CHAPTER IV
When dinner was over Charlotte helped Aunt Hepzibah with the dishes, and then they began to exchange confidences. They talked about Aunt Grace, and Margaret, and Margaret's rich beau, and how Aunt Grace did up her quinces, and how much they paid the minister at Penfield; and then, the scene shifting to Marlin Mills, they talked about those faithful members of the Old Guard who had not yet moved or (with greater dignity) been moved away.
There were only six families left, and only seven pupils to attend the school-house under the old Marlin elms, that same schoolhouse where Nathan Hale once taught before he went away to voice his deathless regret.
"And, out o' them seven, one's a bit simple," said Aunt Hepzibah. "Billy Bates. You remember him?"
"Yes," nodded Charlotte, frowning at what Margaret had said.
"The old folks haven't changed much—those that are left," continued her aunt. "A little crabbeder, you'll find 'em, and a little poorer. But that's Marlin Mills all over."
"I'm going for a walk this afternoon," said Charlotte, "and I'll make a few calls. If they were all like you, Aunt Hepzy, what a lovely time I'd have!" And she gave her aunt such a young-bear's hug that both of them felt their hearts grow warm, and they stood there for a moment, embracing, as those who love have embraced each other since time immemorial.
"Yes," thought Charlotte as she dressed to go out. "And if I had come home cross and cranky I'd soon be making Aunt Hepzibah cross and cranky, too. Which goes to show" She paused, one shoe off and one shoe on, such an inspiration striking her that it brought a flush to her cheeks and a new brightness to her eye. "There!" she breathed to herself. "I do believe I've got it!"
She thought it over carefully, as though it were a problem in arithmetic or the syntax of a verb. "Yes," she whispered in exultation, "I do believe I've got the answer to my first Great Sum." She put on her other shoe, then, and went to her chair by the window—that same window where she used to sit and look at Micah's apple tree and the village below, and dream of Little Nell and Tiny Tim, and the beaus and belles who used to walk beneath the Marlin elms.
"Now!" she whispered. "Who are the only ones in Penfield that I really like?" She counted them on her fingers. "There's Aunt Grace. And Judge Darbie. And Mr. Chapman. And Miss Bartlett. And—and Neil Kennedy. And why do I like them?" she triumphantly asked herself. "I like them because they like me. There! And that's the reason I like Aunt Hepzibah. She likes me! And that's the reason I don't like Margaret. She doesn't like me! And that's the reason all the young men like Margaret. She likes them! And that's the reason nobody likes a selfish person, because a selfish person likes nobody but himself. There! So if I want people to like me I've got to like them. And if I want everybody to like me I've got to like everybody, and that's all there is to it! There!"
She jumped from her chair, filled with that warmth of victory which she had always felt at school after a particularly difficult lesson had been learned; and, putting on her hat, she almost danced down the stairs, and started out to put her theory to the test.
Down the stairs and down the hill went Charlotte, as old-fashioned and bonny a figure as you would have found in these United States that day. Down over the bridge she tripped, past the grist mill with its columbines and ragged robins growing among the ruins of the dam, past the old blacksmith shop with the leather fallen from its bellows and its forge fire cold for nearly half a century, past a row of deserted tenements with gaunt holes in their roofs and half their clapboards gone, but each with its horseshoe hanging over the door to keep bad luck away.
The next cottage had curtains at the windows and zinnias growing in the front yard, and when Charlotte turned in at the gate she immediately became conscious of the shrewd-faced old woman who was watching her through the window.
"Hello, Mrs. Johnson!" she laughed, waving her hand. "I'm back again."
The old woman disappeared, and a moment later the front door opened. "Well, I swanny!" she exclaimed. "If 'taint Charlotte Marlin, growed out of all knowledge!"
If Charlotte had made that call the day before she would have contented herself with a quiet smile and a polite "How are you?" And quietness would have been met with quietness, and politeness with a dignified gentility. But this was a new Charlotte who was calling on Mrs. Johnson, a girl who wanted everybody to like her and who was willing to pay the reasonable price of liking everybody in exchange. So, instead of a quiet smile and a polite "How are you?" she danced up to Dame Johnson with a sparkle in her eye and planted such a kiss upon that withered old cheek that, as if by magic, a gentle color immediately blossomed there; for, oh, it had been many a year since a pair of young arms had folded themselves around Dame Johnson's shoulders, or a pair of young lips had pressed themselves against her cheek!
They chatted together for nearly half an hour, and the more they talked the more Charlotte found to like in her lonely old hostess. If you could only have heard the different things they talked about! But, in the first place, it would take too long; and, in the second place, it wasn't so much the things they said that counted as the way they said them.
It was the way they smiled at each other, the rich little duets of laughter they indulged in, the breathless nods of the head, the sympathetic faces they pulled, the delighted little snorts, and all those graces and adornments of speech which can only flourish in the warmth of understanding, and wilt away completely in the first cold blast that blows—little graces and adornments which quite defy description.
But one thing I can tell you: When Charlotte had eaten her cake and picked up her bunch of zinnias and kissed the old dame on her other withered cheek, those two parted firm friends and Charlotte knew she was well on the way toward solving her first Great Sum.
If you could only have heard Charlotte, too, on the other calls she made that afternoon, especially the one she made on the coquettish Miss Hawley, who was deaf and had an ear trumpet—but when all's said and done they were patterned largely after the first. Charlotte had simply made up her mind that she was going to like every body she called upon. As a result she made friends wherever she went, and at six o'clock she returned home radiant, her beaky little nose held high in triumph, as though it were holding a jubilee.
"Well?" said Aunt Hepzibah, who was busy at the stove. "See anybody?"
"Everybody!" laughed Charlotte.
"Doesn't take long. Found 'em a pretty mis'able lot, didn't you?"
"No; I didn't!" cried Charlotte with enthusiasm. "I think they're the most interesting folks I ever met, and I love them—every one!"
Aunt Hepzibah turned, her features stricken into an expression of utter astonishment. "Well," she said at last, her countenance growing more reflective, "I dunno but you're right. My father used to say you could set yourself either for a thing or against it—one about as easy as the other; and he was a wise old man, though I say it myself. Still—you wait till you've lived among 'em as long as I have. You may have different notions then."
But, whether or not the element of novelty entered into it, the fact remains that Charlotte soon became a great favorite in the limited society of Marlin Mills. She helped Dame Johnson turn her black silk skirt. She read the "Norwich Bulletin" to Mrs. Winthrop, who couldn't read, but would never confess it, though everybody knew it. She took fashion magazines to the coquettish Miss Hawley, who had been an acknowledged beauty in her day and had broken many a heart which had long since turned to dust. Yes, and before the month of August was over she was calling all the old men in the village "Uncle," and whenever any of the seven children happened to see her, you might have thought it was another Pied Piper of Hamelin just after the burgomaster's refusal to pay those thousand guilders.
"There!" thought Charlotte to herself one night, after making an entry in her little purple book. "I know how to make people like me, and now I'm ready for the Second Sum." An expression that was almost fear stole over her, and in slow, subdued tones she continued: "How can I make myself famous?"
She tried to figure out ways and means till her head began to ache. She couldn't sing; she couldn't act; she couldn't draw; she couldn't write; she couldn't play. Then what on earth, she asked herself, could she do? No wonder her poor little head ached! No wonder that, as the days went on, there were times when she felt like taking that little purple book and hurling it into the Quinebaug River as far as she could throw it.
She was glad of the diversion when Mr. Chapman rode over to see her the week before school started and explained the lessons for the first term.
"I had a young gentleman inquiring for you yesterday," he said, smiling with significance just before he left.
"Oh!" said Charlotte, looking very sedate indeed.
"Yes; Neil Kennedy. He was graduated three years ago, you remember, and won the Milner scholarship. Attending medical school now. He asked to be remembered."
"I'M GLAD HE'S GETTING ON SO WELL," SAID CHARLOTTE, POLITELY
"A fine young fellow—glad you know him," continued Mr. Chapman warmly. "Works hard every summer, so he'll have a few hundred dollars saved to start practice with. Going to make his mark in the world. Just the sort of a boy I like!"
"I'm glad he's getting on so well," said Charlotte, politely enough.
But that night, when she went down to the village to call on Dame Johnson, she began thinking it over; and when she walked back in the moonlight under the Marlin elms, she began thinking it over again; and the more she thought it over the more indignant she grew.
"I don't see why Mr. Chapman spoke like that," she said. "Neil Kennedy's nothing to me! What if he has his plans? So have I! What if he does make his mark in the world? Can't I make mine? Yes, and I will, too, or know the reason why."
But oh, what a problem—a problem that many a million have vainly tried to figure out since this old world began to wag. If Charlotte had been a talented young man in a great city the sum would have been plenty hard enough—or if she had been a rich and beautiful girl it would have been plenty hard enough. But when you consider her living in that deserted village, a poor little school-ma'am who was about to teach for twenty-five dollars a month; a poor little schoolma'am, moreover, with a nose inclined to be beaky and a chin inclined to be sensitive; why then you can begin to see what sort of a sum it was that she had set herself.
Yet if you had met Charlotte on Thanksgiving afternoon that year, as she strode over the fields above the farm, I don't think you would have quarreled with her appearance. The sun and the wind had kissed her cheeks till they looked like ripe apples; her eyes had that depth of tenderness which seems to be reserved for old-fashioned girls; and the knowledge that everybody liked her had given her an indefinable winsomeness of manner which can only be suggested by the word "charm."
Summer and autumn in the country had done her a world of good. She was developing like a young goddess, and there were moments when she had such a vibrant gift of life that she threw out her arms and felt she could fly. That afternoon, particularly, as she strode up the hill which overlooked the farm, she walked as though her feet refused to stay on the ground, and over and over she kept repeating: "I've got it! Yes, and I'm sure I can do it. I'm sure I can—if I'm smart."
She reached the top of the hill quite out of breath, and made for an oak which overlooked the country for miles around. There she sat down and opened the two papers which she had been carrying under her arm. In each was the half-tone picture of a happy if somewhat disheveled young woman, and both pictures bore the caption: "Miss Agnes Hereford. International Woman Golf Champion."
"Of course, I don't know the first thing about golf now," mused Charlotte breathlessly, "except what I've read in the papers. But once upon a time Miss Hereford didn't know the first thing about it, either, and didn't she win the championship? And now I know that a girl can practice by herself. And now I know that a great big farm like this is the very best place to practice, too. So all I've got to do is to practice—and practice—and practice—morning, noon, and night—more than any girl in the world ever practiced before. And then" A thrill ran over her as she continued in awestricken accents "‘Miss Charlotte Marlin, International Woman Golf Champion'—and I'll be famous, too!"
She sat there dreaming and looking over the west till the spell of the sunset claimed her, as it always had claimed her ever since she could remember, with its golden mystery, its gorgeous grandeur, its promise and fulfilment of things that are felt but not seen.
"What a beautiful world!" breathed Charlotte.
She arose, feeling herself a part of the wonder and glory around her. In the road below a moving figure caught her eye.
"Neil Kennedy," she thought, frowning a little, the spell lifting. "Home for Thanksgiving, I guess."
And, her frown, deepening, the spell quite broken, she asked herself:
"What has he come for?"