wanting to ask you to let Caro come straight to me and stay with us
while she’s at home. I haven’t had her for three years, Cousin Jane; and
I can make it all right with her about David, I’m sure.”
“I knew you could do something if you were a mind to try,” she said,
with her severest kiss-of-peace manner, which always aroused an
unreasonable combativeness in my unregenerate soul. “I am perfectly
willing, Lyddy, to let by-gones be by-gones. I never bear malice, even
against ill-tempered folks. I came over to say if you’d do what you
could with Caroline, I’d let her stay here. She always was keen to
please you—why, I never could see; but she is; and I’ll not let my
personal feelin’s stand in the way when it comes to dischargin’ my duty
to that poor motherless girl. She can come.”
“Thank you, Cousin Jane,” I said heartily.
“You’re welcome, Lyddy, you’re welcome: I don’t hold anything against
you. I want to set you a Christian example: maybe it’ll have some effect
on you, now you’re all broken down with havin’ too much of your own way.
Looks like, with all the afflictions the Lord’s sent on you, an’ old as
you are, you might be learnin’ better.”
I suppose I am a sinner; but somehow, all my life, whenever Cousin Jane
takes her religion in both hands and tries to ram it into me in her best
pile-driver manner, my own scuttles off and dives into the first
rat-hole it can find; and I have a dreadful time dragging it out again
and making it help me behave. So I took a long look at the blackbirds
under the maple, piously jabbing the English sparrows to discourage
their greediness about crumbs, before I said soberly:
“I don’t believe the Lord sent me any afflictions. I think He just tries
to teach me how to get the good out of what comes, and to rise by it. I
think that’s one of His special jobs in this world—trying to turn our
afflictions into wings.”
“Well, we all know you’re sorter half-cracked, Lyddy,” said Cousin Jane,
with a manner intended to be genial. She was evidently bent on not
quarreling. “Just do your best for Caroline.” She gathered up the reins.
“Cousin Jane,” I said quickly, “don’t say a word more to Caro
about—those things. Please.”
“I’ll do as I see fit, Lyddy,” she answered stiffly. “Bein’ willin’ to
let you help don’t mean I can trust you to manage things. Well,
good-bye. Do try to get up an’ take some exercise; it’ll do you good.
I’m a worker, myself, an’ always was; an’ you see how strong I am—not
but what I could complain if I wanted to, like some.” She disappeared
around the house, tucking her buggy-robe closely around her with one
hand as she drove.
So yesterday morning I was out on the front porch, watching the road
with my glasses; and there they came, whirling in from the pike in the
open car, the top being down that I might see her afar off. Caro was
driving, and David beamed beside her, while the Peon beamed on the back
seat.
The whole place feels her presence, and overflows with her music, her
laughter, her sweet and tricksy ways. She is off with the young folks in
Chatterton now, helping with the Christmas tree at the church; but
before she left she wheeled me out to my cot under the maple tree—or
superintended Uncle Milton’s doing it, while she fluttered about with
the pillows, and scolded us for letting her do all the work. She
scattered crumbs for the birds, just as she used to, and then cuddled
down on the same little stool where she used to sit, her curly brown
head on my pillows. Not Make-Believe any more, thank heaven, but Caro,
and the real Bird Corners!
We were silent awhile, and then she began to talk—all the loving
nonsense and little intimate confidences that had always come when we
were alone. But not a word of David, nor of Cousin Jane. I could not let
our first talk begin a silence between us, so I told her what had
happened. She had flushed a little at first, but her laughter bubbled as
she kissed me.
“Sweet Mammy, don’t you think I know Cousin Jane? I knew you never said
it, nor meant it. And I’m sure you’d let me marry the man in the moon,
if I wanted to. I did get mad with her for talking to David—that rather
passed bounds. But David’s a darling, and as sensible as can be. We
thrashed it all out afterwards, and we aren’t going to make ourselves
unhappy because Cousin Jane’s a born donkey and can’t help it. Don’t you
bother about it a minute. We’ll both of us get married some of these
days, and you’ll have four children to love you instead of two.”
“And there isn’t anybody else yet?” I asked, my face turning to hers as
I lay, and her clear eyes looking into mine.
“I don’t think there is with David,” she said, considering; “but as for
me—Mammy Lil, would you rather be a young man’s darling, or marry a
very old and rich and apoplectic gentleman, worry him to death fast, and
be happy and independent forever after?”
“Who is the young man?”
“Oh, anybody; I haven’t decided; but I suppose I could get one. You know
I wrote you about the boys last summer, and how wild Cousin Jane was.
She was more fun than the boys. You don’t really want me to marry, do
you? I’m having such a good time.” She sat up and waved her hand.
“There’s Milly, and I must go. Now, lie here and be good till I get
back, and I’ll never marry anybody you don’t want me to.” And she ran
down to the gate, pinning her hat on as she went.
* * * * *
_December 30th._ Note-books are superfluous when I can have Caro. It is
so good to see one so pretty, so eager, so joyous, so young in body and
soul. She is the very spirit of youth, with her swift, outgoing life,
her quick response to it on all sides, her gay resourcefulness in the
little emergencies of her small world. I forget my body, and all its
pain-worn helplessness, while she dances through the house. It doesn’t
matter so much that I must watch in idleness while the life I love
sweeps by, if somebody else has my own vivid joy in it—a joy unhampered
by weariness or pain. No wonder the girls can’t stir without her, nor
resent it that she draws the boys as honey draws flies.
I can’t see that she cares to draw any one of them yet, though she
dearly loves to draw them all. She is in that kitten stage which comes
to every girl alive. She wants to play, and she finds the new game
fascinating. What the boys find it doesn’t concern her yet; she is
exploring the possibilities of the game.
How David feels toward her is more than I can tell. He is as frankly
fond of her as when he used to carry her across the muddy places down by
the brook, and tell her fairy tales while they popped corn by the winter
fire. But as to that look in his eyes whereof Cousin Jane prated—well,
I’ve never seen it; and I rather doubt if she did either.
Yet somehow I can’t help the uneasy feeling that she has hoodooed my
secret hopes. She never had influence enough to counteract anything
other members of the family might elect to do; but whomever she sided
with was a subject for condolence. She could never be suppressed when
she espoused a cause, and her well-meant activities were invariably
fatal to the best-laid plans. What have I done that, in addition to all
my other afflictions, Cousin Jane should thrust herself upon me as an
ally? I had counted so comfortingly upon her opposition. David was never
fond of her, and it is only of late years that she has ceased to predict
for him a future of State support. It isn’t that she’s fond of the boy
now; it’s because Cousin Chad found out how he managed that affair for
the Peon last winter, and because the farm here at Bird Corners is
becoming one of the show places, agriculturally, of this part of the
State. And if a richer suitor appears she’ll discard David like an old
shoe.
I confess I am taking great comfort in the very apparent devotion of
David’s old antagonist, Robert White. He is older than David, and is
advancing rapidly in one of the largest banks in the city, of which his
father is an important director. Bob is a nice fellow, little spoiled by
prosperity, and his prospective fortune quite overshadows David’s—in
fact, he is one of the “catches” of this part of the State. He has been
staying out here at his father’s ever since Caro came home, and makes no
secret of the reason. If Cousin Jane becomes aware of him she will
espouse his cause, _con amore_, and my own hopes will have a rosier
appearance. Poor Bob! I don’t bear him a bit of malice; but I must shunt
Cousin Jane off on somebody!
* * * * *
_January 5th._ Caro left us last night, protesting as she went, and
insisting that she would come home in defiance of everybody if I had any
more backsets. But we all want her to finish the year under her new
singing-master: her voice is really wonderful, and she ought not to stop
yet. The six months will be gone before we know it; and then she will
come to stay.
For myself, I have stored up delight enough in these ten days to
brighten this dark January weather for weeks to come. And the days are
already lengthening. Spring is on the way, in fact—and summer won’t be
far behind.
* * * * *
_January 10th._ What winter colors could bedeck the world I never knew
until today!
First came the rain—a soft, misty down-dropping which fell noiselessly
on the half-frozen earth, softening the icy ridges in the road beyond
the porch, till they crunched under Uncle Milton’s heavy feet and
splashed into the water collecting in their ruts. Long before sunset
they wheeled me back to my room, where the thickening clouds shut us
into a twilight gloom, through which the north wind’s voice cut icily.
By morning the clouds were gone, and with them had vanished the
work-a-day earth. In its place is a world of faery, of glitter, of fire,
of pallid white. Over all the fields the snow lies thick, down to the
very edge of the brook. But above the snow, from the smallest weed whose
skeleton shakes in the bitter wind to the topmost twig of the tallest
tree, is silver and fire and ice. The stubble is all one elfin glitter;
and beyond the gate, along the pike, where dried golden-rod, poke-berry,
mustard, and all earth’s wild outcast beauty blossomed months before,
are billows of frost-wrought loveliness as pure as pearls and as
delicate as the fronds of ferns.
Overhead the sky is deepest blue, rich foil and background for the
trees, all silver here, all glitter there, and everywhere starred with
flashing points of red and blue and orange, as some jagged point of ice
catches the sunlight and tears it into dazzling shreds of color.
Deep blue, overhead; but everywhere along the horizon a soft, colorless,
distant sky, across which the half-congealed moisture of the air draw
its dimming yet invisible veil. The hills are pale, aloof; but here and
there the low sun strikes them and smites the glory of their tree-tops
into a halo of pearl and fire about their brows. And what may be the
beauty of life more abundant when the beauty of life withdrawn clutches
the heart like this?
* * * * *
_January 13th._ There is nobody to fellowship with today but the
blackbirds and the English sparrows. David is off lecturing at some
farmers’ institutes, and the Peon left this morning for a week’s trip.
Grumpy is here, as usual, and the pain in my spine; but I am not of a
mind to fellowship with them; they can sulk together in the corner if
they want to.
Eh, but when the dark shuts out even the scandal-mongering sparrows, the
room is a bit empty and lonesome-looking! Grumpy and the back don’t
count; they are both in the skeleton-closet. But the key seems lost, and
they have an unpleasant way of peeping through the crack of the door.
There’s no sense in staying here this night, so it’s ho, for
Make-Believe for me!
* * * * *
_January 15th._ When one can’t have the big things one wants, one can at
least play with the little things one has; and in doing so may learn
with growing thankfulness how great a resource a little thing may
become.
There are so many playthings in the world—no need is left unsupplied.
When one is too ill to think and too weak to look, there are fleeting
glimpses, through half-shut lids, of blue sky beyond one’s windows, of a
drifting cloud, a flash of wings, or the waving of boughs in the wind;
beautiful pictures which return uncalled-for to float above that sea of
pain wherein one rocks, and to steady one with a half-consciousness of
an upper world of beauty and peace, real, though beyond one’s reach.
And when one can think a little—oh, so many things! One cannot possibly
be cut off from life if one’s heart be in it. It isn’t the moving of
one’s body that counts, but the clasping of life with the heart. We
really live to the exact extent we _care_, and so find the interest with
which every atom and phase of life is stored.
“_He brought an eye for all he saw._”
Was ever anything more beautiful said of any one than that? And that is
what I pray for—the seeing eye; that, whether my body be well or ill, I
may enter in at the open doors which swing wide on every hand, and see,
and love, and rejoice; understanding where I may, and happy where I may
not to watch, to learn, to wonder like a child.
* * * * *
_January 15th._ The real freedom of life is measured not by one’s
liberty to do as one likes, but by the things one can afford to do
without. And there is no poverty in such freedom: it is through the
enrichment of the inner life that one’s resources grow great enough to
enable one to dispense with the outward things once so necessary.
V
PREMONITIONS
_January 21st._ This is one of those beautiful, balmy days which
sometimes come, late in January, to convince the veriest blind pessimist
that spring is on the way. The chickadees are half mad, flying headlong
from tree to tree, and singing their gay little winter score with an
_abandon_ unknown before. The titmice are whistling cheerily; and the
jays, though not a hint of spring sweetness softens their harsh tones,
are dancing a little in the hackberry as they squawk. The wren is
singing rapturously, as he has done all these sunless weeks, not because
of spring-time and April air, but because love and life are always
present with him, and nothing else matters.
The mocking-bird is still solitary, wrapped in contemplation, like some
prophet of old. Nor is the cardinal singing yet. But his not singing is
no sign of faint-heartedness. Yesterday he perched in the tulip-tree and
_said_ “Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!” soberly, decidedly, as if the sweet
reasonableness of good cheer had grown upon him through the dark January
weather. He will be singing it soon.
There! I’ve been out on the porch, and written in my note-book on a bad
day—the best bad day I’ve had yet; and when bad days are best bad days
Grumpy may as well take a back seat.
* * * * *
_January 28th._ Best bad days are all very well; but a combination of
best bad days and Cousin Jane is more grandeur than my feeble frame can
live up to. It has taken me a week to catch up.
She drove up just as I closed my note-book—quite in time to catch me in
the act.
“Tsck!” she said in disgust, as she whirled my chair about with a strong
hand and wheeled me unceremoniously into the house. “I suppose you want
to put your eyes out next, and have everybody pityin’ your afflictions
when you’ve made yourself blind layin’ flat on your back an’ scribblin’
nonsense—poetry, like enough!” Contempt could no further go.
“I’m sure you never heard of my writing poetry in your life, Cousin
Jane,” I protested meekly.
“No, an’ I don’t want to. I know just the kind of stuff it ’ud be. But I
don’t see what else you get to write layin’ out there all by yourself,
with nothin’ to see, an’ no sensible occupation to keep you busy. I
never could abide an idler.”
“When did you hear from Caro?” I inquired. In the interest of peace, a
change of subject seemed advisable.
“Why, Caroline’s careless about writin’—which of course I might have
expected, seein’ the way you brought her up. But Bob White’s been up
there lately, an’ I saw him when I went to town yesterday. I met him on
the street, while I was goin’ to get my new glasses, an’ he took me up
to the new hotel to lunch.”
She bridled with pleasure, and I coughed to strangle my laugh of
delight. Bob White paying court to Cousin Jane, without my meddling the
least little bit!
“We had four courses,” she went on in happy retrospection. “I didn’t
know there was such a nice place in town. I don’t eat much lunch usually
when I go—looks like it ain’t right to waste the Lord’s money just
pamperin’ the flesh, as you might say; an’ besides, I’d rather save it.
I never did hold by spendin’ money for foolishness like you an’ John
Bird.”
I’m sure the Peon and I haven’t been on the simplest kind of a lark for
years; and when we went it was usually a picnic in the woods with the
children, and the plainest of home-made lunches; but I received this
snub in silence. Cousin Jane plunged on with her news.
“Bob’s heels over head in love with Caroline—that’s easy to see. It ’ud
be a good match for her, too.”
“But you said you wanted David for her,” I objected in as dolorous a
voice as I could muster.
“I ain’t so favorable to David as I was,” she answered frankly. “He’s
got a mighty ugly temper. He flared up at me downright impudent that
time I spoke to him about Caroline; an’ he good as turned me out of your
room one day, without opening his mouth. He’d lead Caroline a hard life.
Of course I didn’t say a word to Bob, but I saw by the way he went on
how it was. A keen business man like him don’t go a hundred miles out of
his way to visit a girl for nothin’. I know.”
“But you thought David cared,” I pleaded.
“If he does, let him do somethin’ to prove it, ’stead o’ settin’ like a
bump on a log. I ain’t goin’ to help him another mite.”
Cousin Jane’s visits certainly add to one’s list of mercies. I’ve been
telling Grumpy all the week that nothing can be very bad as long as she
no longer smiles on David, but afflicts Bob White with her disastrous
friendship. My clouds are silver-lined indeed!
* * * * *
_January 29._ The first spring signs the birds give us: we must look
skyward for them, past earth altogether. The next spring signs are
hidden deep, in those dark places where sunlight never comes. For the
violets which empurple the long borders, like the song of the Carolina
wren, are not a sign of spring, but a constant witness to ever-present
life. They bloom every month of the winter, just as the bird sings. The
spring-time message is brought by something of a frailer courage than
theirs—something which must needs retrace steps the violets have never
taken.
So today, as the Peon wheeled me out to the maple, he stopped at one of
the jonquil beds while I climbed down to brush aside the leaves which
protect the bulbs from frost, and to stir the earth with loving fingers.
Not yet. Life is at work, I know, but too deep down to be seen as yet. I
drew the leaves back again, my hands shaking a little with the joy of
grubbing in the dirt again—real outdoor dirt, that runs clear through
to blue sky on the other side, instead of stopping at a saucer six
inches from the top of a pot. How many years! Would I ever make up for
the lost years, I wondered, and then caught my breath and the Peon’s
hand with a laugh. For the cardinal was singing again—_Cheer! Cheer!
Cheer! A-wet-year! A-wet-year! Cheer! Cheer!_
It was a dull, cloudy day; but vision had come to him, and what he saw
he would live up to. He sat on the grape arbor, back of the jonquil bed,
and sang, deliberately at first, stout-heartedly, but with a rising tide
of joy—_A-wet-year! Cheer! Cheer!_ A wet year seems to be his idea of
heaven and spring-time rolled into one. Rain—and swelling life! The
lost years will be made good yet. And shall one grudge the time for
rain?
* * * * *
_January 30th._ I ventured on the subject of Caro with David last night,
and find myself wondering many things. The fact that I have always
admitted the children’s full right to reserve from me any secret they
wished to keep largely accounts, I believe, for the closeness of their
confidence. And I didn’t intend to pry now—only to open a way in case
he chose to take it, as I used sometimes to make confidences easy for
him as a child.
“Bob White is laying siege to Cousin Jane’s favor, Davy, dear,” I said,
using the baby name he still loves in our private talks. “She has sold
him her good-will for a four-course lunch.”
David laughed a little.
“Worst affliction could happen to him, I should think. What on earth
does he want with it?”
“She thinks he’s in love with Caro.”
“Probably is. Most of the fellows are; and Bob’s nobody’s fool.”
He had cuddled his brown head under my hand as he sat on a stool by my
bed, and I couldn’t see his face. His voice was so very natural that it
suggested an effort to make it so.
“Well, I doubt if he displayed any special wisdom when he tried to win
Cousin Jane over—if he tried,” I said. “When you go courting, I don’t
think you’ll spend much time on the girl’s guardians.”
“Not much time on anybody, you mean, till I get things settled.”
“And you’d rather I waited with the rest, dear, wouldn’t you?”
He lifted his head and sat facing me, stroking my hand.
“I couldn’t talk about it, little Mammy, even to you. But I wouldn’t
mind your knowing about it if you could understand without words. You
have always done that when I couldn’t talk.”
His eyes met mine fully, his heart unveiled behind them. That is one of
the beautiful things about David’s reserve—the secret door he opens
into it for one whom he truly loves.
“I do understand,” I said slowly. “But, remember, dear, a woman loves to
be loved. You musn’t have any reserves with her when the time comes. Let
her understand your love is great enough to justify the demands it makes
upon her. If she hurts you at first, don’t try to shield her by letting
her think it’s a light matter. Be as honest with her as you are with
yourself. And you’ll win her, dear; I know you will. And you’ll do it
all by yourself, with no meddling nor helping from anybody.”
He straightened his broad shoulders.
“I’ll do it that way or not at all, little Mammy. Suppose somebody
else—even you—helped me to win her; it would be up to me to hold her,
wouldn’t it? And how could I ever be sure of doing it if I hadn’t been
enough for her at the start, by myself? If I’m not enough—if I can’t
make myself enough—I couldn’t afford to have her at all.”
He rose to his full six feet of height and stretched his clenched hands
above his head.
“That stool cramps my legs these days,” he said. “I remember how proud I
was when I found I could sit on it squarely and get my toes to the
floor. Legs change, don’t they? But the only way I change is to love
more the folks I love at all. Goodnight, you sweetest mother a boy ever
had.”
He bent down, rubbing his cheek against mine in the dear caress of his
baby days, and went out. He never was a boy to kiss one; but he always
loved to stroke my hand, and to touch my cheek with his. He always
loved, too, for me to receive his caresses passively; it is only when he
tucks his close-cropped head under my hand that petting from me is in
order.
So he loves Caro. Half of my hope has come true. And here I lie,
trembling with fear. Is there any greater mockery than a hope wrecked by
a half fulfilment? If Caro—Now isn’t Grumpy a clever imp? I’ve faced
him down and out about the pain for nearly three weeks, and shut him up
in the skeleton-closet with all the gruesome things I’m determined not
to be nagged about; and so he sneaks out on an entirely new tack, and
flaunts David and Caro at me instead of my own spinal column, which is
his customary trade-mark! But if I don’t want him associating with my
own anatomy, which heaven knows is too depraved to be further
contaminated, why should he aspire to the children’s company? And if
David loves Caro, isn’t that proof I was right in thinking they were
made for each other, and that Caro’s love will answer his? _Sur-e-ly,
sur-e-ly, sur-e-ly, sure!_ Just hear her bird-double out of doors:
Grumpy as a prophet isn’t in it with the little red-brown wren!
* * * * *
_February 7th._ Milly came to see me today. Grace has been for more than
a month with George’s mother, who has been very ill. I was lying here
thinking of her as I watched the jays outside, and of what Caro said
when she was at home.