She opened the door and called to Lucy to run to the barn for her
uncle.
"Yes, Aunt Hepsy," answered Lucy, her sweet, clear tones contrasting
strongly with her aunt's unpleasant voice.
"Miss Goldthwaite's all right again, eh?" she asked, sitting down
near the door.
"I am thankful to say my sister is none the worse of her adventure,"
answered Mr. Goldthwaite. "But for Tom's bravery the consequences
might have been more serious."
"H'm, I told him it would be a precious long time afore he got on the
ice again to be laid up, botherin' strange folks, an' I guess I'll
keep my word."
"You must not be so hard on him, Miss Strong," said the minister. "He
is a very fine lad, and tries very hard to please you, I know."
Aunt Hepsy remained silent.
"What a pretty place you have, Miss Strong," said Mr. Keane's
pleasant, well-modulated voice. "The Peak shows splendidly from this
window."
"The place aren't no great thing, sir," said Miss Hepsy.--"Here's
Josh." She opened the door, and Uncle Josh appeared on the threshold
in his working garb, grimy and dust-stained, as he had come from
repairing the mill. He pulled his hair to the minister, and bowed
awkwardly to Mr. Keane.
"Sit down, Josh," said Miss Hepsy, but Josh preferred to stand. There
was just a moment's constrained silence.
"I have called to see you, Mr. Strong," said Robert Keane, plunging
into the subject without further delay, "about your nephew Tom. He is
very anxious to become a painter, I find. Would you have any
objections to me putting him in the way of life to which his desire
and talent point him?"
"Has the ungrateful little brat been carrying his grumbling among you
folks?" said Miss Hepsy wrathfully.
"Be quiet, Hepsy," said Joshua Strong very imperatively.
"I don't quite understand you, sir," he said to Mr. Keane. "I can't
afford to send the boy anywhere to learn anything, if ye mean that.
He'll never do no good on a farm, for sartin; but he kin work for his
livin' here, an' that's all I kin do for 'im."
"I am a painter myself," said Mr. Keane, guessing they were unaware
of the fact, and now wishing to state his intentions as briefly and
plainly as possible; "and from what I have seen of your nephew I
believe his talent for art to be very great indeed. What I mean is
this: give him up to me; I will take him back to Philadelphia, and
take entire care of his training. It will not cost you a farthing,
Mr. Strong. Do you understand?"
"We're poor folks, but we don't take charity even for Hetty's
children," said Miss Hepsy pointedly. "We've never been offered it
afore."
Mr. Keane might have waxed angry at the impertinent remark. He was
only inwardly amused. "It is not charity, Miss Strong," he said
good-humouredly. "I expect Tom will be able to repay anything he may
cost me. I hope you will not stand in the lad's way. He is a born
artist, and will never do good in any other sphere.--Come, Mr.
Strong, say yes, and let us shake hands over the bargain."
It was proof of the rare delicacy of Robert Keane's nature that he
put the matter in the light of a favour to himself. Mr. Goldthwaite
admired and honoured his friend at that moment more than he had ever
done before.
Aunt Hepsy preserved a rigid and unbending silence.
Uncle Josh stood twirling his thumbs reflectively. It was to cost him
nothing, not a farthing; and he would be rid of the bother the
hot-headed youngster was to him. But for his sister he would have
granted a ready assent.
"Wal, Hepsy?" he said in an inquiring tone.
"You're the master, Josh, I reckon. Do as ye please. It's all one to
me;" and to their amazement she flounced out of the room and banged
the door behind her.
"I'm much obleeged to you, Mr. Keane," said Josh, finding his tongue
in a marvellously short time. "I've no objections. As I said afore,
he's an idle, peart young 'un; no good at farm work. I hope yell be
able to make a better job o' him than I've done."
"I am not afraid," said Mr. Robert Keane. "And I am obliged to you
for granting my request. Can I see Tom?"
"I reckon you may," said Uncle Josh slowly. "Wal, I'll be off to that
plaguy mill. Good-day to you.--My respects to Miss Goldthwaite,
parson." Once more Uncle Josh pulled his forelock, and shambled out
of the room.
"It doesn't cause them much concern anyway," said Mr. Keane when the
door closed. "They are a bright pair; I should be afraid of that
woman myself. How that mite of a girl stands it I don't know."
Before Mr. Goldthwaite had time to answer, the door opened, and a
very eager, excited-looking boy appeared on the threshold.
"Well, Tom, my boy," said Mr. Keane, holding out his hand, "the
bargain's sealed. You belong to me now."
"Has Uncle Josh--has Aunt Hepsy said I might?" he said breathlessly.
"Oh, it is too good to be true!"
"True enough," said Mr. Keane, laughing at the lad's manner.--"Please
assure him of it, Mr. Goldthwaite."
Mr. Goldthwaite laid his hand on the lad's shoulder, and bent his
grave eyes on his beaming face. "I congratulate you," he said
heartily. "And I hope that by-and-by all Pendlepoint will be proud of
the name of Tom Hurst."
Tom drew his hand across his eyes. "I can't help it, sir," he said
apologetically. "But if you knew how much I've wished for this and
dreamed of it.--Oh, I feel I can never be grateful enough to you, Mr.
Keane!"
"Nonsense," said Mr. Keane. "Well, we must be going. Show us the way
out, will you, Tom? Your aunt has deserted us. I don't leave for a
fortnight yet. I shall see you again in a day or two."
Aunt Hepsy, however, had not altogether forgotten the duties of
hospitality, and now reappeared and asked them to stay to tea. Her
face had cleared a little, and she seemed to regret her previous
rudeness. Her invitation, however, was courteously declined.
"You're here, I see, Tom," she said severely. "Well, I hope you're
properly grateful to Mr. Keane for doing so much for you. An' I hope
ye'll mend yer ways, an' be a better boy than ye've been."
"I am very grateful, Aunt Hepsy," said Tom very quietly. "And I will
try to be what you say."
Something in his face and eyes touched even Aunt Hepsy, and it came
upon her very suddenly to wonder if she had not treated him a little
unjustly. "He's a biddable cretur, too," she said to Mr. Keane. "An'
p'raps he'll take more kindly to your kind o' life than ours. I don't
think much o' them useless ways o' livin' myself, but there's
differences."
"Some day perhaps, Miss Strong, when Tom comes back a great man,"
laughed Mr. Keane, as he shook hands with her and Tom, "you'll admit
you've changed your mind. If you do I'll come along and have a good
laugh at you."
A smile actually appeared on Miss Hepsy's face. "He's a real
pleasant-spoken gentleman, Mr. Robert Keane," said Aunt Hepsy, as she
shut the door.--"Well, Tom, I hope ye'll get yer fill o' paintin'
now."
Tom's eyes beamed, but he made no verbal reply. Lucy followed him to
the door as he passed out to the barn again.
"O Tom, I am so glad," she whispered joyfully; and Tom answered by
tossing his cap in the air and trying to bound up after it.
"Glad? I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels, Lucy," he
said. "It's the happiest day of my life."
Lucy kept the smile upon her face, not wishing to damp his joy, but
her heart was very sore. For what did Tom's departure mean for her?
It meant parting from all she had on earth; it meant a life of utter
loneliness and lovelessness, save for the dear outside friends she
could see so seldom. It was Lucy's nature ever to unselfishly bury
her own troubles and try to join in the happiness of others.
"A fortnight only," she said to herself as she went back to her work.
"What will become of me?"
The days sped fleetly for her, but slowly for Tom, who was eager to
be gone. Mr. Robert Keane paid frequent visits to Thankful Rest, and
all arrangements were satisfactorily made. Lucy went about, saying
little, and preserving her sweet serenity to the last. She busied
herself with Tom's small wardrobe, adding a touch here and there to
make it complete; and wept bitter tears over her work, as many
another sister has done before and since. It was not till the last
night that a thought of her came to cloud Tom's sky. They were
sitting together at the stove in the fading twilight, Lucy's face
very grave and sad.
"I say Lucy, though," Tom said, "how awfully lonely it will be for
you when I'm gone. Why, whatever will you _do_?"
"Think of you, and look for your letters," she said, her lips
quivering. "You will not forget me altogether, Tom?"
A pang of remorse shot through Tom's heart. He came to her side and
threw one arm round her, remembering how his mother's last charge had
been to take care of Lucy, and how poorly he had done it after all.
Lucy had taken care of him instead.
"Lucy, I'm a perfectly horrid boy," he said in a queer, quick way.
"Don't you hate me?"
"Hate you? O Tom, I've nobody but you."
Her sunny head drooped a moment against his arm, and her tears fell
without restraint. "I didn't mean to, Tom," she said at last, looking
up with a faint smile, "but I couldn't help it. I feel dreadful to
think of you going away."
"When I'm a man, Lucy," he said manfully, "what a perfectly stunning
little home you and I shall have together. It won't be so long--why,
I'm thirteen."
"Only about ten or twelve years," said Lucy, able to laugh now. "I
shall be gray-haired long before that time."
"You! why, you'll be the same as you are at fifty. You are like
mamma; she never grew any older-looking. You must write often, mind,
Lucy, and tell me all about everything and everybody."
Lucy promised, and, feeling very sad again, rose to light the lamp in
case she should break down. Aunt Hepsy was wonderfully kind that
night--she could be kind sometimes if she liked--and, altogether, the
evening passed pleasantly. Tom went to bed early, as they were to
start by the morning train. Lucy followed almost immediately. About
half-an-hour afterwards Aunt Hepsy went upstairs to put a forgotten
article into Tom's trunk, and was arrested by sounds in Lucy's room.
The door was a little ajar, and Aunt Hepsy peered in. Lucy was
undressed and sitting at the window, her arms on the dressing-table,
and her whole frame shaking with sobs. Once or twice Aunt Hepsy heard
the word "Mamma." The passion of grief and longing in the girl's
voice made something come into Aunt Hepsy's throat, and she slipped
noiselessly downstairs.
"I don't feel easy in my mind, Josh," she said when she re-entered
the kitchen. "I'm feared we've been rayther hard on Hetty's children.
She never did us any harm."
"Did I say she did, Hepsy?" asked Uncle Josh, serenely puffing away
at his pipe. "You was allus the worst at her and at the children. Ye
put upon that Lucy in a perfectly awful way."
"Shut up," said Miss Hepsy in a tone which admitted of no further
remark, and the subject dropped.
There was a great bustle in the morning, and before Lucy had time to
think about anything Tom had kissed her for the last time, and the
waggon drove away. He waved his handkerchief to her till they were
out of sight; and then she went back to the house sad and pale and
cheerless.
"I guess you needn't fly round much to-day, Lucy," said Aunt Hepsy
with unusual thoughtfulness. "Ye don't look very spry, and feel down
a bit. Never mind, he ain't away for ever."
"Thank you, Aunt Hepsy," said Lucy gently. "I'd rather work, if you
please. It takes up my mind better. Let me wash these dishes."
Aunt Hepsy surmised the tears were kept for the loneliness of her own
chamber. She was right. Only to her mother's God did Lucy Hurst pour
out all her grief, and from Him sought the help and comfort none can
give so well as He.