It had rained all day, and not all that day only, but the best part
of the one before. Not a soft, gentle summer rain, but a fierce, wild
storm, which beat the poor flowers to the earth, spoiled the fruit,
and overflowed the river till half the meadow lay under water. There
was plenty of work in the barn for Uncle Josh and the men, and plenty
in the house for Aunt Hepsy and the girls. The scullery was full of
wet clothes waiting on a dry day. That of itself, not to speak of the
damage to the orchard, was sufficient to make Aunt Hepsy a very
disagreeable person to live with while the storm lasted. Her tongue
went from early morning till afternoon, scolding alternately at Lucy
and Keziah. The latter was a stolid being, on whom her mistress's
talking made no impression; but it made Lucy nervous and awkward, and
her work was very badly done indeed. At three o'clock Aunt Hepsy sent
her to wash her face, and gave her a long side of a sheet to hem. So
Lucy was sitting on the settle, with a very grave and
sorrowful-looking face, when Tom came in at four. His uncle had no
need of him just then, and had sent him to the house to be out of the
way. Keziah was feeding the calves, and Aunt Hepsy upstairs dressing,
if that word can be appropriately applied to the slight change her
toilet underwent in the afternoon. Tom sat down at the table in the
window, and leaning his arms upon it, looked out gloomily on the
desolate garden, over which the chill, wet mist hung like a pall.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
"How do you get on now, Lucy?" asked Tom at length. "How sober you
look. Has she been worrying you?"
"I daresay I am very stupid," said Lucy low and quietly; "but when
Aunt Hepsy talks so loud I don't know what I am doing."
Miss Hepsy entered at that moment, fortunately without having heard
Lucy's patient speech. "Don't lean your wet, dirty arms on the table,
boy," said she with a sharp glance at Tom. "If you must be in, sit on
your chair like a Christian."
Tom immediately sat up like a poker.
"What's yer uncle doin'?" was her next question.
"He's oiling waggon wheels," answered Tom, "and sent me in."
Miss Hepsy took out a very ugly piece of knitting from the
dresser-drawer, and sat down opposite Lucy. "It's a pity boys ain't
learned to sew and knit," she said grimly. "It would save a deal of
women's time doin' it for 'em. I think I'll teach you, Tom."
"No, thank you, Aunt Hepsy."
"You're much too smart with your tongue, young 'un," said Miss Hepsy
severely, and then relapsed into stolid silence. The click of her
knitting needles, the ticking of the clock, and the rain beating on
the panes, were the only sounds to be heard in the house. Tom drew a
half-sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket, laid it on the
table, and kept his attention there for a few minutes. Lucy ventured
to cast her eyes in his direction, and he held up the paper to her. A
smile ran all over her face and finally ended in a laugh. Aunt Hepsy
looked round suspiciously to see Tom stuffing something into his
pocket.
"What were you laughing at, Lucy?" Lucy looked distressed and
answered nothing.
"What's that you're stuffing into your pocket, Tom?" she said,
turning her eagle eyes again on Tom.
"A bit paper, aunt, that's all."
"People don't laugh at common bits o' paper, nor go stuffin' em into
pockets like that. Hand it over."
"I'd rather not, Aunt Hepsy," said the boy.
"I rather you would," was her dry retort. "Out with it."
"It's mine, Aunt Hepsy, and you wouldn't care to see it."
"How many more times am I to say out with it?" she said angrily.
"I'll let you feel the weight of my hand if you don't look sharp."
"It's mine, Aunt Hepsy. I won't let you see it," he said doggedly.
Miss Hepsy's face grew very red, and she flung her knitting on the
rug and strode up to him. "Give me that paper."
"Well, there 'tis; I hope you like it. I wish I'd made it uglier,"
cried he angrily, and flung the paper on the table.
Aunt Hepsy smoothed it out very deliberately, and held it up to the
light. It was a picture of herself, cleverly done, but highly
exaggerated, and the word _Scold_ printed beneath it. Slowly the red
faded from her face and was replaced by a kind of purple hue. She
lifted her hand and brought it with full force on Tom's cheek. He
sprang to his feet quivering with rage, and pain, and humiliation.
His fierce temper was up, and Lucy trembled for what was to follow.
"Next time you make a fool o' me, boy," said Aunt Hepsy with a slow
smile, "perhaps ye'll get summat ye'll like even less than that."
Then the boy's anger found vent in words. "If you weren't a woman I'd
knock you down. I hate you, and I wish I'd died before I came to this
horrid place. It's worse than being a beggar living with such people.
You touch me again, and I'll give it you though you are a woman."
Aunt Hepsy took him by the shoulders and pushed him before her out to
the yard. "Ye'll be cool, I guess, afore I let ye in again," she said
briefly, and then came back to Lucy.
She was weeping with her face hidden and her work lying on the settle
beside her.
"Nice brother that of your'n," said Aunt Hepsy. "If he ain't growin'
up to be hanged, my name ain't Hepsy Strong. Here, go on with your
seam, an' don't be foolin' there."
Lucy silently obeyed, but Aunt Hepsy could not control her thoughts,
and they went pitifully out into the rain after Tom. He stood a
minute or two in a dazed way, and then hurried from the yard, through
the garden and the orchard to the meadow. In one little moment the
victory over temper he had won and kept for weeks was gone; and in
the shame and sorrow which followed, only one person could help him,
and that was Mr. Goldthwaite. There had been many quiet talks with
him since the first Sunday evening, and his lessons had sunk deep
into the boy's heart, and he had indeed been earnestly trying to make
the best of the life and work which had no interest nor sweetness for
him. As he sped through the long, wet grass, heedless of the rain
pelting on his uncovered head, he felt more wretched than he had ever
done in his life before. He had to wade ankle-deep to the bridge, but
fortunately did not encounter a living soul all the way to the
parsonage. Miss Goldthwaite was sewing in the parlour window, and
looked up in amazement to see a drenched, bareheaded boy coming up
the garden path.
"Why, Tom, it can't be you, is it?" she exclaimed when she opened the
door. "What is it? Nobody ill at Thankful Rest, I hope."
"No," said Tom. "It's only me; I want to see Mr. Goldthwaite."
"He has just gone out, but will not be many minutes," said Miss
Goldthwaite, more amazed than ever. "Come in and get dried, and take
tea with me; I was just thinking to have it alone."
Looking at Miss Goldthwaite in her dainty gray dress and spotless
lace collar and blue ribbons, Tom began to realize that he had done a
foolish thing coming to the parsonage to bother her with his soaking
garments. He would have run off, but Miss Carrie prevented him by
pulling him into the lobby and closing the door. Then she made him
come to the kitchen and remove his boots and jacket. "I have not a
coat to fit, so you'll need to sit in a shawl," laughed she; and the
sound was so infectious that, miserable though he was, Tom laughed
too. Miss Carrie knew perfectly there was a reason for his coming,
and that it would come out by-and-by without asking. So it did. They
had finished tea, and Tom was sitting on a stool at the fire just
opposite Miss Goldthwaite. There had been silence for a little while.
"I had a frightful row with Aunt Hepsy this afternoon, Miss
Goldthwaite."
"I am very sorry to hear it," answered she very gravely. "What was it
about?"
Then the whole story came out; and then Miss Carrie folded up her
work, and bent her sweet eyes on the boy's downcast, sorrowful face.
"I am not going to lecture you, Tom," she said soberly. "But I am
sorry my brave soldier should have been such a coward to-day."
Tom flung up his head a little proudly. "I am not a coward, Miss
Goldthwaite."
"Yes, Tom; you remember how Jesus stood all the buffeting and cruelty
of his persecutors, when he could so easily have smitten them all to
death if he had willed. Compare your petty trials with his, and think
how weak you have been."
Tom was silent. "When my temper is up, Miss Goldthwaite," he said at
length, "I don't care for anything or anybody, except to get it out
somehow. I was keeping so straight, too; I hadn't once answered back
to Uncle Josh or Aunt Hepsy for weeks. It's no use trying to be
good."
"No use? Why, Tom, if everybody gave up at the first stumble, what
would become of the world, do you think? Our life, you know, is
nothing but falling and rising again, and will be till we reach the
land where all these trials are over. Keep up a brave heart. Begin
again, and keep a double watch over self."
"I feel as if it would be easy enough to do it when I'm talking to
you or Mr. Goldthwaite, but at home it is different. I shall never be
able to get on with them though I live a hundred years. And O Miss
Goldthwaite, you don't know how I want to go on drawing and painting.
I feel as if I could die sometimes because I can't."
"When the time comes, dear; and it will come sooner, perhaps, than
you think," said Miss Carrie hopefully. "You will prize it all the
more because of this sharp discipline. Do your duty like a man, and
believe me, God will reward you for it one day."
"I will try, Miss Goldthwaite," said Tom with a new great earnestness
of face and voice.
"Now," said Miss Carrie then, with a quick, bright smile, "I'm going
to send you home. I don't mean to tell my brother anything about your
visit. Our talk is to be a secret. He would be so grieved that you
have come to grief again through that tongue of yours. And I hope it
will be a long time before its master loses hold of the bridle
again." She went with him to the kitchen and helped him to dress, and
then opened the door for him. "Now, Tom, you are to go home and tell
your aunt you are sorry for what happened this afternoon; because you
should not have spoken as you did. And remember, Tom, that a
soldier's first duty is obedience." And without giving him a chance
to demur, she nodded good-bye and ran into the house.
It was raining heavily still, but that Tom did not mind; he was
wondering how to frame his apology to his aunt, and how she would
receive it.
It was dark when he reached Thankful Rest, and the kitchen door was
barred. He knocked twice, and was answered at last by Aunt Hepsy, who
looked visibly relieved. Feeling that if he waited till he was in the
light his courage would flee, he said hurriedly,--
"I've been to the parsonage, Aunt Hepsy, and I want to tell you I'm
sorry I drew the picture and spoke to you as I did. If you'll forgive
me this time I won't be so rude again."
Aunt Hepsy looked slightly amazed. "Dear me, boy, I am thankful to
see ye home again; ye've gev Lucy a fever almost. See an' don't do it
again, that's all." And that was all Tom ever heard about the
afternoon's explosion.