Читать книгу Janet's Love and Service - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 9

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The next week was a busy one to all. Mr. Elliott, during that time, took up his residence at Judge Merle’s, only making daily visits to the little brown house behind the elms where Janet and the bairns were putting things to rights. There was a great deal to be done, but it was lovely weather, and all were in excellent spirits, and each did something to help. The lads broke sticks and carried water, and Janet’s mammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and before the week was over the little brown house began to look like a home.

A great deal besides was accomplished this week. It was not all devoted to helping, by the boys. Norman caught three squirrels in a trap of his own invention, and Harry shot as many with Mr. Snow’s wonderful rifle. They and Marian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, through bushes and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the case might be. They came home tired enough, and in a state which naturally suggested thoughts of another mammoth washing, but in high spirits with their trip, only regretting that Graeme and Janet had not been with them. It was Saturday night, after a very busy week, and Janet had her own ideas about the enjoyment of such a ramble, and was not a little put out with them for “their thoughtless ruining of their clothes and shoon.” But the minister had come home, and there was but a thin partition between the room that must serve him for study and parlour, and the general room for the family, and they got off with a slight reprimand, much to their surprise and delight. For to tell the truth, Janet’s patience with the bairns, exhaustless in most circumstances, was wont to give way in the presence of “torn clothes and ruined shoon.”

The next week was hardly so successful. It was cold and rainy. The gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. The inconveniences of the little brown house became more apparent now. It had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in Merleville, and so it was, even under a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. A wretched place it looked. The windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of other evils, which Janet and the lads strove to remedy without vexing their father and Graeme. A very poor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. But this could not be cured, and therefore must be endured. The house occupied by Mr. Elliott’s predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in the village. When winter should be over something might be done about getting another, and in the meantime they must make the best of it.

The people were wonderfully kind. One man came to mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. Orrin Green spent two days in banking up the house. Deacons Fish and Slowcome sent their men to bring up wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in by some of the village people.

There were some drawbacks. The wood was green, and made more smoke than heat; and Janet mortally offended Mr. Green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. Every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year’s salary, at prices which made Janet’s indignation overflow. This latter circumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and in the meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind.

In the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bare place began to look wonderfully comfortable. With warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look of home to them all.

The rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of November was a long and lovely Indian-summer. Then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight. Graeme and Rosie and Will went with the rest, and even Janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. She enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. It was a fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. It was a fine country, nobody could deny; but Janet’s eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at her heart.

In this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with the geography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-house besides. And a happy month it was for them all. One night they watched the sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke to behold “the beauty and mystery of the snow.” Far-away to the highest hill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. How strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes.

“It ’minds me of white grave-clothes,” said Marian, with a shudder.

“Whist, Menie,” said her sister. “It makes me think, of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. Just watch the flakes floating so quietly in the air.”

“But, Graeme, the angels will be going up, and—”

“Well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about so silently. They mind me of beautiful and peaceful things.”

“But, Graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers are covered in the dark.”

“Menie! There are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie white snow. And, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look out upon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and the bonnie flowers again,” and Graeme sighed.

But it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong into it, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was “perfect ruination to their clothes;” and yet Janet had not the heart to forbid it. It was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoyment was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, Mr. Snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them a sleigh-ride. There was room for them all, and for Mr. Snow’s little Emily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, well wrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. Was there ever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? Even Graeme laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road.

“The bonnie creatures!” she exclaimed; and Mr. Snow, who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as a compliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to the best advantage. Away they went, up hill and down, through the village and over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocks and cedars stood dressed in white “like brides.” Marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. They came home again the other way, past Judge Merle’s and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of Merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. The people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith’s shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. All were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except Mr. Snow’s little Emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. But none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. None of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. It was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little Emily.

“Isna she a queer little creature?” whispered Harry to Graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder.

“She’s a bonnie little creature,” said Graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, “and good, too, I’m sure.”

“Grandma don’t think so,” said the child, gravely.

“No!” exclaimed Harry. “What bad things do you do?”

“I drop stitches and look out of the window, and I hate to pick over beans.”

Harry whistled.

“What an awful wee sinner! And does your grandma punish you ever? Does she whip you?”

The child’s black eyes flashed.

“She daren’t. Father wouldn’t let her. She gives me stints, and sends me to bed.”

“The Turk!” exclaimed Harry. “Run away from her, and come and bide with us.”

“Hush, Harry,” said Graeme, softly, “grandma is Mr. Snow’s mother.”

There was a pause. In a little Emily spoke for the first time of her own accord.

“There are no children at our house,” said she.

“Poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes,” said Graeme.

“Yes; when father’s gone and mother’s sick. Then there’s nobody but grandma.”

“Have you a doll?” asked Menie.

“No: I have a kitten, though.”

“Ah! you must come and play with my doll. She is a perfect beauty, and her name is Flora Macdonald.”

Menie’s doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little Merleville girls.

“Will you come? Mr. Snow,” she said, climbing upon the front seat which Norman shared with the driver, “won’t you let your little girl come and see my doll?”

“Well, yes; I guess so. If she’s half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing.”

Menie was down again in a minute.

“Yes, you may come, he says. And bring your kitten, and we’ll play all day. Graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. Will you like to come?”

“Yes,” said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever.

They stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and Janet out to see. All sprang lightly down. Little Emily stayed alone in the sleigh.

“Is this your little girl, Mr. Snow?” said Mr. Elliott, taking the child’s hand in his. Emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon.

“Yes; she’s your Marian’s age, and looks a little like her, too. Don’t you think so Mrs. Nasmyth?”

Janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child.

“She might, if she had any flesh on her bones,” said she.

“Well, she don’t look ragged, that’s a fact,” said her father.

The cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little Elliotts, had given Emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father’s heart ache to see.

“The bairn’s cold. Let her come in and warm herself,” said Janet, promptly. There was a chorus of entreaties from the children.

“Well, I don’t know as I ought to wait. My horses don’t like to stand much,” said Mr. Snow.

“Never mind waiting. If it’s too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening.”

Emily looked at her father wistfully.

“Would you like to stay, dear?” asked he.

“Yes, sir.” And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down.

“I’ll be along down after dark, sometime,” said Mr. Snow, as he drove away.

Little Emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. Mr. Elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with Marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride.

“And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?” said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. “What is your name, little one?”

“Emily Snow Arnold,” answered she, promptly.

“Emily Arnold Snow,” said Menie, laughing.

“No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not father’s own little girl. My father is dead.”

She looked grave, and so did the rest.

“But it is just the same. He loves you.”

“Oh, yes!” There was a bright look in the eyes for once.

“And you love him all the same?”

“Oh, yes.”

So it was. Sampson Snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. But they did not have “good times” up at their house the little girl confided to Graeme.

“Mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn’t for father, I don’t know what we should do.”

Indeed, they did not have good times. Old Mrs. Snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of “nerves,” and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son’s sickly wife. She had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. So old Mrs. Snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son’s wife and her little girl. If there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son’s warm affection for his little step-daughter. At any rate she was determined that little Emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when she was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and “good times” were few and far between at their house.

Her acquaintance with the minister’s children was the beginning of a new life to Emily. Her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into Janet’s bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. If anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and Mrs. Nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in Mr. Snow.