Miss Ashton's New Pupil — 11 - Chapters XXI and XXII

A week before Thanksgiving, Marion Parke received this note from her Aunt Betty:-- DEAR NIECE,--If you haven't anywhere else to go, and have money to come with, you can take the cars from Boston up here and spend Thanksgiving Day with us at Belden.

Your pa used to think a lot of coming here when he went to college--the great pity he ever went.

He might have been well-to-do if he had stuck to farming, but he always hankered after an eddication, and he got it, and nothin' else.

Your Cousin Abijah will drive over in his cutter and bring you here.

Don't have nothing to do with Isaac Bumps; he'll charge you twenty-five cents, and tell you it's a mile and a half from the station to my house, but it's only a mile, and don't you hear to him, for your Cousin Abijah can't come until after the milking, and if the cows are fractious, it may make him belated.

I am your great-aunt, BETSY PARKE.

Marion had previously received a letter from her father, saying,-- "If you have an invitation from your Aunt Betty to spend Thanksgiving with her in Belden, by all means accept it.

I want you to see the town in which I was born; there is not a mountain or a valley there that does not often cover these flat prairie-lands with their remembered beauty.

As they were a part of my boyish life, so are they a part of my man's; and when you come home we can talk of them together.

I was not born in the old farmhouse where your aunt now lives, but my father was, and his father, and his father's father, and your Aunt Betty was a kind, loving sister to your grandfather long years ago.

"Go, and write me all about the old home, all about the old aunt, and make her forget, if you can, that I would not be a farmer."

Before the coming of this letter, Marion had many invitations from her schoolmates to spend Thanksgiving with them at their homes.

Her room-mates were very urgent that she should go to Rock Cove; and besides her longing to see that wonderful mysterious thing, the ocean, she had learned so much of their homes during the weeks they had been together, that she almost felt as if she knew all the friends there, and would be sure of a welcome.

But her father's letter left her no choice, and a few cordial lines of acceptance went from her to her Aunt Betty by the next mail.

Of this decision Miss Ashton heartily approved.

And now began in the school the pleasant bustle which precedes this holiday vacation.

Recitations were gone through by the hardest.

Meals were eaten in indigestible haste; devotional exercises were filled with "wandering thoughts and worldly affections."

All through the long corridors and out from the open doors came crowded, eager words of inquiry and consultation.

One would have thought who heard them, that these girls had been close prisoners, breaking away from a hard, dull life, instead of what most of them really were, happy girls bound for a frolic.

Miss Ashton heard it all without the least injury to her feelings.

She had heard it for years, and, in truth, was as glad of her vacation as any of her girls.

A journey alone in a new country, with the beauty of the autumn all gone, and the rigors of a New England winter already beginning to show themselves, made Marion, self-reliant as she usually was, not a little timid as she saw the tall academy building lost behind the hills, between which the cars were bearing her on to New Hampshire.

A

homesick feeling took possession of her, and a dread that she might find Kate Underwood's tableaux a reality when she should reach her old aunt in the mountain-girded farmhouse.

Three hours' ride through a bare and uninteresting country brought her to Belden.

The day was extremely cold here.

The snow, which had seemed to her very deep at Montrose, lay piled up in huge drifts, not a fence nor a shrub to be seen.

All around were spurs of the White Mountains, white, literally, as she looked up to them, from their base to their summit.

There were great brown trees clinging stiff and frozen to their steep sides; sharp-pointed rocks, raising their great heads here and there from among the trees.

Majestic, awful, solemn they looked to this prairie child, as she stood on the cold platform of the little station gazing up at them.

A voice said behind her, startling her,-- "You'd better come in, marm.

It's what we call a terrible cold day for Thanksgiving week.

Come in, and warm you."

Marion turned, to see a man in a buffalo overcoat, with whiskers the same color as the fur, eyes that looked the same, a big red nose, a buffalo fur cap pulled well down over his ears, with mittens to match.

He stood in an open door, to which he gave a little push, as if to emphasize his invitation.

Inside the ladies' room of the station a red-hot stove sent out a cheerful welcome.

To this the man added stick after stick of dry pine wood, much to Marion's amusement and comfort, as she watched him.

"Come from down South?"

he asked, after he had convinced himself of the impossibility of crowding in another.

"From the West," said Marion pleasantly.

"You don't say so.

You ain't Aunt Betty Parke's niece, now, be ye?"

"I am Marion Parke.

Did you know my father?"

"Let me see.

Was your father Philip Parke?

Phil, we used to call him when he was a boy, the one that would have an eddication, and went a home-missionarying after he got chock-full of books.

Aunt Betty, she took it hard.

Be he your father?"

"Yes," said Marion, laughing; "he is my father."

"You don't say so, wull, naow, I'm beat.

You don't favor him not a mite; you sarten don't. An' you're here to get an eddication too, be ye?"

"Yes; that's what I hope to do.

I'm sorry it's so cold here; I should like to walk to my aunt's if it were not."

The man gave a chuckle, which Marion did not at all understand, jammed the stove full of wood again, and remarked as he crowded in the last knot,-- "There's your Cousin Abijah; I know his old cowbells a mile off!

Better get warm!"

Marion was hovering close over the stove when the door opened and Cousin Abijah entered.

"There you be," he called out hilariously as he saw her.

"Not froze nuther!

You're clear grit!

I told your Aunt Betty so, and she said 'seein' was believin'.'

As soon as I've thawed my hands a mite, we'll be joggin'.

Dan, that's the hoss, isn't the safest to drive in the dark."

The early twilight was already dropping down over the hills before "the mite of thawing" was done, and then wrapped up in an old blanket shawl Aunt Betty had sent, and covered by two well-worn buffaloes, they started.

What a ride it was!

Marion will never forget how Dan crawled along up a mountain road, where the path ran between huge snow-drifts, under beetling rocks that looked as if an avalanche might at any moment fall from them and crush horse and riders in the sleigh.

Sometimes going under arches of old pine-trees, the arms of which had met and interlocked, long, long years ago; up steep declivities, where the horse seemed almost over their heads, down steep declivities, where they seemed over the horse's head, never meeting any one, only hearing the dull moaning of the wind among the forest trees, and the louder moaning of old Dan, as he toiled painfully along.

At last there came an opening that widened until they crossed the mountain spur, and the little village of Belden lay before them.

Marion saw a church steeple, a few houses, a sawmill, and great spaces covered with snow.

To one of these houses, on the outskirts of the village, Cousin Abijah drove.

The house was a two-storied old farmhouse, innocent of paint or blind.

There was not a fence round, or a tree near it.

On one side was a wooden well-top, with a long arm holding an iron-bound bucket above it, the arm swinging from a huge beam, from which, in its turn, swung two large stones, suspended from the well-sweep by an iron chain.

A well-worn foot-path came from a back door to it, and on this path stood a yellow dog, nose in air, and tail beating time on a snow-bank.

It was the only living thing to be seen, and Marion's heart sank within her.

She was cold, tired, and homesick; and she saw at once that around the small front door, before which Cousin Abijah in his gallantry had stopped, no footstep had left a mark.

The snow-bank reached to the handle, clung to it, and as absolutely refused entrance, as did a shrill voice which at once made itself heard, but from whence Marion could not conjecture.

It said, however, "Go round to the back door!

What's good enough for me, is good enough for them that come to see me!"

[Illustration: "I hope I see you well," said a not unkindly voice, as Marion stepped out of the sleigh.

--Page 143. _Miss Ashton's New Pupil.

_] CHAPTER XXII. AUNT BETTY'S RECEPTION OF HER GUEST.

When the sleigh stopped before the back door, it was slowly opened, and Marion saw a tall, lank old woman with thin gray hair, small, faded blue eyes, a long, sharp nose, and thin lips, standing in it.

"I hope I see you well," said a not unkindly voice, and something like a smile played over the hard old face.

A knotty hand was held out toward her, and when she put hers timidly within it, it drew her into a large kitchen, where a cooking-stove, that shone like a mirror, sent out rays of heat even to the open door.

It was like Kate Underwood's "Tableau kitchen," yet how different!

It had such an air of cleanliness and comfort, that everything, even to the old chairs and tables, the long rows of bright pewter that adorned a swinging shelf, the hams clothed in spotless bags, hanging from the old crane in the big chimney, all had a certain air of refinement which went at once to Marion's heart.

Aunt Betty took off one of the lids of the stove, jammed in all the wood it could be made to hold, then moved a straw-bottomed chair, laced and interlaced with twine to keep the broken straw in place, close to the stove, and motioned Marion to sit down in it.

Then she stood at a little distance looking at her curiously.

"You don't favor the Parkes," she said, after a slow examination.

"You look more like your Aunt Jerushy; she was on my mother's side.

Your brown hair is hern, and your gray eyes; you feature her too.

When you're warm through, you can go up-stairs and lay off your things.

I don't have folks staying with me often, but I'm glad to see you."

This she said with a certain heartiness that went straight to Marion's heart.

She held up her face for a welcoming kiss, and, blushing like a young girl, Aunt Betty, after a quick look around the room, as if to be sure no one saw her, bent down, and kissed for the first time in twenty years.

Then Marion followed her up some steep stairs, leading from the kitchen to an unfinished room under the rafters.

Here everything again was as neat as wax, but how desolate!

An unpainted bedstead of pine wood, holding a round feather-bed covered with a blue-and-white homespun bed-quilt; a strip of rag carpet on a floor grown beautiful from the care bestowed upon it; a small table covered with a homespun linen towel, a Bible in exactly the middle of it; two old yellow chairs, and not another thing.

It was lighted by a three-cornered window, which Marion learned afterward, being over the front door, was considered the one choice ornament of the house.

In spite of its desolation, its neatness was still a charm to her.

It was, as she knew, the family homestead, and that subtile influence, so strong yet so indescribable, seemed to her to brood over the room.

Here generation after generation of those whose blood was running now so blithely through her veins had lived, died, and gone out from it.

Gently reverent she stood on its threshold.

Aunt Betty, looking at her curiously, wondered at her.

It had never been warmed excepting from the heat that had come up from the kitchen stove.

For the first time in her long life, Aunt Betty found herself wishing there was a chimney and a large air-tight stove in it; it would be fitter for a young girl like this visitor.

But Marion had been by no means accustomed to luxuries.

She made herself at home at once.

She hung her hat upon a nail which was carefully covered with white cloth to prevent its rusting anything, and put her valise, not upon the table with the Bible, or on the clean, blue bed-quilt, but up in a corner by itself.

Aunt Betty watched all these movements, every now and then nodding her gray head in silent approval.

Then they went back to the kitchen, Marion taking a Greek play with her to read,--one of Euripides.

She had promised herself much pleasure during this short vacation in finishing the play which her class were studying at the end of the term.

Aunt Betty, walking back and forth around the kitchen, stopped now and then at her elbow, and peeped curiously inside the open leaves.

An object of Marion's in taking the book had been to relieve her aunt of any feeling that she must entertain her; if she had been older and wiser she would have seen her mistake.

She was trying to puzzle out a line of the chorus, when a voice said close to her ear,-- "Be that a Bible you are readin'?"

Marion gave a little start, certainly there was nothing very Scriptural in the play.

"No-o-o," she stammered; "it's a Greek play, a--a tragedy."

"A tragedy!

you don't read none of them wicked things!"

severely.

"Why, yes, auntie, when they come in the course of my study.

It's in Greek!"

"Greek!

and you're a gal!

Your father allers was cracked about it, but this beats all!"

Marion failed to see it in just that light, but she said pleasantly, "I'll put it away if it troubles you."

A long arm pointed up-stairs, and Marion followed its direction.

When she came down, it seemed to Aunt Betty, in spite of her displeasure, that the rays of sunlight that were glimmering so faintly at the head of the stairs came down with her and lighted up the dingy old kitchen.

"Now give me something to do," said Marion dancing up to her with one of the prettiest steps she had learned at the academy.

"It's Thanksgiving, you know, to-morrow, and we have such lots and lots to do at home; there's pies and puddings and cakes and a big turkey to prepare, and a chicken pie, and nuts to crack, and apples to rub until you can see your face in them."

Aunt Betty's mouth and eyes opened as wide as they could for the wrinkles that held them while Marion told of the festival dinner, then she looked down at Marion's feet, and, not satisfied with the glimpse she caught of a pair of little boots, she lifted Marion's dress, then asked,-- "Be you lame?"

At first Marion was puzzled, then she remembered how she had danced into the room, so, with a merry peal of laughter, instead of answering, off she went into a series of _pirouettes_ that might have astonished more accustomed eyes than those of her old Aunt Betty.

When she had danced herself out of breath she said, "Does that look like being lame?

Better set me at work and let me use my feet to some more useful purpose!"

So still and stiff Aunt Betty stood that Marion could hardly restrain herself from catching hold of her and whirling her around in a waltz.

But fortunately she did not, for the first words her aunt said were,-- "Do you have Satan for a principal at your school, Marion Parke?"

"Satan!

Why, auntie, we have Miss Ashton, and she's the loveliest Christian lady you ever saw.

We girls think she is almost an angel!

Do you think it's wicked to dance?"

"Sartain I do;" and the shake of Aunt Betty's gray head left no doubt she was in earnest.

"Then I'll not dance while I am here," and Marion sat herself down demurely in the nearest chair.

Aunt Betty looked at the big clock in the corner of the kitchen.

The early dark was already creeping into the room, hiding itself under table and chair, showing the light of the isinglass doors of the cooking-stove with a fitful radiance, making Marion lonely and homesick, for you could hear the clock tick, the room was so still.

Then Aunt Betty lighted two yellow tallow candles that stood in iron candlesticks on the mantel-shelf, put up a leaf of the kitchen table, covered it with a clean homespun cloth, put upon it two blue delft plates and cups, a "chunk" of cold boiled pork, a bowl of cider apple-sauce, a loaf of snow-white bread, and a plate of doughnuts.

"Come to supper!"

she said, and Marion went.

How hungry she was, and how good everything, even the cold boiled pork, looked, she will not soon forget!

Before they seated themselves, Aunt Betty stood at the back of her chair, and, leaning on its upper round with her eyes fixed on the pork, she said,-- "For all our vittles and other marcies we thank Thee."

Marion, when she became aware of what was taking place, bowed her head reverently; but when she raised it she could not conceal the smile that played around her mouth.

She did not know this was the same grace which had been said over that table for one hundred and twenty years; yet it made her feel more at home, and she began to chat with her quaint old relative in her pleasant way, telling her of her home, of their daily life there, of the good her father was doing, and how every one loved and respected him.

Aunt Betty listened in silence, only now and then uttering a grunt, which, whether it was commendatory or condemnatory, Marion could not tell.

It was a long, dull evening that followed.

At eight, one of the tallow candles, much to her joy, lighted Marion to her bed.