Читать книгу The Greatest Romance Novels of Grace Livingston Hill - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 70

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When little Rose Spafford was born the sweet girl-mother, who had been Marcia Schuyler, found no one so helpful and reliable in the whole town as Miranda Griscom, granddaughter and household drudge of her next door neighbor, Mrs. Heath. David Spafford "borrowed"her for the first three or four weeks, and Mrs. Heath gave reluctant consent, because the Heaths and the Spaffords had always been intimate friends; but Grandma Heath realized during that time just how many steps the eccentric Miranda saved her, and she began to look forward to her return with more eagerness than she cared to show. Miranda, as she reveled in doing as she pleased in the large well-furnished kitchen of the Spafford house, using the best sprigged china to send a pretty tray upstairs to Mrs. Spafford, used often to look triumphantly over toward her grandmother's house, and wonder if she was missed. One little gleam of appreciation would have started a flame of abounding love in the queer, lonely heart of Miranda. But the grim grandmother never appreciated anything that this unloved grandchild, the daughter of an undesired son-in-law, tried to do.

As the delightful days sped by in loving service Miranda began to dread the time when she must go back to her grandmother's house again, and Marcia and David dreaded it also. They set about planning how they might keep her, and presently they had it all arranged.

David suggested it first.

It was while they both hung over the little Rose's cradle, watching her wake up, like the opening of the little bud she was. Miranda had come to the door for a direction, and stood a moment, remarking "I thought I'd find you two a-worshippin'. Just keep right on. My heart's with you. I'll see to supper. Don't you give it a thought."And then a moment later they heard her high, nasal tones voicing something about a "Sweet, sweet rose on a garden wall,"and they smiled at the quaint loving soul. Then David spoke.

"Marcia, we must contrive to keep her here. She has blossomed out in the last month. It would be cruel to send her back to that dismal house over there again. They don't need her in the least with Hannah's cousin there all the time. I mean to offer her wages to stay with us. You are not strong enough to care for baby and do the housework, anyway, and I would feel safer about you if Miranda were here. Wouldn't you like her ? "

Marcia's sweet laugh rang out. "Oh, David, you will spoil me! I'm sure I'm perfectly able to do the work and look after this wee flower. But of course I'd like to have Miranda here. I think it would be a good thing if she could get away from her surroundings, and she is a comfort to me in a good many ways."

"Then it is settled, dear,"said David, with his most loving smile.

"Oh, but David, what will Aunt Amelia say ? And Aunt Hortense! Think! They will tell me I am weak—or proud, which would be worse yet."

"What does it matter what my aunts think ? We are certainly free to do as we please in our own home, and I'm sure of one thing—Aunt Clarinda will think it is all right. She'll be quite pleased. Besides, I shall explain to Aunt Hortense that I want to have you more to myself and take you with me often, and therefore it is my own selfishness, not yours, that makes me do this. She will listen to that argument, I am sure."

Marcia smiled, half doubtfully.

"And then, there is Mrs. Heath. She never will consent."

"Leave that to me, my little wife, and don't worry about it. Let us first settle it with Miranda."

"Oh, but if Mrs. Heath wouldn't hear to it, Miranda would be so disappointed,"suggested Marcia.

Just then Miranda presented herself at the door.

"Your supper's spoilin' on the table. Will you two just walk down and eat it while I have my try at that baby? I haven't seen scarcely a wink of her all this blessed day."

"Miranda,"said David, not looking at his wife's warning eyes, "would you be willing to stay with us altogether? "

"H'm! "said Miranda. "Jes' gimme the try and see! "and she stooped over the cradle with such a wistful longing in her gaze that the young mother's heart went out to her with a real love.

"Very well, Miranda, then we'll consider it a bargain. I'll pay you wages so that we shall feel quite comfortable about asking you to do anything, and you shall call this your home from now on."

"What!"gasped the astonished girl, straightening up. "Did you mean what you said ? I never knew you to do a mean thing like tease any one, David Spafford, but you can't mean what you say. It couldn't come around so nice as that fer me. Don't go to talk about wages. I'd work from mornin' to night for one chance at that blessed baby there in the cradle. But I know it can't be."

The supper grew quite cold while they were persuading her that it was all true and that they really wanted her; and while they talked over the possibilities of having trouble with her grandmother; but at last with her sandy eyelashes wet with tears of joy and hope Miranda went down stairs and heated the supper all over again for them, and the two upstairs, beside the little bud of life that had bloomed for them, rejoiced that a heart so faithful and true would be her watchful attendant through babyhood.

Perhaps it was with a feeling that he desired to burn his bridges behind him before his maiden aunts should hear of the new arrangement, that David went over to see old Mrs. Heath that very evening. Perhaps it was to relieve the excitement of poor Miranda, who felt that though heaven had opened before her, it could not really be for her, and was counting on being put out of her Eden at once.

No one but Marcia ever heard what passed between David and old Mrs. Heath, and no one else quite knows what arguments he used to finally bring the determined old woman to terms. Miranda, with her nose flattened against the window pane of the dark kitchen chamber, watching the two blurred figures in the candle light of Grandmother Heath's "settin-room,"wondered, and prayed, and hoped, and feared, and prayed again.

It was well that David had gone over to see Mrs. Heath that night and made all arrangements, if he cared to escape criticism from his relatives. It was the very next afternoon that Miss Amelia, on her daily visit to the shrine of her new grandniece, remarked: "Well, Marcia, has Miranda gone home yet? I should think her grandmother would need her, all this time away, poor old lady. And you're perfectly strong and able now to attend to your own work again."

Marcia's fair face flushed delicately, and she gathered her baby closer as if to protect her from the chill that would follow the words that she must speak.

"Why, Aunt Amelia,"she said, brightly, "what do you think! Miranda is not going home at all. David has a foolish notion that he wants her to stay with me, and help look after baby. Besides, he wants me to go with him as I have been doing. I told him it was not necessary, but he wanted it, so he has arranged it all, and Mrs. Heath has given her consent."

"Miranda stay here!"The words fell like long slanting icicles that seemed to pierce as they fell. They lingered in the air until their full surprise and displeasure could be distinctly felt, and then followed more.

"I am surprised at you, Marcia. I thought you had more self-respect than that! It is a disgrace to a young strong woman to let her husband hire a girl to do her work while she gads about the country and leaves her house and her young child. If your own mother had lived she would have taught you better than that. And then, Miranda, of all people to select! The child of a renegade! A waif dependent, utterly thankless, and irresponsible! She is scatterbrained, and untrustworthy. If you needed anyone at any time to sit with the child while you were out for a legitimate cause to pay a call, or make an occasional visit, either Hortense or I would be glad to come and relieve you. Indeed, you must not think of leaving this wild, good-for- nothing Miranda Griscom with my nephew's child. I shall speak to my sister Hortense, and we will make it our business to come down every day, one or the other of us, and do anything that you find your strength is unequal to doing. We are still strong enough, I hope, to do anything for the family honor. I should be ashamed to have it known that David Spafford's wife was such a weakling that she had to have hired help in. The young wives of our family have always been proud of their housekeeping."

Now Miranda Griscom, whatever might be said of her other virtues, had no convictions against eavesdropping; and in the case of this particular caller, she felt it most necessary to serve her mistress in any way she could. She was keen enough to know that Miss Amelia would by no means be in favor of her advent in David Spafford's household, and she felt that her beloved mistress would have to bear some persecution on her account. She therefore resolved that, come what might, she would be on hand to protect her. So, soon after the good aunt was seated in state with Marcia in the large front bedroom where the cradle was established, and which had become the centre of the little household since Rose Spafford's birth, Miranda, soft-stepping, approached the door, and applied her ear to the generous crack. She could feel the subject of herself coming on, and her ready brain had devised a plan by which she thought she could relieve the pressure if it should become unduly heavy upon Marcia at any time.

So, just as Marcia lifted her face, white with control, and tried to take the angry flash out of her eyes and think what to reply to her tormentor, Miranda, without ceremony of approach, burst into the room, exclaiming, "Oh, Miss Amelia, 'scuse me fer interruptin', but did your nice old gray cat mebbe foller you down here, and could it a' ben her out on our front porch fightin' with Bob Sykes's yellow dog? 'Cause ef 'tis, sumpin' ought to be done right off, 'r he'll make hash out a' her. S'pose you come down an' look. I wouldn't like to make a mistake 'bout it."

Miss Amelia placed her hand upon her heart and looked helplessly at Marcia for an instant. "Oh, my dear, you don't suppose——"she began, in a trembling voice quite unlike her usual tones. Then she gathered up her shawl, which had slipped off her shoulders, and utterly unheeding that her bonnet was awry she hurried down the stairs after the sympathetic Miranda.

"Come right out here, softly,"Miranda said, opening the front door cautiously. "Why, they must a' gone around the house!"

The old lady followed the girl out on the porch, and together they looked on both sides of the house, but there was no trace of dog or cat, any more than if, like the gingham dog and the calico cat of later days, they had "eaten each other up.""Where could they a' gone ? "inquired Miranda, excitedly. "Mebbe I ought a' jus' called you and stayed here an' watched, but I was afraid to wake baby. You don't suppose that cat would a' run home, an' he after her? Is that them up the street? Don't you see a whirl o' dust in the road? Would you like me to go an' see? Cause I'm most afraid if she's tried to run home; fer Bob Sykes he’s trained that dog to run races, an' he's a turrible fast runner, an' your cat is gettin' on in years. It might go hard with her."Miranda's sympathetic tone quite excited the old lady, whose old gray cat was very dear to her, being the last descendant of an ancient line of cats traditional in the family.

"No, Miranda, you just stay right here. Mrs. Spafford might need you after all this excitement. Tell her not to worry until I know the worst. I will go right home and see if anything has happened to Matthew. It really would be very distressing to me and my sister. If he has escaped from that dog he will need attention. Just tell Mrs. Spafford I will come down or send Hortense to-morrow as I promised."And the dignified old lady hurried off up the village street, for once unmindful of her dignity.

"Miranda! "called Marcia, when she had waited a reasonable time for the aunt's return and not even the girl presented herself.

Miranda appeared in a minute, with meek yet triumphant mien.

Marcia's eyes were laughing, but she tried to look grave.

"Miranda,"she began, trying to suppress the merriment in her voice, "did you really see that cat out there ? "

Miranda put on a dogged air and hesitated for a reply.

"Well, I heard a dog bark——"she began.

"Miranda, was that quite honest!"protested Marcia, who felt she ought to try to improve the moral standard of the girl thus under her charge and influence.

"I don't see anythin' wrong with that,"asserted Miranda. "I didn't say a word that want true. I'm always careful 'bout that sence I see how much you think of such things. I asked her ef it might a' ben her cat, an' how do I know but 'twas? And it would be easy to a' ben Bob Sykes's dog, if she was round, for that dog never lets a cat come on this block. Anyway I heard a dog bark, and I thought it sounded like Bob's dog's voice. I'm pretty good on sounds."

"But you shouldn't frighten Aunt Amelia. She's an old lady, and it isn't good for old people to get frightened. You know she thinks a great deal of her cat."

"Well, it ain't good fer you to be badgered, and Mr. David told me to look after you, an' I'm doin' it the best way I know how. If I don't do it right I s'pose you'll send me back to Grandma's an' then who'll take care of that blessed baby!"

When Marcia told it all to David he laughed until the tears came.

"Good for Miranda!"he said. "She'll do, and Aunt Amelia'll never know what happened to poor old Matthew, who was probably sitting quietly by the hearth purring out his afternoon nap. Well, little girl, I'm glad you didn't have to answer Aunt Amelia's questions. Leave her to me. I'll shoulder all the blame and exonerate you. Don't worry."

"But, David,"began Marcia, in her troubled tone, "Miranda ought not to tell things that are not exactly true. How can I teach her ? "

"Well, Miranda's standards are not exactly right, and we must try little by little to raise them higher, but I'll miss my guess if she doesn't manage some way to protect you, even if she does have to tell the truth."

And thus it was that Miranda Griscom became a fixture in the household of David Spafford, and did about as she pleased with her master and mistress and the baby, because she usually pleased to do pretty well.

The years had gone by and little Rose Spafford had grown into a lovely, laughing, dimpled child with charming ways that reminded one of her mother, and Miranda was her devoted slave.

On the Sunday after Phoebe Deane's birthday, David and Marcia, and Rose, and Miranda were all in church together. Little Rose, in dainty pantalettes and frock, with her rebellious curls brushed smoothly, her fat hands folded demurely in her lap, sat between her mother and Miranda, and waited for the sugared caraway seeds that she knew would be sure to be dropped occasionally into her nicely starched lap if she were good. David sat at the end of his pew, happy and devout, with Marcia, sweet and worshipful, beside him, and Miranda alert, one eye on her worship, the other on what might happen about her—or was it, quaint soul, but her way of watching for an opportunity to do good in her way?

Across the aisle the sweet face of Phoebe Deane attracted her attention. It was clouded with trouble. Miranda's keen eyes read that at once. Miranda had often noticed that about Phoebe Deane, and wondered, but there were so many other people that Miranda knew better to look after, that Phoebe Deane had heretofore not received her undivided attention.

But this particular morning Phoebe looked so pretty in her buff merino, which after much hesitation she had finally put on for church because her old church dress was so exceedingly shabby, that Miranda was all attention at once. Miranda, who had always been homely and red-haired and freckled, whose clothes had most of them been made over from Hannah Heath's cast-off wardrobe, yet loved beautiful things and beautiful people, and Phoebe, with her brown hair and deep, starry eyes, seemed like a lovely picture to her in the buff merino and with her face framed in its neat straw bonnet. The bonnet Miranda had seen for two or three summers past, hut the frock was new, and a thing of beauty; therefore she studied its every detail and rejoiced that her position in the pew gave her a pretty good view of the young girl across the aisle, for something was wrong with the hinge of the door of Albert Deane's pew, and it stood open wide.

As her eyes traveled over Phoebe’s frock they came finally to the face, so grave and sweet and troubled, as if already life was too filled with perplexities to have much joy left in it. Her keen gaze detected the droop to the pretty lips and the dark lines under the eyes; and then she looked at the sharp lines of Emmeline's sour face with its thin, pursed lips, and decided that Emmeline was not a pleasant woman to live with. Alma, preening herself in her Sunday clothes with her self-conscious smirk, was not a pleasant child, either, and she wondered if Phoebe could possibly take any pleasure in putting on her little garments for her, and planning surprises, and plays, the way she did for Rose. It seemed impossible. Miranda, the homely, looked down tenderly at the little Rose, and then gratefully toward David and Marcia at the end of the pew, and pitied the beautiful Phoebe, wishing for her the happiness that had come into her own barren life.

The service was about to commence when Judge Bristol, with his daughter Janet, and her cousin Nathaniel Graham, walked up the aisle to their pew, just in front of Albert Deane's.

Now there had been much debate in the heart of Phoebe Deane about coming to church that morning, for she could not keep out of her mind the thought of the stranger who had been so kind to her but a few days before, and it was impossible not to wonder if he would be there, and whether he would see her, and speak to her. It was in order to crucify this thought that she had half made up her mind not to wear the buff merino to church, and then nature triumphed and she put it on, realizing that her mother had made it for her to wear, and she had a perfect right to wear it, though Emmeline should disapprove. And Emmeline had disapproved in no uncertain tones. When she came downstairs ready for church Emmeline lifted her disagreeable eyebrows and exclaimed: "You're not going to wear that ridiculous rig to church, I hope? I should think you'd be ashamed to be decked out like that in the house of God! I'd sooner stay at home! "

And poor Phoebe would gladly have stayed at home if it had not been that Hank would have been there, and that she would have had to explain her reasons to Albert.

"I s'pose she wants people to know she's rich,"piped in Alma, after a pause. This reference to her poor little pittance had been made almost hourly since Albert had told her of it, and it was growing unbearable to Phoebe. Altogether it was not with a very happy heart that she rode to church that morning, and she was half ashamed of herself for that undeniable wish to see the stranger once more. When she got out of the carryall at the church she would not look around nor even lift her eyes to see who was standing by the door. She had resolved not to think about him. If he came up the aisle, she would not know it, and her eyes should be otherwise occupied. No one should dare to say she was watching for him.

Nevertheless, as Janet and her cousin came up the aisle, Phoebe knew by the wild little beating of her heart that he was coming, and she commanded her eyes most strenuously that they should not lift from the psalm-book she had opened, albeit upside down. Yet, in spite of all resolves, when the occupants of the Bristol pew had entered it and were about to sit down, and while Nathaniel Graham stood so that his head and shoulders were just above the top of the high-back pew, those truant eyes fluttered up for one instant's glance, and in that instant were caught and held by the eyes of the young man in front in pleased recognition. 'Twas but a flash and Phoebe's eyes were back upon her book, and the young man was seated in the pew with only the top of his fine dark head showing, yet the pretty color flew into the cheek of the girl, and in the eyes of the young man there was a light of satisfaction that lasted all through the service. The glance had been too brief for any actual act of recognition like a bow or a smile, and neither would it have been in place, for the whole audience could have seen them as he was faced about; moreover the service had begun. It had merely been the knowledge that each had of the other's presence in a warm glow like sunshine through the being. Not a soul had witnessed the glance, save the keen-eyed Miranda, and instantly she recognized a certain something which put her on the watch. She at once pricked up the ears of her consciousness, and if she had been living to-day would have said to herself, "There's 'somethin' doing' there."So Miranda, whether to her shame or her praise, sat through the whole long service, studied the faces of those two, and wove a pretty romance for herself out of the golden fabric of a glance.