_THE GREAT BREAK._
MY life went on the even tenor of its way as I have described it till
I was eleven years old. At this time I was large of my age, though
not as strong in health as most of my school-mates, and I was farther
advanced in my studies than I think most girls of eleven are nowadays.
I could read, write, and spell English very well. I had gone as far as
square root in arithmetic. I was parsing in Young's "Night Thoughts,"
and could give every rule in Murray's grammar by number and most of the
notes to the same, and had written all the exercises. I had executed a
marvellous sampler, and was now engaged on a fine white cambric flounce
which was intended to contain a specimen of every known variety of
satin-stitch, knot, and lace-stitch. I had grown rather superior to the
attractions of dolls, and had made over to Ruth all my possessions in
that line, always excepting my beautiful Lanesborough doll, which had
to me the sacredness of a precious relic, and which I never meant to
part with. I had become skilful in various house-keeping mysteries, and
was considered an excellent spinner for my age.
I do not think my moral improvement had kept pace with my intellectual
gain. I was very sensitive to praise and blame, very proud, and
inclined to be jealous and to think myself ill-treated. At the same
time, I was rather reserved; and instead of "telling everything right
out," as Ruth did, I used to brood over and magnify my troubles till
they assumed very large proportions.
Jeanne's absence from home was a great trouble to me. She was now a
woman grown, and for the last few months she had been teaching very
successfully in Cousin Lemuel's district, coming home every other
Saturday and returning with Lemuel's family on Sunday afternoon. Ruth
was a dear, sunshiny little soul, and I loved her with all my heart,
but she did not in the least make Jeanne's place good. Tom was away
with one of my Salisbury uncles, learning the iron business, to which
he always had a great bent, and Ezra was intent on earning the means to
go through college and fitting himself for the same.
Ezra had always been very good to me, and never teased me, as Tom did,
but his mind was naturally very much occupied with his own studies
and plans, and he had once or twice cut short my confidences and my
catalogue of grievances by telling me that I thought quite too much
about my little self, which was no doubt true. He also told me that I
should not be all the time looking out for affronts and imagining that
people meant to overlook me or hurt my feelings, but that I should
busy my mind in thinking what I could do to give pleasure to others.
This was excellent advice, but not much to the taste of the morbid,
conceited little girl I then was. I was, in fact, just in the state
of the heroine of the story-books Alice sometimes brings me home, who
find themselves misunderstood and unappreciated at home and sigh for a
wider career than helping their own mothers to mend their own clothes
and cook their own dinners. I can't say it ever entered my mind to be
dissatisfied with mother, who was still my model of all perfection, and
whom I would have done well to imitate, but I did think it hard that
she should have to give so much time to Harry while she had so little
to spare for me.
In the latter part of this summer a change came over the spirit of our
usually happy household. Father lost his accustomed cheerfulness and
was absent-minded and gloomy, sometimes displaying an irritability
which nobody had ever seen in him before. Ezra's face was dark as night
for a few days; and when it cleared up a little, the expression was by
no means what it had been before, but rather a look of settled patience
and resolution. He had several private conferences with father and
mother in their bed-room. I was busy in the yard one day during the
last of these conferences; and though I scorned to listen, I did catch
a few words.
"God help me!" said father in a voice such as I had never heard from
him before. "My son, your very goodness wrings my heart and makes me
reproach myself more than I did before."
"Don't say that, father," answered Ezra. "You acted for the best, and
that is all any one can do."
"And it will turn out for the best," said my mother, with an evident
effort to speak cheerfully. "We should never have known what good
children we have been blessed with only for this misfortune."
Then there was a little silence, and presently I heard father's voice
in prayer. I stole away to my own particular retiring-place in one
of the little rooms up stairs, and cried bitterly, partly because I
perceived that some misfortune had happened to my father or brother, I
did not know which, and partly because I saw that there was a family
secret from which I was excluded.
"They don't think any more of me than they do of old Rose," I thought;
"and I dare say Rose knows all about it, for I know I heard her crying
last night. And when Jeanne comes home, she and Ezra will go away
together and talk about it, and nobody will say a word to me."
In truth, secret conferences had been rather frequent between Ezra and
Jeanne of late, which was another of my grievances, for I considered
Jeanne to be my own private property.
The next Saturday was not Jeanne's regular day for coming home, but
Ezra harnessed up old Fanny to Mr. Hyde's little wagon, which would
only hold two, and went after her. I did not see why he could not have
taken our own wagon, and thus have made room for me, especially as he
knew how much I wanted to see Margaret and Emma.
"Nobody ever wants me nowadays," I said to Rose; "I might as well not
have a home at all."
"Look here, child! You don't know what you're talking about," answered
Rose, sharply; "you'd better be thankful for your home while you've got
it. Folks that don't know when they're well off, first they know their
well-off-ness gets taken away, and serve 'em right too."
I was a little awe-struck by Rose's words and manner, but I had no
notion of giving up my grievance.
"They might tell me what is the matter, then," said I, discontentedly.
"Everybody look so miserable and talks in corners and cries, and nobody
will tell me what the matter is. It's too bad!"
I did not know that my mother was in the pantry, but as I spoke she
appeared at the door with a pie in her hand, which she gave to Rose to
put into the oven.
"The child is right so far," said she; "it is not fair to keep her out
of what concerns her as much as anybody else. Get your work and bring
it into my room, Olive, and I will tell you all about it."
I obeyed with a heart beating between gratification and alarm, for I
saw by my mother's face that something serious was the matter. Harry
was just waking up from his nap, and mother washed his face and sent
him out to play. Then she took her work and sat down, and in as plain
and simple words as she could she told me the whole story. My father
had been induced to go into a sort of partnership with his stepbrother,
who was doing what seemed a flourishing business in Albany, and to
mortgage his farm in order to furnish capital. I learned afterward that
mother had been very much opposed to the plan, but she said nothing
of this to me. I suppose my father must have been rather careless in
making investigations into the business, or else his partner must have
been a dishonest man. Anyhow, though I do not to this day understand
the particulars, the end was that the concern failed, and my father
found that not only must the property he had received from his father's
estate be sacrificed, but he would have to sell his farm. All that
remained from the wreck was a piece of nearly wild farming-land which
grandfather owned in Vermont, and a few hundred dollars of mother's,
which father would never consent to touch.
"Then we shall not live in this house any more?" said I, hardly taking
in the extent of the calamity.
"No," answered mother; "this house is not ours any more."
"And haven't we any house at all?"
"No, no house at all of our own, and no land, unless father goes to
live on his farm in Vermont. Then Ezra will have to give up going to
college, for the present at least, because his help will be needed at
home."
For the first time the full measure of our misfortune seemed to dawn
upon me. Ezra must give up going to college and being a minister;
Jeanne must give up her school. We must all go away to a strange,
savage place among the mountains—such a place, probably, as the
Millars used to live in—away from church and Jenny Hyde and school,
and everything that made life worth having. Probably we should have to
sell the cows and horses—my own cow Snowball and Jeanne's black colt;
and—dreadful to think!—even my tortoise-shell cat and her kitten might
have to be left behind. I burst into tears and cried bitterly.
"Oh, it's too bad, it's too bad!" I exclaimed, passionately, amid my
sobs. "Father ought not to have had anything to do with that bad man.
He ought to have known better. It's too bad!"
"Olive, hush!" said my mother, more sternly than she had ever spoken
to me before. "Never let me hear one word of blame toward your father
from one of his children. It was for their good he acted—because he
wanted to give them a better education than he thought he could afford
as things were. He was deceived and imposed upon, and his plans have
turned out badly, but he acted for the best, and that is all any one
can do. Never, whatever happens, never let me hear you blame your
father."
Mother was called out at this moment to attend to some visitors, and
there was no time to talk further, even if I had not been too much
awed by her manner to continue the subject; but my mind was full of a
kind of stunned, and at the same time rebellious, grief. I felt as a
man may do who sees all his possessions swallowed up by an earthquake
shock or destroyed by some unexpected attack of an enemy. I went slowly
up stairs and shut myself up in the garret, and tried to think how it
would seem to leave our old home and go to a new place where there
was neither church nor school, nor stores nor neighbours—where there
would probably be wolves and bears and snakes, and Indians too, very
likely. From thinking I fell to dreaming, and was just in the midst of
a night-attack of Indians when I was waked by Jeanne's gentle voice:
"Why, Olly, I have been looking everywhere for you. What made you come
up to this dusty place and go to sleep on the floor? See what Margaret
and Emma have been making for you." And sitting down by my side, she
displayed to my view a "work-bag," curiously embroidered in what we
used in those days to call queen-stitch.
Jeanne spoke so cheerfully that at first I thought she could not have
heard the story, but on looking at her. I saw that, though her face
was calm, and even bright, it was very pale and her eyes were red with
crying: but she sought to compose herself for my sake.
I hardly glanced at the work-bag, which for some time had been the
object of my most ardent desires; but throwing my arms round her neck,
I exclaimed, passionately,—
"Oh, Jeanne, don't you know? Isn't it too bad—too hard for anything?"
"It is very hard for father and mother, and rather hard for Ezra,
because he must put off going to college," answered Jeanne, "but I
don't think we younger ones need mind it so very much. I believe, for
myself, I rather like the idea of going to a new place."
"Well, I don't—I think it is horrid," said I, vehemently. "I can't bear
the thought of it. To go away among the Indians, where there is no
school or library or church or—"
"But, Olly, you are making up a story to scare yourself," said Jeanne.
"It is not as bad as that, by any means."
"I thought it was all wild land?" said I.
"Father's farm is mostly wild land," answered Jeanne, "but it is only
half a mile from a very nice little village where there is a school and
a minister, and where the people are building a church. John Norris has
been there, and he was at Cousin Lem's last night and told us all about
it."
I began to feel a very little comforted.
"And anyhow, Olly, if it is ever so bad, we shall only make matters
worse by fretting and repining," continued Jeanne. "It 'is' hard on
father and mother to give up the home where they have always lived and
go away among strangers, and it is all the harder for father because
he thinks he has been to blame. It must be our part to make things as
easy as we can for them, and not give ourselves useless trouble about
ourselves."
"I don't see how we can do anything to make things easy," said I,
feeling a good deal ashamed as I remembered how selfish my grief had
been.
"We can do a great deal by putting a good face on the matter and not
giving up to our grief," answered Jeanne; "that is one great thing. And
we can remember how many things we have left, be thankful for; that is
another. Why, Olly, I did not think 'you' would be the one to give up
and break down," added Jeanne, in a tone of gentle reproach—"you who
have always been wishing for something to happen, and feeling sorry
that there were no martyrs or heroes in these days."
"I didn't mean anything like 'this,'" I answered, feeling not a little
mortified. "I meant things like those that happened to John Rogers or
the other people in the 'Book of Martyrs.'"
"I don't suppose trouble ever comes in just the shape we would like
to have it," said Jeanne, with a very shady little smile; "if it did,
it would not be trouble at all. But, Olive, you don't consider that
these martyrs had all the daily troubles and trials that we have. Do
you think Mistress Rogers found it any easier to see to the dinners and
mend the stockings and attend to the lessons of all those ten children
because her husband was in prison and she didn't know when her own turn
might come to leave her little flock and never see them again? Do you
think it would be one bit easier to put up with the loss of our home if
we knew that any time—perhaps this very day—father and mother might be
carried off and we might never see them till we saw them carried out to
be burned alive?"
"No, of course not," I answered; "but all you can say, Jeanne, don't
keep me from thinking it very hard that—that—" Something in my throat
cut short the sentence.
"Of course it is," said Jeanne. "I don't pretend to deny it: it 'is'
very hard. All I say is it is worse for father and mother and for Ezra
than it is for you and me, and therefore we ought to help them to bear
it instead of making it worse for them. Now is the time for us to show
how we love them, and to make some return for all they have done for
us."
I felt that there were both truth and consolation in this view of the
case.
"I can bear anything if I can only be a comfort to mother," said I;
"but how can I, Jeanne?"
"By being cheerful and making the best of everything," answered
Jeanne—"by taking extra pains with your work, and by taking care of and
amusing Harry, so that mother won't have so much to do. And, after all,
Olive, it won't be so very bad," continued Jeanne. "We shall all be
together, except Tom."
"Why, where will Tom be?" I interrupted.
"Oh, he is going to stay with uncle, where he is now."
"Why shouldn't he be the one to stay with father and help on the farm
instead of Ezra?" I asked.
"Because he is younger and not so strong; and besides, Olive, you know
how Tom is."
I knew very well that there was no use in trying to make Tom do
anything he did not like. It cost more than it came to, and he was
sure to slip out sooner or later and leave the task unfinished, or so
finished that it would have been better left undone. Tom was always an
odd one in our family.
"We shall all be together," continued Jeanne. "We shall have to rough
it for a while, no doubt, but then we shall have the pleasure of seeing
things grow better and better every year, and of doing good too, I dare
say. Perhaps we might even have a Sunday-school like that one father
read about in the paper Mr. Hyde lent us."
Jeanne went on talking in this cheerful strain till she had talked me,
and perhaps herself, into quite a brilliant view of our prospects, and
almost made it appear that breaking up our home in Massachusetts and
going to Vermont was the best thing that could possibly happen to us.
That night at prayers father read the chapter which tells about
Abraham's going out from his own home into a strange land, and prayed
that the change which had been sent upon us might be blessed to us,
"and that thy servant may be forgiven if his sin has brought about this
trouble, and may it be under thy hand the means of good to those whom
I desired to benefit in another way." When I heard the tremour in my
father's voice as he pronounced these words, all the anger I had felt
in my heart melted away, and I prayed earnestly in my turn that I might
be forgiven for my undutiful thoughts, and that I might indeed be a
comfort to my father and mother.
Long after all the children, and even father and mother, had gone to
bed, Ezra and Jeanne sat talking by the kitchen fire, and as I lay and
listened to their voices a new thought came into my mind regarding
them. I lost no time in informing myself on the subject; and when
Jeanne at last came to bed, I asked her, bluntly,—
"Jeanne, are you and Ezra going to be married?"
"Some time, perhaps," answered Jeanne, softly, but without any
confusion. "But you must not say a word about it, Olive, for nothing
is settled yet, and it may be a long time first, especially if Ezra is
ever to be a minister. Now, remember, dear, I trust you not to tell!"
I promised to be faithful, and fell asleep, thinking what a grand
minister's wife Jeanne would make.