Chapter XVI: The Tea-Party

TWO days after her death, Mrs. Mallory's body was laid in the old churchyard beside the grave of her husband's young sister. Mr. Brace, the new minister, officiated; and a great many people came to the funeral. Phin was deeply affected, and broke down entirely at the grave.

"Won't you come into my house, and rest a little before you go home, Mr. Mallory?" said kind Mrs. Andrews, who lived close by the church.

"Yes, do; you and the girls," added Mr. Andrews.

"You are very kind, but I think pa will be best at home," said Symantha. "He is quite worn out with watching."

"Well, if we can do any thing for you, you must let us know," said Mr. Andrews as he shook hands with Phin.

"And just let me say one word to you, Phineas," said old Mrs. Bassett. "I knew your mother and your grandmother, so you will excuse an old woman's freedom. Don't go to seeking comfort in drink. There may be forgetfulness in it, but there is no peace; and it will only leave you worse than you were before. Don't go looking for comfort in the world, my son, but turn to your wife's God and your mother's God. He has stricken, and He can bind up. Don't touch the drink, whatever you do."

"I won't," said Phin, pressing her hand; and at the time he meant what he said.

For at least a month he staid quietly at home, working diligently on his farm, mending the fences, and repairing the house and barns. He even went twice to the Friday evening service, at Kit's entreaty, and joined his splendid bass voice to the singing. Symantha's face began once more to lose its expression of care and apprehension; and as to Kit, she was never so happy in her life. She went to school every day, and to church and Sunday school on Sunday. Melissa, hitherto the greatest disturber of her peace, was out of the way; and uncle Phin was always kind nowadays, and let her read her Bible and sing her hymns as much as she liked. Her mind expanded every day, and she was one of those happy people to whom the acquisition of knowledge is a keen delight for its own sake. All the girls liked her.

And even Aunt Betsy allowed that "that Mallory young one" behaved very well when she was in sight, but made herself amends by adding, "But she'll show out what is in her yet, you may depend upon it. What's bred in the bone stays long in the flesh."

"Very true," said Miss Delia, to whom the remark was addressed. "We've all got total depravity bred in our bones, Aunt Betsy. And I, for one, haven't got rid of it yet, altogether."

"And there's Phin Mallory coming to the meetings," pursued Aunt Betsy. "We shall have all the riffraff in town coming in next."

"I am sure I wish we could," remarked Mr. Brace, the new minister. "I, for one, should enjoy the sight, as our Lord did when the publicans and sinners came together to hear Him. What is the Church for, Mrs. Burr, if not to gather in just such people as those you call riffraff?"

"I think, sometimes, the Church doesn't do as much of that sort of work as it might," said Miss Delia.

"Of course not. The Church does not do as much work of any sort as it might. Nevertheless it does most of the work that is done in that line. Who sustains all the city missions and charities, all the mission Sunday schools in low city districts and faraway Western towns, all the frontier missionaries and those in foreign parts, if not the Church? You talk about riffraff, Mrs. Burr: I should like to take you to New York, and show you the lady visitors going fearlessly into neighborhoods where even the policeman looks carefully to his revolver before he ventures. I should like to take you into one tenement-house I know of, where I found a district nurse, a well-educated lady, making a fire in a cracked stove, and cleaning floor and windows with her own hands, because no ordinary charwoman would venture into the place. Who does all these things but the Church in some of its branches,—that Church which is the blessed company of all faithful people? The Church does not accomplish half, no, not a tenth, of what it might if every member thereof were faithful in his and her vocation and ministry; but the world would be badly off without it."

Mr. Brace spoke with a good deal of earnestness, possibly with some little heat, as people are apt to do when they feel warmly.

And Aunt Betsy was confirmed in her opinion that he had no proper ministerial dignity, and would never fill Dr. Munson's pulpit.

Phin staid at home, as I have said, for nearly a month. Then he felt himself obliged to go to Oldbury with a load of hay.

"Why don't you sell your hay in Oldfield?" asked Symantha.

"Because I promised it to Stannard at the tavern, and I don't want to break my word. Don't you be scared, my girl: I'm not going to make a fool of myself any more. I've turned over a new leaf about that. Keep up a good heart, and I'll bring you and Kitty each a new frock if I have good luck with my hay."

"I want a piece of cotton sheeting, more than a new frock. Kit needs a dress or two, but I thought I should get them just as well at Mr. Andrews's: he has some nice black-and-white checks. Anyhow, father, do keep away from Stillwell's."

"I'm not going near Stillwell's," said Phin rather angrily. "I believe you think your father is a fool."

Then, softening as he saw his daughter's evident distress, "Don't you borrow trouble. I don't much wonder at your doing it, all things considered. But you'll see I'll come home all right. I'm no such tow-string of a man as you think me."

But alas! What man is not a tow-string when assailed by old appetites and old temptations, and old companions ready to do the Devil's work, and take the Devil's wages? Phin came home silent and morose. He brought no new frocks for anybody.

And when Symantha asked him, next day, for money to make some needful purchases at the Corners, he replied shortly that he had none.

"I thought you sold your hay," said Symantha. "Didn't Stannard pay you?"

"No—yes, partly. But I had to use the money another way. Take some of the butter-money, or get Andrews to trust you: I'll make it all right with him."

"I thought we agreed to save the butter-money for ma's grave-stone," said Symantha.

"I can't help it," answered Phin, turning suddenly away. "I'd give you the money if I had it, but I haven't, and there's no use talking."

Symantha sighed, but said no more.

In a few days, Phin went to Oldbury again, and came home so drunk that Symantha and Kit had to take care of the team. His visits became more and more frequent, often lasting two or three days at a time. He brought home another keg of beer, and from that time was hardly ever sober. He began to talk of selling the farm and going West again, and Symantha was in despair.

"I did think we were settled at last," said she. "I thought I was to have a home."

"Well, have a home. Who hinders you?" said her father roughly. "You and Kit can hire a room somewhere, and take care of yourselves."

"You know I won't do that, father. I shall never leave you."

"Maybe I shall leave you," said Phin. "It don't follow, because I am going to destruction, that I need drag you after me.—Well, there, you needn't cry, Kit: I haven't gone yet."

"I can't help crying when you talk so," sobbed Kit. "O uncle Phin! Do be good. You have been so nice lately, and gone to church, and all. I did think you were going to turn out a Christian."

"I almost thought so, myself, Kitty, but it's no go," said Phin, with a hard laugh. "You see, I'm one of those stony-ground hearers that you read about the other day, and nothing good will grow in me. But you and your friends believe in prayer: why don't you pray for me!"

"I do," replied Kit with emphasis, "every day and every night; and I am going to keep on. You don't believe in God, uncle Phin, but you can't get away from Him, not in Oldbury nor anywhere else."

Kit kept her word; and her prayers were heard, but not in the way she expected or would have chosen.

Meantime, the school was prospering in Ida's hands. And every one was satisfied, except Aunt Betsy, who never was satisfied with any thing. Ida and Amity, partly from real compassion, and partly, I fear, for the joke's sake, had set themselves to work to conciliate the old woman. Ida, who had a genius for millinery, made her a pretty cap, and Amity carried her a pound of very fine green tea, such as she liked, but all to no purpose. Aunt Betsy admitted that the cap looked tolerably well, considering: she supposed it was fudged up out of some of Mrs. Van Zandt's old ones. As to the tea, she thought it was a queer color.

"That is because it is not colored at all," explained Amity, always sweet and unruffled. "Most green teas are dyed, you know; but my aunt had this tea in a present from a Chinese gentleman who was a correspondent of my uncle's for many years, and who understands about such matters. He sends my aunt a chest of this tea every year. It cannot be bought in this country."

"Oh, yes, I dare say he makes her think so," was Aunt Betsy's reply. "I always heard them Chinese were up to all kinds of tricks.—They thought they were going to coax me round," she said to Miss Jewsbury afterward, in relating the interview, "but I let them know that I wasn't going to be patronized."

"Well, I'm sure I wish she would patronize me that way," said Miss Jewsbury, who loved green tea, and did not often get it. "Do give me a drawing of it, Aunt Betsy. You might let me have it all if you don't want it. My girls don't like green tea, and I hardly ever have any."

"I never said I didn't like it, and you are as well able to buy tea as I am," was the reply. "However, I suppose I can let you have a cupful. You can pay me in cheese."

But, though Aunt Betsy was not to be won over, Ida had plenty of friends. Even the Jewsbury girls liked her, and behaved better in school than they had ever done before. The truth was, that Ruth had grown secretly tired of her rebellion against Miss Armstrong, and was glad of a pretext for giving it up; and her younger sister followed her lead, as a matter of course. Ida had the teaching gift. She loved the children and the work for their own sake. She enjoyed success and popularity, as who does not? And it was a source of exquisite pleasure to her to see the eyes brighten and the cheeks flush as she told them some story of heroism or self-sacrifice, growing out of and illustrating the history or geography lesson.

The children began to repeat these stories at home. Miss Priscilla Davis, who had wanted the school for herself, pronounced it queer kind of teaching,—making a geography lesson like a novel. But Mr. Bassett declared he meant to put on a roundabout and pinafore, and come to school himself.

"I have a very interesting letter to read to you, girls, if you like to stay a few minutes after school," said Ida one day. "You can do just as you please about it."

All chose to stay; and Miss Van Zandt produced her letter, which was from a friend engaged in the flower mission in New York.

"What is a flower mission?" asked Ednah Fletcher.

Ida explained the matter as well as it could be explained to children who had never seen a tenement-house or a city court, and whose notions of the state of poor people were taken from Aunt Betsy and others like her.

"How dreadful!" said Faith "But, Miss Van Zandt, what makes people stay in such places?"

"Many are obliged to do so. They must live near their work, and rents are fearfully high in New York. Others know no better, and if they did, have no means to get away. But, suppose you lived in such a place as my friend describes, would not you be glad to see some one who came to you with a bunch of flowers or a nice little plant?"

"Yes, indeed!" answered several voices.

And Ednah added regretfully, "I do like to go to Ma Bassett's in winter, and see her plants. They look so nice when there is nothing but ice and snow outside!"

"Then you can think how nice such plants would be if there were nothing but dirty streets and courts to be seen outside," said Ida. "But, Ednah, does not your sister keep plants?"

"No, ma'am. She says they make so much dirt in the house."

"Miss Van Zandt, why couldn't we send a box of flowers to your friend?" said Ruth Jewsbury. "The golden-rods are beautiful now, and they last a long time."

"I declare! That is an excellent idea," said Agnes. "If we sent buds, they would bloom out in water."

"Golden-rod is so common, I should not think that they would care for that," said one of the children.

"Not very common in New York, my dear."

"Don't it grow by the side of the road in New York?" asked Eben Fletcher innocently.

The older children laughed, and Miss Van Zandt explained the matter.

"Well, I wouldn't live in such a place, not if you was to give me fifty dollars," said the little boy positively.

"Nor I, not long at a time," replied Miss Van Zandt. "But you must remember, Eben, that there are advantages and disadvantages everywhere.—I will talk this matter of sending flowers over with my aunt, girls, and we will see what can be done."

The next day, Ida again asked the girls to stay after school.

"My aunt is much pleased with your idea of sending a box of flowers, girls," said she. "Now, how many of you are willing to take your holiday to-morrow afternoon instead of Saturday, and give the time to gathering flowers and ferns?"

All the children were more than willing, only Faith Fletcher demurred.

"I should like it very much," said she, "but I was counting on Saturday afternoon to help sister. She isn't well at all, and I thought I could take some of the work off her hands on Saturday."

"What ails your sister?" asked Ida.

"She won't allow that any thing ails her," replied Faith, "and she will keep at work all the time. But she grows thin and pale, and I know she has a pain in her side. Father wants to have a girl, but she won't hear of it."

"She will find that very poor economy in the end," remarked Ida. "Well, I will tell you what we can do. You can come to school at half-past eight, instead of nine, and we will have only half an hour's intermission at noon, and no recess. Then I can let you go at three o'clock, which will give plenty of time for the flower-gathering. And I must not forget to say that aunt Barbara hopes you will all come to her house to tea at six o'clock, and bring your flowers."

"Sha'n't we go home and get dressed?" asked Jenny Hurd. "We sha'n't look very nice."

"By no means," answered Ida. "Come straight from your flower-gathering. Soap and water are plenty, and that is all you will need."

"What kind of flowers shall we bring? Any thing but golden-rod?"

"Oh, yes! All the flowers you can lay hands on,—yarrow and daisies and cockle, and, above all, plenty of green."

"I think a parcel of ferns would be nice," observed Kit. "I know where there are lovely ones,—ever so many kinds."

"They will be just the thing."

It was a very pretty sight that greeted the eyes of Mrs. Van Zandt and her nieces as the children presented themselves the next evening at six o'clock, laden with flowers of all sorts, wild and tame. Mrs. Bassett had not dared to let little Emma, who was a delicate child, go out with the others. But to make amends, she had cut almost every flower in her garden,—dahlias, foxgloves, great spears of hollyhocks, and a huge bunch of lemon-thyme and sweet basil. Others brought sheaves of golden-rod as big as themselves. There were not many flowers in Oldfield County that were not represented in the collection. Kit brought a basket of ferns of all sorts, and a bunch of lady's-slippers, which she had found in a shady hollow, and another of the branching "bear's-grass," or lycopodium. Finally, to crown the whole, appeared Edward Kettle with half a wagon-load of laurel. He had heard what the young ladies were about, he said, and he and his wife took the liberty to help them.

"What lovely laurel!" said Amity. "I thought it was all gone long ago."

Edward explained that he had found it, by his grandfather's direction, in a shady hollow far up on Indian Hill. "You see, the old gentleman has always lived right there. And there ain't many plants nor animals round these parts that he don't know."

"I should like to make his acquaintance," said Amity. "I have often seen him in church. Do you think he would be pleased to have us come and see him?"

"Oh, yes, miss. He's like other old folks, the old gentleman is," said Edward: "he loves to tell over his old stories. Some folks thinks it tiresome, but I don't,—I think it is real interesting; and anyhow, it pleases him."

"Well, you will see us up on Indian Hill some day soon," said Amity. "Meantime, I should like to send him some tobacco-money, if he won't be affronted. I know he smokes sometimes."

"Oh, yes, miss. I don't think it's a very good habit, myself, but grandfather has done it all his life. And I says to Maria, says I, 'When an old man, and especially an old Indian, gets to be a hundred years old, it ain't much worth while to try to teach him new tricks,' says I. Not that Maria would want to interfere either,—'tain't her way. But Mrs. Hills had been talking to her about it, and saying she wouldn't have it if it was her. I can stay and wait on the table, miss, if it would be any accommodation."

"I dare say Aggy will be glad of your help," said Mrs. Van Zandt, to whom Amity referred the matter.

And having thus carried the point he had in mind when he started from home, Edward proceeded to display his gifts in that line, which were not small. Never was a more successful tea-party, after the first shyness of the children wore off. Old Alice had made a bountiful provision of sweets and substantials. Mrs. Van Zandt had sent to Oldbury for a supply of candy, which was put up in pretty boxes, and given to the children to carry home, with the addition of some nice little present to each.

"I wonder if Aunt Betsy would be offended if I were to send her some cake," said Ida to Myra Bassett, who had been specially invited, as she was putting up a parcel of good things for old Abner.

"Oh, yes, she'll be offended. But she will eat the cake, all the same," answered Myra, laughing. "That's her way. I'll take it to her if you like: I'm used to her."