Part 23 (1/2)
”Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!” hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and sisters. The storm of the two previous days had newly brightened the landscape. Every twig and branch shone, and the red and yellow maple leaves, the wine-color of the oak, the burnished copper of the beech, were like jewels in the sun.
”If it were not Sunday I would dance,” said Amy, subduing her steps to a sober walk as she saw approaching the majestic figure of Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes.
”You are late, Amy Raeburn,” said this lady. ”Your father went to church a half-hour ago, and the bell is tolling. Young people should cultivate a habit of being punctual. This being a few minutes behind time is very reprehensible--very rep-re-hen-sible indeed, my love.”
”Yes, ma'am,” replied Amy, meekly, walking slowly beside the also tardy Mrs. Barnes.
”I dare say,” continued Mrs. Barnes, ”that you are thinking to yourself that I also am late. But, Amy, I have no duty to the parish. I am an independent woman. You are a girl, and the minister's daughter at that.
You are in a very different position. I do hope, Amy Raeburn, that you will not be late another Sunday morning. Your mother is not so good a disciplinarian as I could wish.”
”No, Mrs. Barnes?” said Amy, with a gentle questioning manner, which would have irritated the matron still more had their progress not now ceased on the church steps. Amy, both resentful and amused, fluttered, like an alarmed chick to the brooding mother-wing, straight to the minister's pew. Mrs. Barnes, smoothing ruffled plumes, proceeded with stately and impressive tread to her place in front of the pulpit.
Doctor Raeburn was rising to p.r.o.nounce the invocation. The church was full. Amy glanced over to the Wainwright pew, and saw Grace, and smiled.
Into Amy's mind stole a text she was fond of, quite as if an angel had spoken it, and she forgot that she had been ruffled the wrong way by Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes. This was the text:
”Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.”
”You are a hateful, wicked girl, Amy,” said Amy to herself. ”Why, when you have so much to make you happy, are you so easily upset by a fretful old lady, who is, after all, your friend, and would stand by you if there were need?”
Amy did not know it, but it was Grace's sweet and tranquil look that had brought the text to her mind. One of the dearest things in life is that we may do good and not know that we are doing it.
When the Sunday hush fell on the house of which Mrs. Wainwright had spoken Grace came softly tapping at the door.
”Yes, dear,” called her mother; ”come right in.”
”Mamma,” said Grace, after a few minutes, ”will you tell me plainly, if you don't mind, what is worrying papa? I don't mean generally, but what special trouble is on his mind to-day?”
”Potter's bill, I have no doubt,” said the mother, quietly. ”Other troubles come and go, but there is always Potter's bill in the background. And every little while it crops up and gets into the front.”
”What is Potter's bill, dear mamma, and how do we come to owe it?”
”I can't fully explain to you, my child, how it comes to be so large.
When Mr. Potter's father was living and carrying on the business, he used to say to your father: 'Just get all you want here, doctor; never give yourself a thought; pay when you can and what you can. We come to you for medical advice and remedies, and we'll strike a balance somehow.' The Potters have during years had very little occasion for a doctor's services, and we, with this great family, have had to have groceries, shoes, and every other thing, and Potter's bill has kept rolling up like a great s...o...b..ll, bit by bit. We pay something now and then. I sold my old sideboard that came to me from my grandparents, and paid a hundred dollars on it six months ago. Old Mr. Potter died. Rufus reigns in his stead, as the Bible says, and he wants to collect his money. I do not blame him, Grace, but he torments poor papa. There are two hundred dollars due now, and papa has been trying to get money due him, and to pay Rufus fifty dollars, but he's afraid he can't raise the money.”
Grace reflected. Then she asked a question. ”Dear mamma, don't think me prying, but is Potter's the only pressing obligation on papa just now?”
Mrs. Wainwright hesitated. Then she answered, a little slowly, ”No, Grace, there are other accounts; but Potter's is the largest.”
”I ask, because I can help my father,” said Grace, modestly. ”Uncle Ralph deposited five hundred dollars to my credit in a New York bank on my birthday. The money is mine, to do with absolutely as I please. I have nearly fifty dollars in my trunk. Uncle and auntie have always given me money lavishly. Papa can settle Potter's account to-morrow. I'm only too thankful I have the money. To think that money can do so much toward making people happy or making them miserable! Then, mother dear, we'll go into papa's accounts and see how near I can come to relieving the present state of affairs; and if papa will consent, we'll collect his bills, and then later, I've another scheme--that is a fine, sweet-toned piano in the parlor. I mean to give lessons.”
”Grace, it was an extravagance in our circ.u.mstances to get that piano, but the girls were so tired of the old one; it was worn out, a tin pan, and this is to be paid for on easy terms, so much a month.”
Grace hated to have her mother to apologize in this way. She hastened to say, ”I'm glad it's here, and don't think me conceited, but I've had the best instruction uncle could secure for me here, and a short course in Berlin, and now I mean to make it of some use. I believe I can get pupils.”
”Not many in Highland, I fear, Grace.”
”If not in Highland, in New York. Leave that to me.”
Mrs. Wainwright felt as if she had been taking a tonic. To the lady living her days out in her own chamber, and unaccustomed to excitement, there was something very surprising and very stimulating too in the swift way of settling things and the fearlessness of this young girl.