“Sis”6
I Where the Orchards Smelled
Once there were two old ladies who lived alone, in an old house with blue china and straight-backed chairs. And the key-note of that house (as every house has its key-note) was peace. I, who lived in a city, went there, now and then, to rest for a brief while in its peace and grow strong. For it was in the country, and all about it was the smell of orchards.
One of the beautiful old ladies was blind. The other was so frail that it seemed a marvel how she kept going. Yet they never rested,—in the fashion which I should have called rest,—but were always as sentinels on duty. I was sluggard enough to sigh, occasionally, for a reclining chair or a couch. There was no such thing in the house. There never had been. It was sufficient for them that their ancestors had had nothing of the kind. For this was the doctrine of their simple lives—to be no more than (and as much as possible what) their mother and their father had been; to hold all good which they had held good, and to call evil what they had called evil; then to lie beside them at the end.
There was a curious correlation between their several infirmities. They believed that God designed it so. The frail one was eyes, the blind one was strength—to both.
Now, you are not to suppose that they were moody and melancholy and sour. On the contrary, they loved laughter, and constantly laughed at the queer straits into which their limitations so often brought them; at the equally queer contrivances by which they were overcome. They laughed—yes—at themselves—gently—as they did all things.
And they believed every one of those curious things which no one believes nowadays—which are only gibed at. (And I am not sure that they who gibe are more wise than they who believe—are you?) There were certain signs of the zodiac, movements of the constellations, phases of the moon, and meteorological conditions for the doing of everything—from the medication of mortal illness to the planting of beets in their little garden. And they knew, and scrupulously propitiated, every influence for good or evil luck.
Nevertheless they were curiously modern in thought and attitude—fresh—young—interested.
They liked my glittering automobile with its snorting terrors, and recalled Mother Shipton’s prophecy concerning it. But they would not ride in it. Not because they did not trust it and me, but because they instinctively knew that they would create an unpicturesque anachronism. They understood that they belonged to the world of 1850.
Yet they adored children—and the more modern their dress and manners the more they loved them. When the youngsters came (they were always being invited—inveigled, in fact), the shutters were flung wide as if the sisters said: “Yes, the shadows are for us. But the sunshine is for you!”
Still nothing in that house was of a childish sort—except those children’s clothes packed away in the garret. It was here that they would spend their holidays. Sitting on the floor they would open the chests which were before trunks, and the fragile one would put the tiny garments into the hands of the blind one—piece after piece—and chatter softly:
“Hiliary’s, you know.”
“Oh, yes! The one with the blue-fringed ruffles,” the blind one would answer.
“Mildred’s little patchwork quilt.”
“She was three, then.”
“Yes. She sat in the little rocker to sew.”
“Yes—it had blue pinks painted on the back.”
“She used to say that she couldn’t sew except in the little rocker.”
They would both laugh at that.
“And she would rock furiously!”
“Yes, and sew that way! Feel these savage stitches!”
“And sing!”
“Yes.”
The frail one would sing, then, in a small, quavering voice; and if she had not to cry too much, the blind one would join in the song—especially in the refrain—with an alto that went wrong more often than right—as they say it did when she sang in the choir. For both of them used to sing in the choir. And they still loved music. Sometimes, sitting behind their thick, black veils, in the corner of the faded church no one ever took from them, they would hear the old organist play (they let him do so whenever the young lady had a headache), “Fading, Still Fading.” Then they would reach out and hold each other by the hand. For that had been a famous duet of theirs. In fact, they still yearned to sing whenever they heard it. But that would not do. Only the choir sang now.
Did I tell you that the husband of the frail one had died in 1860, and that they had both worn mourning for him ever since? It was he who had used, sometimes, to invent a third part to their duet—a tremendous bass.
The other precious thing in this garret was a trousseau. Once I saw a bonnet of white silk—made coal-scuttle fashion—shirred (I think that is the name)—and with a simple red rose inside where it nestled against thick brown hair and cheeks with pink spots in them—at least so they are all pictured in the old daguerreotype taken at Philadelphia.
And there was a wondrous silk dress of a wide stripe—white, with just a dash of pink in the moiré. It could be worn to-day. It is not cut at all. But it is much more soft and gentle—this fabric woven only by worms and human hands—than those woven on power-looms. Then there was a pair of satin slippers with strings to cross over the ankles, and a marvellous petticoat—all feather-stitching! A veil, too, turned quite yellow now, which had always wrapped some sprays of flowers, the stems of which only remained. But one could see that they had been orange blossoms—mock-orange blossoms. They grew in the front yard of the two old ladies—when they were not old ladies at all. They grow there still. Mock-orange blossoms.
There was, too, a pair of stockings, which, I was often told, had come straight from London. Think of that! They had pink clocks at the sides ending in rosebuds. After that the trousseau was of intimate things I may not mention—and which I never saw—perhaps could not name—for when these were likely to be uncovered the lid of the chest was softly, deprecatingly closed in my face. But I know that they were infinitely adorned.