Medoline Selwyn's Work Part 6

"Are they able to pay you?" I ventured to inquire.

"I don't ginerally knit for folks as can pay. It's a pity for little feet to go bare because the mother was thriftless or overworked."

I watched the busy fingers a little sadly, comparing them with my own daintily gloved hands, that had never done anything more useful than to hold a text book, or sketch, or practice on the ivory keys, while those other hands often tired, calloused with hard usage, had been working unselfishly through the years for others.

"I wish you would teach me to knit," I said one day, seized with a sudden inspiration.

"'Twould be a waste of your time. Folks like you don't wear home-knit stockings."

"Oh, yes they do. Pretty silken hose is quite the fas.h.i.+on; but I hire mine knitted."

"Then what makes you want to learn?"

"Do you not think it is my duty to work for the poor, and helpless as well as yours?"

"I won't allow but what it is; but laws! rich folk can't pity the poor, no more'n a person that's never been sick, or had the tooth-ache, can pity one who has."

"The stockings would be just as warm, though, as if I knew all about their sorrows."

"I reckon they'd feel better on some feet if they know'd your white hands knit 'em."

"If there would be any added pleasure to the warmth of the socks then you will surely teach me."

"I'll be proud to do it; but child, I'm afeard you are making me think too much of you. Byem-bye when you get interested in other things, you won't care to set in my kitchen, and listen to an old-fas.h.i.+oned body like me, droning away like a bee in a bottle."

"Do you think it is necessary to trouble about something that may never come to pa.s.s? I think I shall always enjoy hearing you talk. Listening to you seems like watching the old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers nodding their heads in the drowsy summer air. I like the rare flowers, too, with long names and aristocratic faces; but I don't think I shall ever like them so well as to forget the happy fancies their humble relations bring."

"Thank you, dearie. I guess you'll allays keep a warm place in your heart for the old-fas.h.i.+oned folks as well as the posies."

"Now that we have that matter settled, suppose I begin the knitting,"

I said, without any further attempt at convincing Mrs. Blake of my unalterable regard.

She got me the yarn and needles and I straightway proceeded to master another of the domestic sciences. I was soon able to turn the seam, and knit plain; but was forced to stop very often to admire my own handicraft. However, I got on so readily that she allowed I could undertake a child's sock. I wanted it to look pretty as well as to be comfortable, and not fancying Mrs. Blake's homespun yarn, I started out to the store to get some better suited to my liking.

When I returned, Mrs. Blake exclaimed at the size of my bundle, a.s.suring me that it would supply me with work for months.

"I'm surprised you wan't ashamed to carry such a big parcel," she said admiringly.

"It did not occur to me to be ashamed."

"One never knows who they may meet though."

"It was nothing to be ashamed of."

"I s'pose not; but quality has such queer notions."

"I do not wish to be quality if that is the case; I want to be a sensible woman, and a useful one," I said, as I proceeded to wind my yarn from Mrs. Blake's outstretched arms. In a short time I had the pleasure of seeing a pretty little sock evolving itself out of the long strand of yarn. Mrs. Blake finding me anxious to be helpful to her poor neighbors, began unfolding histories from time to time, as I sat in her tidy kitchen, that to me seemed to rise to the dignity of tragedies. Sometimes I begged to accompany her to these sorrowful homes. The patience under overwhelming sorrow that I saw at times, gave me new glimpses into the possibilities of human endurance, and my sympathies were so wrought upon, I set about trying to earn money myself to help alleviate their wants, while a new field of work stretched out before me in bewildering perspective; and sometimes I wished I too had a hundred hands, like a second Briareus, that I might manufacture garments for half-clad women and children.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. WINTHROP.

That evening, my first knitting lesson ended, on returning to Oaklands a surprise awaited me. As I was walking briskly up the avenue towards the house I met Hubert with Faery coming to bring me home.

"Mr. Winthrop has come, and is inquiring very particularly where you are in hiding, and I believe my poor mother is afraid of telling him an untruth, for she hurried me off very unceremoniously after you," Hubert said, as he reined up Faery for a moment's conversation.

"You need have no fears for her; she would go to the stake rather than tell a lie."

"Or betray a friend," Hubert said, with a meaning smile. "Remember Mr.

Winthrop is very fastidious about his a.s.sociates. Your friend Mrs. Blake, in his eyes, has only a bare right to exist; to presume on his friends.h.i.+p, or that of his ward, would be an unpardonable sin."

"I must hasten to your mother's relief," I said, with a little scoffing laugh. I paid very little heed just then to Hubert's remarks--later I found he had not greatly overstated my guardian's exclusiveness. Wis.h.i.+ng to gain my room and make some additions to my toilet before meeting Mr.

Winthrop, I chose a side entrance, taking a circuitous path through the shrubbery, if possible to reach the house unseen.

The door opened into a conservatory, and I had just slipped in stealthily when I found myself face to face with a gentleman whom I knew on the instant was my guardian. There was such an air of proprietors.h.i.+p about him, as he stood calmly surveying nature's beautiful products in leaf and bud and blossom. He glanced down at me--possibly taking me at first for one of the maids--then looking more keenly he bowed rather distantly. I returned the salutation quite as coldly, and was making good my flight when his voice arrested my steps. "Pardon me," he said, in a finely modulated and very musical voice, "is this not Miss Selwyn?" I turned and bowing said, "My guardian, I think."

"I am glad we were able to recognize each other." I looked into his face.

The smile was very winning that greeted me, otherwise I thought the face, though handsome, and unusually n.o.ble looking, was cold, and a trifle hard in expression.

"I am glad to welcome you to Oaklands, though late in being able to do so. I hope you have not found it too dull?"

"Oh no, indeed--there is so much to interest one here after city life, I am glad at each new day that comes."

He looked surprised at my remark, and instantly I bethought myself of the character for fastidiousness which Hubert had given him, and resolved to be less impulsive in expressing my feelings.

"You must make society for yourself then in other than the human element.

I cannot think any one could rejoice, on waking in the morning, merely to renew intercourse with our Cavendish neighbors."

I looked up eagerly--"Then you don't care for them, either?"

"Ah, I see it is not from your own species you draw satisfaction."

"But you have not answered my question."

There was a gleam of humor swept over the face I was already finding so hard to read.

"I am not well enough versed in Cavendish society to give a just opinion--probably you have already drank more cups of tea with your friends than I have done in ten years. Let me hear your verdict."

"Our Deportment Professor a.s.sured us it was exceedingly bad form to discuss one's acquaintance--you will please excuse me."

I was already getting afraid of my guardian. But, from childhood, there was a spice of fearlessness in my composition that manifested itself even when I was most frightened. Again I glanced into his face--he was regarding me with a peculiar intentness, as if I were some new plant brought into the conservatory from an unknown region, and he was trying to cla.s.sify me. I could see no trace of warm, human interest in his gaze.

"That was a rather mutinous remark to bestow so soon upon your guardian,"

he said, in the same even voice.