Читать книгу The Greatest Romance Novels of Grace Livingston Hill - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 69

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Nathaniel Graham went to pick up the letter he had left behind the log, but as he did so his eye caught something brown, lying on the ground among the laurel near the letter. He reached out and took it. It was a bit of a bow of brown velvet, and seemed strangely a part of the girl who had been there but a few moments before. What part had this bit of velvet played in her make-up? Had it been worn at her throat, or in her wonderful hair? He never doubted that it was hers. As he raised it wonderingly in his hand to look at it more closely he fancied he caught the same subtle fragrance that had been in her hair. His fingers closed pleasantly about the soft little thing. For a moment he pondered whether he ought to go after her and give it to her. Then farther up the hill he heard the voices calling him, and with a pleasant smile he tucked it into his inner pocket beside the letter that had played so important a part in the little affair. He rather liked to think he had that bit of velvet himself, and perhaps it was not of much value to the owner. It might at least make another opportunity of seeing her. And so he passed on up the hill with something besides the freedom of Texas to think upon.

Meantime, the load of wheat went down the road after Phoebe at a lively pace, and its driver, in no pleasant mood because he had been all the way to Albany with his wheat and had been unable to sell it, studied the graceful sunlit figure ahead of him, and wondered what there was about it so strangely familiar.

Phoebe had just reached the highroad and paused to think which way she would go, when the wagon overtook her, and turning with her face bright with pleasure, and momentary forgetfulness, she faced the lowering astonishment of Hiram Green! Her face grew deadly white with the revulsion, and she caught at the fence to steady herself. She felt as if the earth were reeling under her unprotected feet. One hand flew to her heart and her frightened eyes, with a wild thought of her late protector, sought the way by which she had come; but the hill-side lay unresponsive in the late sunshine, and not a soul was to be seen. Nathaniel Graham had just picked up his cousin Janet's basket.

"Well, I swow!"said Hiram Green, pulling his horses up sharply. "It ain't you tricked out that way, away off here! "Then slowly his little pig eyes traveled to the lonely hill-side, gathered up an idea, came back to the girl's guilty face, and narrowed to a hateful slit through which shone a gleam of something that might be likely to illumine outer darkness. He brought his thin, cruel lips together with satisfaction. He felt that at last he had a hold upon the girl, but he could wait and use it to its best advantage.

She, poor child, never dreamed that he had seen the young man with her, and was only frightened for the moment with instinctive dread of being alone in an unfrequented spot with him. In an instant her courage came to her aid, and she steadied her voice to reply naturally:

"Oh, is that you, Mr. Green ? You almost frightened me. I was taking a walk and did not expect to see anyone I knew. This is the Albany road isn't it? Have you been to Albany?"

Her unusually friendly tones threw the man off his guard for a moment. He could not resist the charm of having her speak so pleasantly to him.

"Yes, been to Albany on business,"he responded. "Won't you get up and ride ? 'Tain't a very pretty seat, but I guess it's clean and comfortable. Sorry I ain't got the carryall. You're a long piece from home."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Green,"she said, cordially. "I'm sure the seat would be very comfortable, and just as nice as the carryall, but I'm out taking a walk this beautiful afternoon, and I'm enjoying every minute of it. I would much rather walk. Besides, I am not going directly home. I may stop at Granny McVane's and perhaps another place before I get home. Thank you for the invitation."

Then without waiting for a reply she flew lightly in front of the horses and sped up the main highway toward the old red farm-house. It was not the direction she would have chosen, but there was no time to do anything else, and her frightened heart gave wings to her feet. She dared not look behind lest she was being pursued.

Hiram Green, thus left alone after his attempt at gallantry, looked after the flying maiden with venom in his little eyes. His mouth hardened once more into its cruel lines and he took up the reins again and said to his horses in no pleasant tones: "G'long there!"pointing his remark with a stinging cut of the whip, which made the weary beasts leap forward at a lively gait.

He did not watch Phoebe any longer, but once he turned his head and looked threateningly at the barren hill-side, and shook the fist that held his whip in a menacing way.

When Phoebe neared the old red house, where lived the two women who always saw and enlarged and told everything, she noted with relief that the shades were drawn down and there was a general air of not-at-home-ness about the place that betokened the inhabitants were away for the afternoon. With joy she went on by the house and turned down another cross road which would lead to a second road going into the village. On this road, just on the border of the town, lived Granny McVane all alone save for her silent old husband. She was a sweet old lady whom care and disappointment had not hardened, but only made more humble and patient. Phoebe had been there on occasional errands, and her kindness had won the girl's heart. From Granny McVane's it would be but a short run home across the fields, and she would thus escape meeting any more prying eyes. She was not accustomed to making calls on the neighbors without an errand, but the fancy came to her now that she would just stop and ask how Granny's rheumatism was, and wish her good-day. Perhaps, if she seemed glad to see her, she might tell her it was her birthday and this was the frock her mother had made. The girl had a longing to confide in some one.

As she walked along the country road, she began to think of home and the inevitable black looks that would be hers from Emmeline. But the day was good yet, though a chill was creeping into the air that made her cheeks tingle. The sun was dropping low now, and the rays were glowing deeper. The stubble in the cornfields that she passed was bathed in its light. The buff merino was touched with a ruddy glow and the girl, as she sped along, seemed like a living topaz in the golden setting of the day.

She reached the little double door of Granny McVane's cottage, and knocked. The old lady, in her white ruffled cap with its black band, and soft kerchief folded across her bosom, opened the upper half of the door, and on seeing Phoebe opened the lower door, too, and brought her in most cordially. She made her sit down, and looked her over with delight, her old eyes glowing with pleasure at the sweet picture the girl made sitting in the flowered calico rocking- chair. She seemed to catch the long sunbeams that slanted low across the kitchen floor, and reflect them with her gown and face till all the little room was filled with sunny brightness.

She made Phoebe tell about the frock, her birthday, her mother's letter, and her walk; and then she told her she must stay to tea with her, for the 'Squire was off to Albany on business and would not be back that night.

The old cat was winking cordially before the hearth, the pot of mush was sputtering sleepily on its crane over the fire, the kettle was singing cheerily beside it, and the old lady's face was so wistful that Phoebe put by her thought of home, and the supper that she ought to be getting this minute, and decided to stay just for once, as it was her birthday. The stiff white curtains shut the little room in cozily from the outside world, and a scarlet geranium bloomed happily on the broad window-seat. Phoebe looked around at the polished old mahogany, and the shining pewter dishes that adorned the shelf, touched the drowsy cat with gentle fingers that brought forth a purr, glanced up at the great old clock with its measured, unhurried tick-tock, tick-tock, and felt like a person who has turned her back upon life and all its duties and abandoned herself to pleasure pure and simple. Yes, for one short hour more she would have what her day offered her of joy, without a thought of trouble, and then she would go back to her duty and cherish the memory of her pleasure. Thus did Phoebe give herself over to the wild excitement of a birthday tea at Granny McVane's cottage.

Precisely at five o'clock the little round table was drawn out from the wall, and its leaves put up. A snow-white homespun cloth was laid upon it and lovely blue dishes of quaint designs in blue set upon it; a bowl, a plate, cup and saucer for each; steel knives; a great pitcher of creamy milk; a pat of Granny's delicious butter; a pitcher of "sugar-house "molasses, looking like distilled drops of amber, and delectable to the taste; a plate of shilling brown husks; a loaf of soft gingerbread, rich and dark like brown velvet. Then the tea was made in the little brown earthenware teapot, the great bowl of yellow mush taken up, and no modern debutante's dinner party, with its hand-painted dinner cards, its beribboned favors, its flowers, and its carefully-planned menu could have a lovelier color scheme, or one that better fitted the gown of the guest of honor, than was set forth for Phoebe Deane's birthday tea, all yellows and beautiful browns, with the last rays of the setting sun over all. The lazy cat got up, stretched, and yawned, and came over by the table as they sat down. The cat, by the way, was yellow, too.

It was a delicious meal, and Phoebe ate it with the appetite gained in her long walk. After it was over she bade Granny McVane good-evening, kissed her for the beautiful ending to her birthday, and hurried guiltily across the fields to the farm-house she called home, not allowing herself to think of what was before her until she reached the very door, for she would not have one moment of her precious day spoiled.

The family had just sat down to supper when Phoebe opened the door and came in. She had hoped this ceremony would be over, for the usual hour for supper was half past five, but Emmeline had waited longer than usual, thinking Phoebe would surely come back to help, and having it all to do herself had not been able to get it ready as soon as usual. Moreover, an undertone of apprehension as to what Albert might say if Phoebe should be headstrong enough to remain away after dark, kept her going to the window to look up the road for the possible sight of a girlish figure in a curious yellow frock. Emmeline had been angry, astonished, and bewildered all the afternoon. She had not been able to decide what she would do about the way her young sister-in- law had acted. She had been a little anxious, too, lest she had gone too far, and would be blamed if the truth should be known. She would have been glad, many times during the afternoon, to have seen Phoebe meekly returning, but now that she had come, after staying away till the work was done and Albert had come home and found out her absence, Emmeline's wrath was kindled anew. She stood at the hearth taking up the second pan of johnnycake when the girl came in, and when she saw Phoebe apparently as cheerful as if she had stayed at home and done her duty all the afternoon, Emmeline set her lips in cold and haughty disapproval.

Alma, with her mouth full of fried potatoes, stopped her fork midway with another supply and stared. The little boys chorused in unison: "Hello, Aunt Phoebe! Where'd'ye get the clo'es!"Hank, who was just helping himself to a slice of bread with his fork, turned full around and after the first glimpse of the girl in her unfamiliar garments he sat in awed embarrassment. Only Albert sat in pleased surprise, his knife and fork akimbo on his plate, his chair tipped back, and a look of real welcome in his face.

"Well, now, Phoebe, I'm real glad you've got back. I was getting uneasy about you, off so long. It isn't like you to stay away from your meals. My, but you do look pretty in that rig! What took you, anyway ? Where've you been ? "

Not to the others would she have told for the world, but somehow Albert's pleasant tones and kindly eyes unsealed her lips, and without a thought she spoke:

"I've just been for a walk in the woods this afternoon, and I stopped a few minutes to see Granny McVane. She made me stay to tea with her. I did not mean to stay so late."

"That sounds very sweet, I'm sure,"broke in Emmeline's sharp voice, "but she forgets that she left me with all her work to do on top of my own."

Phoebe's cheeks flushed.

"I am sorry I did not get back in time to help get supper,"she said, looking straight at Albert as if explaining to him alone, "but it was my birthday, and I thought I might take a little time to myself."

"Your birthday! To be sure you can. You don't go out half enough. Emmeline, you wouldn't want her to work all day on her birthday, of course. Sit down, child, and have some more supper. This is real good johnnycake; have a piece? You ought to have told us before that you had a birthday, and then we might have celebrated. Eh, Hank! What do you say ? "

"I say, yes,"said Hank, chuckling in a vain endeavor to regain his usual composure. He had visions of a certain red ribbon at the village store that he might have bought her, or a green glass breastpin. He watched her furtively and wondered if it was too late yet to improve the occasion.

"Other people have birthdays too, and I don't see much fuss made over 'em either,"sniffed Emmeline, flinging the tea towel up to its nail with an impatient movement. She had burned her finger, and her temper burned in sympathy.

"Thank you, Albert,"said Phoebe, quietly, "I don't care for any more supper. I will go up and change my frock and be ready to wash the dishes."

She was going toward the door, but Albert detained her.

"Wait, Phoebe! You come here and sit down. I've got something to tell you. I'd clean forgot about the birthday myself, but now I remember all right. Let's see, you're eighteen to-day, aren't you? I thought so."

'Hank lifted bold, admiring eyes to her face, and the girl, standing patiently behind her chair at the table waiting for her brother to finish, felt she would like to extinguish him for a little while till the conference was over.

"Well, now, child, I've got a surprise for you. You're eighteen, and of age, so you've got a right to know it."

"Wouldn't it be better for you to tell me by and by when the work is done? "pleaded Phoebe, casting a frightened glance about on the wide-eyed, interested audience.

"No,"said Albert, genially, looking about the room. "It isn't a secret, leastways not from any that's here. You needn't look so scared, child. If s only that there's a little money coming to you, about five or six hundred dollars. It's a nice tidy little sum for a girl eighteen with good prospects. You certainly deserve it, for you've been a good girl ever since you came to live with us. Your mother wanted me to keep the money for you till you was eighteen, and then she said you would know how to use it and be more likely to need it."

"Say, Aunt Phoebe,"broke in Alma, tilting her turn-up nose to its most inquisitive point, and sticking out her chin in a grown-up manner she had copied after her mother, "does Hiram Green know you got a birthday ? "

"Shut up!"said Emmeline, applying the palm of her hand in a stinging slap to her offspring's cheek.

"Sister! Sister! "said Albert, in gentle reproof. "Now, Emmeline, don't be so severe with the child! She doesn't realize how impertinent she is. Sister, you mustn't talk like that to Aunt Phoebe."Then in an aside to Hank, with a wink, "It does beat all how keen children will be sometimes."

Phoebe, with scarlet cheeks, felt as if she could bear no more. "Thank you, Albert,"she said, with a voice that would tremble despite her best efforts. "Now if you will excuse me I'll change my frock."

"Wait a minute, child; that's a mighty pretty frock you've got on. Look pretty as a peach in it. Let's have a look at you. Where'd you get it ? Make it yourself ? "

"Mother made it for me to wear to-day,"said Phoebe, in a low voice, and then she vanished into the hall, leaving somehow an impression of victory behind her, and a sense of embarrassment among the family.

"There'll be no livin' with her now,"snapped Emmeline over the tea-cups. "I'm sure I thought you had better sense.

You never told me there was any money left for her, or I would advised you about it. It wasn't necessary to tell her anything about it. I'm sure we've spent for her, and if there's anything left her it belongs to you. Here she's had a good home, and paid not a cent for it, and had everything just the same as us. If she had any spirit of right she wouldn't touch a cent of that money!"

"Now look here, Emmeline,"said Albert, in his kind, conciliatory tone. "You don't quite understand this matter. Not having known about it before of course you couldn't judge rightly. And as it was her ma's request that I didn't tell anybody, I couldn't very well tell you. Besides, I don't see why it should affect you any. The money was hers, and we’d nothing to do with it. As for her home here, she's been very welcome, and I'm sure she's earned her way. She's a good worker, Phoebe is."

"Thats so, she is,"assented Hank, warmly. "I don't know a girl in the county can beat her workin'."

"I don't know as anybody asked your opinion, Hank Williams. I'm able to judge of work a little myself, and if she works well, who taught her? She'd never done a stroke when she came here, and nobody thinks of the hard time I've had breakin' her in, and puttin' up with her mistakes when she was young and her hands lily white, and soft as a baby's."

"Now, Emmeline, don't go and get excited,"said Albert, anxiously. "You know we ain't letting go a mite of what you've done. Only its fair to the girl to say she's earned her way."

"H'm ! "said Emmeline, contemptuously, "that depends on who's the judge! "

"Won't Aunt Phoebe do any more work now she's got some money, ma? "broke in Alma in a panic of what might be the possibilities in store for her small selfish self.

"Haven't I told you to keep still, Alma,"reproved her mother, angrily. "If you say another word I'll send you to bed without any cake."

At this dire threat Alma retired temporarily from the conversation till the cake should be passed, and a kind of family gloom settled over the room. Hank felt the constraint and made haste to bolt the last of his supper and escape.

Phoebe came down shortly afterward, attired in her everyday garb, and looking meekly sensible. Albert felt somehow a relief to see her so, though he protested weakly.

"Say, Phoebe, it's too bad for you to wash dishes your birthday night. You go back and put on your pretty things, and Alma will help her ma wash up this time."

"No, she won't, either,"broke in Emmeline. "Alma ain't a bit well, and she's not goin' to be made to work at her age unless she likes. Here, honey, you may have this piece of ma's cake, she don't want it all. It seems to me you're kind of an unnatural father, Albert Deane. I guess it won't hurt Phoebe to wash a few dishes when she's been lyin' around havin' a good time all day, while I've worked my fingers half off doin' her work. We've all had to work on our birthdays, and I guess if Phoebe’s goin' to stay here she'll have to put up with what the rest of us gets, unless she's got money to pay for better."

With that Albert looked helplessly about the room and retired to his newspaper in the sitting-room, while Phoebe went swiftly about the usual evening work. Emmeline yanked the boys away from the cake plate, and marched them and Alma out of the kitchen with her head held high and her chin in the air. She did not even do the usual little duties of putting away the cake and bread and pickles and jelly, but left it all for Phoebe. Of this Phoebe was glad.

Before the dishes were quite done, the front door opened and Hiram Green sauntered into the sitting-room. Phoebe heard him, and hurried to hang up her dish towels and flee to her own room.

And thus ended the birthday, though the girl lay awake far into the night thinking over all its wonderful happenings, and not allowing her mind to dwell upon the possibilities of trouble in the future.