pastures," Mrs. Peet added, half to herself. There was no use in
saying much to her; she was conscious of little beside her own
thoughts and the smouldering excitement caused by this great crisis in
her simple existence. Yet the atmosphere of her loneliness,
uncertainty, and sorrow was so touching that after scolding again at
her nephew's treachery, and finding the tears come fast to my eyes as
she talked, I looked intently out of the car window, and tried to
think what could be done for the poor soul. She was one of the
old-time people, and I hated to have her go away; but even if she
could keep her home she would soon be too feeble to live there alone,
and some definite plan must be made for her comfort. Farms in that
neighborhood were not valuable. Perhaps through the agency of the law
and quite in secret, Isaiah Peet could be forced to give up his
unrighteous claim. Perhaps, too, the Winn girls, who were really no
longer young, might have saved something, and would come home again.
But it was easy to make such pictures in one's mind, and I must do
what I could through other people, for I was just leaving home for a
long time. I wondered sadly about Mrs. Peet's future, and the
ambitious Isabella, and the favorite Sister Winn's daughters, to whom,
with all their kindliness of heart, the care of so old and perhaps so
dependent an aunt might seem impossible. The truth about life in
Shrewsbury would soon be known; more than half the short journey was
already past.
To my great pleasure, my fellow-traveler now began to forget her own
troubles in looking about her. She was an alert, quickly interested
old soul, and this was a bit of neutral ground between the farm and
Shrewsbury, where she was unattached and irresponsible. She had lived
through the last tragic moments of her old life, and felt a certain
relief, and Shrewsbury might be as far away as the other side of the
Rocky Mountains for all the consciousness she had of its real
existence. She was simply a traveler for the time being, and began to
comment, with delicious phrases and shrewd understanding of human
nature, on two or three persons near us who attracted her attention.
"Where do you s'pose they be all goin'?" she asked contemptuously.
"There ain't none on 'em but what looks kind o' respectable. I'll
warrant they've left work to home they'd ought to be doin'. I knowed,
if ever I stopped to think, that cars was hived full o' folks, an'
wa'n't run to an' fro for nothin'; but these can't be quite up to the
average, be they? Some on 'em's real thrif'less; guess they've be'n
shoved out o' the last place, an' goin' to try the next one,--like me,
I suppose you'll want to say! Jest see that flauntin' old creatur'
that looks like a stopped clock. There! everybody can't be o' one
goodness, even preachers."
I was glad to have Mrs. Peet amused, and we were as cheerful as we
could be for a few minutes. She said earnestly that she hoped to be
forgiven for such talk, but there were some kinds of folks in the cars
that she never had seen before. But when the conductor came to take
her ticket she relapsed into her first state of mind, and was at a
loss.
"You'll have to look after me, dear, when we get to Shrewsbury," she
said, after we had spent some distracted moments in hunting for the
ticket, and the cat had almost escaped from the basket, and the
bundle-handkerchief had become untied and all its miscellaneous
contents scattered about our laps and the floor. It was a touching
collection of the last odds and ends of Mrs. Peet's housekeeping: some
battered books, and singed holders for flatirons, and the faded little
shoulder shawl that I had seen her wear many a day about her bent
shoulders. There were her old tin match-box spilling all its matches,
and a goose-wing for brushing up ashes, and her much-thumbed Leavitt's
Almanac. It was most pathetic to see these poor trifles out of their
places. At last the ticket was found in her left-hand woolen glove,
where her stiff, work-worn hand had grown used to the feeling of it.
"I shouldn't wonder, now, if I come to like living over to Shrewsbury
first-rate," she insisted, turning to me with a hopeful, eager look to
see if I differed. "You see't won't be so tough for me as if I hadn't
always felt it lurking within me to go off some day or 'nother an' see
how other folks did things. I do' know but what the Winn gals have
laid up somethin' sufficient for us to take a house, with the little
mite I've got by me. I might keep house for us all, 'stead o' boardin'
round in other folks' houses. That I ain't never been demeaned to, but
I dare say I should find it pleasant in some ways. Town folks has got
the upper hand o' country folks, but with all their work an' pride
they can't make a dandelion. I do' know the times when I've set out to
wash Monday mornin's, an' tied out the line betwixt the old
pucker-pear tree and the corner o' the barn, an' thought, 'Here I be
with the same kind o' week's work right over again.' I'd wonder kind
o' f'erce if I couldn't git out of it noways; an' now here I be out
of it, and an uprooteder creatur' never stood on the airth. Just as I
got to feel I had somethin' ahead come that spool-factory business.
There! you know he never was a forehanded man; his health was slim,
and he got discouraged pretty nigh before ever he begun. I hope he
don't know I'm turned out o' the old place. 'Is'iah's well off; he'll
do the right thing by ye,' says he. But my! I turned hot all over when
I found out what I'd put my name to,--me that had always be'n counted
a smart woman! I did undertake to read it over, but I couldn't sense
it. I've told all the folks so when they laid it off on to me some:
but hand-writin' is awful tedious readin' and my head felt that day as
if the works was gone.
"I ain't goin' to sag on to nobody," she assured me eagerly, as the
train rushed along. "I've got more work in me now than folks expects
at my age. I may be consid'able use to Isabella. She's got a family,
an' I'll take right holt in the kitchen or with the little gals. She
had four on 'em, last I heared. Isabella was never one that liked
house-work. Little gals! I do' know now but what they must be about
grown, time doos slip away so. I expect I shall look outlandish to
'em. But there! everybody knows me to home, an' nobody knows me to
Shrewsbury; 'twon't make a mite o' difference, if I take holt
willin'."
I hoped, as I looked at Mrs. Peet, that she would never be persuaded
to cast off the gathered brown silk bonnet and the plain shawl that
she had worn so many years; but Isabella might think it best to insist
upon more modern fashions. Mrs. Peet suggested, as if it were a matter
of little consequence, that she had kept it in mind to buy some
mourning; but there were other things to be thought of first, and so
she had let it go until winter, any way, or until she should be fairly
settled in Shrewsbury.
"Are your nieces expecting you by this train?" I was moved to ask,
though with all the good soul's ready talk and appealing manner I
could hardly believe that she was going to Shrewsbury for more than a
visit; it seemed as if she must return to the worn old farmhouse over
by the sheep-lands. She answered that one of the Barnes boys had
written a letter for her the day before, and there was evidently
little uneasiness about her first reception.
We drew near the junction where I must leave her within a mile of the
town. The cat was clawing indignantly at the basket, and her mistress
grew as impatient of the car. She began to look very old and pale, my
poor fellow-traveler, and said that she felt dizzy, going so fast.
Presently the friendly red-cheeked young brakeman came along, bringing
the carpet-bag and other possessions, and insisted upon taking the
alarmed cat beside, in spite of an aggressive paw that had worked its
way through the wicker prison. Mrs. Peet watched her goods disappear
with suspicious eyes, and clutched her bundle-handkerchief as if it
might be all that she could save. Then she anxiously got to her feet,
much too soon, and when I said good-by to her at the car door she was
ready to cry. I pointed to the car which she was to take next on the
branch line of railway, and I assured her that it was only a few
minutes' ride to Shrewsbury, and that I felt certain she would find
somebody waiting. The sight of that worn, thin figure adventuring
alone across the platform gave my heart a sharp pang as the train
carried me away.
Some of the passengers who sat near asked me about my old friend with
great sympathy, after she had gone. There was a look of tragedy about
her, and indeed it had been impossible not to get a good deal of her
history, as she talked straight on in the same tone, when we stopped
at a station, as if the train were going at full speed, and some of
her remarks caused pity and amusements by turns. At the last minute
she said, with deep self-reproach, "Why, I haven't asked a word about
your folks; but you'd ought to excuse such an old stray hen as I be."
In the spring I was driving by on what the old people of my native
town call the sheep-lands road, and the sight of Mrs. Peet's former
home brought our former journey freshly to my mind. I had last heard
from her just after she got to Shrewsbury, when she had sent me a
message.
"Have you ever heard how she got on?" I eagerly asked my companion.
"Didn't I tell you that I met her in Shrewsbury High Street one day?"
I was answered. "She seemed perfectly delighted with everything. Her
nieces have laid up a good bit of money, and are soon to leave the
mill, and most thankful to have old Mrs. Peet with them. Somebody told
me that they wished to buy the farm here, and come back to live, but
she wouldn't hear of it, and thought they would miss too many
privileges. She has been going to concerts and lectures this winter,
and insists that Isaiah did her a good turn."
We both laughed. My own heart was filled with joy, for the uncertain,
lonely face of this homeless old woman had often haunted me. The
rain-blackened little house did certainly look dreary, and a whole
lifetime of patient toil had left few traces. The pucker-pear tree was
in full bloom, however, and gave a welcome gaiety to the deserted
door-yard.
A little way beyond we met Isaiah Peet, the prosperous money-lender,
who had cheated the old woman of her own. I fancied that he looked
somewhat ashamed, as he recognized us. To my surprise, he stopped his
horse in most social fashion.
"Old Aunt Peet's passed away," he informed me briskly. "She had a
shock, and went right off sudden yisterday fore-noon. I'm about now
tendin' to the funeral 'rangements. She's be'n extry smart, they say,
all winter,--out to meetin' last Sabbath; never enjoyed herself so
complete as she has this past month. She'd be'n a very hard-workin'
woman. Her folks was glad to have her there, and give her every
attention. The place here never was good for nothin'. The old
gen'leman,--uncle, you know,--he wore hisself out tryin' to make a
livin' off from it."
There was an ostentatious sympathy and half-suppressed excitement from
bad news which were quite lost upon us, and we did not linger to hear
much more. It seemed to me as if I had known Mrs. Peet better than any
one else had known her. I had counted upon seeing her again, and
hearing her own account of Shrewsbury life, its pleasures and its
limitations. I wondered what had become of the cat and the contents of
the faded bundle-handkerchief.
* * * * *
_The White Rose Road_
Being a New Englander, it is natural that I should first speak about
the weather. Only the middle of June, the green fields, and blue sky,
and bright sun, with a touch of northern mountain wind blowing
straight toward the sea, could make such a day, and that is all one
can say about it. We were driving seaward through a part of the
country which has been least changed in the last thirty years,--among
farms which have been won from swampy lowland, and rocky,
stump-buttressed hillsides: where the forests wall in the fields, and
send their outposts year by year farther into the pastures. There is a
year or two in the history of these pastures before they have arrived
at the dignity of being called woodland, and yet are too much shaded
and overgrown by young trees to give proper pasturage, when they made
delightful harbors for the small wild creatures which yet remain, and
for wild flowers and berries. Here you send an astonished rabbit
scurrying to his burrow, and there you startle yourself with a
partridge, who seems to get the best of the encounter. Sometimes you
see a hen partridge and her brood of chickens crossing your path with
an air of comfortable door-yard security. As you drive along the
narrow, grassy road, you see many charming sights and delightful nooks
on either hand, where the young trees spring out of a close-cropped
turf that carpets the ground like velvet. Toward the east and the
quaint fishing village of Ogunquit, I find the most delightful
woodland roads. There is little left of the large timber which once
filled the region, but much young growth, and there are hundreds of
acres of cleared land and pasture-ground where the forests are
springing fast and covering the country once more, as if they had no
idea of losing in their war with civilization and the intruding white
settler. The pine woods and the Indians seem to be next of kin, and
the former owners of this corner of New England are the only proper
figures to paint into such landscapes. The twilight under tall pines
seems to be untenanted and to lack something, at first sight, as if
one opened the door of an empty house. A farmer passing through with
his axe is but an intruder, and children straying home from school
give one a feeling of solicitude at their unprotectedness. The pine
woods are the red man's house, and it may be hazardous even yet for
the gray farmhouses to stand so near the eaves of the forest. I have
noticed a distrust of the deep woods, among elderly people, which was
something more than a fear of losing their way. It was a feeling of
defenselessness against some unrecognized but malicious influence.
Driving through the long woodland way, shaded and chilly when you are
out of the sun; across the Great Works River and its pretty elm-grown
intervale; across the short bridges of brown brooks; delayed now and
then by the sight of ripe strawberries in sunny spots by the roadside,
one comes to a higher open country, where farm joins farm, and the
cleared fields lie all along the highway, while the woods are pushed
back a good distance on either hand. The wooded hills, bleak here and
there with granite ledges, rise beyond. The houses are beside the
road, with green door-yards and large barns, almost empty now, and
with wide doors standing open, as if they were already expecting the
hay crop to be brought in. The tall green grass is waving in the
fields as the wind goes over, and there is a fragrance of whiteweed
and ripe strawberries and clover blowing through the sunshiny barns,
with their lean sides and their festoons of brown, dusty cobwebs;
dull, comfortable creatures they appear to imaginative eyes, waiting
hungrily for their yearly meal. The eave-swallows are teasing their
sleepy shapes, like the birds which flit about great beasts; gay,
movable, irreverent, almost derisive, those barn swallows fly to and
fro in the still, clear air.
The noise of our wheels brings fewer faces to the windows than usual,
and we lose the pleasure of seeing some of our friends who are apt to
be looking out, and to whom we like to say good-day. Some funeral must
be taking place, or perhaps the women may have gone out into the
fields. It is hoeing-time and strawberry-time, and already we have
seen some of the younger women at work among the corn and potatoes.
One sight will be charming to remember. On a green hillside sloping
to the west, near one of the houses, a thin little girl was working
away lustily with a big hoe on a patch of land perhaps fifty feet by
twenty. There were all sorts of things growing there, as if a child's
fancy had made the choice,--straight rows of turnips and carrots and
beets, a little of everything, one might say; but the only touch of
color was from a long border of useful sage in full bloom of dull
blue, on the upper side. I am sure this was called Katy's or Becky's
_piece_ by the elder members of the family. One can imagine how the
young creature had planned it in the spring, and persuaded the men to
plough and harrow it, and since then had stoutly done all the work
herself, and meant to send the harvest of the piece to market, and
pocket her honest gains, as they came in, for some great end. She was
as thin as a grasshopper, this busy little gardener, and hardly turned
to give us a glance, as we drove slowly up the hill close by. The sun
will brown and dry her like a spear of grass on that hot slope, but a
spark of fine spirit is in the small body, and I wish her a famous
crop. I hate to say that the piece looked backward, all except the
sage, and that it was a heavy bit of land for the clumsy hoe to pick
at. The only puzzle is, what she proposes to do with so long a row of
sage. Yet there may be a large family with a downfall of measles yet
ahead, and she does not mean to be caught without sage-tea.
Along this road every one of the old farmhouses has at least one tall
bush of white roses by the door,--a most lovely sight, with buds and
blossoms, and unvexed green leaves. I wish that I knew the history of
them, and whence the first bush was brought. Perhaps from England
itself, like a red rose that I know in Kittery, and the new shoots
from the root were given to one neighbor after another all through the
district. The bushes are slender, but they grow tall without climbing
against the wall, and sway to and fro in the wind with a grace of
youth and an inexpressible charm of beauty. How many lovers must have
picked them on Sunday evenings, in all the bygone years, and carried
them along the roads or by the pasture footpaths, hiding them clumsily
under their Sunday coats if they caught sight of any one coming. Here,
too, where the sea wind nips many a young life before its prime, how
often the white roses have been put into paler hands, and withered
there!
In spite of the serene and placid look of the old houses, one who has
always known them cannot help thinking of the sorrows of these farms
and their almost undiverted toil. Near the little gardener's plot, we
turned from the main road and drove through lately cleared woodland up
to an old farmhouse, high on a ledgy hill, whence there is a fine view
of the country seaward and mountainward. There were few of the once
large household left there: only the old farmer, who was crippled by
war wounds, active, cheerful man that he was once, and two young
orphan children. There has been much hard work spent on the place.
Every generation has toiled from youth to age without being able to
make much beyond a living. The dollars that can be saved are but few,
and sickness and death have often brought their bitter cost. The
mistress of the farm was helpless for many years; through all the
summers and winters she sat in her pillowed rocking-chair in the plain
room. She could watch the seldom-visited lane, and beyond it, a little
way across the fields, were the woods; besides these, only the clouds
in the sky. She could not lift her food to her mouth; she could not be
her husband's working partner. She never went into another woman's
house to see her works and ways, but sat there, aching and tired,
vexed by flies and by heat, and isolated in long storms. Yet the whole
countryside neighbored her with true affection. Her spirit grew
stronger as her body grew weaker, and the doctors, who grieved because
they could do so little with their skill, were never confronted by
that malady of the spirit, a desire for ease and laziness, which makes
the soundest of bodies useless and complaining. The thought of her
blooms in one's mind like the whitest of flowers; it makes one braver
and more thankful to remember the simple faith and patience with which
she bore her pain and trouble. How often she must have said, "I wish I
could do something for you in return," when she was doing a thousand
times more than if, like her neighbors, she followed the simple round
of daily life! She was doing constant kindness by her example; but
nobody can tell the woe of her long days and nights, the solitude of
her spirit, as she was being lifted by such hard ways to the knowledge
of higher truth and experience. Think of her pain when, one after
another, her children fell ill and died, and she could not tend them!
And now, in the same worn chair where she lived and slept sat her
husband, helpless too, thinking of her, and missing her more than if
she had been sometimes away from home, like other women. Even a
stranger would miss her in the house.
There sat the old farmer looking down the lane in his turn, bearing
his afflictions with a patient sternness that may have been born of
watching his wife's serenity. There was a half-withered rose lying
within his reach. Some days nobody came up the lane, and the wild
birds that ventured near the house and the clouds that blew over were
his only entertainment. He had a fine face, of the older New England
type, clean-shaven and strong-featured,--a type that is fast passing
away. He might have been a Cumberland dalesman, such were his dignity,
and self-possession, and English soberness of manner. His large frame
was built for hard work, for lifting great weights and pushing his
plough through new-cleared land. We felt at home together, and each
knew many things that the other did of earlier days, and of losses
that had come with time. I remembered coming to the old house often in
my childhood; it was in this very farm lane that I first saw anemones,
and learned what to call them. After we drove away, this crippled man
must have thought a long time about my elders and betters, as if he
were reading their story out of a book. I suppose he has hauled many a
stick of timber pine down for ship-yards, and gone through the village
so early in the winter morning that I, waking in my warm bed, only
heard the sleds creak through the frozen snow as the slow oxen plodded
by.
Near the house a trout brook comes plashing over the ledges. At one
place there is a most exquisite waterfall, to which neither painter's
brush nor writer's pen can do justice. The sunlight falls through
flickering leaves into the deep glen, and makes the foam whiter and
the brook more golden-brown. You can hear the merry noise of it all
night, all day, in the house. A little way above the farmstead it
comes through marshy ground, which I fear has been the cause of much
illness and sorrow to the poor, troubled family. I had a thrill of
pain, as it seemed to me that the brook was mocking at all that
trouble with all its wild carelessness and loud laughter, as it
hurried away down the glen.
When we had said good-by and were turning the horses away, there
suddenly appeared in a footpath that led down from one of the green
hills the young grandchild, just coming home from school. She was as
quick as a bird, and as shy in her little pink gown, and balanced
herself on one foot, like a flower. The brother was the elder of the
two orphans; he was the old man's delight and dependence by day, while
his hired man was afield. The sober country boy had learned to wait
and tend, and the young people were indeed a joy in that lonely
household. There was no sign that they ever played like other
children,--no truckle-cart in the yard, no doll, no bits of broken
crockery in order on a rock. They had learned a fashion of life from
their elders, and already could lift and carry their share of the
burdens of life.
It was a country of wild flowers; the last of the columbines were
clinging to the hillsides; down in the small, fenced meadows belonging
to the farm were meadow rue just coming in flower, and red and white
clover; the golden buttercups were thicker than the grass, while many
mulleins were standing straight and slender among the pine stumps,
with their first blossoms atop. Rudbeckias had found their way in, and
appeared more than ever like bold foreigners. Their names should be
translated into country speech, and the children ought to call them
"rude-beckies," by way of relating them to bouncing-bets and
sweet-williams. The pasture grass was green and thick after the
plentiful rains, and the busy cattle took little notice of us as they
browsed steadily and tinkled their pleasant bells. Looking off, the
smooth, round back of Great Hill caught the sunlight with its fields
of young grain, and all the long, wooded slopes and valleys were fresh
and fair in the June weather, away toward the blue New Hampshire hills
on the northern horizon. Seaward stood Agamenticus, dark with its
pitch pines, and the far sea itself, blue and calm, ruled the uneven
country with its unchangeable line.