LITTLETON REVIEWED.
There never was a truth more tersely expressed than in the vulgar old
proverb, "Money makes the mare go." Before Joyce's energy and Joyce's
dollars work progressed with rapid strides, and Littleton, as seen on a
certain June morning of that year, would never have suggested the bare,
ugly collection of buildings she had visited the March before. They had
turned the flat sandy plain into a grassy park, with little cottages of
picturesque exterior set down all over it at random, apparently, for
they faced in all directions; while the green-bordered highways wound in
and out among them, like satin ribbon with a velvet edge. Even the
Works, themselves, were in the midst of a level lawn, and that part
which had been seamed and gullied with footpaths winding about among
heaps of sand, or unsightly refuse of fruit and broken glass, was now
neatly paved wherever there was no opportunity for verdure to grow.
The two long rows of ugly houses were no more. They had been
disintegrated, so to speak; some turned this way, some that, and some
removed altogether. On those retained for use additions had been built,
verandas added, windows enlarged, and many conveniences planned within
doors. Trees and vines had also been planted outside, and the inevitable
grass-seed sown broadcast. The men had a joke among themselves that
young Early had been obliged to take a seed-store on a debt, and was
thus disposing of his stock. The "flat-iron," once watched with a
wondering hope, had become a park in truth, the young trees growing
healthily in the open space upon which the houses looked, while
flower-beds were all abloom. Here and there were benches by the broad
walks, and at the narrower end a light wire fence guarded a considerable
space, over which was set the sign,
"CHILDREN'S PLAY-GROUND."
Here the turf could not be so well kept, for there were swings, teeters,
small man-power merry-go-rounds, and an enticing pond of wading depth,
where fleets might be sailed in summer, skates made to glide in winter.
At one side a great archway opened into a long and wide covered way, or
viaduct in its original sense, where were more swings and trapeze bars,
and here the little ones could play on rainy days. This arched tunnel
led from the park to a school-house, so pleasant in appearance that
every bright window and graceful stairway seemed to extend an invitation
to the passing child.
Within were tinted walls with tempting lengths of blackboard, charming
colored prints hung up in artistic disarray, with globes in the corners,
modeling tables in convenient lights, a piano near the rostrum, and the
neatest of chairs and desks.
Rufie and Tilly sat in each of these separately, and declared, "if it
wasn't for the studying they'd like to live there right along." Mrs.
Hemphill, Rachel's mother, also perambulating through with great
curiosity, and three small children clinging to her skirts, pronounced
it "fine enough, goodness knows, but wait till you see them teachers!"
This rather damped the children's enthusiasm, for by Mrs. Hemphill's
manner one would have imagined those teachers little less than monsters.
What caused greatest comment, however, was a stately building just
opposite the point of the flat-iron, which brought it very close to the
center of the town, and but a stone's-throw from the little church,
which was the embodied dream of Gus Peters, turning pain into beauty,
and making the scars of his burned arms and hands only a record of
glorious days and heavenly nights, because at last he had been enabled
to put to practical use the talent that was in him.
As the plaintive song of the teakettle may have been but the wail of
imprisoned power, until Watts set it free to work out its glorious
destiny, so the boy's surly ways had been his own protest against a
destiny that seemed enchaining him to an uncongenial work, for which he
brought neither love nor patience. In more congenial labor his soul had
broadened, his heart grown warmer, his very looks had improved--But we
were talking of the great house near the church. This stately pile, with
broad halls from which lofty rooms opened on either side, might be a
private dwelling on a large scale, to be sure; yet, instead of chambers
above, there was one very large apartment with two or three smaller
rooms off, that were being fitted up as a kitchen and dressing-rooms.
This building proved a puzzle to these work-people. They could not find
any use for it, as they strolled by twos and fours through its
unfinished expanse. Nate Tierney suggested that young Early was coming
here to live, and that this great upper chamber was to be his ball-room,
where he could have his routs and banquets, the kitchen being in handy
proximity. Most of the villagers accepted this explanation, as nothing
better offered, and commented either in pious disdain, or honest envy.
"He'd have to give big parties, to fill this," remarked Hapgood,
slipping clumsily about on the polished floor, "and what's he got that
stage at t'other end for?"
"Why, the musicianers, of course," declared Nate. "Jim! but it's fine,
ain't it?"
"Umph! How some folks can fling theirselves. It makes you feel 't ain't
much use of tryin', don't it?"
"Tryin' for what?" laughed Nate. "Big parties? They're welcome to all
the fun they can get out en them, Bill. How'd you and I look slidin' and
stumblin' around over that floor of glass, anyhow? No siree! Give me
that neat little porch you've got, with Lucy's vine a-growin' 'round it.
It'll beat this all hollow!"
"Oh well, that ain't bad, to be sure," allowed Hapgood with some
reluctance.
"Bad! I should say not."
"Well, I'll own up, Nate, it is an improvement, and Lucy is as chipper
over it as can be. To have a settin'-room, too, besides the kitchen,
tickles her most to death. But what gets me is the 'lectric lights and
no extry charge."
Hapgood's face, which always reddened easily, was now a dazzling hue. He
went on excitedly,
"You jest turn 'em on, so--and there you are, light as day and no
charges--same old rent and lights flung in!"
"And heatin' too, Bill. You'll sense the meaning o' that more, next
winter. Think of nateral gas for us fellows, and cute little stoves and
grates; where you can jest turn it on and off with a thumbscrew. No wood
splittin' and sawin', no luggin' baskets of coal, no dust, no smoke, no
charges. My! Bill, it's 'most too good to b'lieve."
"Look out we don't crow too soon, Nate. It's less'n a month sense we've
had it that way, and you don't know; they may tuck it onto us----"
"Dalton says not."
"Perhaps he don't know. Did you ask him?"
"Yes, and he said the new boss was a--a philandroper, or something. He
seemed kind of tickled over it, too, as if he thought it was a kind of
tomfoolery, or joke, that mightn't last."
"If it's a freak, no more it will."
"Oh well, we'll get the good of it while it does. You can't live any
more'n a day to a time, so what's the use worryin'? Summer's here, and
the place is gettin' purtier every day, and it just does a feller's
heart good to watch them youngsters racin' and shoutin' in that old
flat-iron--'member how we felt it never could be a park, and for us? But
you see 'tis, and a special place for the young'uns, too. That ought to
clinch the thing, I'm sure!"
So they wondered, questioned, and commented, but never thought of
connecting these sunny marvels with the handsome girl, who was
occasionally seen strolling about, either with the older woman, who had
been ticketed as her old-maid aunt, or with Mr. Dalton, supposed by all
to be some distant relative. Joyce had been very careful to act through
agents, and though the workmen sometimes thought she showed a "heap of
curiosity," they never imagined that it was her little head which
planned and originated every detail of the work they carried on. Not
that Joyce could really make a plan--that was beyond her. But she and
Madame Bonnivel, together, instructed the intelligent architects
employed, even down to the minute contrivances for saving work and time,
that were introduced into the cottages.
Even Gus Peters had never fathomed the mystery of his own surprising
good fortune. Before night had fallen, on the day he was burned, an
elderly woman of serene visage had appeared in his bachelor den, and
declaring herself a nurse sent by friends, had proceeded to make him
more comfortable than he had believed possible, with those aching
members touching up every nerve to torture.
She had served him with delicate food and drink, dressed his burns with
softest touch, given him some soothing potion, and prepared a daintily
clean bed for him to rest in. When he awoke, after the first refreshing
sleep in many hours, she was still there, and the room seemed like
another place, so restfully clean and orderly had she made it. Gus
looked around with contented eyes, which finally fell upon her and
lingered there. For the minute he half suspected it was still a dream,
and feared to really waken. But, catching his gaze, she smiled and said
in an unmistakably wide-awake voice,
"You had a good sleep, didn't you? The worst is over now, and you'll
soon mend. It won't be long now to the itching stage."
She laughed pleasantly and went on with her work in a placid way. Gus
discovered, with a little shock of surprised delight, that she was
darning a sock--could it be his sock? He asked the question with an
eagerness that amused her.
"Of course. Why. Are you afraid I'll spoil it?"
The humor of this made him laugh also, for the idea of spoiling socks
that were little but holes would make any one smile who felt warm,
rested, and free from pain.
"How did you happen to come?" he asked again, a bit timidly.
"I was sent," she returned. "It's my business--to nurse those who are
not rich. It makes a different profession of it, where one must often be
house-keeper and cook, as well as attendant on the sick, you see."
"Yes, indeed. You're good at keeping house, I reckon. It must have
looked a mountain to you to get order out of the mess here."
"I've seen worse places. Now, it's about five o'clock and I'll give you
some breakfast, and dress your arms. Then, if you feel comfortable, I'll
take a nap myself."
"To be sure. And are you going to stay all day?" wistfully.
"Of course, and to-morrow too, perhaps."
She folded her work in deft fashion, putting thimble and thread away in
a bag which, in time, became something of a marvel to Gus, who declared
a man never wanted anything but she'd find it in that bag; then went
about preparing breakfast, and soon Gus was sipping what seemed like
nectar to the poor fellow, who was used to decoctions that might have a
name, but neither looked nor tasted like any known drink.
"Well, that _is_ coffee!" he cried gratefully. "Say, Mrs.----"
"Keep," she interposed quietly.
"Mrs. Keep, I don't like to be prying, but--but, you understand, I'm
poor? I can't pay much, and you're way up in your business, I see.
Perhaps----"
She smiled in motherly fashion.
"Don't bother your head about that. I am paid, and well paid. You are
simply to take things as they come, and hurry to get well. I'm glad to
see you can eat."
"Eat? It would be a queer man that couldn't with such a breakfast before
him! I guess some fairy must have blessed my cradle when I was born. I
never knew, before, I was heir to good luck. Well, there might be worse
things than burned hands. Now do me up in fresh rags, Mother Keep, and
you shall have as long a nap as you like. I won't even sneeze if you say
not."
Mother Keep stayed a week, and left Gus well on the way to a perfect
cure, with no scars remaining as a record of his awkwardness. She often
talked with the lad, finding it easy to probe him. He talked ardently of
his one love, the study of architecture, showing her many plans, and
explaining how he saved every penny to spend it in lessons at the
Institute, and in materials for this absorbing work. One of these
plans--that of a small church, simple in design, yet with real elegance
of outline and convenience of arrangement, impressed her greatly.
"I wish you would let me take this away with me," she said. "I will
return it after a little."
Gus, who would have almost taken off one of the fast-healing arms for
her, had she asked it, assented at once, inwardly hoping she would not
soil the beautiful drawing, nor, womanlike, forget all about returning
it. When she left, it went with her, and Gus missed both the woman and
the drawing that evening. He might indeed have been really melancholy,
but some of the boys came in and rather drove away the gentler thoughts
of the past few days in their noisy mirth and games.
Still, something of that gentle influence lingered. Gus tempted Rufie
with a penny, and coaxed her into brushing up the floor now and then,
while he took to hanging up his discarded garments, rather than dropping
them in a heap. It was a few evenings later, and he had begun using the
least burned hand to some purpose, when a strange man called, and asked
if he ever submitted plans in competition. Peters rather mournfully
confessed that he had, but with little success, except in one instance,
when he had taken a prize in an amateur competition. After a talk on
such matters the stranger mentioned, as if incidentally, that plans were
requested for a small church about to be built in Littleton; why did not
Peters compete? Instantly the young man's thought flew to his drawings,
now in Mother Keep's possession. If he had those he might venture. But
could he not reproduce them? Oh! if his hands were only well. If Mother
Keep would but remember what was of so little consequence to her, but so
much to him.
He lay awake long, that night, dreaming dreams of future success, but
awoke to a disheartening sense of pain and impotence. There were no
letter-carriers in the village, and Gus seldom had reason for
frequenting the post-office unless on a bright day, to meet the girls.
As he should not begin work to-day, however, he thought he would stroll
in that direction. The office, a mere box in one corner of a provision
store, was presided over by a woman in spectacles, the wife of the
store-keeper. As Gus stood leaning against the side of the door, one arm
still in bandages and a sling, a figure entered, passing him quickly by,
as if intent on business. He recognized Miss Lavillotte, who had been so
kind to him the day he was burned, and waited patiently till she should
turn from the little office window, and give him greeting.
Presently she did turn; then, after a quick, intent look, advanced
smilingly.
"You are much better?" She asked eagerly. "You look almost well."
"I am, thank you! I had fine care, you see."
"Did you? That was good!"
"I should say! The queer thing is, I don't know where she came from, nor
where she's gone to."
"Who?"
"Mother Keep--as I call her. She was fine! She'd cure anything, I
reckon."
Joyce laughed, her eyes shining.
"And she really saved you some suffering?"
"She made me almost enjoy it!" laughing blithely. "I wish she'd write to
me. I'd like to know her address."
"Perhaps she has. Have you inquired?"
"Goodness! no. I never thought to. Do you suppose she would?"
"I'm not supposed to know much about her, but if, as you say, she was
kind I should think she'd feel enough interested to write and ask how
you are getting along without her. Shouldn't you?"
"Possibly. I'm going to inquire, anyhow. Say, Mrs. Blake, got anything
for Augustus F. Peters this morning?"
The woman slid a small package of letters through her fingers, as she
answered,
"Yes, two things if I ain't mistaken. Here's the letter, and I'll find
the roll in a minute."
"Aha! Good! I was afraid she'd forget that. It must be my drawings."
"Your drawings?" asked Joyce interestedly. "Are you an artist, then?"
"No. But I'd like to be an architect. They are some plans of a little
church that I've been working on a long time. I never expected to make
anything out of them, only practice, but----"
He hesitated and Joyce looked up, inquiring and sympathetic. He gave a
little choke and continued:
"Well, they say young Early means to build a church here and has called
for plans and specifications. Guess it's advertised in some of the
papers, but I don't take any. So I thought I'd submit mine--though it
won't be any use, I presume. Still, it's worth trying."
"It's always worth trying. I certainly should. And, do you know, I'm a
bit interested in the study of architecture myself, and have some books.
Wouldn't you like to look them over, now you're unable to work? You're
welcome to them for as long as you like to study them."
"Wouldn't I like them! If you knew how I've wanted to get hold of such
things, but they cost awfully. I'll be careful, Miss Lavillotte, and put
strong paper covers on them. You're sure you'd just as soon let me have
them?"
He was like a boy in his enthusiastic joy.
"Perfectly sure. Will you come around, or shall I send them? Come to
think, I'll do the latter when Gilbert has the carriage out, this
afternoon. They are large and heavy. And don't fail to send in your
plans; I shall be anxious to hear if you succeed."
She tripped out, while Gus watched her, an odd expression on his face.
Then turning to the woman who was holding out the precious roll, he said
bluntly,
"It don't cost a thing to give a man a kind and hopeful word, but how
many girls like that would do it? She's a lady!"
He walked away as if on air. He was no longer the awkward lout, stolidly
working at uncongenial toil. He had a hope, a purpose, a plan, and his
sometimes sullen face was transformed into manly alertness and strength.
From that time on he forgot his burns, and Nature took them in hand,
healing the broken flesh in her most clean cut fashion. Scarcely a scar
remained, and on the day he received the brief notice that his plans
were accepted it seemed as if the scars fell from his soul also, leaving
it cleaner, stronger, better. He had found his rightful work, and that
is inspiration to any man.