ABBY ROCK.
If Abby Rock's kitchen was not heaven, it seemed very near it to Marie
that evening. She found herself suddenly in an atmosphere of peace and
comfort of which her life had heretofore known nothing. The evening
had fallen chill outside, but here all was warm and light and cheerful,
and the warmth and cheer seemed to be embodied in the person of the
woman who moved quickly to and fro, stirring the fire, putting the
kettle on the hob (for those were the days of the open fire, of crane
and kettle, and picturesque, if not convenient, housekeeping), drawing
a chair up near the cheerful blaze. Marie felt herself enfolded with
comfort. A shawl was thrown over her shoulders; she was lifted like a
child, and placed in the chair by the fireside; and now, as she sat in
a dream, fearing every moment to wake and find herself back in the old
life again, a cup of tea, hot and fragrant, was set before her, and the
handkerchief tenderly loosened from her neck, while a kind voice bade
her drink, for it would do her good.
"You look beat out, and that's the fact," said Abby Rock. "To-morrow
you shall tell me all about it, but you no need to say a single word
to-night, only just set still and rest ye. I'm a lone woman here. I
buried my mother last June, and I'm right glad to have company once in
a while. Abby Rock, my name is; and perhaps if you'd tell me yours, we
should feel more comfortable like, when we come to sit down to supper.
What do you say?"
Her glance was so kind, her voice so cordial and hearty, that Marie
could have knelt down to thank her. "I am Marie," she said, smiling
back into the kind eyes. "Only Marie, nossing else."
"Maree!" repeated Abby Rock. "Well, it's a pretty name, sure enough;
has a sound of 'Mary' in it, too, and that was my mother's name. But
what was your father's name, or your mother's, if so be your father
ain't living now?"
Marie shook her head. "I never know!" she said. "All the days I lived
with Mere Jeanne in the village, far away, oh, far, over the sea."
"Over the sea?" said Abby. "You mean the bay, don't you,--some of
those French settlements down along the shore?"
But Marie meant the sea, it appeared; for her village was in France, in
Eretagne, and there she had lived till the day when Mere Jeanne died,
and she was left alone, with no-one belonging to her. Mere Jeanne was
not her mother, no! nor yet her grandmother,--only her mother's aunt,
but good, Abby must understand, good as an angel, good as Abby herself.
And when she was dead, there was only her son, Jeannot, and he had
married a devil,--but yes!--as Abby exclaimed, and held up her hands in
reproof,--truly a devil of the worst kind; and one day, when Jeannot
was away, this wife had sold her, Marie, to another devil, Le Boss, who
made the tours in the country for to sing and to play. And he had
brought her away to this country, over very dreadful seas, where one
went down into the grave at every instant, and then up again to the
clouds, but leaving one's stomach behind one--ah, but terrible! Others
were with them, oh, yes!--This in response to Abby's question, for in
spite of her good resolutions, curiosity was taking possession of her,
and it was evidently a relief to Marie to pour out her little tale in a
sympathetic ear,--many others. La Patronne, the wife of Le Boss, who
was like a barrel, but not bad, when she could see through the fat, not
bad in every way; and there was Old Billy, who took care of the horses
and dogs, and he was her friend, and she loved him, and he had always
the good word for her even when he was very drunk, too drunk to speak
to any one else. And then there was the daughter of Le Boss, who would
in all probability never die, for she was so ugly that she would not be
admitted into the other world, where, Mere Jeanne said, even Monsieur
the Great Devil himself was good-looking, save for his expression.
Also there were the boys who tumbled and rode on the ponies,
and--and--and ozer people. And with this Mane's head dropped forward,
and she was asleep.
It seemed a pity to wake her when supper was ready, but Abby knew just
how good her rolls were, and knew that the child must be famished; and
sure enough, after a little nap, Marie was ready to wake and sit up at
the little round table, and be fed like a baby with everything good
that Abby could think of. The fare had not been dainty in the
travelling troupe of Le Boss. The fine white bread, the golden butter,
the bit of broiled fish, smoking hot, seemed viands of paradise to the
hungry girl. She laughed for pleasure, and her eyes shone like stars.
It was like the chateau, she said, where everything was gold and
silver,--the chateau where Madame la Comtesse lived. As for Abby
herself, Marie gravely informed her that she was an angel. Abby
laughed, not ill pleased. "I don't look special like angels," she
said; "that is, if the pictures I've seen are correct. Not much wings
and curls and white robes about me, Maree. And who ever heard of an
angel in a check apurn, I want to know?"
But Marie was not to be turned aside. It was well known, she said,
that angels could not come to earth undisguised in these days. It had
something to do with the Jews, she did not know exactly what. Mere
Jeanne had told her, but she forgot just how it was. But as to their
not coming at all, that would be out of the question, for how would the
good God know what was going on down here, or know who was behaving
well and meriting a crown of glory, and who should go down into the
pit? Did not Abby see that?
Abby privately thought that here was strange heathen talk to be going
on in her kitchen; but she said nothing, only gave her guest more jam,
and said she was eating nothing,--the proper formula for a good
hostess, no matter how much the guest may have devoured.
It was true, as has been said before, that Abby Rock was not fair to
outward view. Nature had been in a crabbed mood when she fashioned
this gaunt, angular form, these gnarled, unlovely features. An
uncharitable neighbour, in describing Abby, once said that she looked
as if she had swallowed an old cedar fence-rail and shrunk to it; and
the description was apt enough so far as the body went. Her skin,
eyes, and hair were of different shades (yet not so very different) of
greyish brown; her nose was long and knotty, her mouth and chin
apparently taken at random from a box of misfits. Yes, the cedar
fence-rail came as near to it as anything could. Yet somehow, no one
who had seen the light of kindness in those faded eyes, and heard the
sweet, cordial tones of that quiet voice, thought much about their
owner's looks. People said it was a pity Abby wasn't better favoured,
and then they thought no more about it, but were simply thankful that
she existed.
She had led the life that many an ugly saint leads, here in New
England, and the world over. Nurse and drudge for the pretty younger
sister, the pride and joy of her heart, till she married and went away
to live in a distant State; then drudge and nurse for the invalid
mother, broken down by unremitting toil. No toil would ever break Abby
down, for she was a strong woman; she had never worked too hard that
she was aware of; but--she had always worked, and never done anything
else. No lover had ever looked into her eyes or taken her hand
tenderly. Not likely! she would say to herself with a scornful sniff,
eyeing her homely face in the glass. Men weren't such fools as they
looked.
One or two had wanted to marry her house, as she expressed it, and had
asked for herself into the bargain, not seeing how they could manage it
otherwise. They were not to blame for wanting the house, she thought
with some complacency, as she glanced round her sitting-room.
Everything in the room shone and twinkled. The rugs were beautifully
made, and the floor under them in the usual dining-table condition
ascribed ever since books were written to the model housewife. The
corner cupboards held treasures of blue and white that it makes one
ache to think of to-day, and some pieces of India china besides,
brought over seas by some sea-going Rock of a former generation: and
there were silver spoons in the iron box under Abby's bed, and the
dragon tea-pot on the high narrow mantel-piece was always full, but not
with tea-leaves. Yes, and there was no better cow in the village than
Abby's, save those two fancy heifers that Jacques de Arthenay had
lately bought. Altogether, she did not wonder that some of the weaker
brethren, who found their own farms "hard sledding," should think
enough of her pleasant home to be willing to take her along with it,
since they could do no better; but they did not get it. Abby found
life very pleasant, now that grief was softened down into tender
recollection. To be alone, and able to do things just when she wanted
to do them, and in her own way; to consider what she herself liked to
eat, and to wear, and to do; to feel that she could come and go, rise
up and lie down, at her own will,--was strange but pleasant to her.
How long the pleasure would have lasted is another question, for the
woman's nature was to love and to serve; but just now there was no
doubt that she was enjoying her freedom.
And now she had taken in this little stranger, just because she felt
like it; it was a new luxury, a new amusement, that was all. Such a
pretty little creature, so soft and young, and with that brightness in
her face! Sister Lizzie was light-complected, and this child didn't
favour her, not the least mite; yet it was some like the same feeling,
as if it were a kitten or a pretty bird to take care of, and feed and
pet. So thought Abby, as she tucked up Marie in Sister Lizzie's little
white bed, in the pink ribbon chamber, as she had named it in sport,
after she had let Lizzie furnish it to her taste, that last year before
she was married. The child looked about her as if it were a palace,
instead of a lean-to chamber with a sloping roof. She had never seen
anything like this in her life, since those days when she went to the
chateau. She touched the white walls softly, and passed her hand over
the pink mats on the bureau with wondering awe. And then she curled up
in the white bed when Abby bade her, as like a kitten as anything could
be. "Oh, you are good, good!" cried the child, whom the warmth and
comfort and kindness seemed to have lifted into another world from the
cold, sordid one in which she had lived so long. She caught the kind
hard knotted hand, and kissed it; but Abby snatched it away, and
blushed to her eyebrows, feeling that something improper had occurred.
"There! there!" she said, half confused, half reproving. "You don't
want to do such things as that! I've done no more than was right, and
you alone and friendless, and night coming on. Go to sleep now, like a
good girl, and we'll see in the morning." So Marie went to sleep in
Sister Lizzie's bed, with her fiddle lying across her feet, since she
could not sleep a wink otherwise, she said; and when Abby went
downstairs the room seemed cold, and she thought how she missed Lizzie,
and wondered if it wouldn't be pleasant to keep this pretty creature
for a spell, and do for her a little, and make her up some portion of
clothing. There was a real good dress of Lizzie's, hanging this minute
in the press upstairs: she had a good mind to take it out at once and
see what could be done to it; perhaps--and Abby did not go to bed very
early herself that night.