Stepping Heavenward Part 17

And who knows what sort of people they are? It is not everybody I can get along with, nor is it everybody can get along with me. Now, if Helen were coming instead of Martha, that would be some relief. I could love her, I am sure, and she would put up with my ways. But your Marthas I am afraid of. Oh, dear, dear, what a nest of scorpions this affair has stirred up within me! Who would believe I could be thinking of my own misery while Ernest's mother, whom he loved so dearly, is hardly in her grave! But I have no heart, I am stony and cold. It is well to have found out just what I am!

Since I wrote that I have been trying to tell G.o.d all about it. But I could not speak for crying. And I have been getting the rooms ready.

How many little things I had planned to put in the best one, which I intended for mother I have made myself arrange them just the same for Ernest's father. The stuffed chair I have had in my room, and enjoyed so much, has been rolled in, and the Bible with large print placed on the little table near which I had pictured mother with her sweet, pale face, as sitting year after year. The only thing I have taken away is the copy of father's portrait. He won't want that!

When I had finished this business I went and shook my fist at the creature I saw in the gla.s.s.

"You're beaten I" I cried. "You didn't want to give up the chair, nor your writing-table, nor the Bible in which you expect to record the names of your ten children I But you've had to do it, so there!"

MARCH 3.-They all got here at 7 o'clock last night, just in time for tea. I was so glad to get hold of Ernest once more that I was gracious to my guests, too. The very first thing, however, Ernest annoyed me by calling me Katherine, though he knows I hate that name, and want to be called Katy as if I were a lovable person, as I certainly am (sometimes). Of course his father and Martha called me Katherine, too.

His father is even taller, darker, blacker eyed, blacker haired than he.

Martha is a spinster.

I had got up a nice little supper for them, thinking they would need something substantial after their journey. And perhaps there was some vanity in the display of dainties that needed the mortification I felt at seeing my guests both push away their plates in apparent disgust. Ernest, too, looked annoyed, and expressed some regret that they could find nothing to tempt their appet.i.tes.

Martha said something about not expecting much from young housekeepers, which I inwardly resented, for the light, delicious bread had been sent by Aunty, together with other luxuries from her own table, and I knew they were not the handiwork of a young housekeeper, but of old Chloe, who had lived in her own and her mother's family twenty years.

Ernest went out as soon as this unlucky repast was over to hear Dr.

Embury's report of his patients, and we pa.s.sed a dreary evening, as my mind was preoccupied with longing for his return. The more I tried to think. of something to say the more I couldn't.

At last Martha asked at what time we breakfasted.

"At half-past seven, precisely," I answered. "Ernest is very punctual about breakfast. The other meals are more irregular."

"That is very late," she returned. "Father rises early and needs his breakfast at once."

I said I would see that he had it as early as he liked, while I foresaw that this would cost me a battle with the divinity who reigned in the kitchen.

"You need not trouble yourself. I will speak to my brother about it,"

she said.

"Ernest has nothing to do with it," I said, quickly.

She looked at me in a speechless way, and then there was a long silence, during which she shook her head a number of times. At last she inquired: "Did you make the bread we had on the table to-night?"

"No, I do not know how to make bread," I said, smiling at her look of horror.

"Not know how to make bread?" she cried. The very spirit of mischief got into me, and made me ask:

"Why, can you?"

Now I know there is but one other question I could have asked her, less insulting than this, and that is:

"Do you know the Ten Commandments?"

A spinster fresh from a farm not know how make bread, to be sure!

But in a moment I was ashamed and sorry that I had yielded to myself so far as to forget the courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just home from a scene of sorrow, so I rushed across the room, seized her hand, and said, eagerly:

"Do forgive me! It slipped out before I thought!"

She looked at me in blank amazement, unconscious that there was anything to forgive.

'How you startled me!" she said. "I thought you had suddenly gone crazy."

I went back to my seat crestfallen enough. All this time Ernest's father had sat grim and grave in his corner, without a word. But now he spoke.

"At what hour does my son have family wors.h.i.+p? I should like to retire. I feel very weary."

Now family wors.h.i.+p at night consists in our kneeling down together hand in hand, the last thing before going to bed, and in our own room. The awful thought of changing this sweet, informal habit into a formal one made me reply quickly:

"Oh, Ernest is very irregular about it. He is often out in the evening, and sometimes we are quite late. I hope you never will feel obliged to wait for him."

I trust I shall do my duty, whatever it costs," was the answer.

Oh, how I wished they would go to bed!

It was now ten o'clock, and I felt tired and restless. When Ernest is out late I usually lie on the sofa and wait for him, and so am bright and fresh when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and there was no knowing for how long. I poked at the fire and knocked down the shovel and tongs, now I leaned back in my chair, and now I leaned forward, and then I listened for his step. At last he came.

"What, are you not all gone to bed?" he asked.

As if I could go to bed when I had scarcely seen him a moment since his return!

I explained why we waited, and then we had prayer and escorted our guests to their rooms. When we got back to the parlor I was thankful to rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear what little he had to tell about his mother's last hours.

"You must love me more than ever, now," he said, "for I have lost my best friend."

"Yes," I said, "I will." As if that were possible! All the time we were talking I heard the greatest racket overhead, but he did not seem to notice it. I found, this morning, that Martha, or her father, or both together, had changed the positions of article of furniture in the room making it look a fright.

Chapter 11

XI.

MARCH 10.

THINGS are even worse than I expected. Ernest evidently looked at me with his father's eyes (and this father has got the jaundice, or something), and certainly is cooler towards me than he was before he went home. Martha still declines eating more than enough to keep body and soul together, and sits at the table with the air of a martyr.

Her father lives on crackers and stewed prunes, and when he has eaten them, fixes his melancholy eyes on me, watching every mouthful with an air of plaintive regret that I will consume so much unwholesome food.

Then Ernest positively spends less time with me than ever, and sits in his office reading and writing nearly every evening.

Yesterday I came home from an exhilarating walk, and a charming call at Aunty's, and at the dinner-table gave a lively account of some of the children's exploits. n.o.body laughed, and n.o.body made any response, and after dinner Ernest took me aside, and said, kindly enough, but still said it,

"My little wife must be careful how she runs on in my father's presence. He has a great deal of every thing that might be thought levity."

Then all the vials of my wrath exploded and went off.