LEAVING THE NEST
In this quiet little corner of Maryland's eastern shore, if life
lacked the bustle and stir of more widely-known localities, it did not
lack interest for its residents, while at the same time it provided a
certain easy content which is missed in places more densely populated,
or of more stirring affairs.... To Linda Talbot the days had come and
gone in careless fashion up to the time of her brother's death, for
even his marriage did not rob her of friendships, and of concern in
the small neighborhood doings, especially in matters relating to the
little church, which, because it stood upon Talbot ground, had always
been considered the special care of those dwelling at Talbot's Angles.
The church was very old and it had required many bazars, many efforts
at subscription, many appeals to keep it in repair, and now it showed
its antiquity in moss-grown walls, mouldy woodwork, falling plaster and
weather-stained casements.
On this last Sunday, when she should perform her weekly duty of
placing flowers upon the altar, Linda clipped her choicest white
chrysanthemums from the bushes and early in the day took them to
the church, making her way through dankly green paths overgrown with
woodbine, that she might reach the enclosure where dead and gone
Talbots of many generations were buried. Upon a newly-sodded grave she
laid her fairest blossoms, and stood for a moment with heaving breast
and quivering lips, then she went on to the church, pushing open the
creaking door which led into the still, dimly-lighted, musty-smelling
place.
"There must be more air and sun," she said, setting wide the door and
forcing open a window that the sunlight might pour in. Then she busied
herself with placing the flowers in their vases. This done, she sat
down in the old family pew, her thoughts travelling back to the days
when it had been scarce large enough for them all, father, mother,
grandmother, two brothers, three sisters, and now all resting in the
quiet churchyard, herself the youngest of them all, the only one left.
She ran her hand lovingly along the corner of the pew where her mother
had been wont to sit; she touched with her lips the spot where Martin's
forehead had so often rested as he knelt by her side. Next she knelt,
herself, for a few minutes; then, without looking back, she left the
church, to return later to the one service of the day, letting Grace
and Lauretta follow.
Even sorrow possessed certain elements of satisfaction to Grace when
she was made a conspicuous object of sympathy. She could not have
mourned in silence, if she had tried, and the gratification of hearing
someone say as she passed: "Poor, dear Mrs. Talbot, how pathetic she
looks," was true balm to her grief. She always went regularly to
church, swept in late in all her swathing of crape, to take her place
in the Talbot pew, and as certain suggestive looks were cast her, she
returned them with a plaintive droop of the eye, and a mournful turn of
the head, as if she would say: "Yes, here I am in all my woe. Pity me
who will, and I shall be grateful." Linda, on the contrary, stole into
a back seat just before the service began and stole out again as soon
as it was over. She could not yet face sympathy and commiseration.
Especially on this last Sunday did she feel uncertain of herself and
wished heartily that the day were over, for Grace could not and would
not be set aside for any matter of packing, and reproached the girl
for her coldness and indifference toward her "own brother's wife,"
from whom she was about to be parted, so that Linda must fain sit and
listen to commonplaces till Grace settled herself for a nap, and then
she escaped to her room. There had promised to be a stormy time over
Phebe's leave-taking, but as both Linda and Lauretta brought arguments
to bear upon the matter, Grace was at last made to admit that, after
giving a week's notice, Phebe could not be expected to lose the
opportunity of taking a good place when Grace herself should so soon
cease to need her. At first there was an effort at temporizing, and
then Grace tried to exact a promise that Phebe would return in the
summer, but the old woman would give her no satisfaction, and she was
obliged to make the best of it.
There was a great bustle and stir the next morning, more because of
Phebe's departure than because of Linda's, for Phebe was here, there,
everywhere giving orders and scolding away "Jes' lak a ole bluejay,"
declared Jake. She was so importantly funny that Popsy, who was to
fill her place, and Jake, who had long known her ways, grinned and
snickered so continually, that after all, Linda's departure was not the
heart-breaking thing she had fancied it would be, and even the drive to
town was deprived of melancholy on account of the lively chatter which
Jake and Phebe kept up and which was too droll not to bring a smile
from one listening.
"Of course, you will come back for the summer holidays," Grace had said
at parting, with the air of one who knows her duty and intends to do
it. "Of course, you remember that it was dear Martin's wish that you
would make the place your home whenever I might be here."
[Illustration: SCOLDING AWAY "JES LAK AN OLE BLUE JAY." DECLARED
JAKE.]
But Linda had made no reply except a faint "I don't know what I shall
do next summer." That season was too far off to be making plans for it
now when the winter must be gone through, a winter whose unknown ways
she would be compelled to learn.
But Miss Ri's welcome was so warm that there was little room left for
the sadness of parting after the cheery greeting. "Welcome home, dear
child. Come right upstairs. Your room is all ready. That's it, Phebe.
Fetch along the bags. I've fixed you up a place over the kitchen. It
is a new experience for me to have a cook who doesn't want to go home
nights. Right through the kitchen and up the back stairs. You'll find
your way. Come, Verlinda, let me have your umbrella or something. I can
take that bag."
"Indeed, no. I'm not going to have you waiting on me, Miss Ri."
"Just this once. I'm so proud of having a young lass to look after
that you'll have to let me have my way for this first day. There, how
do you like it?" She threw open the door of the spotless room, whose
windows, though small, were many, and revealed a view of the sparkling
blue river, the harbor near by and, on the opposite shores, stretches
of green farmlands. The room itself was long and low. It held an
old-fashioned four-poster bed with snowy valance, a handsomely-carved
mahogany bureau, a spindle-legged table with leaf set up against the
wall, a desk which was opened to show many pigeon-holes and small
drawers. A low, soft couch, chairs of an antique pattern, and a wood
stove completed the furniture. White curtains were at the windows, and
on the high mantel were one or two quaint ornaments.
"Now, my dear," said Miss Ri, "this is your sanctum. You can switch the
furniture around any way that you prefer, tack up pictures, put your
own belongings where you choose, and if there is anything you don't
like, it shall be removed."
"It is a darling room," returned Linda gratefully. "I can't imagine how
one could want to change a single thing."
"Then we'll have your trunk up; there will be room for one at least
in this closet," Miss Ri told her, flinging open a door to disclose
further accommodations. "Here's your washstand, you see, and there will
be room for some of your frocks on these hooks; the rest can go in the
clothes-press on the other side of the room and you can have another
bureau, if you like. The trunks could go up in the attic, if that would
suit better; but we will let that work out as it will later. Now, make
yourself comfortable, and I'll go look after Phebe. Come down when you
are ready."
Left to herself, Linda sank down in a chair by the window, for a moment
overcome by the thought that she had cut loose from all the ties which
bound her to the dear old home. But in a moment her courage returned.
"What nonsense," she murmured. "Was ever a girl so lucky? Here I am
with my living assured and with dear Miss Ri to coddle me; with this
darling room; and, last of all, with my own old Mammy at hand. I am a
perfect ingrate to want more." She turned her eyes from a survey of the
room to a survey of the outside. Along the river's brink stood some
little houses, where the oystermen lived; nearer, was a long building,
where the oyster-packing went on. Every now and then, through the
open window, came a sound of cheerful singing from the shuckers at
work. Tall-masted sail-boats dipped and curtseyed upon the sapphire
waters. Across the river a line of shore was misty-green in the autumn
light; closer at hand a grassy slope, over which tall trees cast their
shadows, stretched down to the river. One or two little row-boats
tethered to a stake, near a small boat-house, rocked gently as the
tiny wavelets leaped up on the sandy brink. Vines clambered to the
very windows of her room, amongst their leaves birds were twittering.
The trees about the place were many, and from one of them a scarlet
tanager was shrilling out his inviting call. "It is next best to being
at home," Linda told herself, "and to get next best is a rare thing.
I will unpack at my leisure, for perhaps I'd better see how Mammy is
faring."
She found Miss Ri in the sitting-room and Phebe already busy in the
kitchen. Miss Ri was looking over some photograph prints. She handed
one to Linda. "Tell me what you think of it," she said.
"Fine!" exclaimed Linda. "I didn't know you were an expert
photographer, Miss Ri."
"I'm not. Don't give me credit for them. Sit down and I'll tell you
how I happen to have them. One day, not long ago, I was potting some
of my plants for the winter, when a young man came in the gate. I had
never seen him before and thought he must be a book-agent or some sort
of trader in dustless dusters or patent flat-irons, though he was much
too nice-looking for that kind of business. Well, he walked up to me
and said, 'Don't you want me to take some photographs of your house and
grounds? This is certainly the most picturesque place I have seen about
here.'"
"Of course, that pleased you, and so--"
"Yes, that is it exactly, and so he took a lot of views, interiors and
exteriors, and I think they are pretty good. He didn't overcharge, and
if he had done it, I should be disposed to forgive him. He stayed all
the morning--"
"And I'll venture to say you asked him to dinner."
Miss Ri laughed. "Well, yes, I did; for who wouldn't have almost anyone
rather than eat alone? He did stay and told me his story, which was a
most interesting one."
"I hope he didn't go off with his pockets full of your old silver."
"My dear, he is a gentleman."
"Oh, is he? And goes around taking photographs? This is interesting,
Miss Ri. Tell me some more."
"Well, it seems that he has come down here to look up some property
that belonged to his great-grandfather and which he should have
inherited by all rights; but, unfortunately, his trunk, with all the
papers he needs, has gone astray, and, what is more, he was robbed of
his pocketbook; so now, while he is waiting to find the trunk and until
his next quarter's money comes in, he finds himself, as they express
it, 'momentarily embarrassed'; but, having his camera with him and
being a good amateur photographer, he is turning his gifts to account,
that he may at least pay his board."
"It seems to me it would have been more to the purpose, if he had been
robbed of the camera instead of the pocket-book. He strikes me as a
very careless young man to lose both his trunk and his purse."
"He didn't lose the pocket-book; it was stolen; he is sure of that; and
as for the trunk, it was sent by a local expressman to the steamboat,
and so far has not been traced."
"A very clever story," Linda went on. "I am only surprised that you
didn't offer to take him in here until the missing articles are found."
"I did think of it," returned Miss Ri with a twinkle in her eye, "and
if you hadn't been coming, I might have done it; but I was afraid he
might prove too susceptible or that--"
"I might," returned Linda, laughing. "You certainly are considerate,
Miss Ri. Where is our paragon, now?"
"Oh, I sent him to Parthy Turner's, and they are both having a mighty
nice time of it. She has turned him over to Berk Matthews, and he is
doing what he can for him."
"And do you believe there really was a great-grandfather?"
"Oh, dear, yes; I am convinced of it. The young man has shown us his
credentials, and I have no doubt but that in time he can find enough
proof to substantiate what he has told us about his claim. If only the
trunk could be found, he says he thinks it would be a very simple thing
to establish his rights."
"And am I not to see this mysterious stranger? I suppose he comes here
sometimes to report."
"If you are very good, I may let you see him through the crack of the
door; but he is not for you. I have picked out someone else."
"Oh, you have? So you are a confessed matchmaker, Miss Ri? May I know
the name of my knight?"
"No, you may not; that would be enough to make you turn your back on
him at once. It is entirely my secret."
"And the picked out person doesn't know he is picked out?"
"Not a bit of it; he hasn't the faintest suspicion. How good that
dinner does smell. Phebe is the only thing I wanted that I didn't have,
and now I have her."
"Do you really mean, Miss Ri, that you get everything you want in this
world?"
"Why, yes; at least of late years it has been so. I found out the
secret from Thoreau some ten or more years ago."
"A precious secret, I should say."
"A very simple one. It is easy enough to get what one wants, when one
makes it a rule to want only what he can get. If you think you haven't
enough for your wants, all you have to do is to reduce your wants."
"I'm afraid my philosophy isn't sufficient for such a state of things,"
said Linda with a sigh.
"Why isn't it? Now, let's face the question. What do you want that you
can't get?"
Linda was silent before she said tremulously, "My brother."
"Ah, my dear, that is all wrong. Don't you believe that you have your
brother still? If he were in Europe, in China, in India, wouldn't you
still have him? Even if he were in some unreachable place like the
South Pole, he would still be your brother, and now because he has gone
a little further away, is he not yours just the same?"
"Oh, Miss Ri, sometimes I am afraid I doubt it."
"But I know it, for there was One who said, 'If it were _not_ so, I
would have told you.' Even the greatest scoffer among us must admit
that our Lord was one who did speak the truth; that is what comforts."
Linda laid her cheek against the other woman's hand. "That does
comfort," she said. "I never saw it that way before. Is it that, Miss
Ri, that keeps you almost always so bright and happy? You who have lost
all your nearest and dearest, too? You so seldom get worried or blue."
"Yes, I suppose it is that and another reason," returned Miss Ri,
unwilling to continue so serious a talk.
"And what is the other?"
"I try to make it a rule never to get mad with fools," replied Miss Ri
with a laugh. "Of course, I don't always succeed, but the trying helps
a lot."
Just here Phebe's head appeared at the door. "Miss Ri, I cain't find no
tater-masher. What I gwine do?"
"Oh, dear me; let me see. Oh, yes, I remember; Randy threw it at black
Wally the other day when he was pestering her. She didn't hit him and
I reckon she never troubled herself to pick up the potato-masher;
you'll find it somewhere about the back yard. Randy certainly has a
temper, for all she is so slow in other ways. Come along, Verlinda; I
promised to show you that old wine-cooler we were talking about the
other day. I found it down cellar, when the men were clearing out the
trash; I've had it done over, and it isn't bad." She led the way to the
living-room, which, rich in old mahogany, displayed an added treasure
in the quaint wine-cooler, in which the bottles could lie slanting,
around the central receptacle for ice.
"It is a beautiful piece of wood," commented Linda, "and it is
certainly curious enough. I do love this room, with all this beautiful
old furniture. How do you manage to keep it so beautifully polished?"
"Give it a rub up once in a while; and, you see, between whiles there
is no one to abuse the things, so they keep bright. Let us see about
the potato-masher; Phebe's found it, I declare. I venture to say it
won't lie out of doors for a week, while she's here."