Part 24 (2/2)
”Well, you set an' rest,” said Mrs. Crane kindly, and with the merest shadow of disapproval. ”You set an' rest, an' by an' by, if you'd feel better, you could go back an' just make a little stop an' inquire about the arrangements. I wouldn't harbor no feelin's, if they be inconsiderate folks. Sister Ba.r.s.ett has often deplored their actions in my hearing an' wished she had sisters like other folks. With all her faults she was a useful person an' a good neighbor,” mourned Mercy Crane sincerely. ”She was one that always had somethin' interestin' to tell, an' if it wa'n't for her dyin' spells an' all that sort o'
nonsense, she'd make a figger in the world, she would so. She walked with an air always, Mis' Ba.r.s.ett did; you'd ask who she was if you hadn't known, as she pa.s.sed you by. How quick we forget the outs about anybody that's gone! But I always feel grateful to anybody that's friendly, situated as I be. I shall miss her runnin' over. I can seem to see her now, coming over the rise in the road. But don't you get in a way of takin' things too hard, Sarah Ellen! You've worked yourself all to pieces since I saw you last; you're gettin' to be as lean as a meetin'-house fly. Now, you're comin' in to have a cup o' tea with me, an' then you'll feel better. I've got some new mola.s.ses gingerbread that I baked this mornin'.”
”I do feel beat out, Mis' Crane,” acknowledged the poor little soul, glad of a chance to speak, but touched by this unexpected mark of consideration. ”If I could ha' done as I wanted to I should be feelin'
well enough, but to be set aside an' ordered about, where I'd taken the lead in sickness so much, an' knew how to deal with Sister Ba.r.s.ett so well! She might be livin' now, perhaps”--
”Come; we'd better go in, 'tis gettin' damp,” and the mistress of the house rose so hurriedly as to seem bustling. ”Don't dwell on Sister Ba.r.s.ett an' her foolish folks no more; I wouldn't, if I was you.”
They went into the front room, which was dim with the twilight of the half-closed blinds and two great syringa bushes that grew against them. Sarah Ellen put down her bundle and bestowed herself in the large, cane-seated rocking-chair. Mrs. Crane directed her to stay there awhile and rest, and then come out into the kitchen when she got ready.
A cheerful clatter of dishes was heard at once upon Mrs. Crane's disappearance. ”I hope she's goin' to make one o' her nice short-cakes, but I don't know's she'll think it quite worth while,”
thought the guest humbly. She desired to go out into the kitchen, but it was proper behavior to wait until she should be called. Mercy Crane was not a person with whom one could venture to take liberties.
Presently Sarah Ellen began to feel better. She did not often find such a quiet place, or the quarter of an hour of idleness in which to enjoy it, and was glad to make the most of this opportunity. Just now she felt tired and lonely. She was a busy, unselfish, eager-minded creature by nature, but now, while grief was sometimes uppermost in her mind and sometimes a sense of wrong, every moment found her more peaceful, and the great excitement little by little faded away.
”What a person poor Sister Ba.r.s.ett was to dread growing old so she couldn't get about. I'm sure I shall miss her as much as anybody,”
said Mrs. Crane, suddenly opening the kitchen door, and letting in an unmistakable and delicious odor of short-cake that revived still more the drooping spirits of her guest. ”An' a good deal of knowledge has died with her,” she added, coming into the room and seeming to make it lighter.
”There, she knew a good deal, but she didn't know all, especially o'
doctorin',” insisted Sarah Ellen from the rocking-chair, with an unexpected little laugh. ”She used to lay down the law to me as if I had neither sense nor experience, but when it came to her bad spells she'd always send for me. It takes everybody to know everything, but Sister Ba.r.s.ett was of an opinion that her information was sufficient for the town. She was tellin' me the day I went there how she disliked to have old Mis' Doubleday come an' visit with her, an' remarked that she called Mis' Doubleday very officious. 'Went right down on her knees an' prayed,' says she. 'Anybody would have thought I was a heathen!' But I kind of pacified her feelin's, an' told her I supposed the old lady meant well.”
”Did she give away any of her things?--Mis' Ba.r.s.ett, I mean,” inquired Mrs. Crane.
”Not in my hearin',” replied Sarah Ellen Dow. ”Except one day, the first of the week, she told her oldest sister, Mis' Deckett,--'twas that first day she rode over--that she might have her green quilted petticoat; you see it was a rainy day, an' Mis' Deckett had complained o' feelin' thin. She went right up an' got it, and put it on an' wore it off, an' I'm sure I thought no more about it, until I heard Sister Ba.r.s.ett groanin' dreadful in the night. I got right up to see what the matter was, an' what do you think but she was wantin' that petticoat back, and not thinking any too well o' Nancy Deckett for takin' it when 'twas offered. 'Nancy never showed no sense o' propriety,' says Sister Ba.r.s.ett; I just wish you'd heard her go on!
”If she had felt to remember me,” continued Sarah Ellen, after they had laughed a little, ”I'd full as soon have some of her nice crockery-ware. She told me once, years ago, when I was stoppin' to tea with her an' we were havin' it real friendly, that she should leave me her Britannia tea-set, but I ain't got it in writin', and I can't say she's ever referred to the matter since. It ain't as if I had a home o' my own to keep it in, but I should have thought a great deal of it for her sake,” and the speaker's voice faltered. ”I must say that with all her virtues she never was a first-cla.s.s housekeeper, but I wouldn't say it to any but a friend. You never eat no preserves o'
hers that wa'n't commencin' to work, an' you know as well as I how little forethought she had about putting away her woolens. I sat behind her once in meetin' when I was stoppin' with the Tremletts and so occupied a seat in their pew, an' I see between ten an' a dozen moth millers come workin' out o' her fitch-fur tippet. They was flutterin' round her bonnet same's 'twas a lamp. I should be mortified to death to have such a thing happen to me.”
”Every housekeeper has her weak point; I've got mine as much as anybody else,” acknowledged Mercy Crane with spirit, ”but you never see no moth millers come workin' out o' me in a public place.”
”Ain't your oven beginning to get overhet?” anxiously inquired Sarah Ellen Dow, who was sitting more in the draught, and could not bear to have any accident happen to the supper. Mrs. Crane flew to a short-cake's rescue, and presently called her guest to the table.
The two women sat down to deep and br.i.m.m.i.n.g cups of tea. Sarah Ellen noticed with great gratification that her hostess had put on two of the best tea-cups and some citron-melon preserves. It was not an every-day supper. She was used to hard fare, poor, hard-working Sarah Ellen, and this handsome social attention did her good. Sister Crane rarely entertained a friend, and it would be a pleasure to speak of the tea-drinking for weeks to come.
”You've put yourself out quite a consid'able for me,” she acknowledged. ”How pretty these cups is! You oughtn't to use 'em so common as for me. I wish I had a home I could really call my own to ask you to, but 't ain't never been so I could. Sometimes I wonder what's goin' to become o' me when I get so I'm past work. Takin' care o' sick folks an' bein' in houses where there's a sight goin' on an'
everybody in a hurry kind of wears on me now I'm most a-gittin' in years. I was wis.h.i.+n' the other day that I could get with some comfortable kind of a sick person, where I could live right along quiet as other folks do, but folks never sends for me 'less they're drove to it. I ain't laid up anything to really depend upon.”
The situation appealed to Mercy Crane, well to do as she was and not burdened with responsibilities. She stirred uneasily in her chair, but could not bring herself to the point of offering Sarah Ellen the home she coveted.
”Have some hot tea,” she insisted, in a matter of fact tone, and Sarah Ellen's face, which had been lighted by a sudden eager hopefulness, grew dull and narrow again.
”Plenty, plenty, Mis' Crane,” she said sadly, ”'tis beautiful tea,--you always have good tea;” but she could not turn her thoughts from her own uncertain future. ”None of our folks has ever lived to be a burden,” she said presently, in a pathetic tone, putting down her cup. ”My mother was thought to be doing well until four o'clock an'
was dead at ten. My Aunt Nancy came to our house well at twelve o'clock an' died that afternoon; my father was sick but ten days.
There was dear sister Betsy, she did go in consumption, but 'twa'n't an expensive sickness.”
”I've thought sometimes about you, how you'd get past rovin' from house to house one o' these days. I guess your friends will stand by you.” Mrs. Crane spoke with unwonted sympathy, and Sarah Ellen's heart leaped with joy.
”You're real kind,” she said simply. ”There's n.o.body I set so much by.
But I shall miss Sister Ba.r.s.ett, when all's said an' done. She's asked me many a time to stop with her when I wasn't doin' nothin'. We all have our failin's, but she was a friendly creatur'. I sha'n't want to see her laid away.”
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