"Perhaps they have not read books written purely for children. Think of
the histories and travels and biographies and poems piled up for you to
read!"
"I wish I had them. I read all I could get."
"I am sure you do. O, Marjorie, I don't want you to lose one of your
precious days. I lost so many of mine by growing up too soon. There are
years and years to be a woman, but there are so few years to be a child
and a girl."
Marjorie scribbled awhile thinking of nothing to say. Had she been
"spoiling" Linnet, too? But Linnet was two years older, almost old enough
to think about growing up.
"Marjorie, look at me!"
Marjorie raised her eyes and fixed them upon the glowing eyes that were
reading her own. Miss Prudence's lips were white and tremulous.
"I have had some very hard things in my life and I fully believe I
brought many of them upon myself. I spoiled my childhood and early
girlhood by light reading and castle-building; I preferred to live among
scenes of my own imagining, than in my own common life, and oh, the
things I left up done! The precious girlhood I lost and the hard
womanhood I made for myself."
The child's eyes were as full of tears as the woman's.
"Please tell me what to do," Marjorie entreated. "I don't want to lose
anything. I suppose it is as good to be a girl as a woman."
"Get all the sweetness out of every day; _live_ in to-day, don't plan or
hope about womanhood; God has all that in his safe hands. Read the kind
of books I have spoken of and when you read grown-up stories let some one
older and wiser choose them for you. By and by your taste will be so
formed and cultivated that you will choose only the best for yourself. I
hope the Bible will spoil some other books for you."
"I _devour_ everything I can borrow or find anywhere."
"You don't eat everything you can borrow or find anywhere. If you choose
for your body, how much more ought you to choose for your mind."
"I do get discontented sometimes and want things to happen as they do in
books; something happens in every chapter in a book," acknowledged
Marjorie.
"There's nothing said about the dull, uneventful days that come between;
if the author should write only about the dull days no one would read the
book."
"It wouldn't be like life, either," said Marjorie, quickly, "for
something does happen, sometimes nothing has happened yet to me, though.
But I suppose something will, some day."
"Then if I should write about your thirteen years the charm would have to
be all in the telling."
"Like Hector in the Garden," said Marjorie, brightly. "How I do love
that. And he was only nine years old."
"But how far we've gotten away from punctuation!"
Next to prayer children were Miss Prudence's most perfect rest. They were
so utterly unconscious of what she was going through. It seemed to Miss
Prudence as if she were always going through and never getting through.
"Are you fully satisfied that punctuation has its work in the world?"
"Yes, ever so fully. I should never get along in the Bible without it."
"That reminds me; run upstairs and bring me my Bible and I'll show you
something.
"And, then, after that will you show me the good of remembering _dates_.
They are so hard to remember. And I can't see the good. Do you suppose
you _could_ make it as interesting as punctuation?"
"I might try. The idea of a little girl who finds punctuation so
interesting having to resort to castle-building to make life worth
living," laughed Miss Prudence.
"Mother said to-day that she was afraid I was growing deaf, for she spoke
three times before I answered; I was away off somewhere imagining I had a
hundred dollars to spend, so she went down cellar for the butter
herself."
Marjorie walked away with a self-rebuked air; she did dread to pass that
open sitting-room door; Uncle James had come in in his shirt sleeves,
wiping his bald head with his handkerchief and was telling her
grandfather that the hay was poor this year; Aunt Miranda was brushing
Nettie's hair and scolding her for having such greasy fingers; and her
grandmother had a pile, _such_ a pile of sliced apple all ready to be
strung. Her head was turning, yes, she would see her and then she could
not know about dates or have a lesson in reading poetry! Tiptoing more
softly still and holding the skirt of her starched muslin in both hands
to keep it from rustling, she at last passed the ordeal and breathed
freely as she gained Miss Prudence's chamber. The spirit of handling
things seemed to possess her this afternoon, for, after finding the
Bible, she went to the mantel and took into her hands every article
placed upon it; the bird's nest with the three tiny eggs, the bunch of
feathers that she had gathered for Miss Prudence with their many shades
of brown, the old pieces of crockery, handling these latter very
carefully until she seized the yellow pitcher; Miss Prudence had paid her
grandmother quite a sum for the pitcher, having purchased it for a
friend; Marjorie turned it around and around in her hands, then,
suddenly, being startled by a heavy, slow step on the stairs which
she recognized as her grandmother's, and having in fear those apples to
be strung, in attempting to lift it to the high mantel, it fell short of
the mantel edge and dropped with a crash to the hearth.
For an instant Marjorie was paralyzed with horror; then she stifled a
shriek and stood still gazing down through quick tears upon the yellow
fragments. Fortunately her grandmother, being very deaf, had passed the
door and heard no sound. What would have happened to her if her
grandmother had looked in!
How disappointed Miss Prudence would be! It belonged to her friend and
how could she remedy the loss?
Stooping, with eyes so blinded with tears that she could scarcely see the
pieces she took into her hand, she picked up each bit, and then on the
spur of the moment hid them among the thick branches of hemlock. Now what
was she to do next? Could she earn money to buy another hundred-years-old
yellow pitcher? And if she could earn the money, where could she find the
pitcher? She would not confess to Miss Prudence until she found some way
of doing something for her. Oh, dear! This was not the kind of thing that
she had been wishing would happen! And how could she go down with such a
face to hear the rest about punctuation?
"Marjorie! Marjorie!" shouted Uncle James from below, "here's Cap'n Rheid
at the gate, and if you want to catch a ride you'd better go a ways with
him."
The opportunity to run away was better than the ride; hastening down to
the hammock she laid the Bible in Miss Prudence's lap.
"I have to go, you see," she exclaimed, hurriedly, averting her face.
"Then our desultory conversation must be finished another time."
"If that's what it means, it means delightful!" said Marjorie. "Thank
you, and good-bye."
The blue muslin vanished between the rows of currant bushes. She was
hardly a radiant vision as she flew down to the gate; in those few
minutes what could have happened to the child?
IV.
A RIDE, A WALK, A TALK, AND A TUMBLE.
"Children always turn toward the light"
"Well, Mousie!"
The old voice and the old pet name; no one thought of calling her
"Mousie" but Hollis Rheid.
Her mother said she was noisier than she used to be; perhaps he would not
call her Mousie now if he could hear her sing about the house and run up
and down stairs and shout when she played games at school. That time when
she was so quiet and afraid of everybody seemed ages ago; ages ago before
Hollis went to New York. He had returned home once since, but she had
been at her grandfather's and had not seen him. Springing to the ground,
he caught her in his arms, this tall, strange boy, who had changed so
much, and yet who had not changed at all, and lifted her into the back of
the open wagon.
"Will you squeeze in between us--there's but one seat you see, and
father's a big man, or shall I make a place for you in the bottom among
the bags?"
"I'd rather sit with the bags," said Marjorie, her timidity coming back.
She had always been afraid of Hollis' father; his eyes were the color of
steel, and his voice was not encouraging. He thought he was born to
command. People said old Captain Rheid acted as if he were always on
shipboard. His wife said once in the bitterness of her spirit that he
always marched the quarter-deck and kept his boys in the forecastle.
"You don't weigh more than that bag of flour yourself, not as much, and
that weighs one hundred pounds."
"I weigh ninety pounds," said Marjorie.
"And how old are you?"
"Almost fourteen," she answered proudly.
"Four years younger than I am! Now, are you comfortable? Are you afraid
of spoiling your dress? I didn't think of that?"
"Oh, no; I wish I was," laughed Marjorie, glancing shyly at him from
under her broad brim.
It was her own bright face, yet, he decided, with an older look in it,
her eyelashes were suspiciously moist and her cheeks were reddened with
something more than being lifted into the wagon.
Marjorie settled herself among the bags, feeling somewhat strange and
thinking she would much rather have walked; Hollis sprang in beside his
father, not inclined to make conversation with him, and restrained, by
his presence, from turning around to talk to Marjorie.
Oh, how people misunderstand each other! How Captain Rheid misunderstood
his boys and how his boys misunderstood him! The boys said that Hollis
was the Joseph among them, his father's favorite; but Hollis and his
father had never opened their hearts to each other. Captain Rheid often
declared that there was no knowing what his boys would do if they were
not kept in; perhaps they had him to thank that they were not all in
state-prison. There was a whisper among the country folks that the old
man himself had been in prison in some foreign country, but no one had
ever proved it; in his many "yarns" at the village store, he had not even
hinted at such a strait. If Marjorie had not stood quite so much in fear
of him she would have enjoyed his adventures; as it was she did enjoy
with a feverish enjoyment the story of thirteen days in an open boat on
the ocean. His boys were fully aware that he had run away from home when
he was fourteen, and had not returned for fourteen years, but they were
not in the least inclined to follow his example. Hollis' brothers had all
left home with the excuse that they could "better" themselves elsewhere;
two were second mates on board large ships, Will and Harold, Sam was
learning a trade in the nearest town, he was next to Hollis in age, and
the eldest, Herbert, had married and was farming on shares within ten
miles of his father's farm. But Captain Rheid held up his head, declaring
that his boys were good boys, and had always obeyed him; if they had left
him to farm his hundred and fifty acres alone, it was only because their
tastes differed from his. In her lonely old age, how his wife sighed for
a daughter!--a daughter that would stay at home and share her labors, and
talk to her, and read to her on stormy Sundays, and see that her collar
was on straight, and that her caps were made nice. Some mothers had
daughters, but she had never had much pleasure in her life!
"Like to come over to your grandfather's, eh?" remarked Captain Rheid,
looking around at the broad-brimmed hat among the full bags.
"Yes, sir," said Marjorie, denting one of the full bags with her
forefinger and wondering what he would do to her if she should make a
hole in the bag, and let the contents out.
She rarely got beyond monosyllables with Hollis' father.
"Your uncle James isn't going to stay much longer, he tells me,"
"No, sir," said Marjorie, obediently.
"Wife and children going back to Boston, too?"
"Yes, sir."
Her forefinger was still making dents.
"Just come to board awhile, I suppose?"
"I thought they _visited_" said Marjorie.
"Visited? Humph! _Visit_ his poor old father with a wife and five
children!"
Marjorie wanted to say that her grandfather wasn't poor.
"Your grandfather's place don't bring in much, I reckon."
"I don't know," Marjorie answered.
"How many acres? Not more'n fifty, and some of that _made_ land. I
remember when some of your grandfather's land was water! I don't see what
your uncle James had to settle down to business in Boston for--_that's_
what comes of marrying a city girl! Why didn't he stay home and take care
of his old father?"
Marjorie had nothing to say. Hollis flushed uncomfortably.
"And your mother had to get married, too. I'm glad I haven't a daughter
to run away and get married?"
"She didn't run away," Marjorie found voice to answer indignantly.
"O, no, the Connecticut schoolmaster had to come and make a home for
her."
Marjorie wondered what right he had to be so disagreeable to her, and why
should he find fault with her mother and her uncle, and what right had he
to say that her grandfather was poor and that some of his land had once
been water?
"Hollis shan't grow up and marry a city girl if I can help it," he
growled, half good-naturedly.
Hollis laughed; he thought he was already grown up, and he did admire
"city girls" with their pretty finished manners and little ready
speeches.
Marjorie wished Hollis would begin to talk about something pleasant;
there were two miles further to ride, and would Captain Rheid talk all
the way?
If she could only have an errand somewhere and make an excuse to get out!
But the Captain's next words relieved her perplexity; "I can't take you
all the way, Sis, I have to branch off another road to see a man about
helping me with the hay. I would have let Hollis go to mill, but I
couldn't trust him with these horses."
Hollis fidgeted on his seat; he had asked his father when they set out to
let him take the lines, but he had replied ungraciously that as long as
he had hands he preferred to hold the reins.
Hollis had laughed and retorted: "I believe that, father."
"Shall I get out now?" asked Marjorie, eagerly. "I like to walk. I
expected to walk home."
"No; wait till we come to the turn."
The horses were walking slowly up the hill; Marjorie made dents in the
bag of flour, in the bag of indian meal, and in the bag of wheat bran,
and studied Hollis' back. The new navy-blue suit was handsome and
stylish, and the back of his brown head with its thick waves of brownish
hair was handsome also--handsome and familiar; but the navy-blue suit was
not familiar, and the eyes that just then turned and looked at her were
not familiar either. Marjorie could get on delightfully with _souls_, but
bodies were something that came between her soul and their soul; the
flesh, like a veil, hid herself and hid the other soul that she wanted to
be at home with. She could have written to the Hollis she remembered many
things that she could not utter to the Hollis that she saw today.
Marjorie could not define this shrinking, of course.
"Hollis has to go back in a day or two," Captain Rheid announced; "he
spent part of his vacation in the country with Uncle Jack before he came
home. Boys nowadays don't think of their fathers and mothers."
Hollis wondered if _he_ thought of his mother and father when he ran away
from them those fourteen years: he wished that his father had never
revealed that episode in his early life. He did not miss it that he did
not love his father, but he would have given more than a little if he
might respect him. He knew Marjorie would not believe that he did not
think about his mother.
"I wonder if your father will work at his trade next winter," continued
Captain Rheid.
"I don't know," said Marjorie, hoping the "turn" was not far off.
"I'd advise him to--summers, too, for that matter. These little places
don't pay. Wants to sell, he tells me."
"Yes, sir."
"Real estate's too low; 'tisn't a good time to sell. But it's a good time
to buy; and I'll buy your place and give it to Hollis if he'll settle
down and work it."
"It would take more than _that_ farm to keep me here," said Hollis,
quickly; "but, thank you all the same, father; Herbert would jump at the
chance."
"Herbert shan't have it; I don't like his wife; she isn't respectful to
Herbert's father. He wants to exchange it for city property, so he can go
into business, he tells me."
"Oh, does he?" exclaimed Marjorie. "I didn't know that."
"Girls are rattlebrains and chatterboxes; they can't be told everything,"
he replied shortly.
"I wonder what makes you tell me, then," said Marjorie, demurely, in the
fun of the repartee forgetting for the first time the bits of yellow ware
secreted among the hemlock boughs.
Throwing back his head Captain Rheid laughed heartily, he touched the
horses with the whip, laughing still.
"I wouldn't mind having a little girl like you," he said, reining in the
horses at the turn of the road; "come over and see marm some day."
"Thank you," Marjorie said, rising.
Giving the reins to Hollis, Captain Rheid climbed out of the wagon that
he might lift the child out himself.
"Jump," he commanded, placing her hands on his shoulders.
Marjorie jumped with another "thank you."
"I haven't kissed a little girl for twenty years--not since my little
girl died--but I guess I'll kiss you."
Marjorie would not withdraw her lips for the sake of the little girl that
died twenty years ago.
"Good-bye, Mousie, if I don't see you again," said Hollis.
"Good-bye," said Marjorie.
She stood still till the horses' heads were turned and the chains had
rattled off in the distance, then, very slowly, she walked on in the
dusty road, forgetting how soft and green the grass was at the wayside.
"She's a proper nice little thing," observed Hollis' father; "her father
wouldn't sell her for gold. I'll exchange my place for his if he'll throw
her in to boot. Marm is dreadful lonesome."
"Why don't she adopt a little girl?" asked Hollis.
"I declare! That _is_ an idea! Hollis, you've hit the nail on the head
this time. But I'd want her willing and loving, with no ugly ways. And
good blood, too. I'd want to know what her father had been before her."
"Are your boys like _you_, father?" asked Hollis.
"God forbid!" answered the old man huskily. "Hollis, I want you to be a
better man than your father. I pray every night that my boys may be
Christians; but my time is past, I'm afraid. Hollis, do you pray and read
your Bible, regular?"
Hollis gave an embarrassed cough. "No, sir," he returned.
"Then I'd see to it that I did it. That little girl joined the Church
last Sunday and I declare it almost took my breath away. I got the Bible
down last Sunday night and read a chapter in the New Testament. If you
haven't got a Bible, I'll give you money to buy one."
"Oh, I have one," said Hollis uneasily.
"Git up, there!" shouted Captain Rheid to his horses, and spoke not
another word all the way home.
After taking a few slow steps Marjorie quickened her pace, remembering
that Linnet did not like to milk alone; Marjorie did not like to milk at
all; at thirteen there were not many things that she liked to do very
much, except to read and think.
"I'm afraid she's indolent," sighed her mother; "there's Linnet now,
she's as spry as a cricket"
But Linnet was not conscious of very many things to think about and
Marjorie every day discovered some new thought to revel in. At this
moment, if it had not been for that unfortunate pitcher, she would have
been reviewing her conversation with Miss Prudence. It _was_ wonderful
about punctuation; how many times a day life was "wonderful" to the
growing child!
Along this road the farmhouses were scattered at long distances, there
was one in sight with the gable end to the road, but the next one was
fully quarter of a mile away; she noted the fact, not that she was afraid
or lonely, but it gave her something to think of; she was too thoroughly
acquainted with the road to be afraid of anything by night or by day; she
had walked to her grandfather's more times than she could remember ever
since she was seven years old. She tried to guess how far the next house
was, how many feet, yards or rods; she tried to guess how many quarts of
blueberries had grown in the field beyond; she even wondered if anybody
could count the blades of grass all along the way if they should try! But
the remembrance of the broken pitcher persisted in bringing itself
uppermost, pushing through the blades of grass and the quarts of
blueberries; she might as well begin to plan how she was to earn another
pitcher! Or, her birthday was coming--in a month she would be fourteen;
her father would certainly give her a silver dollar because he was glad
that he had had her fourteen years. A quick, panting breath behind her,
and the sound of hurrying feet, caused her to turn her head; she fully
expected to meet the gaze of some big dog, but instead a man was close
upon her, dusty, travel-stained, his straw hat pushed back from a
perspiring face and a hand stretched out to detain her.
On one arm he carried a long, uncovered basket in which were arranged
rows and piles of small bottles; a glance at the basket reassured her,
every one knew Crazy Dale, the peddler of essences, cough-drops and quack
medicines.
"It's lonesome walking alone; I've been running to overtake you; I tried
to be in time to catch a ride; but no matter, I will walk with you, if
you will kindly permit."
She looked up into his pleasant countenance; he might have been handsome
years ago.
"Well," she assented, walking on.
"You don't know where I could get a girl to work for me," he asked in a
cracked voice.
"No sir."
"And you don't want a bottle of my celebrated mixture to teach you how to
discern between the true and the false! Rub your head with it every
morning, and you'll never believe a lie."
"I don't now," replied Marjorie, taking very quick steps.
"How do you know you don't?" he asked keeping step with her. "Tell me how
to tell the difference between a lie and the truth!"
"Rub your head with your mixture," she said, laughing.
But he was not disconcerted, he returned in a simple tone.
"Oh, _that's_ my receipt, I want yours. Yours may be better than mine."
"I think it is."
"Tell me, then, quick."
"Don't you want to go into that house and sell something?" she asked,
pointing to the house ahead of them.
"When I get there; and you must wait for me, outside, or I won't go in."
"Don't you know the way yourself?" she evaded.
"I've travelled it ever since the year 1, I ought to know it," he
replied, contemptuously. "But you've got to wait for me."
"Oh, dear," sighed Marjorie, frightened at his insistence; then a quick
thought came to her: "Perhaps they will keep you all night."
"They won't, they always refuse. They don't believe I'm an angel
unawares. That's in the Bible."
"I'd ask them, if I were you," said Marjorie, in a coaxing, tremulous
voice; "they're nice, kind people."
"Well, then, I will," he said, hurrying on.
She lingered, breathing more freely; he would certainly overtake her
again before she could reach the next house and if she did not agree
with everything he proposed he might become angry with her. Oh, dear! how
queerly this day was ending! She did not really want anything to happen;
the quiet days were the happiest, after all. He strode on before her,
turning once in a while, to learn if she were following.
"That's right; walk slow," he shouted in a conciliatory voice.
By the wayside, near the fence opposite the gate he was to enter, there
grew a dense clump of blackberry vines; as the gate swung behind him, she
ran towards the fence, and, while he stood with his back towards her in
the path talking excitedly to a little boy who had come to meet him, she
squeezed herself in between the vines and the fence, bending her head and
gathering the skirt of her dress in both hands.
He became angry as he talked, vociferating and gesticulating; every
instant she the more congratulated herself upon her escape; some of the
girls were afraid of him, but she had always been too sorry for him to be
much afraid; still, she would prefer to hide and keep hidden half the
night rather than be compelled to walk a long, lonely mile with him. Her
father or mother had always been within the sound of her voice when he
had talked with her; she had never before had to be a protection to
herself. Peering through the leaves, she watched him, as he turned again
towards the gate, with her heart beating altogether too rapidly for
comfort: he opened the gate, strode out to the road and stood looking
back.