Читать книгу Carolyn of the Corners - Ruth Belmore Endicott - Страница 5

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Mr. Stagg had fastened Prince’s strap to the porch rail, and he now came in with the bag.

“Is that all the child’s baggage, Joseph Stagg?” asked Aunty Rose, taking it from his hand.

“Why—why, I never thought to ask her,” the man admitted. “Have you a trunk check, Car’lyn?”

“No, sir.”

“They sent you up here with only that bag?” Mr. Stagg said with some exasperation. “Haven’t you got any clothes but those you stand in?”

“Mrs. Price said—said they weren’t suitable,” explained the little girl. “You see, they aren’t black.”

“Oh!” exploded her uncle.

“You greatly lack tact, Joseph Stagg,” said Aunty Rose, and the hardware dealer cleared his throat loudly as he went to the sink to perform his pre-supper ablutions. Carolyn May did not understand just what the woman meant.

“Ahem!” said Uncle Joe gruffly. “S’pose I ought t’ve read that letter before. What’s come of it, Car’lyn May?”

But just then the little girl was so deeply interested in what Aunty Rose was doing that she failed to hear him. Mrs. Kennedy brought out of the pantry a tin pie plate, on which were scraps of meat and bread, besides a goodly marrow bone.

“If you think the dog is hungry, Car’lyn May,” she said, “you would better give him this before we break our fast.”

“Oh, Aunty Rose!” gasped the little girl, her sober face all a-smile. “He’ll be de-light-ed.”

She carried the pan out to Prince. But first, seeing the immaculate condition of the porch floor, she laid a sack down before the hungry dog and put the pan upon it.

“For, you see,” she told Aunty Rose, who stood in the kitchen doorway watching her, “when he has a bone, he just will get grease all around. He really can’t help it.”

Aunty Rose made no audible comment, but she seemed to view Prince with more curiosity than hostility.

When the door closed again, Mrs. Kennedy went to the stove, and instantly, with the opening of the oven, the rush of delicious odour from it made Carolyn May’s mouth fairly water. The lunch she had eaten on the train seemed to have happened a long, long time ago.

Such flaky biscuit—two great pans full of the brown beauties! Mr. Stagg sat down at the table and actually smiled.

“You never made any bread that smelt better, Aunty Rose,” he said emphatically.

She had removed her sunbonnet, and her grey-brown hair proved to be in perfectly smooth braids wound about her head. She must have been well over sixty years of age. Uncle Joe seemed boyish beside her; yet Carolyn May had at first thought the hardware dealer a very old man.

The little girl took her indicated place at the table timidly. The cloth was a red and white checked one, freshly ironed, as were the napkins to match. There was a squat old silver bowl in the middle of the board, full of spoons of various sizes, and also a castor, like a miniature carousel, holding several bottles of sauces and condiments. The china was of good quality and prettily flowered. The butter was iced, and there was a great glass pitcher of milk, which looked cool and inviting.

“Joseph Stagg,” said Aunty Rose, sitting down, “ask a blessing.”

Uncle Joe’s harsh voice seemed suddenly to become gentle as he reverently said grace. A tear or two squeezed through Carolyn May’s closed eyelids, for that had been her duty at home; she had said grace ever since she could speak plainly.

If Aunty Rose noticed the child’s emotion, she made no comment, only helped her gravely to cold meat, stewed potatoes, and hot biscuit.

Mr. Stagg was in haste to eat and get back to the store. “Or that Chet Gormley will try to make a meal off some of the hardware, I guess,” he said gloomily.

“Oh, dear me, Uncle Joe” exclaimed Carolyn May. “If he did that, he’d die of indignation.”

“Huh? Oh! I guess ’twould cause indigestion,” agreed her uncle.

Aunty Rose did not even smile. She sat so very stiff and upright in her chair that her back never touched the back of the chair; she was very precise and exact in all her movements.

“Bless me!” Mr. Stagg exclaimed suddenly. “What’s that on the mantel, Aunty Rose? That yaller letter?”

“A telegram for you, Joseph Stagg,” replied the old lady as composedly as though the receipt of a telegram was an hourly occurrence at The Corners.

“Well!” muttered the hardware dealer, and Carolyn May wondered if he were not afraid to express just the emotion he felt at that instant. His face was red, and he got up clumsily to secure the sealed message.

“Who brought it, and when?” he asked finally, having read the lawyer’s night letter.

“A boy. This morning,” said Aunty Rose, utterly calm.

“And I never saw it this noon,” grumbled the hardware dealer.

Mrs. Kennedy quite ignored any suggestion of impatience in Mr. Stagg’s voice or manner. But he seemed to lose taste for his supper after reading the telegram.

“Where is the letter that this Mr. Price wrote and sent by you, Car’lyn?” he asked as he was about to depart for the store.

The little girl asked permission to leave the table, and then ran to open her bag. Mr. Stagg said doubtfully:

“I s’pose you’ll have to put her somewhere—for the present. Don’t see what else we can do, Aunty Rose.”

“You may be sure, Joseph Stagg, that her room was ready for her a week ago,” Mrs. Kennedy rejoined, quite unruffled.

The surprised hardware dealer gurgled something in his throat. “What room?” he finally stammered.

“That which was her mother’s. Hannah Stagg’s room. It is next to mine, and she will come to no harm there.”

“Hannah’s!” exclaimed Mr. Stagg. “Why, that ain’t been slept in since she went away.”

“It is quite fit, then,” said Aunty Rose, “that it should be used for her child. Trouble nothing about things that do not concern you, Joseph Stagg,” she added with, perhaps, additional sternness.

Carolyn May did not hear this. She now produced the letter from her lawyer neighbour.

“There it is, Uncle Joe,” she said. “I—I guess he tells you all about me in it.”

“Hum!” said the hardware man, clearing his throat and picking up his hat. “I’ll read it down at the store.”

“Shall—shall I see you again to-night, Uncle Joe?” the little girl asked wistfully. “You know, my bedtime’s half-past eight.”

“Well, if you don’t see me to-night again, you’ll be well cared for, I haven’t a doubt,” said Uncle Joe shortly, and went out.

Carolyn May went soberly back to her chair. She did not eat much more. Somehow there seemed to be a big lump in her throat past which she could not force the food. As the dusk fell, the spirit of loneliness gripped her, and the tears pooled behind her eyelids, ready to pour over her cheeks at the least “joggle.” Yet she was not usually a “cry-baby” girl.

Aunty Rose was watching her more closely than Carolyn May supposed. After her third cup of tea she arose and began quietly clearing the table. The newcomer was nodding in her place, her blue eyes clouded with sleep and unhappiness.

“It is time for you to go to bed, Car’lyn May,” said Aunty Rose firmly. “I will show you the room Hannah Stagg had for her own when she was a girl.”

“Thank you, Aunty Rose,” said the little girl humbly.

She picked up the bag and followed the stately old woman into the back hall and up the stairway into the ell. Carolyn May saw that at the foot of the stairs was a door leading out upon the porch where Prince was now moving about uneasily at the end of his leash. She would have liked to say “good-night” to Prince, but it seemed better not to mention this feeling to Aunty Rose.

The fading hues of sunset in the sky gave the little girl plenty of light to undress by. She thought the room very beautiful, too. It was large, and the ceiling sloped at one side; the bed was wide and plump looking. It had four funny, spindle-shaped posts, and it was covered with a bright patchwork quilt of many tiny squares—quite an intricate pattern, Carolyn May thought.

“Do you need any help, child?” asked Mrs. Kennedy, standing in her soldierly manner in the doorway. It was dusky there, and the little girl could not see her face.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Carolyn May faintly. “I can button and unbutton every button. I learned long ago. And my nightie’s right in my bag here.”

“Very well,” said Aunty Rose, and turned away. Carolyn May stood in the middle of the room and listened to her descending footsteps. Aunty Rose had not even bidden her good-night!

Like a marooned sailor upon a desert island, the little girl went about exploring the bedroom which was to be hers—and which had once been her mother’s. That fact helped greatly. Her mother had slept in this very bed—had looked into that cunning, clouded glass over the dressing table—had sat in this very little rocking chair to take off her shoes and stockings—had hung her dress, perhaps, over this other chair.

Carolyn May kept repeating these things as she divested herself of her garments and got into the nightgown that Mrs. Price had freshly ironed for her. Then she looked at the high, “puffy” bed.

“How ever can I get into it?” sighed Carolyn May.

She had to stand upon her tiptoes in her fluffy little bedroom slippers to pull back the quilt, and the blanket and sheet underneath it. The bed was just a great big bag of feathers!

“Just like a big, big pillow,” thought the little girl. “And if I do get into it, I’m li’ble to sink down, and down, and down, till I’m buried, and won’t ever be able to get up in the morning.”

Carolyn May had never seen anything softer to sleep on than a mattress of pressed felt. A feather bed might be all right, but she felt more than a little shy of venturing into it.

The window was open, and she went to it and looked out. A breath of honeysuckle blew in. Then, below, on the porch, she heard the uneasy movements of Prince. And he whined.

“Oh, poor Princey! He doesn’t know what’s become of me,” thought Carolyn May.

Downstairs, in the great kitchen, Aunty Rose was stepping back and forth, from table to sink, from sink to dresser, from dresser to pantry. As the daylight faded, she lit the lamp which swung from the ceiling and gave light to all the room.

It would have been impossible for the wisest person to guess what were the thoughts in Aunty Rose’s mind. She might have been thinking of that sunny-haired, blue-eyed little girl upstairs, so lately bereft of those whom she loved, a stranger to-night in a new home, going to bed for the first time in her life alone; aye, she might have been thinking of her. Or she might merely have been deciding in her mind whether to have batter cakes or waffles for breakfast.

A glad little yelp from the dog tied to the rail of the porch sounded suddenly. Even Aunty Rose could not mistake that cry of welcome, and she knew very little about dogs—to their credit, at least. She had heard no other suspicious sound, but now she crossed the room with firm tread and opened the porch door. Yes, a little white figure was down there, hugging the whining mongrel; and if the latter could have spoken English he could have made it no whit plainer how glad he was to see his little mistress.

Carolyn May’s tearful face was raised from Prince’s rough neck.

“Oh, Aunty Rose! Oh, Aunty Rose!” she sobbed. “I just had to say good-night to somebody. Edna’s mother came and heard our prayers and tucked us into my bed after my papa and mamma went away. So it didn’t seem so bad.

“But to-night—Why! to-night there isn’t anybody cares whether I go to bed or not! But Prince! Prince, he knows just how—how empty I feel!”

The woman stood in the doorway with the light behind her, so Carolyn May could not see her face; her voice was perfectly calm when she said:

“You would better come in now and wash your face and hands again before going to bed. That dog has been lapping them with his tongue.”

Sobbing, the little girl obeyed. The dog curled down on the porch as though satisfied, having seen that his little mistress was all right. The latter trotted over the cold linoleum to the sink and did as Mrs. Kennedy directed. Then she would have gone back up the stairs without a word had not Aunty Rose spoken.

“Come here, Carolyn May,” she said quite as sternly as before.

The little girl approached her. The old lady sat in one of the straightest of the straight-backed chairs, her hands in her comfortable lap. The wet blue eyes were raised to her composed face timidly.

“If you wish to say your prayers here, before going upstairs, you may, Carolyn May,” she said.

“Oh, may I?” gasped the little girl.

She dropped her hands into Aunty Rose’s lap. Somehow they found those larger, comforting hands and cuddled into them as the little girl sank to her knees on the braided mat.

If the simple “Now I lay me” was familiar to Aunty Rose’s ear from long ago, she gave no sign. When the earnest little voice added to the formal supplication a desire for the blessing of “Uncle Joe and Aunty Rose,” the latter’s countenance retained its composure.

She asked a blessing upon all her friends, including the Prices, and even Prince. But it was after that she put the timid question to Aunty Rose that proved to be almost too much for that good woman’s studied calm.

“Aunty Rose, do you s’pose I might ask God to bless my mamma and papa, even if they are lost at sea? Somehow, I don’t think it would seem so lonesome if I could keep that in my prayer.”