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Chautauqua Girls at Home, The

<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> <h3>NEW MUSIC.</h3> CHARLIE arose suddenly and went toward the piano. Things were becoming uncomfortably grave. "Sis," he said, "can't you give us some new music? Try this new piece; Baker hasn't heard you sing it. I don't think it is remarkable, but it is better than none. We seem to have a very small list of music that will pass the orthodox line for Sunday use." Both he and Flossy had sighed over the dearth of pretty things that were suited to Sunday. The one in question was one of the worst of its kind—one of that class which Satan seems to have been at work getting up, for the purpose of lulling to rest weak consciences. Sickly, sentimental ideas, expressed in words that are on the very verge of silly; and yet, with just enough solemn sounding phrases in them, thrown in here and there, to allow them to be caught up by a certain class, and pronounced "sacred song." Flossy had herself selected this one, and before her departure for Chautauqua had pronounced it very good. She had not looked at it since she came home. Charlie spread it open for her on the piano, then returned to the sofa to enjoy the music. Flossy's voice was sweet and tender; no power in it, and little change of feeling, but pleasant to listen to, and capable of being tender and pathetic. She looked over the sacred song with a feeling of aversion almost amounting to disgust. The pitiful attempts at religion sounded to her recently impressed heart almost like a caricature. On the piano beside her lay a copy of "Gospel Songs;" open, so it happened (?), at the blessed and solemn hymn, "How much owest thou?" Now a coincidence that seemed remarkable, and at once startled and impressed Flossy, was that Dr. Dennis' text for the evening had been the words, "How much owest thou unto my Lord?" She hesitated just a moment, then she resolutely pushed aside the sheet music, drew the book toward her, and without giving herself time for a prelude, gave herself to the beautiful and well-remembered words: <div class='poem'> "How much owest thou? For years of tender, watchful care, A father's faith, a mother's prayer— How much owest thou? "How much owest thou? For calls, and warnings loud and plain, For songs and sermons heard in vain— How much owest thou? "How much owest thou? Thy day of grace is almost o'er, The judgment time is just before— How much owest thou? "How much owest thou? Oh, child of God, and heir of heaven, Thy soul redeemed, thy sins forgiven— How much owest thou?" </div> Flossy had heard Mr. Bliss, with his grand and glorious voice, ring that out on a certain evening at Chautauqua, where all the associations of the hour and place had been solemn and sacred. It might have been in part these memories, and the sense of something missed, that made her have a homesick longing for the place and song again, that gave to her voice an unusually sweet and plaintive sound. Every word was plain and clear, and wonderfully solemn; but when she reached the words, <div class='poem'> "Oh, child of God, and heir of heaven, Thy soul redeemed, thy sins forgiven," </div> <div class='unindent'>There rang out a note of triumph that filled the room, and made the hearts of her listeners throb with surprise and wonder. Long before the song was closed her father had laid aside the Times, and, with spectacles pushed above his eyes, was listening intently. Absolute silence reigned for a moment, as Flossy's voice died out in sweetness; then Charlie, clearing his throat said:</div> "Well, I van! I said I didn't consider the song remarkable. But I take it back; it is certainly remarkable. Did you ever hear anything that had so changed since you last met it?" Col. Baker did not at once reply. The very first line had struck him, for the reason that above most men, he had reason to remember a "mother's prayer." There were circumstances connected with that mother of his that made the line doubly startling to him. He was agitated by the wonderful directness of the solemn words, and he was vexed that they agitated him; so when he did speak, to conceal his feeling, he made his voice <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'flappant'">flippant</ins>. "It is a remarkable production, worthy of camp-meeting, I should say. But, Miss Flossy, allow me to congratulate you. It was sung with striking effect." Flossy arose suddenly from the piano, and closed the book of hymns. "Col. Baker," she said, "may I ask you to excuse me this evening? I find I am not in a mood to enjoy conversation; my brother will entertain you, I am sure." And before Col. Baker could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to make any reply at all, she had given him a courteous bow for good-night, and escaped from the room. The situation was discussed by the Shipley family at the next morning's breakfast table. Flossy had come down a trifle late, looking pale and somewhat sober, and was rallied by Kitty as to the cause. "Her conscience is troubling her a little, I fancy," her father said, eyeing her closely from under heavy brows. "Weren't you just a little hard on the colonel, last night, daughter? He is willing to endure considerable from you, I guess; but I wouldn't try him too far." "What was the trouble, father? What has Flossy done now? I thought she was going to be good at last?" "Done! You may well ask what, Miss Kitty. Suppose the friend you had shut up in the library had been informed suddenly that you were not in a mood to talk with him, and then you had decamped and left him to the tender mercies of two men?" "Why, Flossy Shipley! you didn't do that, did you? Really, if I were Col. Baker I would never call on you again." "I don't see the harm," Flossy said, simply. "Father and Charlie were both there. Surely that was company enough for him. I hadn't invited him to call." "Oh, undoubtedly he calls on purpose to see father and Charlie! He has not been so attentive to the family during your absence, I can assure you. We haven't so much as had a peep at him since you went away. Flossy, I hadn't an idea you could be so rude. I declare, I think that Wilbur girl is demoralizing you. They say she has no idea of considering people's feelings; but then, one expects it of her class." Mrs. Shipley came to Flossy's aid: "Poor child, I don't blame her for slipping away. She was tired. She had been to church twice, and to Sunday-school at noon, without any lunch, too. Flossy, you mustn't indulge in such an absurd freak another Sunday. It is too much for you. I am sure it is not strange that you wanted to get away to rest." Then the father: "I dare say you were tired, as your mother says; in fact, though, I must say I think I never saw you looking better than you were last evening. But it was a trifle thoughtless, daughter, and I want you to be more careful in the future. Col. Baker's father was my oldest and most valued friend, and I want his son to be treated with the utmost consideration, and to feel that he is always welcome. Since he has so special a friendship for you, you must just remember that his position in society is one of the highest, and that you are really decidedly honored. Not that I am rebuking you, Flossy dear, only putting you on your guard; for remember that you carry a very thoughtless little head on your pretty shoulders." And then he leaned over and patted the thoughtless head, and gave the glowing cheek such a loving, fatherly kiss. As for poor Flossy, the bit of steak she was trying to swallow seemed to choke her; she struggled bravely to keep back the tears that she felt were all ready to fall. The way looked shadowy to her; she felt like a deceitful coward. Here were they, making excuses for her—tired, thoughtless, and the like. Oh, for courage to say to them that she had not been tired at all, and that she thought about that action of hers longer than she had thought about anything in her life, up to a few weeks ago. If she could only tell them out boldly and plainly that everything was changed to her, that she looked at life from a different standpoint; and that, standing where she did now, it looked all wrong to spend the last hours of the Sabbath in entertaining company. But her poor little tongue, all unused to being brave, so shrank from this ordeal, and the lump in her throat so nearly choked her, that she made no attempt at words. So the shadows that had fallen on her heart grew heavier as she went about her pretty room. She foresaw a troubled future. Not only must the explanation come, but she foresaw that her changed plans would lie right athwart the views and plans of her father. What endless trouble and discomfort would this occasion! Also, there were her pet schemes for Sunday-school, including those boys for whom she had already planned a dozen different things. Her mother had frankly expressed her opinion, and, although it is not the age when parents say, nor were Flossy's parents of the sort who would ever have said, "You must do thus, and you shall not do so," still, she foresaw endless discussions; sarcastic raillery from Kittie and Charlie; persuasions from her mother; earnest protests from her father, and a general air of lack of sympathy or interest about them all. These things were to Flossy almost more than, under some circumstances, the martyr's stake would have been to Marion Wilbur. Then she, too, as she went about doing sundry little things toward making her room more perfect in its order, took up Marion's fashion of pitying herself, and looking longingly at the brightness in some other life. Not Marion's, for she was all alone, and had great responsibilities, and no one to shield her or help her or comfort her; that was dreadful. Not Ruth's, for her life was so high up among books and paintings and grandeur, that it looked like cold elegance and nothing else. She wouldn't have lived that life; but there was Eurie Mitchell, in a little home that had always looked sunny and cheerful when she had taken occasional peeps into it—somewhat stirred up, as became a large family and small means, but with a cleanly, cheery sort of stir that was agreeable rather than otherwise. And there were little children to love and care for—children who put their arms around one's neck and said, "I love you," a great many times in a day. Flossy, having never tried it, did not realize that if the fingers had been sticky or greasy or a trifle black, as they were apt to be, it would be an exceeding annoyance to her. She saw what people usually do see about other people's cares and duties, only the pretty, pleasant side. To have felt somewhat of the other side she should have spent that Monday with Eurie. To Eurie a Monday rain was a positive affliction; it necessitated the marshaling of tubs and pails into the little kitchen, and the endurance of Mrs. Maloney's presence in constant contact with the dinner arrangements—on pleasant days Mrs. Maloney betook herself to the open air. Then, in the Mitchell family there was that trial to any woman of ordinary patience, a small girl who "helped"—worked for her board mornings and evenings, and played at school the rest of the time. Sallie Whitcomb, the creature who tried Eurie, was rather duller than the most of her class and had her days or spells when she seemed utterly incapable of understanding the English language. This day was very apt to be Monday; and on the particular Monday of which I write, the spell was on her in full force. To add to the bewilderments of the day, Dr. Mitchell, after a very hurried breakfast, had departed, taking the household genius with him, to see a patient and friend, who was worse. "I don't know how you will manage," Mrs. Mitchell had said, as she paid a hasty visit to the kitchen. "There is bread to mix, you know, and that yeast ought to be made to-day; and then the starch you must look after or it will be lumpy; and oh, Eurie, do see that your father's handkerchiefs are all picked up, he leaves them around so. You must keep an eye on the baby, for he is a trifle hoarse this morning; and Robbie mustn't go in the wind—mustn't eat a single apple, for he isn't at all well; you must see to that, Eurie—I wouldn't have you forget him for anything. See here, when the baby takes a nap, see that the lower sash is shut—there is quite a draught through the room. I don't know how you are to get through. You must keep Jennie from school to take care of the children, and do the best you can. If Mrs. Craymer hadn't sent for me I wouldn't go this morning, much as I want to see her, but I think I ought to, as it is." "Of course," Eurie said, cheerily. "Don't worry about us, mother; we'll get through somehow. I'll see to Mrs. Maloney and all the rest." "Well, be careful about the bread; don't let it get too light, and don't for anything put it in too soon: it was a trifle heavy last week, you know, and your father dislikes it so. Never mind much about dinner; your father will have to go to two or three places when he gets back from the Valley, and I can get up a warm bite for him while he is gone." And with a little sigh, and a regretful look back into the crowded, steamy kitchen, Mrs. Mitchell answered her husband's hurried call and ran. So Eurie was left mistress of the occasion. It looked like a mountain to her. The dishes were piled higher than usual, for the Sabbath evening lunch had made many that had not been washed. And Sallie, who should have been deep into them already, was at that moment hanging on the gate she had gone to shut, and watching the retreating tail of the doctor's horse. "Sallie!" Eurie called, and Sallie came, looking bewildered and indolent, eating an apple as she walked. "Now, Sallie, you must hurry with the dishes, see how soon you can get them all out of the way. I have the bread to mix and a dozen other things to do, and I can't help you a bit." At the same time she had an inward consciousness that the great army of dishes would never marshal into place till she came to their aid. This was the beginning, not a pleasant one, and the bewilderments of the morning deepened with every passing half hour. What happened? Dear me, what didn't? Inexperienced Eurie, who rarely had the family bread left on her hands, went to mixing it before getting baking tins ready, and Sallie left her dishes to attend to it, and dripped dish-water over them and the molding-board and on Eurie's clean apron, in such an unmistakable manner, that the annoyed young lady washed her hands of dough and dumped the whole pile of tins unceremoniously into the dish-water. "They are so greasy I can't touch them!" she said in disdain, "and have drops of dish-water all over them, and besides here is the core of an apple in one. I wonder, Sallie, if you eat apples while you are washing the dishes! Put some wood in the stove. Jennie, can't you come here and wipe these dishes? We won't get them out of the way before mother comes home." Jenny appeared at the door, book in hand. "How can I leave the baby, Eurie? Robbie says he can't play with him—he feels too sick. I think something ought to be done for Robbie; his cheeks are as red as scarlet." Whereupon Eurie left dishes and bread and went in to feel of Robbie's pulse, and ask how he felt, and get a pillow for him to lie on the lounge; and the baby cried for her and had to be taken a minute; so the time went—time always goes like lightning in the kitchen on Monday morning. When that bread was finally set to rise, Eurie dismissed Sallie from the dish-pan in disgust, with orders to sweep the room, if she could leave her apple long enough. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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