, and we had no expectations whatever from him."

"Not in 'that' line, perhaps," said Aunt Betsy with an ill-natured laugh.

Miss Celia's fair old face flushed a little, but she took no notice of the remark.

"Anyhow, Dick was your mother's own second cousin, if you call that very distant. I don't."

"It is not very near, at any rate," said Miss Celia. "We were always friendly with Richard, but we saw nothing of him for many years. His sister-in-law, Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt, was very kind to him, and he died at her house; so it is no wonder he left his property to her. Delia and myself would hardly have known what to do with such a house. It would have been a great trouble to us."

"You would have known what to do with the money, though."

"We have enough," said Miss Celia with dignity, "and that is as good as a feast."

"I don't suppose there was much money in the case," observed Mr. Weston. "Dick Van Zandt was never rich, and he was one who gave away with both hands whatever he had. I understand from Squire Davis that the place was left to Mrs. Van Zandt, who is very wealthy, on condition that it should be kept up, and that some member of the family should now and then spend a summer there."

"Yes: the old lady and two or three of her nieces or grand-nieces are coming pretty soon, so Aunt Aggy told me," said Mrs. Weston. "I was up there yesterday, and found her sweeping and clearing up at a great rate. She took me through the house, and it was quite a wonder to see the order it was in. I would not have believed it had stood empty so long. Even the carpets looked as good as new."

"The house was handsomely furnished, to begin with. And was Aggy pleased with the prospect?" asked Miss Celia, much interested.

"Oh, yes! She says she and Mrs. Van Zandt were girls together."

"Mrs. Van Zandt's father was a Butler, I know, but her mother was a Bogardus, and connected with all the Dutch folks over there in Rockvale," said Aunt Betsy, who was very strong in the matter of genealogy.

"I have heard that Mrs. Van Zandt is a very nice lady," observed Mrs. Weston.

"She is," said Miss Armstrong. "I know her well. And I am glad she is coming here: she is as blessing wherever she goes."

"Do tell!" exclaimed Aunt Betsy. "Real liberal with her money, I expect."

"Yes, and better than that,—very kind and judicious with it."

"She won't have very nice neighbors on one side, at any rate," said Aunt Betsy. "I shouldn't like to live next to those Mallorys."

"I don't suppose they will trouble her very much, unless the poor woman gets one of her screaming fits," said Miss Celia. "Is it true that the little girl—Kitty, or whatever her name is—comes to school, Miss Armstrong?"

"Yes, she was at school to-day; and a very bright, interesting child she seems."

"Well, I don't think it ought to be allowed," said Aunt Betsy: "her folks are regular infidels."

"So she tells me."

"She doesn't know the Lord's Prayer: she said so to-day," observed Selina. "She said her folks didn't believe in such things."

"Just so. Who knows what mischief the children may learn of her?"

"I do not think there is much danger in that direction," said Miss Armstrong. "From what little talk I had with her to-day, I should say Kitty is rather a heathen than an unbeliever: she is as ignorant of the Christian religion as any little South-sea Islander. But she seemed much interested in what I told her. It would be a great pity to deprive her of any chance, when she has so few. How does it happen that a family like the Mallorys should be found, in such a place as this?"

"Well, as to that, you know there are heathen everywhere," replied Mr. Weston. "Tom Mallory, the grandfather, was a great disciple and admirer of Tom Paine. Phin was always a wild fellow. But the women of the family were communicants of the Church, and old Tom never interfered with them; he said religion was a safe plaything for women. And to do him justice, he was really kind to his daughter-in-law and her boy, for Phin's father was killed before he was born. Phin went away West, and nobody heard any thing about him till he came back and took possession of the place last fall, when the old man died. There was another grandson, who was a favorite with old Tom, and some say the farm was left to him, but he has never turned up, and Phin says he died out West."

"Maybe Phin murdered him, to get the property," said Aunt Betsy. "Who knows?"

"Nobody knows, and therefore we won't suppose so," said Mr. Weston somewhat sharply. "He and Phin were always good friends. I always supposed Kit was his child, but Phin says she is not related to them at all. He says Symantha took a fancy to her, and adopted her."

"Yes, that is very likely, that she would go adopting a child," said Aunt Betsy. "Depend upon it, there's more than that about it."

"Melissa says they took her out of the poorhouse," said Selina.

"I wouldn't have much to say to Melissa if I were you," observed Mrs. Weston. "Well, ladies, if you have finished your tea, we will go into the other room, where it is cooler.—You may clear the table, and put away the things, Selina; and I will help you with the dishes by and by."

"Yes, that is always the way," muttered Selina: "always something to remind me that I am not one of the family."

It did not occur to Selina that if she had been one of the family, the same work would naturally have fallen to her share. She had lately taken to looking out for affronts; and affronts are like the spooks of the old Dutch proverb,—those who go to look for them can always find them.

"You are going to have other neighbors this summer," remarked Miss Celia as she took out her company knitting, a child's fine white stocking. "The Richmonds are coming back to Mrs. Gleason's."

Mr. and Mrs. Weston exchanged looks which were not by any means expressive of joy.

"I thought they said last summer they would not come again," said Mrs. Weston.

"It seems they have changed their minds; for Agnes Gleason told me she had just taken from the office a letter from Miss Amelia Richmond, in which she announced her mother's intention of passing the summer months in this neighborhood, and entering into negotiations for Mrs. Gleason's rooms. I confess I was sorry to hear it. I do not consider the influence of that family a very desirable one in this neighborhood."

"I quite agree with you, cousin Celia," said Mrs. Weston. "I am sorry they are coming back. I do not think the rush of summer boarders we have had of late years has been any special advantage, as you say."

"They bring a deal of money with them, if that is all," said Aunt Betsy, clicking her needles in a very different style from Miss Celia's rapid, noiseless manner of working.

"That is not quite all."

"And I don't think they have done Agnes Gleason any harm," continued Aunt Betsy: "she perfectly hates Milly Richmond."

"It is not very good for us to perfectly hate people," said Mrs. Weston, smiling. "I hope Mrs. Van Zandt's family will not be like the Richmonds."

"'Tain't likely we shall have a chance to see what they are like," said Aunt Betsy. "I hear they hold their heads very high. The pride of those Dutch folks in their families is perfectly ridiculous."

"For the matter of that, we think a good deal of our families in these parts," said Mrs. Weston, smiling.

"That is different," returned Aunt Betsy.

"From what I know of Mrs. Van Zandt and her nieces, I venture to predict that you will see them in Sunday school the very first Sunday," said Miss Armstrong.

"Then I think they might just as well wait till they are asked," retorted Aunt Betsy. "We don't want city folks poking in their noses, and finding fault with their betters, and with folks old enough to be their mothers." All of which Aunt Betsy delivered with a vengeful rattle of her knitting-needles, and a glance at Miss Armstrong which seemed to include her in the number of obnoxious "city folks."

"Mrs. Van Zandt is a Christian woman, then?" asked Miss Celia.

"That she is, and a very excellent and energetic one," answered Miss Armstrong. "It is the delight of her life to fit up boxes for missionaries and their families. I have known her to buy four or five dozen each of napkins, towels, sheets, and so forth, have them all hemmed by hand by some poor old ladies she knows (for she has never become reconciled to machine work), and within a month send them all to different missionaries' wives in the West and South, or in the city. My only wonder is, that she can make up her mind to remove so far from her beloved shops."

"Well, I didn't suppose there were many people of that kind in New York," said Aunt Betsy. "I supposed they were all given up to dress and fashion and frivolity."

"There are as many good Christian people in New York as in any place in the world," said Miss Armstrong with some emphasis. "Why, Mrs. Burr, who do you suppose keeps up and manages all the charities,—the hospitals, and missions, and schools, and orphan-asylums, and nurseries, and all the rest?"

Not having any answer at hand, Aunt Betsy took a pinch of snuff,—a practice not desirable in itself, but a convenience in such cases.

"I am glad to hear such an account of Mrs. Van Zandt," said Miss Celia, busily binding off her heel. "I felt disposed to like her, from what I heard of her kindness to Richard Van Zandt in his last days. But does not Mrs. Van Zandt work at all, herself?"

"She hems napkins, and knits," replied Miss Armstrong. "I should say she must use up a hundred weight or so of wool every year, in one way or another."

"That is a great deal, almost two pounds a week," said Miss Celia, who took every thing literally. "To be sure, she may use double wool."

"Double, treble, and single, and every other kind. She is sure to wish to convert you to the Welsh fashion of shaping heels, Miss Celia."

"There I 'cannot' agree with her," said Miss Celia with emphasis, and yet with a little apology in her tone, as if she felt it a liberty to disagree even with an unknown Mrs. Van Zandt. "I do 'not' like the Welsh heel: it is much harder to run and to mend, and it wears no better."

"I wonder what has become of Selina," said Mrs. Weston, rising.

She went into the wide, airy kitchen, which served as a dining-room in summer, and found Selina just finishing the last of the dishes.

"Why, my dear, you need not have washed the dishes," said she. "I told you to put them together and leave them, and I would help you."

"Oh, I could do them well enough: it is the hired girl's place, I suppose," said Selina in a voice which trembled in spite of her.

Mrs. Weston took no notice of this speech for the present.

When the company was gone, and family prayers were over,—a custom never omitted in the family in the busiest season,—she followed Selina to her own neat, pretty room.

"Selina," said she gravely, "you have two or three times lately used the expression 'hired girl.' I want to know what you mean by it."

Selina was already growing ashamed of her ill humor. Perhaps it would be more correct to say she was growing tired of it, more especially as its exercise had deprived her of the pleasure of hearing the remainder of Aunt Betsy's news. She twisted her handkerchief, and answered in a somewhat embarrassed tone,—

"Oh, well, every one knows what a hired girl is."

"A hired girl, as I understand it, is a woman who works for money in a place which is not her home. It is a very useful calling, and, when faithfully fulfilled, worthy of the highest respect," said Mrs. Weston, who had been a "school-ma'am" herself, and was habitually choice in her use of words. "Is that your condition? Do you work for wages? And are you in a strange family?"

"No, mother," answered Selina in a low tone. Her better self was getting the upper hand, but she was not quite ready to give way.

"Do you think you have more work put upon you than usually falls to the eldest daughter? More than Agnes Gleason, for instance?"

"I don't have so much to do as Agnes," replied Selina frankly. "She never gets to school before half-past nine when the Richmonds are staying there."

"And do you think that the things provided for you are given you as wages? Is this room, for instance, such as people usually give to servants?"

"No, mother," replied Selina. She paused a moment, and then added frankly, "I was cross, I suppose. Something happened at school which put me out."

"And so you came home and revenged that annoyance on me by saying something untrue to hurt my feelings. Was that right?"

"No, mother. But I did not think it was as bad as that. I am a wicked girl, and I always shall be," said Selina, bursting into tears. "I wish I had never been born."

"You will not mend matters by looking at them in that way," said Mrs. Weston. "A little sober, honest self-examination and repentance will do you more good than any amount of that sort of passion." She paused a moment, and then added very seriously,—

"Selina, Mr. Weston and myself have treated you as a dear daughter ever since you came to us. We have tried our best to make you happy and good. But for the last year, you have made us both very uncomfortable."

"I don't see how," murmured Selina.

"You can see well enough if you choose," replied Mrs. Weston. "Your father is very much displeased with you; and though we shall never cast you off, more than if you were our own, I fear, unless you turn over a new leaf, we shall have to make some different arrangement. My dear girl, why won't you trust your best friends, and try to be what they would have you?"

Selina sobbed that she was very sorry.

And Mrs. Weston, thinking she had said enough, kissed her good-night, and left her.

Selina, left alone, cried for some time longer, told herself how hard it was to be an orphan cast on the cold charities of the world, and shed a great many tears, as she imagined to the memory of the mother she had never seen. Then, growing tired of this mood, she said to herself that no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Weston meant to be kind to her in their way, and that it was her duty to be grateful. She would show that she was so, by being amiable and affectionate, and bearing the trials of her lot patiently. If her own dear mother had lived, it would have been very different, but, as it was, she must be resigned. And feeling by this time very virtuous indeed, she went to bed.