Arethusa gathered up her woolly rug and a dog-eared copy of "Jane
Eyre," which would have known almost instant confiscation if Miss Eliza
had glimpsed it in her possession, and proceeded to go down to the
woodland. It was an afternoon in early May, and unseasonably hot. As
she passed through the kitchen, Mandy paused in her bread-making and
looked around. She shook her head at the girl's evident intention, with
disapproval.
"I wouldn' be gwine out theah to be settin' this arternoon, Arethusie.
It are gwine to rain," she stated with positiveness. Mandy was by way
of being something of a weather prophet.
"Nonsense, Mandy! The sky's as blue as blue! There's not a cloud
anywhere!" Arethusa dismissed the idea with laughter. "Don't be such an
old prophet of evil!"
"Yes'sum, it are gwine to rain." Mandy left the table and went to the
door, her hands full of bread dough, to peer out at the metallic
looking sky, "and 'foah ve'y long, too. See thet theah?" She pointed to
a low brownish grey line far down on the horizon.
"Oh that! That doesn't mean anything!" Arethusa was not to be deterred.
She trailed the rug after her across the orchard and into the woodland
without noticing that it was touching the ground nearly all the way.
Miss Asenath's Woods were very beautiful just now; they were always at
their loveliest in the spring. The May-apples were in full bloom, and
the ground was splotched with great clumps of them, with their straight
waxy stems and their pale green umbrella-like leaves, almost hiding the
delicate flowers. Everywhere, through the woodland, were all sorts of
ambitious, tiny trees which would be choked out later on by the
heaviness of the growth above them, but just at present they lifted
their beginning life towards the sun, each one as erect as possible;
making, all together, something that seemed like a miniature forest. A
love-vine, sentimentally named parasite, was starting its curling way
over one of the shrubs; the moss was tinted with new green; and blue
and white and purple violets showed their saucy faces here and there in
patches, scattered with bits of the straight dark-green of the spears
of the star of Bethlehem leaves which made a contrast for the lighter
color of the violet foliage. And the spring world was all very still,
and very peaceful.
Arethusa spread the rug underneath the Hollow Tree, and lay down upon
it, resting her head on her crossed arms. She looked above her into the
curving arch of those faraway branches, their gnarled age made
beautiful with the tenderness of young leaves. Some of these were so
small and delicately curly in their newness, they were almost like the
crumpling of a baby's fingers. Patches of the bright blue sky showed
through them all. An alert robin ran across the woodland like a very
fat little man in a terrible hurry, and he paused at the edge of the
rug to look at Arethusa inquiringly, his head on one side. But she
never moved an inch to notice him, and so, quite satisfied that she was
nothing that could harm him, he pecked about within three feet of her
head.
Dreaming was her favorite occupation through these spring days,
dreaming of the future and what it might bring to her. And Arethusa,
believing that she knew just exactly what was to happen by reason of
what had already happened, settled the outlines of this future in her
dreaming, over and over again, without a single ray of light to break
through the darkness of her picture. She would spend it here at the
Farm, this strangely quiet Farm; more than ever "a household of women,"
without Timothy running in and out every day. And some day she would be
old and grey like Miss Eliza, busy farming it herself, and wearing
plain black dresses and scolding the servants when they did not do just
as she wanted. It was a blank future that contained no Timothy. But
Arethusa could not very well put Timothy into the future when he
refused to be in the present. She would always live alone, she decided,
and when she was quite old she would wear a locket like Miss Asenath's,
and people would speak of her as having had a Romance; for she had
_had_ a Romance, and it had ended very sadly. But she would not wear
Mr. Bennet's picture in her locket; he was not worthy of that. Perhaps
she might wear Timothy's. She had a splendid picture of Timothy which
would look very well in a Locket. There were times when, comparing
them, Arethusa was quite of the opinion that Timothy was far handsomer
than Mr. Bennet. And even if he did go off and marry some one else, he
could surely have no objection to her honoring his picture so. His
grandfather had not minded Miss Asenath's ownership of his miniature,
and he had married some one else, because she had loved him when he was
young. Arethusa had always loved Timothy; she loved him now. If Timothy
would only stop to think long enough, he would remember the hundreds of
times she had told him he was the best friend she had ever had.
Timothy had found, besides his farmer's duties, another way to occupy
himself this spring. It was an automobile of very recent acquisition, a
long, dark, grey car of beauty. And nearly every night he raced past
the front gate of the Farm in it, while Arethusa stood under the shadow
of the clematis vine on the front porch and listened for the first low
hum of its motor which carried so far ahead of it through the sleeping
country, and watched to see its light come flashing up the Pike,
drawing back hastily under the vine when it was close to the gate.
Timothy had stopped once or twice and asked them all to ride, but he
had never asked Arethusa alone. And since he did not ask her by
herself, she was too proud to hop in beside him when Miss Letitia and
Miss Eliza refused his invitation. If either one of them had gone, it
would have been all right. But neither would.
No human power could have got Miss Letitia into it, and Miss Eliza
considered it such a sinful waste of money when Timothy told her how
much it had cost him, that she showed her great disapproval by
declining to even sit in it.
But nearly every night it whizzed by on the way to town, and Arethusa
watched for it in the shadow of the clematis vine.
* * * * *
Arethusa sighed deeply, and reached for "Jane Eyre," at the side of the
rug.
It was a most abused and mistreated copy of this work, bearing her
father's name on its fly leaf, which she had found on a recent
rummaging through the garret. A glance through its pages had made her
most anxious to read it. It seemed to be rich with sentiment and
entertainment, of a truly Romantick nature.
She had read only as far as Jane's venture into the world of Mr.
Rochester last night, when forced by the unfeeling Miss Eliza who
viewed no printed matter as of such interest as to make for any
forgetfulness of what one ought to do, with a stern call from the foot
of the stairs, to "put out that light, and stop whatever it is you're
reading this minute, and go straight to sleep!" Arethusa had wept
bitterly over the cruelty of the early years; she hoped, this
afternoon, to see Jane through to an uninterrupted conclusion of
Perfect Happiness such as she so unmistakably deserved.
She read eagerly; her grey-green eyes following the lines of print
without once lifting. Her only movement was the turning of the leaves,
until a large and splashing drop of something fell plump on the page
then open, and she wiped it off. But another fell, immediately after
it; then another. It was Mandy's rain.
So Arethusa rose and gathered up her rug to start for the house. In her
recently acquired submissiveness, the disobeying of Miss Eliza to stay
out in a rain seemed to have no attraction.
But the storm broke with such quickness and fury, that Arethusa got no
farther towards the house than a big oak a few yards away from the
Hollow Tree. Underneath this, she crouched, covering her head with her
arms. For the first time in her life she was frightened of a storm. But
then, she never remembered having seen such a battle of the elements as
this became, in the fewest possible moments. In fact, for years
afterwards, folks in the neighborhood spoke of happenings as being just
before, or just after, the "Big Storm."
The lightning flashed so continuously that the heavens were like one
steady glare of white light; the thunder boomed and crashed in a
hideous din without any cessation. The rain beat against her as sharp
as needle points, and the wind seemed as if it were trying to lift her
off the ground to fling her back again to crush, so hard it blew.
Several trees within her observation went down, some torn up by the
roots; Arethusa could have wept miserably to see them go, these
woodland friends of hers. "Jane Eyre" was blown from her unheeding
grasp and against a crooked root of the oak tree. Its water-soaked
pages flapped madly back and forth; the equally water-soaked rug had
been flung against a near-by bush, wide spread like a sail.
Then suddenly, with a rush and a roar as if the world itself were being
torn from its moorings, the Hollow Tree, the very dearest of all the
growth in Miss Asenath's Woods, went crashing to the ground. It fell
through the tree against which Arethusa crouched, carrying branches of
the latter along with it. It was a pure miracle that she was not hit by
some of these flying branches, or by the Hollow Tree itself, in its
fall; for it was all around her, hemming her into a prison of
instantaneous building so that she could not move. Undoubtedly, had she
stayed under the Hollow Tree after the Storm began, she would have been
killed.
But with this last desecration the Storm seemed satisfied; its fury
abated. And ere long leaves slowly dripping and birds chirping were the
only sounds.
Arethusa shivered. Her teeth were chattering, partly through fear and
partly because she was really very cold. The Storm had seemed to wring
every single bit of warmth out of the air, and she had been wet to the
skin with that stinging, chilly rain. Her tears fell fast as she
reached to touch the Hollow Tree, all about her. Would that the wind
had blown down every single tree in the woodland if it had only left
her this one!
She tried to climb out. But every attempt she made was unsuccessful.
She was pinned in against the oak tree by interlocked branches which
her strength seemed unavailing to so much as disturb. It seemed that
all she could do would be to lie helplessly back and wait for somebody
to come and find her before she could get out.
But would she have to stay in this place all night before anyone did
come? And wait until they could chop her out after they came? How many
hours would that take? It might even take days! This was such a big
tree!
The thought brought a sudden overwhelming terror of her predicament.
She began calling loudly and frantically for everyone at the house;
Miss Eliza and Miss Letitia, Blish and Nathan and Mandy, but none of
them came. She even called Miss Asenath, hoping she would hear and tell
the others.
Then ... she called Timothy.
And Timothy came.
He plunged through the dripping woodland as if on wings or
seven-leagued boots, unmindful of the sloppy ground and the wet
branches which flopped back as he passed to sting his face, and he came
as straight to Arethusa as it was possible for him to come. He had
stopped at the Farm to get out of the Storm, on his way back from town,
and 'way up there at the house, standing on the back porch watching it,
he had heard her calls for Miss Eliza and the rest, and then for him.
But once in the woodland, and there was no visible evidence of her
presence, when he had been so sure just where she was to be found,
Timothy stopped running and called wildly himself for Arethusa.
"Here I am!" It sounded thin and like a ghost voice, coming from
underneath the piled up heap of broken tree right beside him in the
most uncanny way.
"Merciful Heavens!" Timothy knelt down and began making frantic efforts
to move the huge branches. "Are you hurt?"
"Not a single bit!" Arethusa's spirits began an immediate reviving.
Here was Timothy! The unmistakable cheerfulness in her tones somewhat
reassured her rescuer. "Only I can't get out!"
"And you're quite positive you're not hurt?" He asked the question
solely for the comfort of hearing her repeat that she was not. For he
did not see how she had escaped death in such a catastrophe.
"Sure!"
Arethusa, feeling now so much happier, thought that perhaps she might
stand upright. She tried the experiment cautiously and found that she
could. Her head and shoulders appeared dryad-like above the young green
of the leaves beneath her, and leaves and branches framed her face all
around. She waved her hand energetically, and called, to attract the
stooping Timothy's attention to her present superior position.
His relief when he saw her was almost comical.
"I'll have you out now in a jiffy!"
But such was not to be the case, for although he poked and poked about
everywhere distractedly, and pulled at first one part of it and then
another, he was unable to move any of that tree, for all his great
strength. Then, very unexpectedly, sticking his head around under the
lower branches next the ground, he discovered what seemed to offer some
possibilities as a road to Arethusa. He started exploration, and very
suddenly, he was right beside her.
Now that his anxiety for her safety was no longer rampant, Timothy
could see for himself that Arethusa had not a scratch, he remembered
the present state of their relationship. That look of sternness which
made his young face seem so much older settled down, and he made
business-like preparations to help her get out, breaking off small
branches all about him.
"Do you think you could crawl back the way I came in here, or do you
want me to go back up to the house and get something to cut the tree
away?"
But Arethusa was loath to leave just yet. This seemed so much like old
times, the way he had come at her call, when he had used to help her
down from hay-stacks which she had climbed too rashly, and rescue her
from all sorts of other strange situations. She could not see his face,
and so she clasped his arm, gratefully, as she had used to do in those
other days. Timothy stiffened a little, but she did not notice it.
"Oh, Timothy!" she exclaimed. "Just suppose you hadn't come! I might
have had to stay here all night long!"
"I reckon not! Somebody would have come."
She was chilled by his tone. And when she looked up at him, his grim
expression made her draw her hand away from his arm, abruptly.
"How did you get in?" she asked, with dignity.
Timothy indicated the road.
So a little procession started back through that gap in the branches,
which Arethusa, had she not been so frightened, might have found for
herself without bothering him. He went first, to show the way, and she
followed, both on hands and knees. He was out when he heard her scream.
"My hair! My hair is all caught! And I can't get it undone at all!"
She had not really asked for his help, but Timothy turned and crept
under the tree once more. Arethusa was badly caught. Her red hair had
been grabbed by the crookedest possible branch and it was all wound
around it as if the Hollow Tree were so determined to keep her
underneath it that either the branch or some of her hair would have to
be cut off, before it would let her go. And Arethusa's own efforts to
get loose had only succeeded in fastening her tighter.
She accepted Timothy's offer of aid as one who is forced to something
inevitable, and bent her head obediently so that he could get at the
snarl better. Timothy worked away in silence, his knees braced in the
soft ground. His fingers were never very good at this sort of thing,
and right now they seemed to become clumsiness personified. They
trembled so that the snarl seemed to grow worse and worse with each
moment. He gritted his teeth and tried his best to control his hands
and his heart, which raced and beat so loudly above the crouching girl.
He was quite sure she heard it. This nearness was almost more than he
could bear.
And to have his hands buried in that fragrant mass of the hair he
loved, suddenly proved his undoing.
He stopped his ineffectual work of untangling; but Arethusa did not
know that he had until she felt herself held close to a wildly beating
heart and heard him whispering, hoarsely, "Arethusa, I ... I just can't
bear it ... any longer!"
Then Timothy Kissed her. He kissed her hungrily; her hair, caught in
the branches, her startled eyes, her cheeks, and last of all, her
mouth.
"I love you," he said, brokenly, over and over again. "I love you!"
And Arethusa lay very quietly, and listened to him say it.
"I can't get your hair out," said Timothy, miserably, "I'll go and get
somebody at the house to come, but I...."
Then Arethusa spoke, softly.
"I don't want you to go get somebody at the house. I want you,
yourself, to get my hair out."
He almost groaned. Why did she make things so terribly hard for him?
Suddenly, something occurred to Timothy. Arethusa had not even tried to
slap him for those kisses, nor had she made even the beginnings of a
struggle to get away; which was all most un-Arethusa like. He looked
down at her, and he saw that her eyes were full of a truly wonderful
light, a light which he had never seen in those eyes before, and it was
shining straight at him.
"I want _you_ to get my hair out," she repeated, "but bef ... before
you do, T ... Timothy, please ki ... kiss me again!"
Timothy did as requested.
And the whole world did seem to really be hushed into a Startled
Silence by What had happened.
And Arethusa forgot that her hair was fastened apparently inextricably
in the branches of the Hollow Tree; perhaps the Hollow Tree had served
its best purpose in crashing to the ground. She forgot all about Mr.
Bennet and that Timothy might not want to marry her if he knew of the
Episode of the January Cotillion. She forgot to question the propriety
of the number of Timothy's kisses, as too many before their marriage.
She thought of nothing in the wide, wide world but just one thing; that
never had she felt more contented than where she was, held in the
safety of these strong arms of Timothy's. They seemed to shut her in to
guard from all unhappiness or terror, or anything that could possibly
hurt her in the days to come. It was just as though she had found a
place most truly her own, made for her by Timothy's love; and that it
was exactly what she had been searching for, for a long, long while.
But she was still Arethusa.
So after a time she stirred, and said very softly, "I can't possibly
stay here all my life with my hair caught like this, Timothy, you know.
I ... I really think you'd better undo it. I asked you to."
He roused himself with a happy little laugh, and as his fingers were
not trembling so much, this attempt was quite successful, and the red
locks were soon free.
Then they crawled through the place in the branches and stood upright,
face to face, Arethusa's head drooped, and a warm flush mounted
suddenly. She could not be said to be at her best appearance, for her
hair was all matted and tangled, and wildly disheveled; her dress was
muddy to her knees, and torn in several places; there were dirty marks
on her face. But to Timothy, she had never looked lovelier in her life.
It was his suggestion that they have a run up to the house.
Hand in hand, they set off at a mad pace through the orchard. Miss
Eliza saw them coming, for she was restlessly waiting on the back
porch; she had been waiting for some time. She was grim and
disapproving as the flushed pair brought up, panting, before her.
"Well, Arethusa...." she began.
But Timothy interposed in a very masterful sort of way.
"You mustn't scold her, Miss 'Liza, for she came very near being
killed!" He drew Arethusa's hand through his arm with a little air of
proprietorship which did not escape unnoticed. "The big Hollow Tree
fell and it pinned her down. I had an awfully hard time getting her out
from under it."
At a sudden recollection of the getting Arethusa out from under the
tree he blushed boyishly, and most violently, even through his flush of
running. Arethusa followed suit.
"Hum ... ph!" said Miss Eliza.
She regarded them both with keen eyes for a moment, those keen eyes of
hers that so little escaped.
"Have you," she asked suddenly, and so suddenly that both boy and girl
jumped, "have you decided to marry Timothy at last, Arethusa?"
"Yes," replied Timothy.
"No," replied Arethusa, although very weakly, for it was more from
force of habit than anything else.
Timothy put his arm clear around her quite unashamed before Miss Eliza,
to the deep interest and great delight of Mandy, peering through the
kitchen door; and he drew the unresisting girl close to his side.
"Yes," he repeated, with firmness, "she has!"
Arethusa looked up at him sideway, at the strength of his young
profile; and feeling his arm around her and remembering how strong and
sure that arm had seemed such a little while before, like a bulwark for
safety between her and anything that might threaten, she answered
meekly, almost like an echo, "Yes, I have!"
And this was quite in spite of the fact (and yet that may have been the
very reason why she did, for she had always declared so emphatically
that she would say, "no!" to any such proposition coming from him) that
Timothy had made no formal proposal of marriage to her so far this
summer.