I
“’Lisbeth, ’Lisbeth, what ye doin’ out there?”
It was a sharp, high-strung voice, yet not loud nor ill-natured. The
speaker stood at an open door between the kitchen and an outer porch,
the latter built of rough boards and showing little wet streaks on the
floor, where the storm had thrust in its snowy fingers the night
before. The silence of the place was broken at intervals by a regular
series of dull blows, lasting two or three minutes and interspersed
with muffled splashings.
“’Lisbeth, can’t ye leave off churnin’ a minute? I want my specs.”
“All right, father, I’ll find ’em for ye: ’s--almost--come!” The last
words were emphasized by such an energetic pounding that the
window-sashes, with their small, old-fashioned panes, rattled like
cymbals.
“There! there! ye needn’t knock the bottom out’n the churn,” said the
first speaker, with a movement among the wrinkles of his face that
betokened a smile. “I c’n hold on a spell longer, I guess. Jest bring
me in a mug o’ the buttermilk when ye’ve got threw.” The keen air
swept through the porch and lifted the leaves of a yellow-covered
almanac that hung against the wall. The old man took it down from its
nail, and closed the door with a shiver. “Wind’s shiftin’ back,” he
mused. “Soon’s ever I git my glasses I’ll see what the almanac says.
’T ain’t much use fer Wesley to break out the road, even ’f the
Hill-folks _is_ comin’. ’Twill be over the walls ’fore the train’s
in.” He walked slowly to a pile of wood that lay near the fireplace,
paused before it a moment, with a shrewd look, whistling in a sort of
whisper, then picked out a stout birch stick with the bark hanging in
strips and laid it with great deliberation on the fire, which was
already crackling and roaring up the chimney in a broad blaze and
sending its generous glow to the farthest corner of the room.
A few moments later the door opened and showed a quiet little figure
and a cheery face that irresistibly suggested Thanksgiving, Christmas,
comfort, and reliableness, all in one. It was evident that if her
forty years or so had brought her many sorrows they had given a
wonderful inward peace and strength that is not afraid of evil
tidings. She was dressed plainly, with her sleeves rolled up to the
elbows. “Here’s your milk, father; and there’s your glasses now, right
on top of your head,” she said, stooping forward a little and speaking
in loud, clear tones.
“Lor’ sakes! so they be. I declare, I’m gittin’ so forgitful, ’n’ I
can’t hear no one ’bout the house but you, ’Lisbeth. Strange how my
hearin’ ’s failed me this year! If’t wa’n’t for you”--Here his voice
quavered a little, but he was happily interrupted by the entrance of a
broad-shouldered, clear-eyed young fellow, who advanced to the fire,
and, holding out his hands to its genial warmth, stamped off upon the
brick hearth a few bits of snow that had clung to his stout boots.
“Well, grandfather, we’ve got a ‘spell o’ weather’ this time,” he
shouted. “Old Bonny Beag has her nightcap on, and I saw two or three
flakes as I came in. ’Lisbeth,” he continued, “the visitors up at the
Hill won’t any _more_ than get there to-day, I guess. Sam Fifield,
down at the depot, says he has orders to have a pung ready for a lot
of boxes and a sleigh for the women and children that are coming down
to Christmas. I’ve broken out as far as the Corner; beyond that it’s
good roading for quite a piece. The steers are as near being tired out
as ever I saw them. Breakfast ’most ready?”
In a few minutes more the table was pulled out from the wall, and a
chip thrust under one of its feet to offset the unevenness of the
floor. Upon the spotless cloth were set three blue china plates, with
pictures of stately castles rising from lambent seas and numerous
swans disporting themselves therein; then came brown-jacketed
potatoes, a big pot of coffee, a pile of yesterday’s doughnuts, an
apple pie with one piece cut out, a plate of smoking hot biscuit, and
a dish of golden butter. A small platter, containing two or three
slices of “frizzled” pork, was placed by the old man’s plate.
Meanwhile, the starry flakes came faster and faster. Some of the more
adventurous alighted on the kitchen window and gazed in until they
were finally melted at the sight. A few ventured down into the well,
and, drifting against the mossy stones, gave to the slender ferns that
peeped from the chinks the food they had gathered in the skies; others
found their way through a broad crack into the barn and fell
noiselessly upon the floor with its hayseed carpet, thereupon causing
much wonderment and grave discussion among the fowls, who were
exchanging views in low tones on the topics of the morning. If you had
been in the woods, you would have heard the tick-ticking of the tiny
crystals, like the dancing of myriads of fairy feet, upon the dry
leaves which still clung to the oak and beech.
So fell the snowflakes over meadow and fallow, wood and hill, bringing
the materials that should be built up into corn and wheat during the
coming year and thus provide food for thousands who would then be
reciting their prayers for daily bread, without a thought that the
answers had begun so many months before.
Now, either by a preconcerted plan or by an impulse of the moment, one
of the most daring of the advance guard of the storm resolved to have
a wild ride before he gave up his substance to winds and earth; and so
it came about that a chubby nose, which had previously been flattened
against one of the plate-glass windows of a Pullman car on a
northbound train, suddenly withdrew itself, and a childish voice
exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Amory, it’s snowing! it’s snowing! Here’s a
little mite of a flake on the window. Oh, mamma, won’t it be nice
sleighing for Santa Claus! He can come right on the tops of the trees:
I saw a lot that looked just like frosted cake.”
“Yes, dear; yes, dear,” said the quiet lady in the next chair,
glancing up from her “Seaside” pamphlet. “Only don’t speak so loud,
Maurice. You will disturb the other people in the car.”
“Miss Amory,” persisted the boy, but in lower tones, “won’t you go out
and coast with me, and take a great, long, long sleigh-ride
to-morrow?”
“Yes, Maurice, if mamma would like me to,” replied the one addressed,
a little wearily. She had not yet quite schooled herself to her
position, this young governess, and the constant reference of even
such trifles as the boy’s request to a higher authority still jarred
on her spirits. She had not, indeed, like most paper heroines, been
accustomed to the luxuries of wealth, with phalanxes of servants
devoting themselves exclusively to her service and amusement, but she
had enjoyed the comforts of a well-to-do New England home, the
independence of American girlhood, and the priceless blessing of a
mother who understood her thoroughly and was always ready to
sympathize with her daughter’s pleasures and troubles alike, to
counsel or remain silent, as the case might be, and to help her out
of all her girlish perplexities, from the choice of a ribbon to the
treatment of an importunate suitor. It was a brave thing, this setting
her face resolutely to the world, and she had accordingly made up her
mind at the start to look for and meet every unpleasant concomitant to
her new position without a murmur.
At first she had been uncertain at what door she should knock of all
those opening into the tower named Self-Support, but, as she
approached, one of them flew open before her hand was raised. A lady
who was spending the summer near by gave out word that she wished for
a governess to take charge of her two children and accompany them to
the city in the autumn. Miss Amory’s bright face and gentle ways won
the children at first sight. She was retained on trial, and had proved
too great a treasure to be relinquished.
Mrs. Walton had been more than kind and considerate, but her very
effort to offer attentions and induce the new governess to forget her
position only made it more marked, like an erasure upon white paper.
Miss Amory scolded herself twenty times a day, and devoted herself
more and more to her duties, but still she could not help looking
forward to next summer, when--when--well, beyond that it was all
vague. At any rate, there might be some change for the better. Perhaps
she could give music-lessons, or could teach school; something she
would do where she was her own mistress.
The train rumbled on, and the storm increased. Twice they had to stop
and back before they could push their way through a narrow cut where
the huge drifts were wedged in solidly from brim to brim. At last,
just as the December light was fading from the sky, hurried by the
whirling snow-mist, the cars came to a standstill beside a long, low
building, and the conductor shouted, “Haybrook! Haybrook!”
Ten minutes later, two sleighs, one in advance loaded with boxes and
parcels, the other with the ladies and the two children, crept slowly
up the hill that led from the little brown station to the main road.
For a while the houses on each side and a few half-obliterated tracks
made navigation comparatively easy; but once out of the village it
became a matter of nice calculation. The sleet stung the faces of the
drivers and formed little icy crusts over the eyes of the patient
horses, who struggled on, setting their hoofs down firmly into the
smooth, unbroken sheet of snow and sending it out on either side like
foam. Suddenly there was a creak, a lurch, and then a dead stop. The
drivers consulted in muffled tones as they examined the harness.
“Broken jest above the buckle; nothing to hitch to.”
“Better call up the old man, ’n’ get Wesley to help. ’S only a step
further ’n the Corner.”
In the sleigh, Mrs. Walton and her governess, covered with heavy
buffalo-robes, waited patiently. The children fidgeted.
“I want to get out and wade.”
“No, Morrie, you just keep still, and perhaps Santa Claus will come
along and help us. He must have started by this time.”
“H’m! guess reindeers wouldn’t do much good. I wish I had my pony
here. Why, Miss Amory, how cold your hand is! Why, you’ve been keeping
that robe over me, and you’re right out in the cold. See the snow on
her sleeve, mamma.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” interposed the little governess; but her teeth
chattered, and it was an intense relief when she heard a new, strong
voice just outside: “Where are they, Marston? In that heap of
buffaloes?” After a moment’s pause, the robes were lifted, and before
she could say a word the girl felt herself raised from the sleigh and
borne along through the storm in a pair of stout arms, while the same
cheery voice said: “Beg your pardon, miss, it’s the only way. The
house is but a few rods from here.”
“Thank you,” she answered smiling, in spite of the cold, at her
situation: “but I’m afraid I shall tire you!”
The young man said nothing, but gravely picked his way between drifts
and treacherous hollows. Once he staggered, and nearly fell with his
burden. She instinctively threw her arm round his neck like a child,
to save herself, withdrawing it quietly a moment after. He plodded on
in silence.
“He’s a gentleman,” she thought, “or he would have laughed or joked
about it.”
Close behind them the men were following with those left in the
sleigh, and the whole company were soon gathered around ’Lisbeth’s
fire, exchanging comments, throwing aside their snowy wraps, and
refreshing themselves with hot tea.
“Just like a desert island,” whispered Maurice.
“Only savages don’t have doughnuts and milk,” returned Edie, helping
herself liberally.
The fire leaped higher and glowed more and more ardently in its
efforts to warm the castaways, until they were glad to draw back their
chairs from the hearth,--all except the little governess, who was
still chilled through and through, although she meekly drank three
cups of hot tea in succession, and crouched as near the friendly fire
as she could without scorching the pretty dark-blue traveling dress.
Little ripples of shiver seemed to run over her from head to foot,
like a cold breeze.
“I think, if you please, I’ll go to my room,” she said at last, with a
grateful look at ’Lisbeth, who was watching her anxiously, and who
doubtless supposed her to be a relative, probably the children’s aunt.
“Governess” was an idea that had not struck Haybrook, except through
the medium of an old English novel or two.
“Well, just step right in here,” she said, sympathetically; “and don’t
you get up till ye’re called in the mornin’.”
As she spoke she opened one of the little, gray, uneven doors behind
her guests, and lighting a tallow candle in a knobby brass
candlestick, placed it upon some article of furniture within.
“Good-night,” she said again, kindly. “Don’t let me disturb ye by my
travelin’ round the kitchen gettin’ breakfast. You can leave the door
open a crack for company, if you’re lonesome.”