declared herself ready to bet that Miss Peace would not eat a single
one of the sponge-drops, and Jenny had vowed she should. But would she
or would she not, before ten minutes were over she had promised to
leave the sponge-drops at the Pinchers' door as she went by, for
little Geneva. There was no resisting Miss Peace, Tudie was right; but
suddenly a bright idea struck Jenny, just as she was putting on her
hat and preparing to depart. Seizing one of the sponge-drops, she
broke off a bit, and fairly popped it into Miss Peace's mouth, as the
good lady was going to speak. "It's broke, now," she cried, in high
glee, "it's broke in two, and you can't give it to nobody. Set right
down, Miss Peace, and let me feed you, same as I do my canary bird."
She pushed the little dressmaker into a chair, and the bits followed
each other in such quick succession that Miss Peace could make no
protest beyond a smothered, "Oh, don't ye, dear; now don't! that's
enough!--my stars, Jenny, what do you think my mouth's made of?"
(Crunch!) "There, dear, there! It is real good--oh, dear! not so fast.
I _shall_ choke! Tell Tudie--no, dearie, not another morsel!"
(Crunch.) "Well, Jenny Miller, I didn't think you would act so, now I
didn't."
The sponge-cake was eaten, and Jenny, with a triumphant kiss on the
little rosy, withered-apple cheek, popped her head in at the parlour
door to cry, "Good day, Mis' Means!" and flew laughing away with her
victory and her cakes.
"Well, Anne Peace," was Mrs. Means's greeting, as her hostess came
back, looking flushed and guilty, and wiping her lips on her apron,
"how you can stand havin' that Miller girl round here passes me. She'd
be the death of me, I know that; but it's lucky other folks ain't so
feelin' as I am, I always say. Of all the forward, up-standin' tykes
ever I see--but there! it ain't to be supposed anybody cares whether
I'm sassed or whether I ain't."
Saturday was bright and fair, and Anne Peace stood at the window with
a beaming smile, watching the girls troop by on their way to the
picnic. She had moved Mrs. Means's sofa out of the corner, so that she
could see, too, and there was a face at each window. Miss Peace was a
little plump, partridge-like woman, with lovely waving brown hair, and
twinkling brown eyes. She had never been a beauty, but people always
liked to look at her, and the young people declared she grew prettier
every year. Mrs. Means was tall and weedy, with a figure that used to
be called willowy, and was now admitted to be lank; her once fair
complexion had faded into sallowness, and her light hair had been
frizzed till there was little left of it. Her eyebrows had gone up,
and the corners of her mouth had gone down, so that her general effect
was depressing in the extreme.
"There go Tudie and Jenny!" cried Miss Peace, in delight. "If they
ain't a pretty pair, then I never saw one, that's all. Jenny's dress
doos set pretty, if I do say it; and after all, it's her in it that
makes it look so well. There comes the minister, Delia. Now I'm glad
the roses are out so early. He doos so love roses, Mr. Goodnow does.
And the honeysuckle is really a sight. Why, this is the first time you
have fairly seen the garden, Delia, since you came. Isn't it looking
pretty?"
"I never did see how you could have your garden right close 't onto
the street that way, Anne," was the reply. "Everybody 't comes by
stoppin' and starin', and pokin' their noses through the fence. Look
at them boys, now! why, if they ain't smellin' at the roses, the
boldfaced brats. Knock at the winder, Anne, and tell 'em to git out.
Shoo! be off with you!" She shook her fist at the window, but,
fortunately, could not reach it.
"Hi-hi!" said Anne Peace. "You don't mean that, Delia. What's roses
for but to smell? I do count it a privilege, to have folks take
pleasure in my garden." She threw up the window, and nodded pleasantly
to the children. "Take a rose, sonny, if you like 'em," she said.
"Take two or three, there's enough for all. Whose little boys are
you?" she added, as the children, in wondering delight, timidly broke
off a blossom or two. "Mis' Green's, over to the Corners! Now I want
to know! have you grown so 't I didn't know you? and how's your
mother? Jest wait half a minute, and I'll send her a little posy.
There's some other things besides roses, perhaps she'd like to have a
few of."
She darted out, and filled the boys' hands with pinks and mignonette,
pansies and geraniums.
It was not a large garden, this of Anne Peace's, but every inch of
space was made the most of. The little square and oblong beds lay
close to the fence, and from tulip-time to the coming of frost they
were ablaze with flowers. Nothing was allowed to straggle, or to take
up more than its share of room. The roses were tied firmly to their
neat green stakes; the crown-imperials nodded over a spot of ground
barely large enough to hold their magnificence; while the phlox and
sweet-william actually had to fight for their standing-room.
It was a pleasant sight, at all odd times of the day, to see Miss
Peace bending over her flowers, snipping off dead leaves, pruning, and
tending, all with loving care.
Many flower-lovers are shy of plucking their favourites, and I recall
one rose-fancier, whose gifts, like those of the Greeks, were dreaded
by his neighbours, as the petals were always ready to drop before he
could make up his mind to cut one of the precious blossoms; but this
was not the case with Anne Peace. Dozens of shallow baskets hung in
her neat back entry, and they were filled and sent, filled and sent,
all summer long, till one would have thought they might almost find
their way about alone. It is a positive fact that her baskets were
always brought back, "a thing imagination boggles at;" but perhaps
this was because the neighbours liked them better full than empty.
"Makin' flowers so cheap," Mrs. Means would say, "seems to take the
wuth of 'em away, to my mind; but I'm too feelin', I know that well
enough. Anne, she's kind o' callous, and she don't think of things
that make me squinch, seem's though."
Weeks passed on, the broken leg was healed, and Mrs. Means departed to
her own house. "I s'pose you'll miss me, Anne," she said, at parting,
"I shall you; and you have ben good to me, if 't _has_ ben kind o'
dull here, so few comin' and goin'." (Miss Peace's was generally the
favourite resort of all the young people of the village, and half the
old ones, but the "neighbouring" had dropped off, since Mrs. Means
had been there.) "Good-by, Anne, and thank you for all you've done. I
feel to be glad I've been company for you, livin' alone as you do,
with no husband nor nothin' belongin' to you."
"Good-by, Delia," replied Anne Peace, cheerfully. "Don't you fret
about me. I'm used to being alone, you know; and it's been a
privilege, I'm sure, to do what I could for you, so long as we've been
acquainted. My love to David, and don't forget to give him the syrup I
put in the bottom of your trunk for him."
"'Twon't do him any good!" cried Mrs. Means, as the wagon drove away,
turning her head to shout back at her hostess. "He's bound to die,
David is. He'll never see another spring, I tell him, and then I shall
be left a widder, with four children and--"
"Oh, gerlang! gerlang, _up_!" shouted Calvin Parks, the stage-driver,
whose stock of patience was small; the horse started, and Mrs. Means's
wails died away in the distance.
In this instance the predictions of the doleful lady seemed likely to
be verified; for David Means continued to "fail up." Always a slight
man, he was now mere skin and bone, and his cheerful smile grew
pathetic to see. He was a distant cousin of Anne Peace's, and had
something of her placid disposition; a mild, serene man, bearing his
troubles in silence, finding his happiness in the children whom he
loved almost passionately. He had married Delia Case because she was
pretty, and because she wanted to marry him; had never known, and
would never know, that he might have had a very different kind of
wife. Perhaps Anne Peace hardly knew herself that David had been the
romance of her life, so quickly had the thought been put away, so
earnestly had she hoped for his happiness; but she admitted frankly
that she "set by him," and she was devoted to his children.
"Can nothing be done?" she asked the good doctor one day, as they came
away together from David's house, leaving Delia shaking her head from
the doorsteps. "Can nothing be done, doctor? it doos seem as if I
couldn't bear to see David fade away so, and not try anything to stop
it."
Doctor Brown shook his head thoughtfully. "I doubt if there's much
chance for him, Anne," he said kindly. "David is a good fellow, and if
I saw any way--it might be possible, if he could be got off to Florida
before cold weather comes on--there is a chance; but I don't suppose
it could be managed. He has no means, poor fellow, save what he
carries in his name."
"Florida?" said Anne Peace, thoughtfully; and then she straightway
forgot the doctor's existence, and hurried off along the street, with
head bent and eyes which saw nothing they rested on.
Reaching her home, where all the flowers smiled a bright welcome,
unnoticed for once, her first action was to take out of a drawer a
little blue book, full of figures, which she studied with ardour. Then
she took a clean sheet of paper, and wrote certain words at the top of
it; then she got out her best bonnet.
Something very serious was on hand when Miss Peace put on her best
bonnet. She had only had it four years, and regarded it still as a
sacred object, to be taken out on Sundays and reverently looked at,
then put back in its box, and thought about while she tied the strings
of the ten-year-old velvet structure, which was quite as good as new.
Two weddings had seen the best bonnet in its grandeur, and three
funerals; but no bells, either solemn or joyous, summoned her to-day,
as she gravely placed the precious bonnet on her head, and surveyed
her image with awestruck approval in the small mirror over the
mantelpiece.
"It's _dreadful_ handsome!" said Miss Peace, softly. "It's too
handsome for me, a great sight, but I want to look my best now, if
ever I did."
It was at Judge Ransom's door that she rang first; a timid, apologetic
ring, as if she knew in advance how busy the judge would be, and how
wrong it was of her to intrude on his precious time. But the judge
himself opened the door, and was not at all busy, but delighted to
have a chance to chat with his old friend, whom he had not seen for a
month of Sundays. He made her come in, and put her in the biggest
armchair (which swallowed her up so that hardly more than the bonnet
was visible), and drew a footstool before her little feet, which
dangled helplessly above it; then he took his seat opposite, in
another big chair, and said it was a fine day, and then waited, seeing
that she had something of importance to say.
Miss Peace's breath came short and quick, and she fingered her
reticule nervously. She had not thought it would be quite so dreadful
as this. "Judge," she said--and paused, frightened at the sound of her
voice, which seemed to echo in a ghostly manner through the big room.
"Well, Miss Peace!" said the judge, kindly. "Well, Anne, what is it?
How can I serve you? Speak up, like a good girl. Make believe we are
back in the little red schoolhouse again, and you are prompting me in
my arithmetic lesson."
Anne Peace laughed and coloured. "You're real kind, judge," she said.
"I wanted--'twas only a little matter"--she stopped to clear her
throat, feeling the painful red creep up her cheeks, and over her
brow, and into her very eyes, it seemed; then she thought of David,
and straightway she found courage, and lifted her eyes and spoke out
bravely. "David Means, you know, judge; he is failing right along, and
it doos seem as if he couldn't last the winter. But Doctor Brown
thinks that if he should go to Florida, it might be so 't he could be
spared. So--David hasn't means himself, of course, what with his poor
health and his large family, and some thought that if we could raise a
subscription right here, among the folks that has always known David,
it might be so 't he could go. What do you think, judge?"
The judge nodded his head, thoughtfully.
"I don't see why it couldn't be done, Miss Peace," he said, kindly.
"David is a good fellow, and has friends wherever he is known; I
should think it might very well be done, if the right person takes it
up."
"I--I've had no great experience," faltered Anne Peace, looking down,
"but I'm kin to David, you know, and as he has no one nearer living, I
took it upon myself to carry round a paper and see what I could raise.
I came to you first, judge, as you've always been a good friend to
David. I've got twenty-five dollars already--"
"I thought you said you came to me first," said the judge, holding out
his hand for the paper. "What's this? A friend, twenty-five dollars?"
"Yes," said Anne Peace, breathlessly. "They--they didn't wish their
name mentioned--"
"Oh, they didn't, didn't they?" muttered the judge, looking at her
over his spectacles. Such a helpless look met his--the look of
hopeless innocence trying to deceive and knowing that it was not
succeeding--that a sudden dimness came into his own eyes, and he was
fain to take off his spectacles and wipe them, just as if he had been
looking through them. And through the mist he seemed to see--not Miss
Anne Peace, in her best bonnet and her cashmere shawl, but another
Anne Peace, a little, brown-eyed, slender maiden, sitting on a brown
bench, looking on with rapture while David Means ate her luncheon.
It was the judge's turn to clear his throat.
"Well, Anne," he said, keeping his eyes on the paper, "this--this
unknown friend has set a good example, and I don't see that I can do
less than follow it. You may put my name down for twenty-five, too."
"Oh, judge," cried Miss Peace, with shining eyes. "You are too good. I
didn't expect, I'm sure--well, you _are_ kind!"
"Not at all! not at all!" said the judge, gruffly (and indeed,
twenty-five dollars was not so much to him as it was to "them," who
had made the first contribution).
"You know I owe David Means something, for licking him when he--"
"Oh, don't, Dan'el--judge, I should say," cried Anne Peace, in
confusion. "Don't you be raking up old times. I'm sure I thank you a
thousand times, and so will Delia, when she--"
"No, she won't," said the judge. "Tell the truth, Anne Peace! Delia
will say I might have given fifty and never missed it. There! I won't
distress you, my dear. Good day, and all good luck to you!" and so
ended Miss Peace's first call.
With such a beginning, there was no doubt of the success of the
subscription. Generally, in Cyrus, people waited to see what Judge
Ransom and Lawyer Peters gave to any charity, before making their own
contribution. "Jedge Ransom has put down five dollars, has he? Well
he's wuth so much, and I'm wuth so much. Guess fifty cents will be
about the right figger for me:" this is the course of reasoning in
Cyrus. But with an unknown friend starting off with twenty-five
dollars and Judge Ransom following suit, it became apparent to every
one that David Means must go to Florida, whatever happened. The dollar
and five-dollar subscriptions poured in rapidly, till, one happy day,
Anne Peace stood in her little room and counted the full amount out on
the table, and then sat down (it was not her habit to kneel, and she
would have thought it too familiar, if not actually popish) and
thanked God as she had never found it necessary to thank Him for any
of the good things of her own life.
So David Means went to Florida, and his wife and two children went
with him. This had been no part of the original plan, but at the bare
idea of his going without her, Mrs. Means had raised a shrill cry of
protest. "What? David go down there, and she and the children stay
perishing at home? she guessed not. If Florida was good for David, it
was good for her, too, and she laid up ever sence spring, as she might
say, and with no more outing than a woodchuck in January. Besides, who
was to take care of David, she'd like to know? Mis' Porter's folks,
who had a place there? She'd like to know if she was to be beholden to
Jane Porter's folks for taking care of her lawful husband, and like
enough laying him out, for she wasn't one to blind herself, nor yet to
set herself against the will of Providence." Doctor Brown stormed and
fumed, but Anne Peace begged him to be quiet, and "presumed likely"
she could raise enough to cover the expenses for Delia and the two
older children. 'Twas right and proper, of course, that his wife
should go with him, and David wouldn't have any pleasure in the trip
if he hadn't little Janey and Willy along. He did set so by those
children, it was a privilege to see them together; he was always one
to make of children, David was.
She did raise the extra money, this sweet saint, but she ate no meat
for a month, finding it better for her health. Joey and Georgie Means,
however, never wanted for their bit of steak at noon, and grew fat and
rosy under Miss Peace's kindly roof.
It was a pathetic sight when the sick man took leave of the little
group of friends and neighbours that gathered on the platform at the
station to bid him farewell. He had lost courage, poor David; perhaps
he had not very much to start with, and things had gone hard with him
for a long time. He knew he should never see these faces again, this
homely, friendly place. He gazed about with wistful eyes, noting every
spot in the bare little station. He had known it all by heart, ever
since he was a child, for his father had been station-master. He could
have built the whole thing over, with his eyes shut, he thought, and
now he should never see it again. Yet he was glad to go, in a way,
glad to think, at least, that he should die warm, as his wife
expressed it, and that his tired eyes were going to look on green and
blossoming things, instead of the cold, white beauty which meant
winter to him.
He had scarcely ever left Cyrus for more than a day or two; he had a
vague idea that it was not creditable to go to the other world, and be
able to give so little account of this one. Now, at least, he should
be able to look his seafaring grandfather and his roving uncle in the
face, if so be he should happen to meet them "over yender."
He stood on the platform with his youngest child clasped close in his
arms. This was the hardest part of all, to leave the children. His
wife and the two older children had already taken their places in the
car, and the good-natured conductor stood with his watch in his hand,
willing to give David every second he conscientiously could. He came
from East Cyrus himself, and was a family man.
Anne Peace stood close by, holding fast the hand of little Joey.
Strange sounds were in her ears, which she did not recognize as the
beating of her own heart; she kept looking over her shoulder, to see
what was coming. Her eyes never left David's face, but they were
hopeful, even cheerful eyes. She thought he would come back much
better, perhaps quite well. Doctor had said there was a chance, and
she did hear great things of Florida.
And now the conductor put up his watch and hardened his heart. "Come,
David, better step inside now. All aboard!"
"Good-by, David!" cried Doctor Brown, waving a friendly hand.
"Good-by, David!" cried Anne Peace, lifting little Joey in her arms,
though he was far too heavy for her.
"Look at father, Joey dear, throw a kiss to father; good-by, good-by,
David!" The train moved out of the station, but David Means, his eyes
fixed on the faces of his children, had forgotten to look at Anne
Peace.
Winter came, and a bitter winter it was. No one in Cyrus could
remember such steady cold, since the great winter of sixty years ago,
when the doctor's grandfather was frozen to death, driving across the
plains to visit a poor woman. The horse went straight to the place,
his head being turned that way and his understanding being good; but
when the farmer came out with his lantern, there sat the old doctor
stiff and dead in his sleigh. Those were the days when people, even
doctors, had not learned how to wrap up, and would drive about all
winter with high, stiff hats and one buffalo robe, not tucked in, as
we have them nowadays, but dropping down at their feet. There was
small chance of our Doctor Brown's freezing to death, in his
well-lined sleigh, with his fur cap pulled down over his nose and his
fur coat buttoned up to his chin and the great robes tucked round him
in a scientific manner. Still, for all that, it was a bitter winter,
and a good many people in Cyrus and elsewhere, who had no fur coats,
went cold by day and lay cold by night, as one good lady pathetically
expressed it. There was little snow, and what there was fell in
wonderful crystals, fairy studies in geometry, which delighted the
eyes of Joey and Georgie Means, as they trotted to school, with Miss
Peace's "nuby" over one little head and her shawl over the other.
Every morning the sun rose in a clear sky, shining like steel; every
evening the same sky glowed with wonderful tints of amethyst and
tender rose, fading gradually, till all was blue once more, and the
stars had it all their own way, throbbing with fierce, cold light.
It was a great winter for Joey and Georgie! They never thought of its
being too cold, for every morning their toes were toasted over the
fire before schooltime, as if they had been muffins, and they were
sent off nice and hot, with a baked potato in each pocket, in case
their hands should be cold through the two pairs of thick mittens
which Aunt Peace had provided.
Then, when they came home, dinner was waiting, such a dinner as they
were not in the habit of having; a little mutton pie, or a smoking
Irish stew, with all the dumplings and gravy they wanted (and they
wanted a great deal), and then pancakes, tossed before their very
eyes, with a spoonful of jam in the middle of each, or blanc-mange
made in the shape of a cow, which tasted quite different from any
other blanc-mange that ever was. Also, they had the freedom of the
corn-popper, and might roast apples every evening till bedtime.
Doctor Brown shook his head occasionally, and told Anne Peace she
would unfit those children for anything else in life than eating good
things; but it was very likely that was jealousy, he added, for
certainly his medicines had never given the children these rosy cheeks
and sparkling eyes.
And when bedtime came, and the two little brown heads were nestled
down in the pillows of the big four-poster in the warm room, Anne
Peace would humbly give thanks that they had been well and happy
through another day, and then creep off to the cold, little room which
she had chosen this winter, "because it was more handy." Often, when
awakened in the middle of the night by the sharp, cracking frost
noises, which tell of intensest cold, she would creep in to feel of
the children, and make sure that they were as warm as two little
dormice, which they always were. I do not know how many times she took
a blanket or comforter off her own bed to add to their store; but I do
know that she would not let Jenny Miller go into her room to see. She
almost rejoiced in the excessive cold, saying to herself with
exultation, "Fifteen below! well, there! and I s'pose it's like summer
in Florida, this minute of time!" And then she fancied David sitting
under an orange-tree, fanning himself, and smiled, and went meekly to
work to break the ice in her water-butt.
Every week letters came from David Means to his children, telling them
of the beauty all around him and wishing they were there. He said
little of his health, but always assured them that Janey and Willy
were real smart, and sent his love to Anne Peace and his remembrance
to all friends at home.
The letters were short, and each time they grew a little shorter, till
by and by it was only a postal card, written in a faint and trembling
hand, but saying that the weather was fine, and father was so glad to
get their little letter, and he would write more next time, but was
very busy just now. When she read one of these, Anne Peace would go
away into her little cold room for a while, and then would come back
smiling and say that now they must write a real _good_ letter to
father, and tell him how well they were doing at school.