Читать книгу Eunice - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 4

“Are you really well, Eunice? You don’t look very well,” said Fidelia, kneeling down beside her sister, and looking wistfully into her face. “Are you sure that you are well?”

“I am pretty well, dear. I have been about all the winter pretty much as usual. Who has been telling that I have not been well?”

“No one has written, in so many words, that you were sick. But you don’t seem to have been about among the neighbours as much as usual, and you have given up your class in the Sunday school.”

“Yes, I gave it up for a while, but I have taken it again. I thought I had better give it up in the beginning of the winter, as I could not be quite regular, because of the bad roads. And Mr. Fuller—the new teacher—could take it as well as not. He was glad to take it; and he is a born teacher. He has done good work among the boys on Sundays and week-days too. But he has gone away, and I have my class again. Was it because you thought I was sick that you came home, dear?”

“Well, I wanted to be sure about you. And I got homesick when I saw the other girls going. I am glad I came: I can help in the garden.”

“Yes; and ten days in the garden will do more good to your summer work than ten days at your books could do. I am very glad you have come home.”

“I only brought one book. I must take a little time for it. Now I will get dinner if you will tell me what to do. I am hungry.”

“Of course you are. And I can scarcely wait to hear all you have to tell me.”

She did not need to wait. Fidelia laid the table, talking all the time as she went from pantry to cupboard; and Eunice listened as she prepared the dinner with her own hands—as she did every day, for there was no “help” in the house. It was a very simple meal, and it was spread in the room in which it was prepared.

It was the winter kitchen and the summer dining-room—a beautiful room, perfect in neatness and simplicity, and in the tasteful arrangement of its old-fashioned furniture. There was a “secretary” of dark wood, which might have “come over in the Mayflower” between the windows, with a bookcase above it; there were a tall clock and two carved armchairs, a chintz-covered sofa which looked new beside the rest of the things, and a rocking-chair or two. There were pretty muslin curtains on the windows, and pictures on the walls; and except for the stove that stood against the chimney-place one might easily have mistaken the room, and called it the parlour, for there was no trace of kitchen utensil or kitchen soil to be seen. The utensils were all in the “sink room” which opened near the back door, and the soil was nowhere.

All the house was beautiful in its perfect neatness. Everything in it was old, and some of the things were ancient, and had a history. A story could be told of oak chest and bookcase and bureau. Some association, sad or sweet, clung to every old-fashioned ornament and to every picture on the wall.

“I don’t believe there is so pleasant a house in all the state as this is,” said Fidelia gravely.

Her sister smiled. “You have not seen many of the houses in the state,” said she.

“But I have seen several. And I think I know.”

They had the long afternoon to themselves. The elder sister had something to tell about the quiet winter days, many of which she had spent alone. She said nothing of loneliness, however; she called it restful quiet. She had had visitors enough, and every one had been mindful and kind, from Judge Leonard, who had sent his sleigh to take her to church on stormy Sundays, to Jabez Ainsworth, who had shovelled her paths and fed her hens and cow all the winter, and left her nothing troublesome or toilsome to do. She told of the work which had occupied her, the books she had read, and the letters she had received and written, and enlarged on several items of neighbourhood news which she had only had time to mention in her letter.

Then Fidelia had her turn: nothing that she could tell could fail to interest her sister as to the months in which they had been separated. Her studies, her friends, her room-mate, little Nellie Austin, the youngest pupil in the school; the teachers, the school routine, household affairs—all were full of interest to Eunice, who had been a pupil herself long ago; but she listened in silence to it all. Even when Fidelia began to plan a new life for them when her school days should be over, and she ready for work, she only said “Yes” and “No,” and “We must wait and see.” Fidelia was too eager in her speech and in her plans to notice the silence at the moment, but she remembered it afterwards.

The next morning Fidelia was awakened by a kiss from the smiling lips of her sister.

“Breakfast is ready,” said she.

“You don’t say so? And I meant to be up to get the breakfast myself?”

“You did better to sleep on.”

“I woke at five; and, oh, it did seem so good to shut my eyes with no dread of the bell, and so I went to sleep again!”

Eunice went out and in while her sister dressed; and the talk flowed on till breakfast was over and all the things put away. Eunice listened to it all with mingled feelings, rejoicing in her sister’s eager interest and in her success, but at the same time missing something for which she had longed and prayed, and for which she was telling herself that she must wait patiently a while.

Then Fidelia went out to the garden to see what was to be done there. She walked up and down the broad path, considering ways and means of planning how the very most could be accomplished during the fortnight of her stay.

“It will take most of my time; but I am glad I came, and I shan’t oversleep another day. For, whatever Eunice may say, she is not strong.”

The garden could not be neglected. Half their living came from the garden and the adjoining fields, where their pretty brown cow was patiently searching among the last year’s tufts of grass for some sweeter morsel. The pretty creature came to the fence to be petted and praised, and her mistress did not disappoint her.

“How much do you suppose your cow understands of all you’re sayin’ to her?” said a voice at her elbow.

Fidelia started.

“Oh, she understands! Good morning, Jabez;” and she held out her hand to a tall loose-jointed lad, with a sunburnt, boyish, but very pleasant face, who had come up the hill from the meadow unseen by her.

“You look well,” said he, after a moment’s examination of her face.

“Thank you,” said Fidelia, laughing.

“I mean, you don’t look sick,” said he.

“Why should I? What have you been doing this winter?”

“I have been at school. We had a new teacher—a chap from Amherst—one who has to teach and pay his own way. Yes, I got along pretty well—studied hard, if you can believe it.”

“Well, what have you done?”

“Oh, a little Latin and history of the United States! I could pass on that now, I guess. And I’ve got through the first three books of Euclid, and in Algebra I got through quadratic equations.”

She had spoken in a cool, indifferent way, but his eyes sparkled as he looked up.

“Well done, Jabez! I am glad. I must examine you some day.”

“Come on!” cried Jabez, throwing down the hoe he had been carrying. “I’m ready. Examine all you want to.”

“Oh, I don’t mean just this minute, but some time before I go! How is your grandmother these days?”

“She’s pretty well. And that makes me think that I promised her to help churn; I’ll have to be going. I came up to talk a little to Miss Eunice and you about the garden. I don’t suppose she’ll do much in it this year, since you won’t be here.”

“I shall help to make it while I am at home, if the weather will let me. But your help will be needed after. Come and speak to my sister.”

They went into the house, and found Eunice preparing to make the bread which she had mixed early in the morning. Fidelia set the rocking-chair for her sister, and took the making of the bread into her own hands.

“About the garden, Miss Eunice? What are you going to do about it?” said Jabez.

“I shall want some help, I suppose—a good deal of help. Can I depend on you, Jabez?”

“Well, I’ve been talking a little with grandpa about what I want to do this summer. He wants me to work along with Mr. Grimes for a spell. You know, Fidelia, Grimes has got grandpa’s farm on shares this year, and he would like to hire me.”

“Well, and why not?”

“I can do better—that’s about it.”

“And what do you wish to do?”

“Well, that’s just what I want to talk about.”

“I shall be glad to have your help when you can be spared,” said Eunice.

Jabez seemed to have a difficulty in sitting quietly in his chair. He fidgeted about, and let his hoe fall, and then picked it up and carried it out into the porch; then laid his cap on the floor, and straightened himself up, and said gravely—

“Look here, Miss Eunice, I guess it won’t hurt anybody just to have a little talk about it. I want you to let me have your garden this summer—on shares if you say so; but I’d rather pay rent for it.”

“Why, Jabez, you surprise me!” said Eunice gently.

Fidelia laughed.

“Go on, Jabez. Tell us all about it.”

“Well, I will. In the first place, I want to show grandpa that I can do something; and, in the second place, I want to make some money this summer. I think I see my way clear to do both, if things happen right.”

“And what do you want money for?” asked Fidelia.

“Oh, well, I guess ’most everybody wants money! But look here now. I have not told grandpa yet—it wouldn’t help me with him, but I’d as lief tell you two as not. Supposin’ we have Mr. Fuller here again next winter, I’m willing to go to school here, and do chores for Miss Eunice and at grandpa’s next winter, as I have this winter. But if he doesn’t come here, I’m going to Scranton Academy. And if I do go, I expect I’ll have to help pay my own way.”

Fidelia nodded and smiled.

“But your grandfather? You must consult him, Jabez,” said Miss Eunice, gravely.

“I mean to—after a spell. But it isn’t best to worry him with too many new ideas at once. Now see here, Miss Eunice—this is the whole concern. There was a lot of city company in our town last summer, and the cry among them was for fresh fruit and garden sass. There’s going to be more of them here this summer, down the street in the hotel, and over at the Corners, and all around. This part of the state’s got to be quite popular with city folks, and I should like to have the chance to supply them early.”

“But do you know anything about a garden?” asked Fidelia, greatly interested.

“Well, yes. Grandpa has kept me pretty close to work in ours. I’ve been down to the judge’s some, too; and Sandy Scott, his gardener, has given me a good many hints, and has promised to see to my work a little. I am not afraid, not a mite. And if you’ll let me have your garden, grandpa’ll let me have his, I guess; and between the two I can make something, I know.”

“I should have to think about it first, Jabez.”

“Oh, yes. I am not in a hurry for a day or two.”

“And I shouldn’t like to do anything that your grandfather might object to. I should have to talk with him about it.”

“And what about your grandmother’s churn in the meantime?” Fidelia added.

“That’s so! I’d ’most forgot it. I must hurry up. Here’s the doctor!”

Fidelia was gently patting the loaf she had just put into the pan as the doctor came in.

“Good morning, Miss Eunice! Fidelia, that is after all the true woman’s work. ‘Loaf-maker’—or is it loaf-giver?—is the true derivation of ‘lady,’ they say. But I hope you have nearly done. Her mother could not spare Susie to come up this morning, so I promised I would send you down.”

“I should like to go, but—”

“Cannot you spare her, Miss Eunice? You can walk, Fidelia, you know, and when I come back from the Corners I’ll bring your sister down with me, if she will let me; and Susie shall drive you both home in the evening.”

When the doctor had driven off, Jabez once more looked in at the door.

“There is no particular hurry, Miss Eunice. Only I’ve had my hot-beds all agoing three weeks ago, and I’d like to know as soon as ever you’ve made up your mind.”

“To-morrow, perhaps, I’ll let you know about it,” said Miss Eunice.

When her sister had gone, Eunice moved about the house, giving a touch here and another there, till her bread was ready for the oven; and then she set the front door wide open and sat down in the porch, for the day was as bright and warmer than yesterday had been. She had much to think about. It did not take her long to decide that Jabez should have the garden, if his grandfather did not object. She had not strength for the garden now, and Fidelia would have a better visit. How bright and eager the child was, and how much she had accomplished!

“I knew she would do well; and I must not be discouraged, though she has not yet caught the spirit of the place. She has been so intent on her work, that she has given herself no time to think of higher things. But His time will come. ‘One thing have I desired of the Lord’ for my darling, and He will grant it, that I know, whether I shall see it in this world, or wait till we meet in the next, where her mother and mine await us both.”

She closed her eyes, and sat motionless till the sound of wheels reached her ears.

“The doctor! I will not go down with him, and I hope he will be willing to wait till Fidelia goes before he speaks. I will go out to the gate, and he may not come in to-day.”

She rose and stood waiting for him at the gate.

“Well, Miss Eunice, what do you think about going down with me? Do you feel like it?”

Eunice smiled, and shook her head.

“I think not, doctor. My bread is not all baked yet.”

“What is this I hear about the garden? Are you going to let Jabez have it, as he wishes it so much?”

“Hadn’t I better, doctor? Without Fidelia it would be too much for me, I am afraid. I could work in it a little for exercise, even if Jabez had it.”

“Yes, I see. I should not wonder,” said the doctor; but his eyes were turned to the clouds that hung over the distant mountains, and he was thinking not at all of Jabez and the garden. His face was very grave.

“What a good face it is!” thought Eunice, as she watched it—“a true friend’s face!”

It was a good face, strong and kindly—a face to inspire confidence. It was brown and weather-beaten, and showed many wrinkles, and the soft waving hair above it was as white as snow. But it was not an old face. The eyes were soft and bright, and the smile that came and went so readily upon it gave it a look of youth. Eunice could not remember the time when he had not been good and kind to her, and she loved him dearly. But she was a little afraid of him to-day. In a little, his eyes returned to her, standing at the gate.

“Miss Eunice, what am I thinking about? You must not stand there in the wind. I will go in with you. I am not in haste to-day. What is this I hear about your garden?”

But Eunice knew that it was not of Jabez or the garden he was thinking, as he followed her into the house. She went out of the room, and returned with a glass of milk on a tray, and her hand trembled as she set it down.

It was of Jabez and the garden that they spoke first, however. Eunice told all that he had said, and the good reason he had for wishing to make money during the summer.

“And he’ll do it too—school and college and all—I should not wonder!” said the doctor. “There seems to be a terrible hunger for knowledge among our young people these days. I am not sure that I like it. I am afraid of it.”

“Oh, doctor, you do not mean that?” said Eunice.

“In a way I do. Knowledge! No, I don’t object to the knowledge. But I have a great respect for many of the tanned faces about us, and for the hands that have been hardened by the plough and the axe. ‘The profit of the earth is for all. The king himself is served by the field.’ And I have no respect at all for those lads who take to their books and to a profession because it seems a step upward, or because such a life seems to promise an easier time. I don’t like to see our farmers’ boys turning their backs on the fields their fathers have tilled.”

“But there are more boys than there are farms, I doubt,” said Eunice, with a smile.

“Yes, that is so. But there are farms enough in the country for them all. And there is no one to take the deacon’s farm but Jabez. However, we may hope that ‘the profit of the earth’ will seem more to him after he has sowed and reaped for his own benefit.”

“I think Jabez would make a scholar. It is in him to succeed.”

“Possibly. Oh, yes, he is a smart boy! If he has got the notion, he’ll go ahead with it. He’s not a bad boy either, though the grandfather has had—or rather has dreaded—trouble with him!”

And so they talked on for a while about the garden and other things, till the doctor rose as if to go away; and then he said, speaking very gently, just what Eunice had all along known that he came to say—“Do you think you had better wait any longer, Eunice?”

“I suppose it will make me no worse to know just how it is,” she said faintly.

“It will be far better to know all that can be known. I cannot but think you may be dreading what will never come to you. You have had a lonesome winter. And you have had a hard life, dear.” Eunice smiled, but shook her head. “I don’t think I have been very lonesome. And I have not had a hard life—taking it all together. Think how happy my life was till I was twenty!”

“Yes, dear, I know. And since then it has been more than happy. It has been a blessed life of help to others. But it has been a hard life too, in one way. Let us see now how it is with you.”

“But first let me say one word,” said Eunice, laying her hand on the doctor’s arm. “I don’t think I am afraid. I think I am willing that it shall be as God wills. But it may be long; and I will not, while I can help it, have my Fidelia know what is before me. And, doctor, I shall need your silence and your help—”

“To deceive her?”

The doctor sat down again and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment.

“To deceive her,” repeated he, “and to break her heart afterwards with unavailing regret?”

“Oh, she will have to know after a while, but—not as long as we can keep it from her!” There was silence for a minute or two. “Well, we will wait and see. I will not speak to her till you shall give me leave to do so.”

Then there were a few grave questions, and a few quiet replies; and then the doctor said—

“Take courage, Eunice! I would say to almost any one else, ‘There is no cause for anxiety.’ But having known so well the last years of your grandmother’s life, I can hardly say you have nothing to fear from the disease that was fatal to her; but I do say that, as far as I can judge from your present condition, you may reasonably hope for a good many years of comfortable health. You should have spoken to me sooner, and spared yourself a time of anxiety.”

He did not see the look of relief on which he had counted—at least he did not see it for a moment.

“Thank you, Dr. Everett,” she said at last. “And now nothing need be said to Fidelia.”

“Why do you fear for Fidelia? Your sister is braver and stronger than you think.”

“Oh, I think she is brave and strong! It is not that. But I want her to have two or three untroubled years before the work of her life begins; and then—”

“And what is the work of her life to be? Is she to choose it for herself, or is it to be chosen for her, as your work has been? Eunice, don’t you think you may be too tender with your sister? Don’t you think that the Lord has her and her life in His keeping, and that you need not take that burden on you?”

Eunice smiled. “We are bidden to ‘bear one another’s burdens,’ you know.”

“Yes; and we are told that ‘every one shall bear his own burden.’ You cannot shield your sister from all the troubles of life, and it is not well that she should be so shielded. However, all this will keep for another time; and I am more than thankful that there is nothing specially painful to tell her now.” And then he asked—“Will you come down with me, as I promised the girls you should?”

“Not to-day, I think. I will rest, and be ready for Fidelia.”

She was very tired, the doctor knew by the wavering colour on her cheek; and he shrank from the thought of telling her something which he wished no one but himself to tell. Afterwards, when he had spoken, he said to himself that he need not have been so much afraid.

“Eunice, I heard from my brother Justin lately. He is coming home. He is on his way. He may be here any day.”

“Is he coming home at last? I am glad—for you especially. All his friends will be glad to see him again.”

She spoke quietly and cordially, just as any of his friends might have spoken. Then there were a few more words, and then he went away.

Eunice waited till she heard the latch of the gate fall, and waited still till the sounds of his wheels died away in the distance. Then she rose and took her last loaves from the oven, and carried them away to their own place. Then she went slowly upstairs and laid herself down on her bed to rest. And there Fidelia found her sleeping, with the traces of tears on her face, but with God’s own peace resting upon it also.