Читать книгу The Harvest of Years - Martha Lewis Beckwith Ewell - Страница 12

Table of Contents

Gloriously beautiful was the morning of August twenty-first. We were up early, for the old stage would not wait for us, and we had much to do just at the last moment. I say we, for I tried to do all that was possible to assist Clara in packing the two large trunks we were to take. One thing puzzled me. I had heard Clara say so many times to Louis, who went over the house with her during the early part of each day, "Now leave everything in shape to be taken at any moment." And this last morning all the chairs were covered, and Louis worked with old Jim, time-honored help, to accomplish it all. I had a secret fear that they were planning to go away to seek another home somewhere, and it troubled me. I wondered the more because Clara said nothing to me, and she was naturally so ingenuous and apt to tell me her little plans freely. It seemed to take less time than it takes to write it ere we were landed at the door of my home, and found father and mother waiting to welcome us. There was a look of surprise on the faces of my parents as Louis descended from the stage and turned so gallantly to his little mother, as he often called her. He was not the boy they expected to see, but a man to all appearance, tall and handsome, and the embodiment of a politeness which is founded, as I believe, on a true respect for the opinions and conditions of others. I felt gladly proud of our supper table that night, and I knew Louis looked in vain for rye bread. He did ample justice to our creamy butter, however, and after supper remarked to me that Miss Lear might like a few pounds of such.

Days passed happily along, and the two weeks allotted for Louis' stay came nearly to a close. I dreaded to have the last day appear. Like his mother, he had dropped into his own appropriate niche, and came into our family only as another ray of the sunshine that brightened our home. I had Halbert in my mind much of the time, and talked of him to Louis until he said he felt well acquainted with him, and looked forward to meeting him as one looks to some happiness in store.

Louis was original in his expressions and different from all others of his age. One evening when we were talking of Hal, as we sat on the old doorstone in the moonlight, he said:

"I have something to do for your brother, Miss Emily, I cannot tell you how, but we shall see, we shall never lose sight of each other, we are always to be friends, Miss Emily."

And the light of his dark eyes grew deep and it seemed as if I looked into fathomless depths as he turned them full upon me for a moment.

"Only a few hours between this long breath I am taking and the school to which I go (mother has written the professor, asking if I can stay longer—we shall have an answer to-morrow). It is doing me good, my mind goes over the country round us here, and I am gathering long breaths that give my mind and body strength. Ah! Miss Emily," he said, as he rose and walked to and fro, "I shall sometime breathe and act as I want to. I pray every day that my little mother may live to see me doing what I desire to do, and, also, for strength. I need great strength, Miss Emily. You will help to keep little mother alive, I know you will."

And he came back, took both my hands in his own; I felt almost afraid—I cannot tell you how powerfully expressive his look, voice and gestures were, and he continued:

"I like you—like you more than you know; you are true, you can be depended on; you call my little mother your fairy cousin, and I call you her royal friend. Do me a favor," he continued, "unbind your massive hair and let it trail over your shoulders." And before I realised it my hair swept the doorstone where I sat. "There," as he brushed it back from my face, "look up and you are a picture; wear your long hair floating—why not?"

"Oh, Louis," I said, "how could I ever work with such a heavy mass about me. If, as you say, I look like a picture, I certainly ought not to, for I am only a country dandelion even as a picture," and I laughed. He looked at me almost fiercely, as he said:

"Miss Emily, never say it again; you are full of poetry; you have glorious thoughts; you dream while at work; some day you will know yourself;" and then there came the far-away look in his eyes. Clara came to sit with us, and the evening wore itself into night's deep shading, and the early hour for rest came to us all. The professor was amiable and willing to accord two weeks more of freedom to Louis, who seemed to enjoy more every day; and when he entered upon his fourth week, said:

"He wished that week might hold a hundred days."

It seemed to me that since Clara came to us she had been the constant cause of surprise either in one way or another. In herself, as an individual, she was to me a problem of no little consequence and not easily solved, and she was continually bringing forth something unexpected.

The last of the third week of Louis' stay was made memorable by one of her demonstrations. It was Wednesday evening, the last of our ironing was finished, and mother and I were folding the clothes as we took them down from the old-fashioned horse, when we heard her sweet voice claiming us for special consultation.

"Mrs. Minot," she called, and we left our clothes and went into the square room, as we called it. Father and Louis were there, and when we were seated she began:

"Now, my dear friends, I propose to ask a favor of you. I love you three people, and you have made me so happy here I do desire to call this spot home for always. It seems to me I cannot feel so happy in another place, and now you know I have many belongings in my old home in the city. I know a lady who has met with misfortune, an old friend of my husband's family, who is worthy, and forced at present by circumstances to earn her living. Now may I ask you, my dear friends, to let me bring my furniture here. Will you give me more room, that I may establish myself just quite enough to make it pleasant, and then I can let my friend have my house (upon condition of her retaining my old help, which I shall not permit to be a trouble to her financially), and through your favor I may help another. I should have asked it long ago, but I waited for my boy to come and taste the air of your home here, and since he loves you as well as I do, may we stay?"

And she held her little white hands toward us, and opened her blue eyes wide.

Of course we all gladly consented.

Then she clapped her hands, and turning to Louis, said:

"Louis Robert, thank them."

And he bowed and said in his own expressive way:

"We will try to appreciate your kindness."

I knew then what the covered chairs meant, but I secretly wondered "How on airth," as Aunt Hildy used to say, all those moveables were to be got into our house. This thought was running through my head when Clara spoke, crossing the room as she did so, and taking my father's hand—and he was such a reserved man that no one else would ever have dreamed of doing so.

"Mr. Minot, I have not finished yet. Would you grant me one thing more? May I have a little bit of your ground on the west side of your house, say a piece not more than eighteen by twenty-five feet, with which to do just as I please?"

Father looked thunderstruck, as he answered:

"What can you do with it, Clara?"

"Oh, never mind; may I?"

"Yes, yes," he said in a dreamy way.

And mother looked up, to be met by the eyes which sought her own, while the sweet lips queried:

"Will you say so too if you like my plans?"

"I'll try to do what is best for us all"—and that meant volumes, for my mother was thoroughly good, and as strong in what she deemed to be right as mortal could be, and she never wavered a moment, where right was considered. Unfaltering and true, her word was a law, and Clara at her quiet answer felt the victory won. Now for the sequel, thought I, and then Louis asked me to take a stroll in the moonlight, and although a little curious at the revelation awaiting us, I could not deny him and went for my hat and shawl. What a lovely night it was, and how the stars stealing one by one into the sky seemed like breathing entities looking down upon us. It seemed that night as if they heard what Louis said, and you would not wonder had you seen the youthful fervor of this dark-eyed youth; this strange combination of man and boy. When with him I felt awed into silence, and though his thoughts always brought response from my soul, yet did I hesitate for expression, language failing me utterly. How many beautiful thoughts he uttered this night, and how strangely I answered him! He was young and had not learned the lesson of waiting, if effort of his own could hasten the development of any loved scheme. I cannot, will not try to tell you all that he said, but he spoke so positively, and commanded as it were an answer from my very soul. He told me of his love for painting, of his great desire to do something worthy of the best, as he expressed it.

"And my first picture is to be yourself," he said; "you shall speak on canvas. You think yourself so plain; oh! you are not plain, Miss Emily; I love you, and you are my wild flower, are you not? Speak to me, call me your Louis! Love me, as I do you. Ah! if you did not love me I could not stay here till to-morrow—you think me young and presumptuous—you say I do not know myself and I will change—I will not change—I am not young—I want great love, such as comes to me through your eyes, to help me—and you love me—you are my precious wild flower—I shall live for you and my little mother."

No word had escaped my lips, and now he paused, and looking at me, said:

"Tell me if you do not love me!—tell me, Emily."

Why did I—how could I answer him as I did—so cold; my voice fell upon my own ear as I said slowly:

"I don't know, Louis—you are so strange."

What an answer! He quivered and the tears came to his eyes; he dashed them aside and said:

"How long shall I wait for you? say it now and help me; your spirit loves me; I can hear it speak to me."

I thought for the moment he was crazed. He divined my thought and said:

"No, not crazy, but I want your help."

"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "I don't know, I am so ignorant—why was I born so? don't treat me unkindly, you are dear to me, dear, but I can't talk."

"Never, never say so again."

He seemed taller as he paused in his walk, and released the firm hold he had kept of my arm, said slowly:

"God waits for man, and angels wait, and I will wait, and you will tell me sometime—say no word to my little mother"—and he kissed my forehead, a tear-drop falling on me from his eyes, and we walked silently and slowly home.

I sought my room, and crying bitterly, said to myself, "Emily Minot must you always do the very thing you desire not to do?"

When my eye met Louis' at the table next morning, I felt as if I had committed an unpardonable sin. My whole being had trembled with the deep respect and admiration I had felt for him since the moment we met, and I certainly had given him cause to understand me to be incapable of responding to his innermost thought. I felt he would treat me differently, but a second look convinced me that such was not the fact. His noble nature could not illtreat any one, and I only saw a look of positive endurance, "I am waiting," photographed on his features, and made manifest in all his manner toward me, and a determined effort to put me at ease resulted at last in forcing me to appear as before, while all the time a sharp pain gnawed at my heart, and, unlike most girls, I was not easy until I told my mother of it all.

She stroked my dark hair and said:

"You and he have only seen nineteen short years. Wisdom is the ripened fruit of years; you cannot judge of your future from to-day."

That comforted me, and I felt better in my mind. I planned something to say to Louis, but every opportunity was lost, and the last week of his stay had already begun. The plans of his little mother had been confided to me, and work had commenced.

There was to be an addition of four large rooms on the west side of our house, and they were planned in accordance with Clara's ideas. She did not call them her's, and started with the understanding that the improvements were just a little present for her dear cousins. Best of all, we were to have a bow window in one of the rooms, and this was something so new, so different, it seemed a greater thing to me than the architecture of the ancient cathedrals. A bow window, and the panes of glass double, yes, treble the size of the old ones!

I heard father say to mother that this new part would make the old one look very shabby; but Louis had told me his mother intended to do all father would allow her to, and encourage him a little, etc. And we were to have a new fence. You cannot imagine how fairy-like this all seemed to me, and I could hardly believe what I saw. It seemed as if we were in a wonderland country, and I had moved as in a dream up to the last hour of my walk with Louis. Then I seemed to awake, as if shaken by a rough hand, and since then I had been striving to appear what I was not, all the time thinking that Louis misunderstood me, and here we were in the last week of his stay and no word as yet in explanation. I had thought it over until it became a truth to me that after all he had not meant that he loved me other than as a sister, and it also seemed to me that was just what I needed. What remained was to have it settled between us, and to do that I must clothe my thoughts with words, else how could he know how I felt. It seemed, too, that it was sheer boldness on my part to dream for a moment that Louis spoke of life's crowning love. He meant to be as a brother to me, and again I sighed, as I stood at the ironing table, "Ah, Emily Minot, you are a born mistake, that's just what you are!" and as I sighed I spoke these words, and, turning, found myself face to face with Louis, who had just come from the village. He never could wait for the stage to come, and had been over as usual for letters.

"The only mistake is that you don't know yourself," he said.

And the tears that had welled up to my eyes fell so fast, and I was so choked, that I turned from work, thinking to escape into mother's bedroom and hide myself; but my eye caught sight of a letter in his hand unopened, and love for Hal rose above all my foolish tears, and so I stood quietly waiting the denouement.

"Come into the other room with me, Emily; I have something to tell you."

He sat down on the little chintz-covered lounge, and I beside him.

"Emily, you are a strong woman, your heart will beat fast, but you will neither scream nor faint when I tell you; your brother is ill. There was a letter in the office and also a telegram at the depot. What will be done, who can go to him?"

I did not scream or faint as he had said, but I clasped my hands tightly and shut my eyes as if some terrible sight was before me, while my poor heart grieved and brain reeled, as I thought, "Oh! he will die, poor Hal! alone among strangers, and how would our patient mother bear it, and what should we do!"

My face was white, I know, for grief always blanched my face and brought those terribly silent tears, that fall like solemn rain drops—each a tongue. You must remember that I was a smothered fire in those days.

Louis put his strong arm around me, and stroked my forehead as if I were a child and he my mother.

"He will not die, little flower, thy brother will live; you must go to him, and I will go with you. You must not go alone to a great city."

"Oh Louis!" I said, "he had only just begun to love me when he went away, and now if he dies, what shall I do without him? Prayers have but little weight, they ought to have saved him, I have prayed so long, so hard, Louis, for his safety. But I must tell mother." And when she heard me, and I said I must go to him, she sat down as if in despair; but a moment after looked almost cheerful as she said:

"You must start to-night, my dear, and I must get all the little medicines I can think of ready for you to take, and as soon as he is able he must come home. If it is a fever, I fear for his lungs."

Clara waited until our talk was over, and then came and said Louis must go with me; put into my hands a well filled purse, and said:

"Bring the brother back, dear cousin; don't wait for him to get well; bring him back on a bed if necessary; he will never get well among strangers."

When father came he was pained beyond expression, and his first thought was for means to do all that must be done.