You will be wondering what Tom had been about during his sister's
illness; but he was still in ignorance of it, his friends thinking it
best to wait till the crisis was past. It fell to Aunt Hepsy's lot to
send the news, and her letter was such a curiosity in its way that I
cannot do better than set it down just as it was.
"THANKFUL REST, _April 18th, 18--_.
"MY DEAR NEPHEW,--I daresay you'll wonder to hear from me, an' will
maybe feel skeered; so, to relieve you, I may as well say at once
that Lucy's been sick, very sick, but she's getting round nicely now,
thank the Lord. She is in bed yet, and I'm writing this beside her.
She sends her love, and says she'll write to-morrow. I guess I'll let
her do it in about a month. I want to ask you to forgive me for being
so hard on you when you lived here. I hope you don't bear your old
aunt any grudge. Lucy, God bless her, won't hear me abuse myself, so
it's a relief to do it to you, though you are a boy. I keep that
picter you drew of me that I slapped you for, an' I'll look at it
when I feel my pesky temper gettin' up. I suppose ye'll be so took up
with your paintin' ye couldn't never think of coming back to Thankful
Rest. It wouldn't be good for you, if you're getting on any way with
Mr. Robert Keane. But you'll come right away in summer, an' see what
a different place Lucy has made of Thankful Rest, an' how precious
she is to your uncle an' me. I guess she's one of the Lord's
messengers, sent to do what all the preachin' in the world couldn't.
I reckon I'll finish up. It has took me an hour to write this, I'm so
slow with the pen. Give my respects to Mr. Robert Keane; and when he
comes to Thankful Rest in summer, maybe he'll get a better welcome
than he got before. So no more at present. From your affectionate
aunt,
"HEPSEY"
That letter reached Boston Avenue in the evening, when Tom was poring
over a book of instructions for young artists. He was in his own
sanctum, which Mr. Keane had given him when he came--a tiny apartment
next the artist's studio, and commanding from its window the finest
view in Philadelphia. Tom seized the letter from the servant's hand.
He had written twice to Lucy, and was anxiously wondering at her
delay in answering, for Lucy had always been a faithful and punctual
correspondent.
You would have laughed had you seen the varying expressions on Tom's
face as he read Aunt Hepsy's epistle;--concern at first to hear Lucy
was ill; relief to find her recovering; and, last of all, mute,
dumfoundered amazement at Aunt Hepsy.
Mr. Keane opened his studio by-and-by and looked out.
"Well, Tom, news from Lucy at last, my boy?" he asked.
"No, sir," said Tom soberly, yet with an odd twinkle in his eye; and
then he held out the open letter, saying simply, "Read that, Mr.
Keane."
Mr. Keane smiled too as he read. "Lucy has conquered, as I thought
she would," he said. "See, Tom, what an influence a meek, gentle,
loving spirit like Lucy's has in the world. You and I with our fiery
tempers sink into nothingness beside her."
"You, Mr. Keane!" echoed Tom in amazement. "I don't think you have a
temper at all."
"Haven't I?" The artist's smile grew sad. "There was a boy once who
was expelled from three schools for impertinence and insubordination,
and put his parents to the expense of keeping a tutor for him at
home. That tutor, Tom, was a man of splendid talents, which his
delicate health forbade him to exercise as he desired. His pupil
killed him, Tom; the worry and anxiety lest he should not come up to
the parents' expectation, combined with what he had to bear from the
boy himself, broke his health down, and he died. That boy was _me_."
Tom sat wondering, while Mr. Keane, walking to and fro, continued
slowly--"I went to see him when he was dying, in his poor lodging: he
was very poor, you must understand, but nobody durst offer him
anything, lest he should feel hurt or insulted. As long as I live,
Tom, I shall never forget that night. I saw then clearly how wicked I
had been, and how what I thought manly independence befitting my
station was only the cowardice of a spirit as far beneath his as
earth is beneath heaven. That was a lesson I never forgot; and since
that night I have tried, with God's help, to use the legacy he left
me."
"What was it?" asked Tom breathlessly.
Mr. Keane lifted Lucy's Bible from the side-table, and turning over
the pages held it out to Tom, his finger pointing to the place.
"Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth."
"Tom," said Mr. Keane one morning a few days later, "I believe you
are going to Pendlepoint tomorrow?"
"What?" Tom nearly bounded off his chair. The longing to go home to
Lucy for a day or two had well-nigh overcome him since Aunt Hepsy's
letter came; but he had tried to stifle it, and had applied himself
with double energy to his studies.
"If you don't wish to go, of course I have no more to say," began Mr.
Keane; but Tom interrupted him--
"O sir, you don't mean me to go home for good and all, I hope; have I
disappointed you? I have tried so hard, sir."
"Stop, stop!" cried Mr. Keane. "Wait till I hint at such a thing. You
have surpassed my expectations, my boy. I thought you would like to
see your sister, but if I am mistaken--"
"I do want to go, sir; I would give the world almost to see
her--but--"
"Well?"
"The expense, sir," Tom ventured to say, encouraged by his kind
friend's manner. "It is a long journey, and I have cost you so much
already."
"Nonsense; I am a rich man, Tom. But for all that I expect you to pay
me back some day. You and I will have a great reckoning by-and-by."
There was a moment's silence.
"How did you know I wanted to go home, Mr. Keane?" said Tom
by-and-by.
"I have eyes, my boy," was all Mr. Keane answered, saying nothing of
a note he had received from his sister, which ran thus:--
"RED HOUSE, _April 27th_.
"DEAR ROBERT,--Send Tom to Thankful Rest for a few days. Lucy will
get well twice as fast after she sees him.--Your affectionate sister,
"ALICE."
Next morning saw a very happy boy take his place in the train, which
would land him at Pendlepoint in the evening. It was a long, tiresome
journey, especially to an impatient being like Tom. But it came to an
end, as all things pleasant or unpleasant must, and he found himself
at the little old-fashioned depot towards seven o'clock at night.
There was no one to meet him, of course, because no one, not even
Miss Keane, expected him so soon. He ran all the way to the
parsonage, and knocked at the door, only to find Abbie in sole
possession.
"The parson he be down town, Master Tom," she said, "and Miss Carrie
she be at Thankful Rest. I guess she's there most days till night."
Tom thanked her and ran off again across the bridge and through the
meadow, not even pausing to look at the cattle, nor to see that Sally
was enjoying an unwonted holiday, and a dainty bite at the tender
young grass, which the mild weather had brought forward very fast. He
paused just a moment outside the orchard fence, and looked at the
house, not a little surprised to feel how glad he was to see it
again, and how dear it was to him after all. Then he pushed open the
gate, went up the path and over the garden fence, and saw Uncle Josh
digging the potato patch.
"Halloo, Uncle Josh!" he shouted, feeling quite jovial and free
towards him; and Uncle Josh started up and let his spade fall from
his hands.
"Marcy, younker, whar did ye come from?" was all he could utter. But,
no longer the surly man that he had been, he held out his hand to
him, and looked more than pleased to see him.
"I came from Philadelphia to see Lucy," answered Tom soberly. "How is
she?"
"Oh, gettin' along fast; she's in the far parlour these two days,
able to sit up till 'most night. I guess she won't be sot up to see
ye--oh no, not at all."
There was a twinkle in Uncle Josh's eye, a thing Tom had never seen
before. Surely there _was_ a change at Thankful Rest.
"I'll go in now," said Tom; and he went away round to the back door.
Keziah was making something at the stove, and nearly upset the
saucepan in her amazement. Tom nodded to her, and went off to the far
parlour. The door was ajar and he peeped in. Was _that_ the far
parlour? No, it could not be. There were white curtains at the
window, flowers everywhere. A sparkling fire in the high brass grate;
a low, restful rocking-chair at the hearth; and a couch he did not
remember to have seen before, but it looked as if it had been made
for ease and comfort. And on the couch lay Lucy, the fire-light
dancing on her face: it was pale and thin, but happy-looking, he
could see.
She heard a noise at the door, and said, without looking round, "Are
you dressed already, Miss Carrie? How fast you have been!"
There was no answer; then Lucy looked round and gave a great cry. And
Tom ran in and knelt down beside her, and gathered her shawl and all
in his arms, and they held each other very close; and for a long time
there was nothing said.
"How did you come?" asked Lucy at last, her face radiant with joy.
"By train. Mr. Keane sent me. Are you glad, Lucy?"
"Glad?" Lucy had no words wherewith to express her gladness, but it
was evident enough.
Just then footsteps sounded on the stair, and Miss Hepsy came into
the room followed by Miss Goldthwaite.
She looked scared a moment, but when Tom rose and came to her
saying--"I came to see Lucy, Aunt Hepsy, and to thank you for being
so good to her,"--she just sat down in the rocking-chair and sobbed
like a child. Here was a state of matters! and Tom did not know just
then whether to laugh or to cry. But Miss Carrie diverted him by
asking questions about his journey, and by-and-by Miss Hepsy rose and
said she'd get supper.
"An' ye'll jist bide, Miss Goldthwaite, an' we'll all have it here
with Lucy.--Dear, dear, this is a great night. Who'd 'a thought to
see you, Tom, all the way from Philadelphia?"
"You look pretty comfortable, Lucy," said Tom jokingly. "I wouldn't
mind being sick myself, to be codled up like this."
Lucy smiled, but her eyes grew dim.
"I can't speak about it, Tom," she said. "Aunt Hepsy is too good to
me; she reminds me of mamma sometimes.--Isn't she kind, Miss Carrie?"
Miss Carrie nodded, her sweet face full of satisfaction. Evidently
the new state of affairs was after her own heart.
By-and-by the table was set, and they all gathered round it, and Tom
had a real Thankful Rest supper.
There was not much said; but Tom saw how Aunt Hepsy watched and
tended Lucy; and how Uncle Josh, too, had grown gentle even in his
roughness; and, above all, he saw how beautiful was Lucy's face in
its perfect happiness and content.
"You don't eat, Lucy, my pet," said Aunt Hepsy anxiously.
"I can't, auntie; I am so happy, it's no use;" and Lucy covered her
face with her hands and fairly sobbed.
Then Tom rose to his feet, and gave vent to a cheer which would have
done honour to an Englishman.
"Bless me, boy, ye'll bring the house down," said Aunt Hepsy, but not
looking at all displeased.
"Can't help it, Aunt Hepsy; it's surplus steam; must let it off, or I
can't answer for the consequences." And he cheered again and again,
till Keziah ran to see what was the matter. She went back to the
kitchen saying to herself, "When I see an' hear that here, I feel
like believin', Deacon Frost, that the world's comin' to an end."
Not the world exactly, Keziah, only the old, hard, miserable days
have come to an end for ever, and a new era has begun at Thankful
Rest.