Chapter XII: Different Shades

THAT front room was square and bare; at least that last word expresses the impression which it made upon Louise as she stood surveying it. There were several things that she felt sure she could do to brighten it, but the question turned on expediency. How much would it be wise to undertake?

It is a curious fact that the people who, from choice or necessity, have contented themselves with paper window-shades, have also been the people fated to choose for these ungainly creations colours that would fight with the shades of carpet and wall-paper. Those in the Morgan household were the ugliest of their kind, and the initiated know that is saying a great deal. The ground-work was blue. Who ever saw a tint of blue that would harmonize with a cheap ingrain carpet? They were embellished by corner pieces, done in dingy brown, with streaks of red here and there; the design looking like nothing with sufficient distinctness to be named—the whole being grotesque; while in the centre was a bouquet of flowers so ugly that it was a positive relief to remember that nature never produced anything in the least like them. An old-fashioned piece of furniture, known as a settle, suggested possibilities of comfort if it had not been pushed into the coldest corner of the room and been disfigured by a frayed binding and a broken spring. The chairs, of course, were straight-backed and stiff; and set in solemn rows. But the table, with its curious clawed legs and antique shape, filled Louise's heart with delight.

"What a pity," she said aloud, "that they couldn't have put some of the grace into the old-fashioned chairs which they lavished on those delightful old tables! How that bit of artistic twisting would delight Estelle's heart!"

This deliberate survey of her present field of operations was being taken after the sweeping and dusting were over, and she was trying to settle the momentous question of "What next?"

The door leading into the kitchen was swung open, and Mother Morgan presented herself in the doorway, her arms still in their favourite reflective attitude, holding to her sides.

"The curtains do look scandalous," she said, her eyes lighting on them at once. "I've been going, for I don't know how long, to get new ones, but I never seem to get at such things. I declare I didn't know they was so cracked."

Instantly Louise's wits sprang to grasp this opportunity. Who could have expected such an opening in accord with her present thoughts?

"Oh, I hope you won't get new ones. I have a set of curtains that my mother gave me for my room, so I might have a reminder of home, and they are altogether too long for my windows; but I think they will just fit here. I should so like to see them in use. May I put them up?"

What was the mother to say? She possessed that unfortunate sort of pride which is always hurt with the suggestion of using other people's things. Yet she had herself opened the door to this very suggestion. How was she to close it?

"Oh, it isn't necessary to bring your curtains down here. I mean to get new ones, of course. I've just neglected it, that's all; there's been no need for it."

"I'm so glad then that you have neglected it," Louise said quickly. "It has made me feel sort of lonely to see those curtains lying idle in my trunk. I wanted to put them somewhere. How fortunate it is that they are just the right colour to match nicely with the carpet. You are really good to let me have them up here."

Whereupon Mrs. Morgan, with a vague feeling that she had been "good" without in the least intending it, kept silence.

Louise gave her little chance for reflection.

"You can't think how much I like that sofa. Wouldn't it be nice if they made such shaped ones nowadays, so long and wide? It suggests rest to me right away. I can't think of anything more comfortable than this corner when the fire is made, with that nice, hospitable sofa wheeled into it."

This sentence brought Dorothy from the kitchen, to gaze, with wide-eyed wonder, first at the lounge and then at the speaker. The object of her intensified hatred, for many a day, had been that old, widespread, claw-footed settle. Not being accustomed to seeing such an article of furniture anywhere else, and being keenly alive to the difference between her home and that of the few other homes into which she had occasionally penetrated, she had, unconsciously to herself, singled out the old lounge and the old table, and concentrated her aversion to the whole upon them.

There was something about Louise that gave to all she said the stamp of sincerity. Dorothy found herself believing implicitly just what had been said; therefore this surprising eulogy of the old settle was the more bewildering. Louise's next sentence completed the mystification.

"But the prettiest thing in this room is that table. I never saw anything like that before; it must be very old, isn't it? And it looks like solid mahogany."

There was no resisting the impulse. Mother Morgan's heart swelled with a sense of gratified pride (if it were not a nobler feeling than pride).

"It is solid," she said quickly, "every inch of it; it belonged to my mother; it was one of her wedding presents from my grandfather. There isn't another table in the country as old as this."

"Isn't that delightful?" said Louise, genuine eagerness in tone and manner. "To think of your having one of your own mother's wedding presents! My sister Estelle would like to see that; she has such a wonderful feeling of reverence for old things, especially when she can hear about the hands that have touched them long ago. Did your mother die a good many years ago?"

"She died when I was a girl like Dorothy there," said Mrs. Morgan, her voice subdued, and she gathered a corner of her large apron and carried it to her eyes.

"I always set great store by that table. I've seen my mother rub it with an old silk handkerchief by the half-hour, to make it shine. She thought a great deal of it on grandfather's account, let alone its value, and it was thought to be a very valuable table in those days. I have always thought I would keep it for Dorothy. But she don't care for it; she thinks it is a horrid, old-fashioned thing. She would have it put into the barn-loft, along with the spinning-wheel, if she could. Your sister must be different from other girls, if she can stand anything old."

Poor Dorothy, her cheeks aflame, stood with downcast eyes; too honest was she to deny that she had hated the claw-footed table as one of the evidences of the life to which she was shut up, different from others. Louise turned toward her with a kindly smile.

"I think Estelle is different from most girls," she said gently. "Our grandmother lived until a short time ago, and we loved her very clearly, and that made Estelle like every old-fashioned thing more than she would. Mother says that most girls have to get old and gray-haired before they prize their girlhood or know what is valuable."

"That is true enough," said Mother Morgan emphatically.

Then Louise—

"I wonder if I can find John anywhere? I want him to help me to hang pictures and curtains. Do you suppose father can spare him a little while?"

"John!" said the wondering mother. "Do you want his help? Why, yes, father will spare him, I daresay, if he will do anything; but I don't suppose he will."

"Oh yes," said Louise gaily, "he promised to help me; and besides, he invited the minister here himself, or at least seconded the invitation heartily, so of course he will have to help to get ready for him."

"Well, there he is now, in the shed. You get him to help if you can; I'll risk his father. And move things about where you would like to have them; I give this room into your hands. If you can make it look as pleasant as the kitchen, I'll wonder at it. It was always a dreadful dull-looking room, somehow."

And the mollified mother went her way. An apology was a soothing sort of thing. It was very nice to have the long-despised old settle and table (dear to her by a hundred associations, so dear that she would have felt it a weakness to own it) not only tolerated but actually admired with bright eyes and eager voice; but to engage, in any enterprise whatever, her youngest son, so that there might be hope of his staying at home with the family the whole of Tuesday evening—an evening when, by reason of the meeting of a certain club in the village, he was more than at any other time exposed to temptation and danger—was a thought to take deep root in this mother-heart. She did not choose to let anybody know of her anxiety concerning this boy; but really and truly it was the sore ache in her heart, and the thinking of the brightness of Louise's care-free face in contrast with her own heavy-heartedness, that developed the miseries of the morning. After all, to our limited sight, it would seem well, once in a while, to have peeps into each other's hearts.

Greatly to his mother's surprise, and somewhat to his own, John strode at first call into the front room, albeit he muttered as he went: "I don't know anything about her gimcracks; why don't she call Lewis?"

"Are you good at driving nails?" Louise greeted him with; "Because Lewis isn't. He nearly always drives one crooked."

"Humph!" said John disdainfully. "Yes, I can drive a nail as straight as any of 'em; and I haven't been to college either."

"Neither have I," said Louise, accepting his sentence in the spirit of banter; "and I can drive nails, too. If I were only a little taller I'd show you. But how are we going to reach away up to the ceiling? Is there a step-ladder anywhere?"

"Yes; make one out of the kitchen table and the wood-box."

And he went for them. Then the work went on steadily. John could not only drive nails, but could measure distances with his eye almost as accurately as with a rule, and could tell to the fraction of an inch whether the picture hung "plum" or not. Louise, watching, noted these things, and freely commented upon them, until, despite himself, John's habitual gruffness toned down.

"Who is this?" he asked, and he, perched on his table and wood-box, stopped to look at the life-size photograph of a beautiful girl.

"That," said Louise, pride and pleasure in her voice, "is my sister Estelle; isn't she pretty? With the first breath of spring I want her to come out here; and I want you to get ready to be real good to her, and show her all the interesting things in field and wood."

"I!"

"Yes, you. I look forward to your being excellent friends. There are a hundred delightful things about nature and animal life of which she knows nothing, and she is eager to see and hear and learn. I look to you for help."

At this astounding appeal for "help" John turned and hung the picture without a word. What was there to say to one who actually expected help from him for that radiant creature!

Louise, apparently busy in untangling cord and arranging tassels, watched him furtively. He studied the picture after it was in place; he had difficulty in getting it to just the right height, and tied and untied the crimson cord more than once in his precision. The bright, beautiful, girlish figure, full of a nameless witchery and grace that shone out at you from every curve! She hardly knew how much she wished for the influence of the one over the other. If Estelle could help, would help him in a hundred ways, as she could; and if he would help her! Yes, Louise was honest; she saw ways in which this solemn-faced boy could help her gay young sister, if he only would.

"Oh!" she said to herself, with great intensity of feeling, "if people only would influence each other just as much as they could, and just as high as they could, what a wonderful thing this living would be!"

It was for this reason among others that she had selected from her family group, hanging in her room, this beautiful young sister, and sacrificed her to hang between the windows in the front room. There were other pictures, many of them selected with studied care, with an eye to their influence. Among others, there was a brilliant illuminated text worked in blues and browns, and the words were such as are rarely found in mottoes. In the centre was a great gilt-edged Bible, and circling over it: "These are written that ye might believe on the Son of God." Then underneath, in smaller letters: "And that believing, ye might have life through his name."

"That is Estelle's work," his companion said. "Isn't it pretty?"

"I suppose so. I don't know anything about pretty things."

"Oh yes you do; you know perfectly well what you think is pretty. I venture to say that you know what you like, and what you dislike, as well as any person in this world."

He laughed, not ill pleased at this; and Louise, with no apparent connection, branched into another subject.

"By the way, where is that church social that was announced for Friday night? Far-away?"

"No; just on the other hill from us, about a mile, or a trifle more."

"Then we can walk, can't we? I'm a good walker, and if the evening is moonlight, I should think it would be the most pleasant way of going."

And now John nearly lost his balance on the wood-box, because of the suddenness with which he turned to bestow his astonished gaze on her.

"We never go," he said at last.

"Why not?"

"Well," with a short laugh, "that question might be hard to answer. I don't, I suppose, because I don't want to."

"Why don't you want to? Aren't they pleasant gatherings?"

"Never went to see. I grew away from them before I was old enough to go. Mother and father don't believe in them, among other things."

There was a suspicion of a sneer in his voice now. Louise was a persistent questioner.

"Why don't they believe in them?"

"Various reasons. They dress, and mother doesn't believe in dressing. She believes women ought to wear linsey-woolsey uniform the year round. And they dance, and neither mother nor father believe in that; they think it is the unpardonable sin mentioned in the Bible."

"Do they dance at the church socials?"

"Yes," an unmistakable sneer in his tones now, "I believe they do; we hear so anyhow. You will look upon the institution with holy horror after this, I suppose?"

"Does Mr. Butler dance?"

"Well, reports are contradictory. Some say he hops around with the little girls before the older ones get there, and some have it that he only looks on and admires. I don't know which list of sinners he is in, I'm sure. Do you think dancing is wicked?"

"I think that picture is crooked," said Louise promptly; "isn't it? Doesn't it want to be moved a trifle to the right? That is a special favourite of mine. Don't you know the face? Longfellow's 'Evangeline.' Lewis don't like the picture nor the poem; but I can't get away from my girlhood liking for both. Don't you know the poem? I'll read it to you some time and see if you don't agree with me. Now, about that social: let's go next Friday, and see if we can't have a good time—you and Lewis, and Dorothy and I. It is quite time you introduced me to some of your people, I think."

"You don't answer my question."

"What about? Oh, the dancing? Well, the truth is, though a short question, it takes a very long answer, and it is so involved with other questions and answers that I'm afraid if we should dip into it we shouldn't get the curtains hung by tea-time. Let me just take a privilege and ask you a question. Do you expect me to believe in it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because—well—because you religionists are not apt to."

"Don't you know any religionists who seem to?"

"Yes; but they are the counterfeit sort."

"Then you think real, honest Christians ought not to believe in dancing?"

"I didn't say any such thing," returned John hotly; then, being quick-witted, he realized his position, and despite his attempt not to, laughed. "I think we had better go after those curtains now," he said, significantly. And they went.