LUTE CRADLEBOW KISSES THE TEACHER.
Wallencamp had its peculiar seasons. After the season of hulled corn,
came the reign of baked beans. It was during this latter dispensation
that my courage failed considerably.
Madeline used to remark, throwing a rare musical halo about her words:
"These beans are better than they look. Ain't they, teacher?"
And I was wont to reply conscientiously enough, though with a sweetly
wearied glance at the familiar dish; "Certainly, they do taste better
than they look."
Occasionally we had what Harvey Dole called, "squash on the shell," an
ingenious term for the last of the winter pumpkins boiled in halves, and
served _au naturel_.
Grandpa, too, pined and put away his food. He used to look across the
table at me, with a feeble appeal for sympathy in his expression.
Oftentimes he sighed deeply, and related anecdotes redolent of "red
salmon" and "deer flesh," "strawberries as big as teacups" and "peaches
as big as pint bowls," in places where he had sailed.
Once, he ventured to remark, apologetically, referring to the beans and
pumpkins, that "bein' sich a mild winter, somehow he didn't hanker arter
sech bracin' food, and he guessed he'd go over to Ware'am, and git some
pork."
"Wall, thar' now, pa!" said Grandma; "seems to me we'd ought ter consider
all the fruits o' God's bounty as good and relishin' in their season."
"I call that punkin out of season," said Grandpa, recklessly. "Strikes me
so."
"I was talkin' about fruits. I wasn't talkin' about punkins," said
Grandma, with derisive conclusiveness.
"Wall," said Grandpa, very much aroused, "if you call them tarnal white
beans the fruits of God, I don't!"
"Don't you consider that God made beans, pa?"
"No, I don't!"
"Who, then--" continued Grandma, in an awful tone--"do you consider made
beans, pa?"
Grandpa's eyes, as he glared at the dish, were large and round, and
significant of unspeakable things.
"Bijonah Keeler!" Grandma hastened to say; "my ears have heard enough!"
As for Grandma, neither her appetite, nor her spirits, flagged. In spite
of her confirmed habit of tantalizing Grandpa--and this was from no
malevolence of motive, but simply as the conscientious fulfilment of a
sacred religious and domestic duty--she was the most delightful soul I
ever knew.
At supper, it was a habit for her to sit at the table long after we had
finished our meal, and to continue eating and talking in her slow,
automatic, sublimely philosophical manner, until not a vestige of
anything eatable remained, and then as she rose, she would remark,
simply, with a glance at the denuded board:--
"It beats all, how near you guessed the vittles to-night, daughter!"
Then Grandma resorted to an occasional pastime, harmless and playful
enough in itself, yet intended as a special means of discipline for
Grandpa, and certainly, a source of great torment and anxiety to that
poor old man.
Between the hours of eight and nine P.M., Grandma would deftly glide out
of the family circle, and be seen no more that night. At bedtime, Grandpa
would begin the search, while Madeline and I ungenerously retired.
In the privacy of my own chamber, I could hear the old Captain tramping
desolately about the Ark, calling, "Ma! ma!" Could hear the outside door
swung open, and imagine Grandpa's wild face peering into the darkness,
while still he called; "Ma! ma! where be ye? It's half after ten!"
Then, from the foot of the stairs would arise his distressed, appealing
cry; "Come, ma, where be ye? It's half after ten!" Silence everywhere.
With a mighty groan, Grandpa would come shuffling up the steep stairs,
and what was most remarkable, Grandma was invariably found secluded amid
the rubbish in the old garret. Then the whisperings that arose between
those two would have pierced through denser substances by far than the
little red door which separated me from the scene.
"How'd I know, ma, but what you'd gone out and broke yer leg, or
somethin'? Come, ma--" with exasperated persuasiveness--"what do ye want
to pester me this way for?"
"Why, pa," arose the calm, mellifluous accents of Grandma Keeler, "so't
you might know how you'd feel if I should be took away!"
Next, the little staircase would resound with loud creaks and groans, as
this reunited couple cautiously--and I have no doubt that they believed
the whole affair had been conducted with the utmost secrecy--made their
way down in their stocking feet.
Grandma--Heaven bless her, always devoted, though original--never saw a
human ill that she did not long to alleviate. So, as Grandpa and I daily
refused our food, she affirmed, as her opinion, that the one need of our
deranged systems was a clarifier! And she forthwith prepared a mixture of
onions and molasses, with various bitter roots, which latter she, upon
her knees, had wrested from the frosty bosom of the earth in an arena
immediately adjoining the Ark. Thus I beheld her one wintry day, and
wondered greatly what she was at. When I came home from school at night,
through a strangely permeated atmosphere, I beheld the clarifier
simmering on the stove.
Grandpa already stood shivering over the fire. He smiled when I came in,
but it was a faint and deathly smile--the smile of one who has returned,
per force, to weak, defenceless infancy.
Grandma pressed me kindly to partake. I preferred to keep what ills I
had, rather than fly to others that I knew not of. So I gently and firmly
declined. But for several days in succession, Grandpa was made the victim
of this ghastly remedy.
His sufferings went beyond the power of mad expostulation to express, and
came nigh to produce upon his features the aspect of a saintly
resignation.
Never shall I forget his appearance during this clarifying period--his
occasional faint and fleeting attempts at wit--his usually hopeless and
world-weary air. The wonder to me was that he did not then enter upon a
celestial state of existence, being eminently fitted to go, as far as the
attenuation of his mortal frame was concerned. It was at this time that I
wrote home that I had never had such an appetite before in my life as now
in Wallencamp (which, in one sense, I felt to be perfectly true); that
the food was of a most remarkable variety (which I also felt to be true);
but that it was rather difficult to procure oranges and the like.
Whereupon, I received from home a large box, containing all manner of
pleasant fruits, and thus poor old Grandpa Keeler and I were enabled to
take a new lease of life.
I found that it was considered indispensable to the proper discharge of
my duties in Wallencamp that I should make frequent calls on the parents
of my flock, throughout the entire community. If I failed in any measure
in this respect, they reproached me with being "unsociable," and said;
"Seems to me you ain't very neighborly, teacher."
I had called myself a student of human nature. It seemed to me, now,
that in those dingy Wallencamp houses, I stood for the first time, awed
and delighted before the real article. Sometimes the men sent out great
volumes of smoke from their pipes, in the low rooms, that were not
delightful; but as far as they knew, they exerted themselves to the
utmost, men and women both, to make their homes pleasant and attractive
to me.
Godfrey Cradlebow's place was as small and poor as any. There was one
room that served as kitchen, dining-room, and parlor, with a
corresponding medley of furniture. A very finely chased gold watch hung
against the loose brown boards of the wall--a reminder of Godfrey
Cradlebow's youth. But what distinguished this house from all the others,
was the profusion of books it contained. There were books on the tables,
books under the tables, books piled up in the corner of the room.
Godfrey Cradlebow himself was confined in-doors much of the time with the
rheumatism. He made nets for the fishermen. I used to like to watch his
fingers moving deftly while he talked.
Things having gone wrong with him, and he having suffered much acute
physical pain, besides--(that was evident from the manner in which his
stalwart frame had been bent with his disease) he had "taken to drink,"
not excessively, but he seemed to be, most of the time, in a lightly
inebriated condition. He was a strange and fluent talker, often ecstatic.
"It is commonly believed, Miss Hungerford," he said to me, once; "that we
start on the summit of life, that we descend into the valley, that the
sun is westering; but as for me, I seem to look far below there on the
mists and dew of earlier years. I walk among the hills. The horizon
widens. The air grows thin. I see the solemn streaks of dawn appearing
through the gloom. Ah," he murmured, again; "weak and erring though I
undoubtedly am, I have a kinship with the living Christ. Yes, even such
kinship as human worthlessness may have with infinite perfection. People
will say to you about here, Miss Hungerford; 'Oh, never mind Godfrey
Cradlebow. He's always being converted, why, he has been converted twenty
times already!' very true, ay, and a hundred times, and I trust I shall
taste the sweets of conversion many times more before I die. I do not
believe the soul to be a barren tract, so far removed from the ocean of
God's love, that it may be washed by the waves only once in a lifetime,
and that, in case of some terrible flood. But I rejoice daily in the
sweet and natural return of the tide. How the shores wait for it! Strewn
with weeds and wreck, scorched by the sun, chilled by the night, how it
listens for the sound of its coming! until it rushes in--ah! roar after
roar--all-covering, all-hiding, all-embracing!"
Godfrey Cradlebow shook his head rapturously, tears rolled down his
cheeks, and all the while he went on rapidly with his netting.
He had the natural tact and grace of a gentleman, and was especially
courteous to his wife. This brought down upon him the derision of the
Wallencampers, whose conjugal relations were seldom more delicately
implied than by a reference--"my woman thar'!" or "my man over thar'!"
with an accompanying jerk of the thumb.
Lydia, Godfrey Cradlebow's wife, was tall and slight, with dark hair and
eyes--a perfect face, though worn and sad. She invariably wore over her
cotton gown, on occasions when she went out, a very fine, very thin
old-fashioned mantilla, bordered with a deep black fringe. This pathetic
remnant of gentility, borne rudely about by the Wallencamp winds, with
Lydia's refined face and melancholy dark eyes, gave her a very
interesting and picturesque appearance; though I never thought she wore
the mantilla during the winter for effect. She was shy, though
exceedingly gentle in her manners. At first, I had thought that she
avoided me. But one time, when making the round of my parochial calls, I
stopped at the Cradlebows', and Mr. Cradlebow discoursing fluently on the
Phenomenon, recommended a severe method of discipline as best adapted to
his case, I replied, laughingly, that he had better be cautious about
making any suggestions of that sort, for Simeon and I were getting to be
great friends; the mother, on whose heart I had had no design, took my
hand at the door, when I went away, in a clinging, almost an affectionate
way.
"You are good to my boys, teacher," she said; "and I thank you for it.
They make you a great deal of trouble."
"Oh, no," I answered lightly, returning with a sense of pleasure the
pressure of her hand, and it was not until afterwards, walking slowly
down the lane that I sighed gently, thinking of that troublesome boy who
had told me he was going to sea.
Removed from the world of newspapers, the ordinary active interest in the
affairs of church and state, there was a great deal of the lively gadding
about, neighborly dropping in element in Wallencamp. This applied to the
men equally as well as to the women. I remember that Abbie Ann once put
out her washing, and this fact kept the whole social element of
Wallencamp on the _qui vive_ for a number of days.
The caller would appear at the door at anytime during the day with a
good-natured matter-of-fact "I was a passin' by, and thought I'd drop in
a minit, jest to see how ye was gittin' along."
"Won't you set?" would be the cordial response. "Do set."
"Wall, I don't know how to spend the time anyway," the visitor
would reply; "there's so many things a drivin' on me."
But this care-belabored victim of fate usually concluded by sitting quite
complacently for any length of time.
When such visitations occurred out of school hours, and I remained up in
my room, as I frequently did at first, the droppers in felt very much
aggrieved, as though I had wittingly offended the instincts of good
society.
Besides all which, seldom an evening passed that the young people did not
come to the Ark _en masse_ to sing.
Then Madeline or Rebecca, or (very rarely) I propelled a strain of
doubtful melody from Madeline's little melodeon, while the singers--boys
and girls together--chimed in, joyfully rendering with a perfect
fearlessness of utterance and deep intensity of expression such songs as
"Go, bury thy sorrow, the world hath its share," and "Jesus, keep me near
the cross," and "Whiter than snow, yes, whiter than snow; now wash me,
and I shall be whiter than snow."
They knew no other songs. They would sing through a large proportion of
the Moody and Sankey Hymnal in a single evening.
At first I listened half amused or thoroughly wearied. But, as the
strains grew more familiar and I sang occasionally with the others, I
felt each day more tired and more conscious of my own incompetency. And
still the Words rang in my ears; "I hear the Saviour say, thy strength
indeed is small;" with much about trusting in Him, and his willingness to
bear it all. As the wind beat against the Ark on wild nights, so that we
could hardly tell which was the wind and which was the roar of the
maddened sea, and still those voices chanted hopefully of the "stormless
home beyond the river," etc., the words began to strike on something
deeper than my physical or intellectual sense, and that not rudely.
I smiled to catch myself humming them over often, and in the school-room,
when I felt that my patience was fast oozing, and I experienced a wild
desire to loose the reins and let all go, unconsciously I took refuge in
repeating those same simple words, going over with them, again and again,
beneath my breath, holding on to them as though they possessed some
unknown charm to keep me still and strong.
I went to the evening meetings. They were held in the school-house, and
were very popular in Wallencamp.
By some provision of the government on behalf of the Indians, a small
meeting-house had been built for those in the vicinity of Wallencamp, and
they were also provided with a minister for several months during the
year. On this account the Indians rather set themselves up above the
benighted Wallencampers, whom government had not endowed with the
privileges of the sanctuary, while they, in turn, made derisive allusions
to the "Nigger-camp" minister, and regarded with contempt its prescribed
means of grace.
The Indians enjoyed, for part of the time that I was in Wallencamp, the
ministrations of a Baptist clergyman, a truly earnest and intelligent
man, gifted with a most forceful manner of utterance, but so lean as to
present a phenomenal appearance. This good man feared nothing but that he
should fail in some part of the performance of his duty. He believed that
it was his duty to come over and preach to the Wallencampers also, in
their school-house, and he did so.
I think that the Wallencampers regarded this, on the whole, as a doubtful
though entertaining move.
I do not think that they took any particular pains to harass or annoy the
Rev. Mr. Rivers. But they certainly did not restrict themselves in that
natural freedom which they always enjoyed on the occasions of their
spiritual feasts.
They attended, as usual--the old and the young, the good, the bad, the
indifferent, with a lively sprinkling of babies.
Though not a cold night, they kept the stove gorged with fuel. It roared
furiously. They were restless. They made signs audibly expressive of the
fact that the air of the room was insufferably close, and very audibly
slammed up the windows. They whispered and giggled; they went out and
came in, as they pleased. They drank a great deal of water. I remember
particularly, how at the most earnest and affecting part of the Rev. Mr.
Rivers' discourse, the immortal Estella, _alias_ the "Modoc," arose in
gawky innocence and all good faith from her seat immediately in front of
the speaker, and walked to the back part of the room to regale herself
with a draught.
The Baptist minister discharged a withering and conscientious reproof at
them through his nose.
Now, for, the Wallencampers to be reproved, however scathingly, by some
zealous and inspired individual of their own number, was considered, on
the whole, as an apt and appropriate thing, but to be reproved by the
"Nigger-camp" minister! When, after the meeting he walked with the Keeler
family back to the Ark, where he had been hospitably entertained, the
Wallencamp boys saw us depart in silent wrath, and I feared that
Treachery lay in wait for the Rev. Mr. Rivers.
He sat and talked with us at the Ark for an hour or more, perhaps, before
bidding us good-night, and during that time I caught glimpses of faces
that appeared at the window, and then vanished again instantly--familiar
faces, expressive of much scornful merriment. Now and then I heard a
smothered giggle outside, and a scrambling among the bushes. It was a
dark night. When the Rev. Mr. Rivers finally rose to depart, and had got
as far as the gate, he became helplessly entangled in a perfect network
of small ropes. He could neither advance nor recede. In a pitiable and
ignominious condition, he called to us for help.
"Those devilish boys!" said Grandpa, with religious fervor of tone, at
the same time glancing at me with a delighted twinkle in his eye. "I knew
they was up to something. I heered 'em out there;" and he patiently lit
his lantern, and went out to cut the minister free; but the Rev. Mr.
Rivers did not come to the Wallencamp school-house to preach again.
Among those who looked on with quiet approval at this childish and
barbarous performance of the Wallencamp youth, I learned afterwards, were
staid Lovell Barlow and little Bachelor Lot.
Left to their own spiritual devices, the Wallencampers carried on their
evening meetings after methods formerly approved. They rose and
talked--or prayed--or diverted themselves socially--or sang. Everything
they were moved to do, they did.
The lame giant, Godfrey Cradlebow, at seasons when the tide came in,
would pour forth the utterances of his soul with the most earnest
eloquence. At other times, he was morbid and silent, or made skeptical
and sneering remarks aside.
Lovell Barlow, though generally regarded as a believer, had never so far
overcome his natural modesty and reserve as to address the Wallencamp
meeting. But one night, spurred to make the attempt by some of his
malicious and fun-loving compatriots, he surprised us all by rising with
a violent motion from his seat, and making a sudden plunge forward as
though his audience were a cold bath, and he had determined to wade in.
"Boys!" he began, with a most unnatural ferociousness. Then I felt
Lovell's eyes fixed on my face. "And girls, too," he added, more gently;
"and girls, too, certainly, _I_ think so;" he continued; "_I_ think so."
His tone became very feeble. He glanced about with a wild eye for his
hat, grasped it, and went out, and I saw him afterwards, through the
window, standing like a statue, in the moonlight, with his arms folded,
and with a perfectly cold and emotionless cast of countenance.
Among the professors, Godfrey Cradlebow's mother, Aunt Sibylla, with
quite as much fire and less delicacy of expression than characterized the
speech of the strange lame man, was always ready to warn, threaten, and
exhort.
Grandpa Keeler, too, though not subjected to the renovating and
rejuvenating processes of the Sabbath, but just touched up a little here
and there, enough to give him a slight "odor of sanctity," and a saving
sense of personal discomfort, was always led to the meeting, and kept
close by Grandma Keeler's side on the most prominent bench.
When there was one of those frightful pauses which sometimes occurred
even in the cheerful concourse of the Wallencampers, casting a depressing
influence over all hearts, Grandma Keeler by a series of covert pokes and
nudges, would signify to Grandpa that now was the appointed moment for
him to arise and let his light shine.
And Grandpa Keeler was not a timid man, but since the event of his
clarification, he had shown a stronger dislike than ever to being
pestered, and was abnormally quick to detect and resist any advances of
that kind. So his movements on these occasions were marked by an angry
deliberation, though the old sea-captain never failed in the end, to
arise and "hand in his testimony."
His remarks were (originally) clear cut and terse.
"There's no need o' my gittin' up. You all know how I stand" (an
admonitory nudge from Grandma)--"What's the matter now, ma?" I could hear
the old man swear, mentally, but he went on with the amendment--"or try
to. I'm afeered that even the best on us, at some time or nuther, have
been up to some devil"--(sly, but awfully emphatic nudge from Grandma)
"ahem! we're all born under a cuss!" persisted Grandpa, with irate
satisfaction. "I've steered through a good many oceans," he continued,
more softly, "but thar' ain't none so--misty--as this--a--" (portentous
nudge from Grandma,) "as this pesky ocean of Life! We've got to keep a
sharp look-out" (another nudge from Grandma), "ahem, steer clear of the
rocks," (persistent nudges from Grandma), "ahem! ahem! trust in God
Almighty!" admitted Grandpa with telling force, and sat down.
As for Grandma, she was herself always prompt and faithful in the
discharge of duty, however trying the circumstances. She was no
hypocrite, this dear old soul! She could not have feigned sentiments
which she did not feel, yet it was invariably the case that, as she rose
in meeting, her usually cheerful face became in the highest degree
tearful and lugubrious. The thought of so many precious souls drifting
toward destruction filled her tender heart with woe. She besought them
in the gentlest and most persuasive terms to "turn to Jesus." She dwelt
long upon His love, standing always with hands reverently clasped before
her, and eyes downcast with awe.
I used to long to hear her speak. The sound of that low, tender monotone
was in itself inexpressibly soothing. But Grandma's tongue had its mild
edge, as well.
Once, when she was speaking, a number of the young people--it was a
common occurrence--rose to go out.
Grandma went on talking without raising either her voice or her eyes; but
when they had reached the door, "What--" said she, in that tone which,
though so mild, somehow unaccountably arrested their progress;
"what--poor, wanderin' creeturs--if your understandin's should give out!"
meaning, what if you should suddenly be deprived of the use of your legs!
"Have you never heered," she continued; "the story of Antynias and
Sapf_i_ry?"
But she did not recount the tale. If possible, she would rather use words
of love than of malediction.
I shall never forget the faithful manner in which she narrated Abraham's
intercession with the Lord for Sodom and Gomorrah.
"And Abraham said to the Lord, 'Periodventure there be fifty righteous
found,' he said; 'willest thou destroy the city, and them in it? Oh, no!
that ain't like the Lord,' he says; 'for to slay the righteous and the
wicked together--fur be it.' And the Lord says; 'No. If I find fifty
righteous I'll spare all the rest,' he says, 'on account o' them fifty,'
he says, and Abraham says, 'O Lord, now I've begun,' he says, 'and you
don't seem so very much put out with me as I expected, I've a good mind
to keep on askin' ye a little more, jest to see what ye'll say,' he says;
'O Lord, periodventure what if there shouldn't be but forty-five?' he
says."
Grandma went through the list of "periodventures," depicting Abraham's
growing fear and obsequiousness in the most tragic manner until she got
to the hypothetical ten.
"And Abraham said; 'O Lord, I know you won't like it this time, but I've
gone so fur now, that I'm going to out with't; and don't--don't git put
out, O Lord! and I won't put it one mite lower. Periodventure, O Lord,
what if there shouldn't be but ten?' and the Lord said, 'If there wasn't
but ten, he wouldn't destroy them wicked cities.' Now," continued
Grandma, with tearful impressiveness, "if Abraham had even a ventured to
put it down one five more, what more chance do you think there'd be for
us here in Wallencamp?"
After the meeting, Captain Sartell and Bachelor Lot held their usual
theological levee, outside the school-house.
"Wall, Bachelder," said the captain, who always took the initiative with
extreme recklessness; "if it was a goin' to take ten to clear Sodom and
Germorrer, how many righteous men do you calkalate it 'ud take ter lift
the mortgage off'n this ere peninsheler, eh?"
Bachelor Lot was unusually thoughtful.
"Heh!" said he, in his thin drawl. "The Lord knew he was seafe
enough--knew he'd a been seafe enough if he'd a said tew; knew he'd a
been seafe enough if he'd a said eone, for there's his own statement to
the effect--heh!--that there wasn't a righteous man eanywhere, no, not
eone."
"Not much leeway, that's a fact, Bachelder," said Captain Sartell, who
had an embarrassed way, particularly when discussing subjects of a
religious nature, of twisting his powerful blonde head about, and
swallowing very hard. "D----d little leeway, I must confess,--wall--all
the same for you and me, Bachelder."
Bachelor Lot smiled a little.
"Heh! What was it about that couple, Almiry (Grandma Keeler) was tellin'
about--Antynias and Sapfiry--heh, Captain? What streuck 'em eany way? It
wasn't because they went out o' meetin', was it? I think it would be a
satisfaction to the company, Captain, if you would relate the
circumstance."
The brave and honest captain craned his neck about with several hard
gulps.
"Wall, to tell the truth, Bachelder, I ain't quite so well posted with
the Old Testament as I be with the New, but," he continued, resolutely,
"if it would be any favor to the company--as near as I calkalate, this
ere Antynias heered that the Lord was a goin' by, and, as near as I
calkalate, he clim' up in a tree to see him pass." The captain writhed
fearfully, but did not flinch, "And, as near as I calkalate, he got on to
a rotten limb, and it let him down. That is," he remarked, with
concluding agony, "as near as I calkalate."
"Heh! yees, much obleeged, I'm sure," said Bachelor Lot. "I, heh! I
recall the anecdote now, perfectly, but wheere--wheere was Sapf_i_ry?"
"Wall," the captain gave a gulp that actually brought the tears to his
eyes; "as near as I calkalate, Sapf_i_ry was under the limb."
"Certainly," said Bachelor Lot; "certainly! and a veery unfortunate
poseetion for Sapf_i_ry it was, too. I weesh you would be so kind as to
eenform the company in what part of the Sacred Writ this little anecdote
is recorded, Captain, as I for one should very much leike to look it up."
Captain Sartell took a determined step forward. "Look y' here,
Bachelder," said he; "I don't want no hard words betwixt you and me, for
there never has been. But a man's word is a man's word, and a man's
friends had ought to stick by it, and I want you to understand that, on
this ere point, I ain't agoin' to have no lookin' up."
"Heh!" Bachelor Lot smiled and nodded his head, cheerfully. "I'd be
willing to waeger my life, Captain, that if anybody's made a mistake on
this point--heh--it ain't you." And with this amicable conclusion, the
two stars withdrew.
George Olver sometimes rose in meeting and made a few remarks indicative
of a manly spirit and much sound common sense. He was very fond of
Rebecca, that was plain. Her continued indifference to him made him sore
at heart, and the people in Wallencamp suggested that on this account he
was more serious than he would otherwise have been.
As for Rebecca, they said she had given up "seekin' religion," and had
returned to the world. She did not rise for prayers any more, and she did
not "lead the singin'" any more. And it was true that she seemed to me to
have changed, somehow. I knew that she was as girlishly devoted to me as
ever, as thoughtful as ever to please me. One Saturday morning, knowing
that I had letters in the West Wallen Post Office, which I was anxious to
get before Sunday, she walked the whole distance alone to get them, and
sent them up to me by one of the school children, so that I should not
know who went after them. She was careful lest I should notice any change
in her. But I caught a reckless, mocking gleam in her eyes, at times,
that had never shone there when I knew her first. She associated more
with the "other girls," now. I heard her talking and laughing with them
in as loud and careless a tone as their own. She even whispered and
laughed in the evening meetings. And this, after all the earnest, serious
discourse I had had with her, the "refining," "elevating" influences I
had tried to throw around her, having first taken her so graciously under
my wing! She knew what belonged to agreeable manners, and the advantage
of paying a graceful obedience to the dictates of one's moral sense!
Something must be very innately wrong in Rebecca, I thought, something I
Had not hitherto suspected, else why should she fail in any degree under
so admirable a method!
"My dear," I said to her: "I am often tempted to do wrong--especially
because my life has been hitherto so vain and thoughtless--but, having
resolved to struggle with temptation, and to repel my own selfish
inclinations, I will not be content until I come off conqueror; I will
not fall out or loiter by the way; I have trials and perplexities, but I
will not submit to them, nor be driven from my purpose. Now, are you
struggling to resist the little temptations that come to you day by day?
Are you striving to make the very best of yourself, Becky?"
I knew how easily I could move Rebecca, either to laughter or tears, so I
was not surprised to see her lip tremble, and her eyes fill; but I was
surprised at the look of intense anguish, almost of horror, that came
into her face. I had not supposed that she was capable of such strong
emotion, and I marvelled greatly, what could be the cause.
"Oh," she said; "you don't know, teacher, you don't know! It never seemed
so bad before I knew you. I was different brought up from you, and I
loved you, and when I knew, oh, then I could die, but I couldn't tell
you! Oh, you wouldn't kiss me again, ever, if you knew; and I wish you
wouldn't, for it hurts, it hurts worse than if you didn't!"
Rebecca had turned very pale, and drew her breath in long gasping sobs.
"Baby!" I said reassuringly, stroking her hair; "I don't believe you have
done anything very wrong." But Rebecca drew away from me.
"You don't know," she said. "I was brought up different--and it was
before you came, and I never knew that, what you told me about not
trusting people. I thought it was all true, and oh!--there ain't anybody
to help! Oh, I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!"
"Rebecca," I said, a little frightened, and convinced that the girl had
some serious trouble at heart. "Tell me what the trouble is? Has any one
deceived you? And why should any one wish to deceive you, child?"
Rebecca only moaned and shook her head.
"But you must tell me," I said; "I can't help you unless you do."
She drew herself farther away from me, with only these convulsive sobs
for a reply. I did not attempt to get nearer to her, to comfort her as it
had been my first impulse to do. She had repulsed me once. "You are
nervous and excited, my dear," I decided to say; "and something of little
consequence, probably, looks like a mountain of difficulty to you. At any
rate, when you get ready to confide in me, you must come to me. I shall
not question you again."
So I left her, less with a feeling of commiseration for her than with a
deep sense of my own pressing burdens and responsibilities.
I had another ex-pupil (Rebecca had been out of school for several
weeks), who was a source of considerable anxiety to me--Luther Larkin. He
had ceased coming to the Ark to sing with the others. He had not played
on his violin since that first night when the string broke.
I heard that he had gone to New Bedford; and it was a day or two
afterwards that, coming out of the school-house after the meeting, I saw
him standing on the steps alone. I knew that an escort from among the
Wallencamp youths was close behind me. I hastened to put my hand on
Luther's arm.
"Will you walk home with me?" I said, looking up in his face and smiling.
I knew that the face lifted to his then was a beautiful one, that the
hand resting on his arm was small and daintily gloved, unlike the bare
coarse hands of the Wallencampers. I knew that my dress had an air and a
grace also foreign to Wallencamp, that a delicate perfume went up from my
garments, that my voice was more than usually winning. I experienced a
dangerous sense of satisfaction in the conquest of this unsophisticated
youth--a conquest not wholly without its retributive pain and
intoxication.
I felt the Cradlebow's arm tremble as we walked up the lane.
"I have a little private lecture to give you, Luther," I said. "Of course
you have been very much absorbed in your own affairs lately, but is that
an excuse for forsaking your old friends entirely? Especially if you are
going away. Are you going away?"
"Yes," said Luther.
"When?" I asked.
"In April," he answered briefly.
[Illustration: GRANDMA KEELER INTRODUCES THE NEW TEACHER.
Scene from the Play.]
"And weren't you ever coming to see me, again?" I murmured with designing
soft reproach.
"I was coming up by and by, to say good-bye," said Luther, brokenly.
"Only for that?" I questioned, and sighed with a perfect abandonment of
rectitude and good faith to the selfish gratification of that moment.
"What else should I come up for?" he exclaimed, breaking out into sudden
passion. "Except to tell you what you don't want to hear; that I love
you, teacher, I love you."
"Oh, hush!" I cried with a little accent of unaffected pain. "It isn't
right for me to let you talk to me in that way, Luther. Oh, don't you
see? you're nothing but a boy to me!"
"That's a lie!" the boy replied, with face and eyes aflame. "And because
I am poor, and because I am more ignorant than you, you make it an excuse
to trifle with me--and you look only to the outside, but you know I have
lived as long as you--a boy's head, you mean," he went on with choking,
fiery bitterness. "And it may be, and you are very kind, God knows! But I
can tell you one thing, teacher, it isn't a boy's heart for you to put
your foot on!"
It was not a boy's strength in the quivering frame and tense, drawn
muscles. In his rare passions I admired Lute Cradlebow.
The greater meekness and patience which always followed, I attributed to
a lack of perseverance or a too easy abandonment of purpose.
"I hope you will be very happy all your life through, teacher;" he said,
as we stood at the door of the Ark; and he spoke very gently, and as
though he was going away then forever. Madeline had the key; she and her
companions had lingered at the school-house, as usual, after the meeting.
I murmured something about being very happy to have such a kind, true
friend; that I should probably leave Wallencamp before he went to sea,
but I hoped he would write me about his wanderings over the world, and I
should always be happy to answer and give him my sisterly advice.
Luther continued, thoughtfully, almost smiling:--
"You remember that night, teacher, ever so long ago it seems, before I
knew you, when the boys dragged me into the Ark and I kissed you? I've
always kissed the girls when they come home from anywhere, and I never
thought, you know. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Yes," I said. I think I must have looked amused. Luther answered the
laugh in my eyes with quiet appreciation.
"Well, teacher," he said; "I should like to kiss you just once to-night,
and mean it."
"That's a remarkable request," I said; "to come from my oldest pupil; but
it is my privilege to bestow, just once. If you will bend down from your
commanding height, and put yourself in an humble and submissive attitude
before me."
The Cradlebow knelt on the doorstep. I would have stooped to his
forehead, but he put up his arm with an extremely boyish, inoffensive
gesture, almost with a sob, I thought, to draw me closer.
I would have had that kiss as passionless as though it had been given to
a child. The Cradlebow's breath was pure upon my cheek--but I was
compelled to feel the answering flame creep slowly in my own blood.
"Never ask me to do that again!" I exclaimed, in righteous exculpation of
the act. "Never!"