IN CONCLUSION.
The rattling wheels and squeaking springs could be heard far up the
road. Anne was returning with her precious load. The horses trotted down
the hill, and came up with a rattle and a bang, and a sudden stop, at
the gate, with Edith at the lines, and Anne by her side, and Star in the
rear seat alone holding on tightly lest she should be bumped out.
"Wasn't that great!" exclaimed Edith. "I told you I could drive. This is
your home?" to Anne.
"This is our home," replied Anne, as she began to climb over the wheel
in getting out.
"Isn't it a beautiful place, Star!" said Edith. "Just look at the roses
blooming! and all those flowers around the porch! Anne you have such a
romantic little home! Well, if here isn't our mountaineer, for a
surety!" she exclaimed seeing John coming down the walk. "How do you do,
Mr. Winthrope? I see you at last in your true character! How will I ever
get over this wheel?"
"If you will be real good, I will help you out--with your permission,"
said John, as he approached, and offered up both hands for her to fall
into, as she liked. "Sister, I will put away the horses," he said to
Anne, as he saw she was holding the head of one of the horses to await
the unloading. "Remember, this is not an auto," he reminded Edith, as
she was cautiously putting out one little foot on the rim of the wheel
before her.
"I would not have had so much fun if it had been an auto," returned
Edith, looking down into his upturned face, and laughing; "and you have
such a fine sister," as she turned her head toward Anne.
"Now, jump," said John, as he caught her beneath the arms, she resting
her hands on his shoulders in the momentary act before the plunge. "Down
you come--there!--not so difficult after all," he said, as she bounced
on her feet on the ground. "Now, Miss Barton, we will see with what
grace you can perform the feat."
"You will have to be careful; I am so awkward," said Star, preparing to
go through the same acrobatic act.
"Jump, Star!" said Edith, seeing her hesitate.
"Here I go, then!" she said, laughing, as she took the downward dive.
"Oh, my! Miss Barton!" exclaimed John, as she tumbled into his arms, as
a big rag doll might. "Are you hurt?" he asked, as he released her from
the necessary embracing he had to perform to prevent her from falling to
the ground.
"Not hurt, but a little frightened," she answered, flushed from the
incident, and brushing out her skirts. "I am all right."
"Now, you ladies go into the house with my sister while I put the horses
away. Here, Anne, you take the ladies, and I will take the horses," he
said, leaving his guests, and taking up Anne's position in charge of the
team.
"May I call you Anne?" asked Edith, as Anne came up to her.
"Yes, Miss Jarney, if you wish; we all use our first names up here,"
responded Anne, opening the gate.
"You may call me Edith, if you like, and this other lady will be our
guiding Star," said Edith, walking with her arm around Anne's shoulders
up the walk, her face aflush, her eyes beaming, and seeing everything
about, talking continually.
Star was not as talkative; but she was just as seeing as Edith was. She,
too, saw something in that home, more than its simplicity, to attract
her admiration. Was it the fragrant flowers and hopping birds and cool
freshness that she saw? or was it the peace of contentment, indefinably
overloading everything? or was it the radical difference in the two
homes, ideal though in both, and irresistable in their contradictory
elements, that caused her spirits to rise above the normal point of
enthusiasm? Or was it something else? Star did not know.
Arriving at the door, arm in arm now, Anne passed straight through the
opening, holding on to Edith, and Star followed with considerable
wonderment at what she might encounter.
"Take off your hats, ladies," said Anne, withdrawing her arm from
Edith's and standing off, with folded hands, looking at her, with
gladness all over her face.
"No, you must say Edith and Star," said Edith, seeing how humbly
courteous Anne tried to be.
"If you will have it that way; Edith and Star, take off your hats and
gloves. Now, I've said it, and I didn't mean to be so rude," said Anne,
abashed.
"Anne, I will not love you if you do not call me Edith," said Edith,
scolding pleasantly, pulling off her gloves. "I do not like too much
formality. I have had so much of that that it does my heart good to get
out where I can be free; and you will let me be free here, Anne, won't
you?"
"Oh, yes, Edith," answered Anne; "and Star, too; you may be as free as
you please, Edith, for we are such common folk, so long as you don't
carry off my brother, John." She said this without the least knowledge
of its true meaning; not mentioning her brother James, because she did
not think of such things in his connection.
Edith blushed a deep crimson, as well as Star, at this extraordinary
remark on this the most extraordinary day that ever came into their
virtuous lives. Anne had a faint inkling of what these blushes meant,
for she continued: "Now, Miss Edith, since you want to be free with me,
I will be just as free with you, and tell you that my brother
l--l--likes you."
Edith was not prepared for all this, and she had to turn her head in the
most confused state of feelings she ever fell into, all for wanting to
be tender and kind and loving toward this mountain girl, who was not yet
clearly or fully instructed in the propriety of fine speech. Edith made
no reply. She stood a moment, after facing Anne, cogitating on what an
appropriate reply should be.
"Anne," she said directly, with a bright smile, "will you let me kiss
you?"
Edith held out her hands for Anne to come to her. Anne responded to the
ineffable sweetness of Edith to make amends for her offense, which she
realized she had committed against the fine lady opening her heart to
her.
"I love you, Anne," said Edith, holding the dear little girl to her
breast; "I love you; will you be my friend?"
"Why, of course, Edith," replied Anne; then she broke away, and was
gone, leaving Edith and Star alone.
They removed their hats and placed them on a table in a corner; and then
sat down on a lounge that graced the wall under a window looking out on
the porch, both in bewildered confusion and agitation.
"What do you think of his sister, Star?" asked Edith.
"She is a fine young child; no more than sixteen, perhaps," responded
Star, "and so lively that I wish I could be here with her all the time."
"I wonder if they will let us take her with us to the city, Star, to be
our companion?" said Edith. "We would educate her, and teach her music
and everything."
The kitchen door opened, and Anne came in with her mother, who wore a
gingham apron as the badge of her position in the household. Anne
advanced with her mother and presented her, with much dignity, as she
conceived it, to Edith and Star.
"This is my mother, Edith and Star," said Anne, as the two young ladies
arose and advanced to the middle of the room.
Edith presented her small white hand and took the coarse hand of Mrs.
Winthrope. "I am so glad to know you, Mrs. Winthrope," said Edith, as
she kissed the aging woman, whose age was more from toil than years.
Star having performed the same act of greeting, including the osculatory
part thereof, Mrs. Winthrope held up her hands in an astonished
attitude, and said: "Well, well; I declare; and you two are John's
friends, are you? I hope you are well."
"We are well; thank you," they both repeated.
"Just make yourselves at home, ladies, with what we have here to
entertain you, while I finish the dinner. Be seated by the window where
it is cool, for I know you must be warm after the long drive in the
sun."
"Thank you, Mrs. Winthrope," they answered; and were seated.
Then the mother and daughter disappeared again; and Anne returned, after
a little, with her father, who was in the clothes of a ploughman. Mr.
Winthrope was a tall man, a little stooped, with chin whiskers, and gray
blue eyes; and, while rough looking, was not boorish. Anne escorted him
to the young ladies, who arose at his approach. He greeted them so
warmly and effusively that, for some time thereafter, they felt the grip
of his vise-like hand on theirs.
"Just make yourselves at home, as you like," he said. "We are farmers,
you know, and if you find any pleasure here it is yours. We will be
through our work by noon, then mother and me will find time to talk, if
you care to be bothered with us at all." Then he left them.
"Are they not very good people," said Edith to Star, after the father
had gone out with Anne.
"I like them very much," opined Star; "they are so pleasant."
John came in shortly, and sat down on a split-bottom chair in the middle
of the room.
"I hope you ladies are enjoying yourselves," he said, toying with his
hat he held in his hands.
"I could not enjoy myself any more if it were my own home," answered
Edith. "Why, you have such a delightful home, Mr. Winthrope, and such
nice parents, and such a sweet little sister, with whom I have already
fallen in love. I am regretting that I have not known them longer."
"That's a beautiful encomium, Miss Jarney, on my native heath; but you
know that you and your father and mother have been saying so many nice
things about me that I am uncertain whether you mean it or not." John
said this while glancing at the floor, picturing intangible things in
the woof and warp of the old rag carpet.
"I mean every word of it. Mr. Winthrope," replied Edith, also picturing
similar intangible things in the old rag carpet as easily as if she had
pictured them out of the delicate flowers in the velvet rug in her
boudoir.
Star sat gazing out the window, looking at some intangible shapes that
made up the green hills beyond. Their conversation thereafter was not of
the progressive kind, nor was it brilliant. Both became secretively
reserved, and time was hanging monstrously on their hands. John was
dreaming. Edith was dreaming. Both were uncertain as to what to say or
how to act, so discomposed were they. But James came in soon to break
the spell. He was such a strapping fine fellow, fine in texture, and as
good as he was fine.
"I knew very well who you were the day we met you on the road," said
Edith, shaking his hand.
"Had I known all this then. I should have bundled you into my wagon and
brought you right home," he replied, with considerable liveliness in his
speech. "But not knowing you, of course, I could do nothing else but
drive on. However, the pleasure of meeting you now, here, is certainly
beyond my mean ability to express."
"We might have come," said Edith, with a ringing laugh. "Would it not
have been odd, and so romantic, just to have come right along with
you?"
"I am sure I would have enjoyed it," he said; "and by this time I would
have had you converted into farm hands."
"And wearing calico dresses," said Edith.
"And brogan shoes," said Star, remembering how she used to wear such
articles of clothing.
"Yes; it is certain one can't work here and wear silks," responded
James. Then looking down at himself, he was reminded that he was still
in his rough garb. "If you ladies will excuse me, I will make myself
more presentable for appearance at dinner."
He then left them; and when he returned, wearing his best Sunday suit,
all brushed and fitting him very well, he was equally as stylish looking
as his brother John in his best.
When dinner was announced (dinner is at the noon hour with the mountain
people), John lead Edith and James lead Star to the bounteously laden
dining table set in the kitchen. It might have been noticed by Edith,
had she not been otherwise engaged, that Star was more aflush than ever
before, just at this period of her proud behavior. James talked to her
very entertainingly during the progress of the long meal, and she was
very cordial toward him. She laughed and talked with great glee, being
amused at his ready wit and simple manner. But John and Edith were
distressingly quiet, for some reason, listening mostly to the
conversation of the others. Little Anne, at times, cast side glances at
Edith and John, that might have been suggestive of their meaning.
"Would you ladies like to try your hand at fishing?" asked James, who
was warming up for any kind of sport that might be introduced for the
entertainment of their guests.
"Oh, delighted!" cried Edith. "I never fished in my life."
"Nor I," said Star; "will you teach me how, Mr. Winthrope?" (meaning
James.)
"I thought we old people were to entertain you this afternoon," said the
father.
"We will return in time for that, father," James said, rising. "John,
I'll get the bait; you get the tackle, and we will teach these young
ladies how to fish."
"Be careful," admonished the mother; "don't fall into the stream."
"Anne, are you not going?" asked Edith, as she rose with the others.
"I must remain here and help mother; and will await your return," said
Anne, as she came around to Edith and put her arm around her.
"You are a dutiful child, Anne," said Edith, kissing Anne thereat.
Edith and Star were both dressed in gray serge skirts, white silk waists
and sailor hats. While John and James got ready the ladies prepared
themselves for the event of their lives. They were in waiting on the
porch when John and James came up, with plenty of bait and tackle in
their hands. So off they went immediately: John and Edith together, and
James and Star, the father and mother and Anne standing on the porch
watching their going.
They struck the mountain stream a mile below the house, and the two
ladies fell to the sport with the spirited joy of youth. The pair became
separated after awhile, as all such sportsmen and women often do. One
pair went up the stream, and one went down, after the elusive fish.
John and Edith came to a pool, after wandering through the bypaths of
the forest, far below the other two. Around the pool the trees hung low,
and the shades were heavy, and the water was dark and deep. By the pool
they sat down on a log, and cast their lines to await the fisherman's
luck.
"Isn't this delightful," said Edith, holding her pole with inexperienced
hands over the water.
"Fish won't bite, if we talk too loud," said John, critically, but
pleasantly, as he sat below her on the log, slanting into the stream.
She became quiet; he became quiet. The water trickled over the miniature
falls at the head of the pool in such an isolated tone of ripling that
it made wild sweet music for Edith. The trees above them sighed in a low
crescendo, and the birds were singing everywhere. The sun rays glinted
through the boughs of the trees, and danced upon the water, making a
fretted work of moving lights and shadows. Water riders ran back and
forth, as if playing with the sunlight let into their darksome place of
habitation, and fish jumped up now and then, as if to taunt the patient
anglers. And Edith and John sat quietly--waiting, waiting.
Then a fish came along, and caught the bait of Edith's hook; and went
tearing away in its struggle for liberty. So sudden was the unlooked for
happening that Edith lost her balance, by reason of the gyrations of
the fish, which she pluckily attempted to land, and plunged into the
water. It came so sudden that John, who was at that moment meditating on
the catch he would make, and on how he would boast over the rest of them
when he got home, did not notice Edith's danger till it was too late.
Without a moment's reflection, however, he dropped his pole and leaped
into the pool after her. Edith came up with a scared look, beating the
water with her hands, as he went down by her side. He seized her around
the waist, and swam for the shore, and when they reached the shore, she
laughed, being reminded of another watery occasion; but still permitting
him to hold her in his arms.
"I am a pretty sight now," she said, still remaining in his arms on the
sloping bank, up which he was assisting her.
"It seems we have an affinity for water, Edith," he said, reaching the
top of the slope, still holding her in his arms. "May I call you Edith,
now?" he said, clasping her wet form to his.
She laid her dripping head upon his breast, one arm stole around his
neck, and she looked up into his face. "Yes," she answered. And he
kissed her for the first time on those sweet lips that had so often
uttered his name before; but now they said, "John." And still he held
her in his arms.
"Edith, will you be my wife, some day?" he asked, looking with the
fervor of an impassioned youth into her dear blue eyes, and pushing back
the wet hair from her white temples.
"Why, yes; dear John, I love you, as I always have since the first time
I met you," she answered, with such an appealing tone for that old
responsive note in him that he pressed her closer to his bosom. And the
longing in her soul was recompensed in that moment of her eternal bliss.
"You know me, Edith; you know my people now; you know what I am. Are you
satisfied?" he asked, still harboring that same old uncertain doubt that
always perplexed him so; and still holding her in his arms.
"I know you to be a noble young man, dear John. I know your people now,
and I love them. I am satisfied," she whispered. "You are all that I
care for, John--all. I love you, I love you," and she kissed him.
"I am satisfied, dear Edith. It was not an hallucination, after all, was
it dear?" he answered.
Thus, plighting their troth, they went hand in hand up the shady wood
path as happy as two young children over their mishap.
Life is beautiful, and life is sweet; but what would life be to those
young people without the love between them?
Coming to the path where they left James and Star, on parting, they
found them sitting there, waiting. When Star saw them coming, she
instinctively comprehended, and knew that the crisis was over between
Edith and John. Star was happy herself over a secret of her own. And
together they returned home.
John proudly, on arriving in the old-fashioned sitting room, announced
to his parents and sister his intended bride, and told them they could
take her now, in her bedraggled condition, for their daughter and
sister.
"Now, will you go with me, Anne, to the city?" asked Edith, after she
had been costumed in some of Anne's clothing that fit her narrowly. "I
will educate you, and have you for my own dear sister," hugging Anne to
her breast.
"Some day, Edith; some day," answered Anne, uncertain in her mind. "When
will you come after me?"
"When I am your real sister, Anne," replied Edith, stroking Anne's
golden hair, and then she looked up at Anne's mother, who could not
fully realize what it meant for her future life. "You will let her go,
Mrs. Winthrope?"
"I may some day," answered the good old mother.
"I wouldn't want to leave papa and mamma yet, Edith," said Anne, with a
happy smile.
"You shall return to see them often; so shall I," said Edith.
"I will go some time, Edith, after you are my sister," answered the coy
Anne.
"That will be soon, dear sister," said Edith, folding Anne in her arms
and crying with excessive happiness. "You may have two sisters soon,
Anne--Star, I am sure, will be your other sister." Star blushed, and
therefore told her tale.
The family stood on the porch that evening, and listened to the receding
sound of the rattling wheels and squeaking springs of the rig, as John
drove away with his precious load. "God bless them," said the good old
father; and Anne cried when the last hoof beat came down the shadowy
roadway. In silence they sat in darkness till they heard the clanking
hoofs returning. The mother went in and lighted the lamp; the father
went in, the sister went in, the two brothers went in; and they all
knelt down in family worship.
As the curtain of the passing night drew thickly over the mountains, and
the lights in the corridor of the Summit House became dim, and their
room dark, Edith knelt down by her bed and offered up her prayers to the
Good Lord, who had brought her safely through her troubles; and Star,
kneeling by her side, said, "Amen."
A few days thereafter, after Edith had written her parents of the happy
culmination of her fishing trip, the following message was received by
her from them: "Congratulations."
So endeth the story of Edith and John.