Part 7

“That means me!” he said, with an exultant air; and, turning a somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they heard him whistling the tune.

Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and bushes. It brought back very vividly to Mrs. May’s mind similar ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked slowly toward their wagon, she was looking dreamily down the long vista of her life, at the entrance of which she seemed to see a vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party lingered to arrange the baskets. Presently Jenny came running back, and said, “Granny, there’s a carriage down there; and a lady asked me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl.”

“Pretty is that pretty does,” replied the grandmother. “That means it is pretty to be good.” Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington, she asked, “Whose carriage is that?”

She answered, “It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife’s mother.”

“Mrs. who?” exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone.

“They say her name is Gray,” replied Mrs. Harrington; “but what is the matter with you? You’re all of a tremble.”

Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old lady very handsomely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the wrinkled forehead. It was so unlike the charming vision she had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memory! She asked herself, “Can it be she?” Then, with a suppressed, half-embarrassed eagerness, she asked, “Are you the Mrs. Gray who used to be Hatty Brown?”

“That was formerly my name,” replied the lady, with dignified politeness.

She threw her arms round her neck, nothing doubting, and exclaimed: “O Hatty! dear Hatty! How glad I am to see you! I’ve been thinking of you a deal to-day.”

The old lady received the embrace passively, and, readjusting her tumbled cape, replied, “I think I’ve seen your face somewhere, ma’am, but I don’t remember where.”

“What! don’t you know me? Your old friend, Jenny White, who married Frank May?”

“O yes, I remember. But you’ve changed a good deal since I used to know you. Has your health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May?”

This response chilled her friend’s heart like an east wind upon spring flowers. In a confused way, she stammered out, “I’ve been very well, thank you; and I hope you have enjoyed the same blessing. But I must go and see to the children now. I thought to be sure you’d know me. Good by.”

“Good by, ma’am,” responded the old lady in gray.

The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington and her party entered the big wagon to return home. Mrs. May, having made a brief explanation of her proceedings, became unusually silent. It was a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment on the beauty of the landscape, as she had done in the morning. She was kind and pleasant, but her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved through her mind: “Could it be my shabby gown? Hatty always thought a deal of dress.” But the suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to drive it away.

“Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make you down-hearted,” remarked Mrs. Harrington; “and that’s something new for you.”

“I was disappointed that she didn’t know me,” replied Mrs. May; “but when I reflect, it seems very natural. I doubt whether I should have known her, if you hadn’t told me her name. I’m glad it didn’t happen in the morning; for it might have clouded my day a little. I’ve had a beautiful time.”

“Whatever comes, you are always thankful it wasn’t something worse,” rejoined Mrs. Harrington. “Little Jenny is going to be just like you. She’ll never be pining after other people’s pies and cakes. Whatever she has, she’ll call it ‘Lasses top on bread! What can be gooder?’ Won’t you, Sissy?”

“Bless the dear little soul! she’s fast asleep!” said her grandmother. She placed the pretty little head in her lap, and tenderly stroked back the silky curls. The slight cloud soon floated away from her serene soul, and she began to sing. “Away with melancholy,” and “Life let us cherish.” As the wagon rolled toward home, people who happened to be at their doors or windows said: “That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a clear, sweet voice she has for a woman of her years!”

Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer than she had done for years. “I am changed,” said she to herself. “No wonder Hatty didn’t know me!” She took from the till of her trunk a locket containing a braid of glossy black hair. She gazed at it awhile, and then took off her spectacles, to wipe from them the moisture of her tears. “And this is my first meeting with Hatty since we exchanged lockets!” murmured she. “If we had foreseen it then, could we have believed it?”

The question whether or not it was a duty to call on Mrs. Gray disturbed her mind considerably. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her off-hand. “She did not ask you to come,” said she; “and if she’s a mind to set herself up, let her take the comfort of it. Folks say she’s a dreadful stiff, prim old body; rigid Orthodox; sure that everybody who don’t think just as she does will go to the bad place.”

These words were not uttered with evil intention, but their effect was to increase the sense of separation. On the other hand, influences were not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her former friend, whose sudden appearance and enthusiastic proceedings had disconcerted her precise habits. When the Sewing-Society met at her son-in-law’s house, she happened to be seated next to an austere woman, of whom she inquired, “What sort of person is Mrs. Frank May?”

“I don’t know her,” was the reply. “She goes to the Unitarian meeting, and I have no acquaintance with people of that society. I should judge she was rather light-minded. When I’ve passed by her house, I’ve often heard her singing songs; and I should think psalms and hymns would be more suitable to her time of life. I rode by there once on Sunday, when I was coming home from a funeral, and she was singing something that sounded too lively for a psalm-tune. Miss Crosby told me she heard her say that heathens were just as likely to be saved as Christians.”

“O, I am sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Gray. “She and I were brought up under the Rev. Mr. Peat’s preaching, and he was sound Orthodox.”

“I didn’t know she was an acquaintance of yours,” rejoined the austere lady, “or I wouldn’t have called her light-minded. I never heard anything against her, only what she said about the heathen.”

Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her straightforward mind, came to the conclusion that Neighbor Harrington’s advice was not in conformity with the spirit of kindness. “Since Mrs. Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call first,” said she. “I will perform my duty, and then she can do as she pleases about returning the visit.” So she arrayed herself in the best she had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Harrington, and went forth on her mission of politeness. The large mirror, the chairs covered with green damask, and the paper touched here and there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the setting sun, formed a striking contrast to her own humble home. Perhaps this unaccustomed feeling imparted a degree of constraint to her manner when her old friend entered the room, in ample folds of shining gray silk, and a rich lace cap with pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs. Gray remarked to her that she bore her age remarkably well; to which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and she supposed it was because she generally had pretty good health. It did not occur to her to return the compliment, for it would not have been true. Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty. Much of this difference might be attributed to her more perfect health, but still more it was owing to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. The interview was necessarily a formal one. Mrs. Gray inquired about old acquaintances in Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent from that part of the country that she had little or nothing to tell, and all she had struggled through meanwhile would have been difficult for the New York lady to realize. The remark about her light-mindedness was constantly present in Mrs. Gray’s mind, and at parting she thus expressed the anxiety it occasioned: “You say you have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed you must have, with all the care of those little children; but I hope you find time to think about the salvation of your soul.”

Her visitor replied, with characteristic simplicity: “I don’t know whether I do, in the sense I suppose you mean. I have thought a great deal about what is right and what is wrong, and I have prayed for light to see what was my duty, and for strength to perform it. But the fact is, I have had so much to do for others, that I haven’t had much time to think about myself, in any way.” Then, with some passing remark about the vines at the door, the old ladies bade each other good-by.

When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the conversation, she said, in her blunt way: “It was a great piece of impertinence in her. She’d better take care of her own soul than trouble herself about yours.”