THE YOUNG OLD MAN AND THE OLD YOUNG GIRL.
It seemed to Amy that she had never remembered so lovely a First Day as
that one at Burnside Farm. Things happened just as she had foretold.
Mrs. Kaye and Adam went to meeting in the little phaeton into which it
was so easy for him to climb, and Hallam and she rode beside it; for
"Old Shingleside," as the meeting-house was called, was at some distance
from the Clove. It crowned a wooded hill-top, and behind it lay the
peaceful burying-ground, with its rows of modest tombstones and wider
rows of grass-covered, unmarked mounds.
The windows of the meeting-house were all open, and the mild air came in
and warmed them; for as yet the plain box stoves held no blazing logs
within, and the rows of old-time foot-stoves reposed securely upon their
tops. Later, when the weather turned, these little wood-rimmed,
perforated tin boxes would be filled with coals from the fire and placed
beneath the feet of the elderly folk who came to worship.
The girl looked into her mother's face and found it beaming with the
still delight of one whose heart was deeply moved. She had always been
a member of this simple congregation, but of late years Salome Kaye had
been obliged to forego the pleasure of gathering with it. The distance
from Fairacres was too great for her to walk, and it was long since the
horses and carriages that had once filled Fairacres stables had
disappeared.
Hallam, also, from his place on the men's side, saw the joy in the face
he loved, and thought:--
"I wish mother would consent to ride one of the burros to meeting, then
she could come as often as she wished. But she doesn't think it
decorous. Well, I'm glad she's having the comfort to-day; but what is
Friend Adam saying? It sounds like a farewell."
He shot a startled glance across to Amy, among the women, and she
responded. Then both regarded Adam anxiously. He stood in the speaker's
place, where he was always found in meeting time. His body swayed gently
back and forth, though his hands rested upon his cane as if he needed
its support. His voice fell into the rhythmic measure to which they were
accustomed whenever he became the mouthpiece of the Spirit, but his
words were as of one who departs for a distant country and wishes many
things to be remembered.
His message was brief, yet delivered with all the fire and eloquence of
youth; but when he had finished and cast his eyes about him, something
like a sob burst from his withered lips:--
"It's so queer. He looks so happy and yet so sad. Well, he's giving the
hand of greeting to his neighbor, and so meeting's over."
There was no trace of sadness now. In the friendly hand-shaking that
became general was, as Amy had seen, the signal for the closing of the
meeting, whereupon old neighbors and friends fell promptly to giving and
receiving news of mutual welfare or trouble, as the case might be; and
after a while there was a driving away of vehicles, the nods and signals
of gray bonnets and broad brims, until the while party from the Clove
were the very last left lingering on the grass before the steps.
"Well, it's been a good day, Salome. And now the Word comes: 'For here
we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.'"
The old man's eyes fixed themselves earnestly upon the weather-beaten
structure; then with a bright smile he turned away and climbed into the
phaeton which Amy had brought.
Old Fanny mare trotted homeward at an almost giddy pace, and the burros
did their utmost to keep up with her, though their chronic laziness
overcame them at times, and they fell behind. After which Hallam and Amy
would prod their indolent beasts till they had "made a spurt and caught
up."
"No use, children," laughed Adam Burn. "Fanny is a well-trained
'Quaker.' She knows meeting days as well as I do, and she never fails
to go there as slowly as she returns swiftly. She thinks, if horses
think, and I think they think--doesn't thee think so, Amy? She thinks
she has done her duty, and her conscience is as clear as her stomach is
empty. On meeting days she has always an extra feed. That's why she
spins along like this."
He was very jolly, and as full of fun as Amy herself. They found Mr.
Kaye pacing the driveway, waiting for them, and as eager for his dinner
as Fanny for hers.
They were soon gathered about the table, and again old Adam's jest was
the readiest, his cheerfulness the most contagious, and his suggestions
the most practical.
"I advise thee, Cuthbert, to have a lot of good soil drawn up and spread
over the top of Bareacre knoll. Thee can have the use of the team here
till--for some time. There is plenty of muck in the hollow, and I'd be
glad to have it cleared out. Then thee must sow grass, or grain and
grass mixed, and Salome can have as many roots and cuttings of the green
things here as she wishes. Get them all in this autumn. By another
spring they will begin to grow, and a little greenery will transform the
place."
Mrs. Kaye thanked him, but Amy looked up from her dish of rice pudding
and smiled.
"Thee isn't helping us to keep the rule of 'don't run in debt' that thee
told me was so good."
"Cuthbert and I will settle that. Eat thy pudding, child." But he shook
his head at her so merrily she did not mind the rebuff.
After dinner came the big carryall, with its back part loaded so that
the springs touched, and with the "man" upon the front seat, ready to
drive the Kayes to their new home.
"Why, Adam, dear old friend, this is too much; it really is. I cannot
let thee do it," protested Mrs. Kaye, astonished at the sight. For there
were vegetables of every sort that grew at Burnside, with hams and
bacon, some very lively chickens, and baskets heaped with the grapes and
pears for which the Clove was famous.
"Too much, Salome? I think not. Not judging by the samples of appetites
I've seen this noon. Say nothing. Thee knows how gladly I give it, and
would give much more. Here, Amy, is a little letter for thee. I wish
thee to keep it without reading until--" he hesitated, looked at her
gravely, and finished his sentence--"until thy own heart tells thee that
the right time is come. For Hallam, too, there is a bit of writing, and
that he may read at any time he chooses."
"That's right now, then," laughed the lad, and eagerly tore the sealed
envelope.
Adam Burn winced a little at the ragged edge this made on the paper, for
he was a careful person and hated slovenliness. But he could not refrain
a smile as he saw the expression of disappointment growing upon
Hallam's face, where he sat upon black Balaam, his crutches crossed
before him, looking down at the open sheet he had found. The envelope
dropped to the ground, and Amy picked it up; but her brother did not
show her the message he had received, and she was puzzled to hear their
old friend say:--
"The truth which I have written there is better for thee than a fortune,
Hallam."
"It may be, but, under the circumstances, I'd rather have the fortune."
"Thee'll find it, lad, never fear. Thee'll find it."
Amy thrust the envelope into her pocket, along with the letter Adam had
given her, and a moment later they all passed out of the yard, and
turned toward the knoll of Bareacre. The last glimpse they had of their
friend showed him standing in the sunshine, leaning upon his cane, and
gazing after them as they vanished from his sight.
"There is something different about that blessed old man to-day," said
Amy to Hallam, riding with him beside the carryall.
"Well, I suppose it makes him feel badly to know we are not going back
to Fairacres. He always does feel other people's troubles more than his
own."
"What was in your letter, Hal?"
"Humph! It couldn't be called a letter. From anybody else I would have
thought it insulting."
"Not from him, dear. He couldn't insult anybody. He'd not have the
heart to do it. Do you mind telling?"
"Not a bit. I dare say you could take example by it too. For it was a
sort of sermon in few words,--'The perfection of a man is the stature of
his soul.' That's all."
"I don't see yet just what it means, but I think it is that you
shouldn't mind being lame. That you should let your soul grow so big you
would forget your poor legs, and other folks would forget them too."
Nothing more was said, and even Amy felt that they had had enough of
"sermons" for one day, and it was a relief to the thoughtfulness upon
them all to reach Bareacre, and to see Cleena, with Fayette beside her,
waiting to welcome them.
"Hal, isn't it odd? The poorer we are the more folks we have. Fayette
means to live there with us, and so, it seems, do all the little
Joneses. My! Who is that?"
"A scarecrow, I should think. Nobody I ever saw before."
Seated upon a rocking-chair which she had herself brought out from the
house was a young girl of about Amy's age, though from her dress and
manner she might have been at least several years older. Amy caught a
vision of something very gay and brilliant, rivalling the forests upon
the hillsides in variety of tint, but never in their harmony.
"Whew! Whoever she is she makes my eyes ache; and what a picture for
father to see, the first at his new threshold!"
Yet apparently without noticing anything unpleasing, Mr. Kaye assisted
his wife from the carryall and walked with her to where the stranger
still sat and rocked. She did not rise at their approach, and returned
the courteous greeting of the master and mistress of the house with the
barest of nods.
"How do? I come to pay a call."
But not upon them. For the first time in their lives the artist and his
lovely wife were relegated by this self-possessed young person to the
land of "old folks," in whom she felt no interest.
With a twinkle in his eye that met an answering one in hers, the
gentleman handed Mrs. Kaye on toward the eager Cleena, and turned to his
children:--
"My dears, a visitor for you, I think."
So Amy and Hallam rode up and dismounted, while the former went forward
slowly, smiling a welcome, yet feeling oddly disconcerted before this
unknown girl.
"I'm Gwendolyn Jones. Ma said it wasn't no more 'n friendly to come an'
call. I don't have no time 'cept Sunday an' Saturday-half. Then I
generally go to Wallburg to do my shopping. It's such a trouble,
shopping is, ain't it?"
"I don't know. I never did any," answered Amy, simply. She was amused
by Gwendolyn, but regretful that the visit had been timed just then. She
had counted upon showing the interior of the new home to her parents,
with all the best features accented, and now she must leave them to see
things for themselves. Besides, she was conscious that she had herself
been noticed only in the slightest degree by this maiden whose big brown
eyes were fixed upon Hallam with a steady gaze that annoyed him
exceedingly. He was always more conscious of his lameness in the
presence of a stranger, and the people he had met, heretofore, had been
so well bred that beyond the first involuntary surprise at his condition
they had ignored it entirely.
To his amazement Gwendolyn exclaimed:--
"So you're the lame fellow, are you? Well now, you don't look it, not
above your waist. You look real likely in your face, and your shoulders
is broader than Lionel Percival's. He's considered well growed, too."
"Is he?" asked poor Hallam, understanding that some sort of reply was
expected.
"Yes; 'Bony' feels real sot up, don't he, taking care of them donkeys?
Oh, I tell you, 'Bony' is a case."
"Is he?" again feebly ejaculated Hallam. He looked helplessly toward
Amy, but she was disappearing indoors, too eager to be with her parents
to loiter with this unprepossessing guest.
"Yes, he's telling all over the mill, and village too, how that he
belongs to your folks now. He's going to live here, ain't he?"
"He may be. It will be just as Cleena wishes, I fancy. She is the one
who has taken him in charge."
"That's the work girl, ain't it?"
To the young Kayes and their parents their faithful servant had never
been anything save just "Cleena." Her position in their family was as
assured as their own, and that she might be thought a "work girl" by
others, was a novel idea to the lad. It gave him something natural to
think about; and he stood leaning on his crutches, with a smile upon his
face, looking down upon the girl in the rocking-chair, chewing gum and
swaying so composedly.
"Why, yes; I suppose she is. She certainly works, and all the time. But
I should hardly call her a 'girl.'"
"Say, you must be tired, standing so long. Take this chair. I'll step in
and get another."
Again Hallam smiled. The girl, in her ignorant kindness of heart, had
broken a minor law of that courtesy in which he had been educated. She
had offered him the chair in which she had herself been sitting, instead
of the fresh one she meant to get. But he declined both, saying:--
"Please don't trouble. I can easily bring one for myself."
Because she was curious to see how he would do this, she watched him and
sat still. Now he was quite able to wait upon himself in most ways, and
handled his crutches so deftly that they often seemed to Amy, as to him,
"but an extra pair" of feet or hands, as the case might be.
So he swung himself into the house and out again, once more looking for
his sister, and hearing her voice above stairs explaining, exhibiting,
and regretting:--
"Isn't it too bad, mother, that this young lady should have come just
now? Hal has worked so hard and done so much. Anyway, father, you must
not, indeed you must not, go into your studio till he can take you
there. It would be such a disappointment, for he's arranged and
rearranged till I'm sure even your fine taste will be pleased."
He lingered a moment to catch the answer, and it filled his foreboding
soul with great content.
"It is all very excellent thus far, dear, and we'll surely leave the
studio for him to show. I had no idea you could so transform this barn
of a place. From the outside it was ugliness itself, but you have all
done wonders. We shall be very happy here."
"Can that really be father speaking? and we feared he would be utterly
crushed. Amy was right. Blood tells. And there's something better even
than blood to help him now. That's love. Dear old Adam was right, too:
so long as we have each other we can be happy."
Then he caught up a light chair under his arm and swung himself back to
play knight-errant to this unknown damsel.
She found him very agreeable, for he was a gentleman and could not fail
in courtesy toward any woman, old or young. So agreeable, indeed, that
she remained rocking, chewing, and talking, till the shadows of the
autumn evening crept round them, and Cleena, watchful for her "child,"
and indignant at the intrusion of this stranger, appeared.
"Arrah musha, Master Hallam, will you be sittin' here catchin' your
death? Come in by, immediate. The supper is on, an' the master waitin'.
Sure, that's bad luck, for the first meal we're all together in the new
home. Come by."
Hallam rose. It was impossible for him to avoid asking Gwendolyn to
remain, and she, utterly ignoring the sniffs and scowls of Cleena,
promptly accepted.
Of that meal it is not worth while to write. The girl did have the grace
to keep reasonably quiet, though occasionally she would feel that this
silence was not doing herself justice, and would break into the cheerful
conversation of the others with a boldness and self-assertion that made
Amy stare.
Finally she departed, and Mr. Kaye sighed his relief.
"Well, Friend Adam is the youngest old person, and Gwendolyn Jones is
the oldest young person I ever saw," remarked Hallam, as he lighted his
mother's bedroom candle and bade her good night.