In the morning the panorama presented was one of unusual beauty. All
nature was enveloped in snow of the purest white. The flats below were
a dazzling sea in the bright sunlight. The two gaunt pines, through
which the wind had sighed so dismally the night before, now appeared
like white-robed sentinels on guard at the gate. The air was balmy
and the drip, drip, drip of water from the eaves and window-ledges
proclaimed that this vision of fairyland would be a transient one.
A happy group gathered around the breakfast table. Granny had
instructed Margaret in the art of preparing buckwheat cakes and a
smoking pile of them soon appeared. Her skill in the culinary art was
proverbial. No one could make anything taste quite as Margaret could,
and she was duly proud of her proficiency in this accomplishment.
“Well,” said Mr. De Vere, “how many of us are going to church to-day?”
“From the looks of things outside, I infer the congregation will be a
slim one,” said Jack, helping himself to another pancake.
Just then the soft, sweet warble of a bluebird was heard through the
open window, and looking out, they saw on the limb of an apple tree
this welcome harbinger of spring, singing his plaintively sweet song.
While they listened, his mate flew over his head and alighted near on
a twig with an audacious flirt, but he kept on singing for fully three
minutes, then with a dash of snow they flew away.
“Truly spring is not far off,” observed Mr. De Vere, “but appearances
indicate that Reuben will need help in shovelling paths.”
Many hands make light work, and Jack, Hernando and Elisha, armed with
shovels, soon cleared walks to the street, and then turned toward the
barn. Suddenly Jack called out, “Father, there is a flock of your old
friends.” Twenty or thirty little black-capped birds were fluttering
near the back door, calling “chick-a-dee-dee.” Mr. De Vere laughed
heartily, for they brought to mind a picture of his boyhood days; the
old school-house in the woods where every known mode of punishment,
from “toeing the crack” to flogging, was resorted to, making the
woods resound with yells. Then on a Friday afternoon after “spelling
down,” the grim old schoolmaster produced a well-preserved accordion,
tilted his chair against the wall and held his unwilling audience by
“chick-a-dee-dee,” his only tune.
Reaching the barn, they found Reuben busily engaged skinning a
half-dozen rabbits which had been caught in his traps the night before,
and his mouth watered as he thought of rabbit pot-pie with the white
puffy balls “all afloat in brown gravy.” The rabbits had barked several
young fruit trees and committed depredations which made Reuben vow he
would exterminate the vandals. As the others came up, he exhibited his
trophies and exultantly exclaimed, “Dar now, I reckon I’ve settled dem
tieves.”
“Are they fat?” inquired Mr. De Vere admiringly.
“Only jes’ tolabl’, Massa John.”
In the village, the male element of the population seemed intent on
the one occupation of shovelling his own individual sidewalk. By noon,
a heavy body of snow had sunk under the warm rays of the sun and the
street was running with slush. Nature was preparing to cast off her
winter garments, but in this rugged climate she does so reluctantly. A
raw wind still blew from the snowy north, but the sun was too high to
expect much more cold weather.
“By the way, Reuben,” called Mr. De Vere, “when have you been at the
maple bush?”
“Early dis mawnin’, Massa, an’ de sap buckets was jes’ runnin’ plumb
full.”
Mr. De Vere owned an orchard of about one hundred acres on the side
of the mountain. His mother had bought the land for a mere song after
the timber had all been burned off by forest fires, and had set it
out in sugar maples. This was about twenty-five years ago. They had
been nourished and protected until now they were an object of much
admiration. Mr. De Vere insisted that there was something human in
maples, and it was his rule never to bore them until the proper season
and then in only one place at a time. The good old days of “sugaring
off” were past and his sugar-house was furnished with the most modern
appliances.
Sunday passed off very quietly. In the evening, Celeste sang and played
for them, and as if by common consent, she and Elisha were left in
undisputed possession of the parlor but not, however, until Jack had
given his sister a knowing look which sent the blood bounding to her
very temples, and she was preparing to follow him when Elisha advanced
quickly to her side, encircling her waist with his great strong arm as
he drew her down beside him on the settee.
Celeste felt a trifle awed by this great big fellow who idolized the
very ground she trod. Other men had confessed their love for her but
this one was different, and when he said, “Celeste, I love you. Will
you be my wife?” she knew that in that simple declaration was the
fidelity of a lifetime.
“Celeste,” said Elisha, “I told Hernando of our engagement, and he
wishes us every happiness.”
“I wonder if he will ever marry.”
“Probably not,” returned Elisha, “he is one of the few men capable of
purely platonic affection. In his eyes all women are little lower than
angels,” and Elisha smiled.
“If he ever does marry, his wife will be very happy,” she said, with a
coquettish toss of her head.
“And will mine be unhappy?” he asked, pressing his lips to the curly
head on his shoulder.
“That depends,” she said saucily, “entirely on your dutifulness.”
“Oh, Celeste, I have loved you ever since you were a little miss down
in Missouri,” he said earnestly. “My prospects are good and I see no
reason for deferring our marriage until some remote day in the future.
I feel all the time as if something would snatch you from me. Let our
wedding day be fixed and at an early date.”
Celeste counted on her fingers but came to no conclusion.
“Jack goes to Texas in April, why not let part of our wedding journey
be spent in company with him?” said Elisha.
Jack’s health had failed during the past year. An annoying cough had
caused Doctor Brinton to suggest a trip to the plains of Texas, and he
intended to start during the last week in April.
Celeste hesitated. To visit Vicksburg and the land of her birth was one
of the dreams of her life, and now to go with dear brother Jack! Her
eyes sparkled, the sweet lips parted and Elisha had won.
Taking the curly brown head in both his great brown hands, Elisha
looked earnestly into her eyes. His heart was too full for words; and
with a sigh of perfect content she threw her arms around his neck
feeling that under the protection of such love, her way through life
would be guarded from every care. Her own unworthiness, her distorted
views of the real duties of life, overwhelmed her, and her tone was
almost pathetic as she said:
“Elisha, you have chosen a helpless partner. I see it all now, my blind
selfishness and aimless existence. The grand possibilities of life have
heretofore applied to others, but with your help, I intend to take my
place in the arena and together we will fight our battles.”
“And win them, my darling,” he said, kissing again and again the warm
red lips so temptingly near his own.
The thoughtless, pleasure-seeking girl now stood before Elisha
transformed into a glorious woman with an earnest purpose. The scales
had fallen from her eyes now flashing with new brilliancy. Granny’s
words, “No De Vere is a coward,” proved her not an exception.
If a tiny cloud crossed their horizon just then, it passed unobserved.
In their own radiant happiness, they forgot that there might be misery
for others.
Infinite Wisdom has so formed man that through the rift in to-morrow’s
cloud, he may catch the brightness of to-day, that strength may be
given him to guide his frail bark along the ever-changing current of
life’s river. He may know that trials come to him with beneficent
purpose, and that no one is given more than he can bear.
On the grave of perverted aims and impulsive desires, Celeste’s “barren
fig tree is given another season.”