“Now fly round, child, and get your sweeping done up smart and early.”
“Yes, mother.”
“I shall want you to help me about the baking, by and by.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Roxy is cleaning the cellar-closets, so you'll have to get the
vegetables ready for dinner. Father wants a boiled dish, and I shall be
so busy I can't see to it.”
“Yes, mother.”
A cheerful voice gave the three answers, but it cost Merry an effort to
keep it so, for she had certain little plans of her own which made the
work before her unusually distasteful. Saturday always was a trying day,
for, though she liked to see rooms in order, she hated to sweep, as no
speck escaped Mrs. Grant's eye, and only the good old-fashioned broom,
wielded by a pair of strong arms, was allowed. Baking was another trial:
she loved good bread and delicate pastry, but did not enjoy burning her
face over a hot stove, daubing her hands with dough, or spending hours
rolling out cookies for the boys; while a “boiled dinner” was her
especial horror, as it was not elegant, and the washing of vegetables
was a job she always shirked when she could.
However, having made up her mind to do her work without complaint, she
ran upstairs to put on her dust-cap, trying to look as if sweeping was
the joy of her life.
“It is such a lovely day, I did want to rake my garden, and have a walk
with Molly, and finish my book so I can get another,” she said with a
sigh, as she leaned out of the open window for a breath of the unusually
mild air.
Down in the ten-acre lot the boys were carting and spreading loam; out
in the barn her father was getting his plows ready; over the hill rose
the smoke of the distant factory, and the river that turned the wheels
was gliding through the meadows, where soon the blackbirds would be
singing. Old Bess pawed the ground, eager to be off; the gray hens
were scratching busily all about the yard; even the green things in the
garden were pushing through the brown earth, softened by April rains,
and there was a shimmer of sunshine over the wide landscape that made
every familiar object beautiful with hints of spring, and the activity
it brings.
Something made the old nursery hymn come into Merry's head, and humming
to herself,
“In works of labor or of skill
I would be busy too,”
she tied on her cap, shouldered her broom, and fell to work so
energetically that she soon swept her way through the chambers, down the
front stairs to the parlor door, leaving freshness and order behind her
as she went.
She always groaned when she entered that apartment, and got out of it
again as soon as possible, for it was, like most country parlors, a prim
and chilly place, with little beauty and no comfort. Black horse-hair
furniture, very slippery and hard, stood against the wall; the table had
its gift books, albums, worsted mat and ugly lamp; the mantel-piece its
china vases, pink shells, and clock that never went; the gay carpet was
kept distressingly bright by closed shutters six days out of the seven,
and a general air of go-to-meeting solemnity pervaded the room. Merry
longed to make it pretty and pleasant, but her mother would allow of no
change there, so the girl gave up her dreams of rugs and hangings, fine
pictures and tasteful ornaments, and dutifully aired, dusted, and shut
up this awful apartment once a week, privately resolving that, if she
ever had a parlor of her own, it should not be as dismal as a tomb.
The dining-room was a very different place, for here Merry had been
allowed to do as she liked, yet so gradual had been the change, that she
would have found it difficult to tell how it came about. It seemed to
begin with the flowers, for her father kept his word about the “posy
pots,” and got enough to make quite a little conservatory in the
bay-window, which was sufficiently large for three rows all round, and
hanging-baskets overhead. Being discouraged by her first failure, Merry
gave up trying to have things nice everywhere, and contented herself
with making that one nook so pretty that the boys called it her
“bower.” Even busy Mrs. Grant owned that plants were not so messy as she
expected, and the farmer was never tired of watching “little daughter”
as she sat at work there, with her low chair and table full of books.
The lamp helped, also, for Merry set up her own, and kept it so well
trimmed that it burned clear and bright, shining on the green arch of
ivy overhead, and on the nasturtium vines framing the old glass, and
peeping at their gay little faces, and at the pretty young girl, so
pleasantly that first her father came to read his paper by it, then her
mother slipped in to rest on the lounge in the corner, and finally the
boys hovered about the door as if the “settin'-room” had grown more
attractive than the kitchen.
But the open fire did more than anything else to win and hold them all,
as it seldom fails to do when the black demon of an airtight stove is
banished from the hearth. After the room was cleaned till it shone,
Merry begged to have the brass andirons put in, and offered to keep them
as bright as gold if her mother would consent. So the great logs were
kindled, and the flames went dancing up the chimney as if glad to be set
free from their prison. It changed the whole room like magic, and no
one could resist the desire to enjoy its cheery comfort. The farmer's
three-cornered leathern chair soon stood on one side, and mother's
rocker on the other, as they toasted their feet and dozed or chatted in
the pleasant warmth.
The boys' slippers were always ready on the hearth; and when the big
boots were once off, they naturally settled down about the table, where
the tall lamp, with its pretty shade of pressed autumn leaves, burned
brightly, and the books and papers lay ready to their hands instead of
being tucked out of sight in the closet. They were beginning to see
that “Merry's notions” had some sense in them, since they were made
comfortable, and good-naturedly took some pains to please her in various
ways. Tom brushed his hair and washed his hands nicely before he came
to table. Dick tried to lower his boisterous laughter, and Harry never
smoked in the sitting-room. Even Roxy expressed her pleasure in seeing
“things kind of spruced up,” and Merry's gentle treatment of the
hard-working drudge won her heart entirely.
The girl was thinking of these changes as she watered her flowers,
dusted the furniture, and laid the fire ready for kindling; and, when
all was done, she stood a minute to enjoy the pleasant room, full of
spring sunshine, fresh air, and exquisite order. It seemed to give her
heart for more distasteful labors, and she fell to work at the pies as
cheerfully as if she liked it.
Mrs. Grant was flying about the kitchen, getting the loaves of brown and
white bread ready for the big oven. Roxy's voice came up from the cellar
singing “Bounding Billows,” with a swashing and scrubbing accompaniment
which suggested that she was actually enjoying a “life on the ocean
wave.” Merry, in her neat cap and apron, stood smiling over her work
as she deftly rolled and clipped, filled and covered, finding a certain
sort of pleasure in doing it well, and adding interest to it by crimping
the crust, making pretty devices with strips of paste and star-shaped
prickings of the fork.
“Good-will giveth skill,” says the proverb, and even particular Mrs.
Grant was satisfied when she paused to examine the pastry with her
experienced eye.
“You are a handy child and a credit to your bringing up, though I do say
it. Those are as pretty pies as I'd wish to eat, if they bake well, and
there's no reason why they shouldn't.”
“May I make some tarts or rabbits of these bits? The boys like them,
and I enjoy modelling this sort of thing,” said Merry, who was trying to
mould a bird, as she had seen Ralph do with clay to amuse Jill while the
bust was going on.
“No, dear; there's no time for knick-knacks to-day. The beets ought to
be on this minute. Run and get 'em, and be sure you scrape the carrots
well.”
Poor Merry put away the delicate task she was just beginning to like,
and taking a pan went down cellar, wishing vegetables could be grown
without earth, for she hated to put her hands in dirty water. A word of
praise to Roxy made that grateful scrubber leave her work to poke about
in the root-cellar, choosing “sech as was pretty much of a muchness,
else they wouldn't bile even;” so Merry was spared that part of the
job, and went up to scrape and wash without complaint, since it was for
father. She was repaid at noon by the relish with which he enjoyed his
dinner, for Merry tried to make even a boiled dish pretty by arranging
the beets, carrots, turnips, and potatoes in contrasting colors, with
the beef hidden under the cabbage leaves.
“Now, I'll rest and read for an hour, then I'll rake my garden, or run
down town to see Molly and get some seeds,” she thought to herself, as
she put away the spoons and glasses, which she liked to wash, that they
might always be clear and bright.
“If you've done all your own mending, there's a heap of socks to be
looked over. Then I'll show you about darning the tablecloths. I do hate
to have a stitch of work left over till Monday,” said Mrs. Grant, who
never took naps, and prided herself on sitting down to her needle at 3
P.M. every day.
“Yes, mother;” and Merry went slowly upstairs, feeling that a part of
Saturday ought to be a holiday after books and work all the week. As she
braided up her hair, her eye fell upon the reflection of her own face
in the glass. Not a happy nor a pretty one just then, and Merry was so
unaccustomed to seeing any other, that involuntarily the frown smoothed
itself out, the eyes lost their weary look, the drooping lips curved
into a smile, and, leaning her elbows on the bureau, she shook her head
at herself, saying, half aloud, as she glanced at Ivanhoe lying near,--
“You needn't look so cross and ugly just because you can't have what you
want. Sweeping, baking, and darning are not so bad as being plagued
with lovers and carried off and burnt at the stake, so I won't envy poor
Rebecca her jewels and curls and romantic times, but make the best of my
own.”
Then she laughed, and the bright face came back into the mirror, looking
like an old friend, and Merry went on dressing with care, for she
took pleasure in her own little charms, and felt a sense of comfort in
knowing that she could always have one pretty thing to look at if she
kept her own face serene and sweet. It certainly looked so as it bent
over the pile of big socks half an hour later, and brightened with each
that was laid aside. Her mother saw it, and, guessing why such wistful
glances went from clock to window, kindly shortened the task of
table-cloth darning by doing a good bit herself, before putting it into
Merry's hands.
She was a good and loving mother in spite of her strict ways, and knew
that it was better for her romantic daughter to be learning all the
housewifery lessons she could teach her, than to be reading novels,
writing verses, or philandering about with her head full of girlish
fancies, quite innocent in themselves, but not the stuff to live on.
So she wisely taught the hands that preferred to pick flowers, trim up
rooms and mould birds, to work well with needle, broom, and rolling-pin;
put a receipt-book before the eyes that loved to laugh and weep over
tender tales, and kept the young head and heart safe and happy with
wholesome duties, useful studies, and such harmless pleasures as girls
should love, instead of letting them waste their freshness in vague
longings, idle dreams, and frivolous pastimes.
But it was often hard to thwart the docile child, and lately she had
seemed to be growing up so fast that her mother began to feel a new sort
of tenderness for this sweet daughter, who was almost ready to take
upon herself the cares, as well as triumphs and delights, of maidenhood.
Something in the droop of the brown head, and the quick motion of the
busy hand with a little burn on it, made it difficult for Mrs. Grant
to keep Merry at work that day, and her eye watched the clock almost as
impatiently as the girl's, for she liked to see the young face brighten
when the hour of release came.
“What next?” asked Merry, as the last stitch was set, and she stifled a
sigh on hearing the clock strike four, for the sun was getting low, and
the lovely afternoon going fast.
“One more job, if you are not too tired for it. I want the receipt for
diet drink Miss Dawes promised me; would you like to run down and get it
for me, dear?”
“Yes, mother!” and that answer was as blithe as a robin's chirp, for
that was just where Merry wanted to go.
Away went thimble and scissors, and in five minutes away went Merry,
skipping down the hill without a care in the world, for a happy heart
sat singing within, and everything seemed full of beauty.
She had a capital time with Molly, called on Jill, did her shopping in
the village, and had just turned to walk up the hill, when Ralph Evans
came tramping along behind her, looking so pleased and proud about
something that she could not help asking what it was, for they were
great friends, and Merry thought that to be an artist was the most
glorious career a man could choose.
“I know you've got some good news,” she said, looking up at him as he
touched his hat and fell into step with her, seeming more contented than
before.
“I have, and was just coming up to tell you, for I was sure you would be
glad. It is only a hope, a chance, but it is so splendid I feel as if I
must shout and dance, or fly over a fence or two, to let off steam.”
“Do tell me, quick; have you got an order?” asked Merry, full of
interest at once, for artistic vicissitudes were very romantic, and she
liked to hear about them.
“I may go abroad in the autumn.”
“Oh, how lovely!”
“Isn't it? David German is going to spend a year in Rome, to finish a
statue, and wants me to go along. Grandma is willing, as cousin Maria
wants her for a long visit, so everything looks promising and I really
think I may go.”
“Won't it cost a great deal?” asked Merry, who, in spite of her little
elegancies, had a good deal of her thrifty mother's common sense.
“Yes; and I've got to earn it. But I can--I know I can, for I've saved
some, and I shall work like ten beavers all summer. I won't borrow if
I can help it, but I know someone who would lend me five hundred if I
wanted it;” and Ralph looked as eager and secure as if the earning of
twice that sum was a mere trifle when all the longing of his life was
put into his daily tasks.
“I wish I had it to give you. It must be so splendid to feel that you
can do great things if you only have the chance. And to travel, and see
all the lovely pictures and statues, and people and places in Italy. How
happy you must be!” and Merry's eyes had the wistful look they always
wore when she dreamed dreams of the world she loved to live in.
“I am--so happy that I'm afraid it never will happen. If I do go, I'll
write and tell you all about the fine sights, and how I get on. Would
you like me to?” asked Ralph, beginning enthusiastically and ending
rather bashfully, for he admired Merry very much, and was not quite sure
how this proposal would be received.
“Indeed I should! I'd feel so grand to have letters from Paris and
Rome, and you'd have so much to tell it would be almost as good as going
myself,” she said, looking off into the daffodil sky, as they paused
a minute on the hill-top to get breath, for both had walked as fast as
they talked.
“And will you answer the letters?” asked Ralph, watching the innocent
face, which looked unusually kind and beautiful to him in that soft
light.
“Why, yes; I'd love to, only I shall not have anything interesting to
say. What can I write about?” and Merry smiled as she thought how dull
her letters would sound after the exciting details his would doubtless
give.
“Write about yourself, and all the rest of the people I know. Grandma
will be gone, and I shall want to hear how you get on.” Ralph looked
very anxious indeed to hear, and Merry promised she would tell all
about the other people, adding, as she turned from the evening peace and
loveliness to the house, whence came the clatter of milk-pans and the
smell of cooking,--
“I never should have anything very nice to tell about myself, for I
don't do interesting things as you do, and you wouldn't care to hear
about school, and sewing, and messing round at home.”
Merry gave a disdainful little sniff at the savory perfume of ham which
saluted them, and paused with her hand on the gate, as if she found it
pleasanter out there than in the house. Ralph seemed to agree with her,
for, leaning on the gate, he lingered to say, with real sympathy in his
tone and something else in his face, “Yes, I should; so you write and
tell me all about it. I didn't know you had any worries, for you always
seemed like one of the happiest people in the world, with so many to pet
and care for you, and plenty of money, and nothing very hard or hateful
to do. You'd think you were well off if you knew as much about poverty
and work and never getting what you want, as I do.”
“You bear your worries so well that nobody knows you have them. I ought
not to complain, and I won't, for I do have all I need. I'm so glad you
are going to get what you want at last;” and Merry held out her hand to
say good-night, with so much pleasure in her face that Ralph could not
make up his mind to go just yet.
“I shall have to scratch round in a lively way before I do get it, for
David says a fellow can't live on less than four or five hundred a year,
even living as poor artists have to, in garrets and on crusts. I don't
mind as long as Grandma is all right. She is away to-night, or I should
not be here,” he added, as if some excuse was necessary. Merry needed no
hint, for her tender heart was touched by the vision of her friend in
a garret, and she suddenly rejoiced that there was ham and eggs for
supper, so that he might be well fed once, at least, before he went away
to feed on artistic crusts.
“Being here, come in and spend the evening. The boys will like to hear
the news, and so will father. Do, now.”
It was impossible to refuse the invitation he had been longing for, and
in they went to the great delight of Roxy, who instantly retired to the
pantry, smiling significantly, and brought out the most elaborate pie in
honor of the occasion. Merry touched up the table, and put a little vase
of flowers in the middle to redeem the vulgarity of doughnuts. Of course
the boys upset it, but as there was company nothing was said, and Ralph
devoured his supper with the appetite of a hungry boy, while watching
Merry eat bread and cream out of an old-fashioned silver porringer, and
thinking it the sweetest sight he ever beheld.
Then the young people gathered about the table, full of the new plans,
and the elders listened as they rested after the week's work. A pleasant
evening, for they all liked Ralph, but as the parents watched Merry
sitting among the great lads like a little queen among her subjects,
half unconscious as yet of the power in her hands, they nodded to one
another, and then shook their heads as if they said,--
“I'm afraid the time is coming, mother.”
“No danger as long as she don't know it, father.”
At nine the boys went off to the barn, the farmer to wind up the
eight-day clock, and the housewife to see how the baked beans and Indian
pudding for to-morrow were getting on in the oven. Ralph took up his hat
to go, saying as he looked at the shade on the tall student lamp,--
“What a good light that gives! I can see it as I go home every night,
and it burns up here like a beacon. I always look for it, and it hardly
ever fails to be burning. Sort of cheers up the way, you know, when I'm
tired or low in my mind.”
“Then I'm very glad I got it. I liked the shape, but the boys laughed
at it as they did at my bulrushes in a ginger-jar over there. I'd been
reading about 'household art,' and I thought I'd try a little,” answered
Merry, laughing at her own whims.
“You've got a better sort of household art, I think, for you make people
happy and places pretty, without fussing over it. This room is ever so
much improved every time I come, though I hardly see what it is except
the flowers,” said Ralph, looking from the girl to the tall calla that
bent its white cup above her as if to pour its dew upon her head.
“Isn't that lovely? I tried to draw it--the shape was so graceful I
wanted to keep it. But I couldn't. Isn't it a pity such beautiful things
won't last forever?” and Merry looked regretfully at the half-faded one
that grew beside the fresh blossom.
“I can keep it for you. It would look well in plaster. May I?” asked
Ralph.
“Thank you, I should like that very much. Take the real one as a
model--please do; there are more coming, and this will brighten up your
room for a day or two.”
As she spoke, Merry cut the stem, and, adding two or three of the great
green leaves, put the handsome flower in his hand with so much good-will
that he felt as if he had received a very precious gift. Then he said
good-night so gratefully that Merry's hand quite tingled with the grasp
of his, and went away, often looking backward through the darkness to
where the light burned brightly on the hill-top--the beacon kindled by
an unconscious Hero for a young Leander swimming gallantly against wind
and tide toward the goal of his ambition.