A Daily Rate (7 page)

“Fearest sometimes that thy Father 

Hath forgot?

When the clouds around thee gather, 

Doubt him not!

Always hath the daylight broken— 

Always hath he comfort spoken— 

Better hath he been for years,

Than thy fears.”

MISS Hannah Grant sat in her room under the eaves darning little Johnnie’s stocking. Her hair was grey and rippled smoothly over her finely shaped head. Her sweet face wore a sad, far-away expression. It had grown habitual with her ever since she had come to live with her niece Nettie. Perhaps a close observer would see that the sadness was a shade deeper this afternoon. Her eyes were deep grey and seemed to go well with her hair. She gave one the impression of being able to sec further with them than most people, and there was a luminousness about them that lit up her otherwise plain face, and made it truly beautiful. Her gown was plain and old and grey. She always wore grey dresses. They had been becoming long ago in the days when it mattered whether she wore becoming things, and now that she cared no more about the becomingness, she wore them for sweet association’s sake, and for the sake of one long gone who used to admire them when she wore them. She did not seem to know that they still suited her better than any other color, or absence of color, could have done.

The hole was large and ill-shaped, for Johnnie was hard on his stockings, but she darned it patiently back and forth, and seemed to be thinking of something else. Once she laid it down and went to the closet for her little grey worsted shawl to throw around her shoulders, for the room was heated only by a drum from the stove downstairs and she felt chilly. She usually sat in the sitting-room in the afternoon to sew or mend, but there had been a reason for her coming up here today. She had settled herself as usual by the west window downstairs to get a good light on her work. She had a large peach basket full of stockings by her side, and her workbasket on the window. The baby, creeping about the floor, had upset the peach basket and scattered its contents around, and Nettie, coming down just then in a new red cashmere shirt waist she had finished the day before, had jerked him unceremoniously away from among the stockings and hastily bundled them all into the basket, shoving it behind aunt Hannah’s chair and out of her reach. As she did so, she remarked in a disagreeable tone that she wished aunt Hannah wouldn’t bring that old thing into the sitting-room. Couldn’t she bring a pair of stockings at a time, and not litter up the whole room? She was expecting Mrs. Morgan and her sister in with their embroidery and crocheting, and she did like to have things look a little nice. Aunt Hannah had meekly disposed of the stocking basket behind her ample apron, and there had been silence in the room for a few minutes. Then young Mrs. Bartlett remarked:

“Aunt Hannah, I think you had better go and change your dress, if you are going to sit there. That old grey thing doesn’t look very well. I wish to goodness you had a black silk, or something, like other folks. You always waste your money on grey things when you have to buy anything. It’s a dreadfully gloomy color. It makes you look sallow, too, now you’re getting older.”

Nettie had gone out in the kitchen then for a minute and returned just as aunt Hannah was starting upstairs with the darning basket.

“Aunt Hannah!” she called, “take your shawl and bonnet up with you, won’t you? I s’pose you’d just as soon keep them up there, wouldn’t you? Hiram says he hates to see the hall rack cluttered up so.”

Aunt Hannah put down the basket on the stairs, descended swiftly, gathered her shawl and bonnet and one or two other belongings of hers which were downstairs, in inconspicuous places, and carried them all upstairs. She was not in the habit of leaving her bonnet and shawl on the rack, and had only done so last night when she came in from prayer-meeting, because she had buckwheat cakes to set before going to bed, and when that was done and she started to take them away, Nettie had asked her to carry a lamp and two comfortables up for her, and in doing so the shawl and bonnet had escaped her notice. It was a little thing, and she realized that the hall rack looked better without her shawl and bonnet, but somehow it was one of the many things that gave her the feeling that she had no home. She had put them all meekly away and sat down in her little cold room near the drum to darn. She had done what she was asked to do with one exception. She did not change her dress and go down again. She saw that Nettie would like to have her out of the way for the afternoon, and she did not wish to remain where she was not wanted. She did not sigh as some women would have done. Instead, her eyes took on that far-away look. She was beginning to long so sorely for the open gates of her home above where she need never more feel that desolation of not belonging, and where she would meet loved ones, and above all her Father, face to face. Yet she knew her heavenly Father was with her, even in this home where she was treated as a burden, and she could be content to stay and do his bidding, only sometimes that great longing for the face to face view grew upon her till her heart ached with the desire to go.

In her bureau drawer, safe hid in tissue paper in a white box smelling of rose leaves there were some letters, and an old daguerreotype. The picture was in an old-fashioned leather frame that closed with a little brass hook, and was lined with stamped purple velvet. The face inside was of a young man with sweet, serious eyes, a grave, handsome face, smoothly shaven, heavy, dark hair tossed back from a high white forehead, and the dress of the olden time—a high rolling collar and stock. The letters were from this man to Hannah Grant, written when he was in the theological seminary, and they contained bright glad plans for the future, Hannah’s and his. They might not have seemed bright to some women, for they were planning, as soon as he had finished his ministerial training, to go to the Foreign Mission field and work together for the Master they both loved better than anything else. And next to him they had loved each other. How bright her life had seemed to her then as she did her daily duties; sang about them; thought of the future and wrote her happy letters; and thanked the Lord daily that she was to be permitted to do his work in this honorable way. The time had gone by rapidly then, and the years of study had been completed. Hannah’s wedding day was set, her simple lovely wedding gown was finished, and it was grey. He loved grey. It had little touches of soft white about the throat and wrists, just enough to bring out the coloring of Hannah’s delicately cut face. And then,—suddenly there happened one of those mysteries of the kingdom which we shall understand by and by, and to which now we can only say “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him best,” and trust. The earnest young missionary was taken up higher, there to receive his reward. His bride, when she could rally from the shock of the sudden ending of her life joy, bowed to the will of him to whose keeping she had long ago given her will and her life, and was enabled to say with tears of triumph that like that man of God of old her beloved had “walked with God and was not, for God took him.”

She had thought even then to go alone, and take the message of Jesus to those who knew him not, and bear her sorrow more easily by thinking she could do some of the work which they would have done together. But God opened another door for her and showed her plainly that he had called her to a duty at home, and so she took her saddened heart, her sweet face and her tender ways to her sister’s motherless little children and had lived there ever since. Sometimes now, when she thought how she was not wanted in this home, and yet could not go anywhere else by force of circumstances, she would take out that pictured face and wonder if James could know how she was being treated, what he would think and feel about it, and think how he would guard her from the world and shield her if he were only here. And then she would be glad that he could not know, or that if he could, he was where he knew it would not any of it be for long, and that she would soon come home to be with Jesus and with him forevermore, and that time to him was only a brief space. It was at such times that her eyes would take on their far-away look.

So she sat and worked and thought that afternoon. In due course of time the expected visitors arrived. The woman upstairs heard their voices, and presently they• drew nearer to the stove in the sitting-room. Their talk could be quite distinctly heard now, but Hannah was absorbed in her own thoughts, and she paid no attention as they gossiped on about this one and that, with “You don’t say sos,” and “Well, I always thought as muchs,” and “Did-she-say thats,” until she heard Nettie say, “Yes, she will stay with us this winter anyway. No, it isn’t quite as pleasant as to be alone you know, but then what could we do? She had no home to go to. My husband wanted my cousin to come, too, though it was more than we really could afford to do to feed and clothe two more, but she was very ungrateful, and wanted to have her own way and see the world a little. I expect she’ll come back humbly enough when she’s been away a couple of weeks longer, and if she does I’m sure I don’t know what in the world we shall do with her. Oh yes, aunt Hannah helps me a little here and there, but you can’t ask much of people that arc getting on in years. (Aunt Hannah was forty-nine.) My father always kept her in luxury as she was my mother’s only sister. Yes, people do get spoiled sometimes that way. But, dear me, all she can do wouldn’t make up for the outgo. Yes, she was a sort of acting housekeeper in our home after mother died, but you know no one can ever take a mother’s place. (Johnnie, shut that door and go away and stop your coaxing, or I’ll take you upstairs and give you a good spanking. No, you can’t go down by the pond to play to-day.) No, I never had so much to do with her as the younger children. I was the elder daughter, you know.”

Aunt Hannah quickly and noiselessly moved away from her position by the drum to the other side of the room. And this from the little girl she had so carefully mothered, and tended, and tried to train! And had loved, too, for Hannah Grant loved all that God loved and placed in her way. Ah, this was hard! And must she go on living here and knowing that she was not wanted, that she was a burden, and that lies—yes, actually lies, for there was no use trying to call them by a softer name— were being told to the people in the village about her? How could she? She could see just how it would go on from year to year. Hiram would come in cross at night and either ignore her altogether, or else contradict every word she spoke, and find fault with anything he knew she had done, in a surly, impersonal way, which he knew and she knew he meant for her. The children would grow up to disrespect her, as they were beginning to do already. And her dear Celia! She was toiling bravely far away from her! There was no prospect of anything better for years to come, perhaps never so long as she lived. She knelt down by her bed, and prayed for a long time. Then she arose quietly and went back to her window, a chastened look upon her face. This was not more than he had helped her to bear before. Indeed, it was not nearly so much. It was what Jesus had himself borne, being despised and rejected of men. She darned on till the room grew dark, and then she sat in the twilight and thought. She could not bring herself to go downstairs yet, not till she must get supper. She thanked the Lord she had a room to herself where she might take refuge alone and think of him. It was seldom that aunt Hannah had had even this privilege in the daytime since she had come to live with Nettie, there was always so much to be done, and Nettie seemed to expect it to be done quickly.

The company below had departed, but Miss grant took no heed. She sat and watched the grey sky grow into night. There was no sunset. It had been a grey day. There was not even a point of light to make the sky lovely. It sank into darkness, quietly, soberly, unnoticed and unlovely. She thought it was like herself. But then there had been some reason why God had not made a bright sunset to-night, and there surely was some reason why he had wanted her life grey instead of rose-colored. She sighed just a little, and now that the darkness had stolen softly upon her, she let a tear have its way down her cheek.

Downstairs Nettie was growing restless. Hiram came in a little earlier than usual with a sour look and asked how long it would be before supper. Nettie said it would not be long, and wondered why aunt Hannah did not come downstairs. Hiram remarked that if the old woman was getting lazy and taking on fine-lady airs they had better give her a warning, for he couldn’t support her for nothing. He threw a letter for her upon the table while Nettie was lighting the lamp. Nettie took it up, glanced at the writing, and then sent Johnnie up with it and told him to tell aunt Hannah his father had come and wanted his supper right away.

“It’s from Celia again,” she said, in a contemptuous tone. “She wastes more money on postage. I don’t think it’s right to do that in her position. If she has any extra money she better save it up and help with supporting aunt Hannah. A great fat letter, too. I don’t see what she finds to write about. This is the third one this week. It’s perfectly absurd!”

But aunt Hannah did not hear what they said, she was not sitting near the drum, and would not again, even if she was cold.

Johnny came down and reported that aunt Hannah had a light in her room and Nettie rattled the stove with all her might, and slammed the dishes around more than was necessary, but still aunt Hannah did not come, and finally Nettie began to get supper herself. She sent Johnnie up again pretty soon to tell aunt Hannah she wished she would come downstairs, that she needed her, and Johnnie came back and said aunt Hannah told him to tell mamma she would be down pretty soon, she could not come just now.

“Well, really!” said Hiram, looking up from his paper, “seems to me she is putting on airs at a great rate. If I were you, Nettie, I would just sit down and wait till she comes. I wouldn’t get supper at all. If you haven’t the grit to tell her to come down now when you send for her, I’ll do it for you.”

But Nettie rattled the stove and the dishes and managed to get supper ready pretty soon. She did not quite understand her aunt. This was a new development. Never in all the years she had known her and been cared for by her had aunt Hannah ever refused a request for help. It must be something serious. Was she sick? Nettie had some little heart left in her, and it irritated her to have her husband speak so of her relatives, so she bristled up at him, while she made the coffee.