THE LITTLE OLD LADY IN THE RED HOUSE
The girl turned her head quickly aside, for there was something in the
ill-concealed admiration in the man’s black eyes that caused the color
to rush in a wave to her cheeks. Several minutes later a careless glance
in the man’s direction, as she casually surveyed the other occupants of
the store, impelled her to stare curiously, as she perceived a rather
peculiar motion,—a sudden twitching shake of his head, repeated every
moment or so. Realizing that the man was the victim of some nervous
affliction, her eyes involuntarily softened with pity, and then noting
that there were several letters in her box, she hurried forward to get
them.
Slipping them into her bag, she hastened from the store, drawing quickly
back, however, as the man who had been staring at her brushed rudely
against her. Nathalie glanced up with annoyance, but as he begged her
pardon, with a sweep of his cap in an exaggerated bow, and another bold,
somewhat mocking glance from his eyes, the pink in her cheeks deepened
angrily.
Nathalie, irritated at the incident, walked slowly down the narrow path
leading to the flagging, but suddenly remembering her determination to
explore the little village set in the hollow of a hill, the unpleasant
occurrence passed from her mind. Attracted by the many flower-beds that
bloomed so luxuriantly with such vivid coloring in the door yards of the
little New England cottages beyond the post-office, she turned about and
slowly strolled in that direction.
Presently she came to a sudden pause to gaze admiringly across the road
at a white, gable-roofed house, with bright green blinds, on a grassy
terrace, peeping from beneath a mass of vines and leaves. It was
surrounded by a garden from which came the gleam of many colors, in the
tall, flowering rows of sweet peas that flanked its sides. But it was
not so much their beauty that held her eyes as the small east wing of
the building, where a wide, roomy porch was surmounted by the sign,
The Sweet Pea Tea-House
_Come in and have a cup of tea_
Nathalie would have enjoyed going over and having a sip of that social
beverage, lured by the daintiness of the house and its sweet-pea garden,
but, on discovering that she had left her purse at home, she continued
her walk. A few steps down the road, and she was staring up at a
timeless clock—looking as if its hands had been swept away in the mad
rush of the hours—in the steeple of a church some distance back from
the road. Then she was watching a horseshoer pounding with a noisy
“Clank, clank” on the hoof of a horse, patiently standing in front of
the blacksmith shop.
A half-hour later, as she stood in front of a little neglected cemetery
at one end of the village, staring in melancholy mood at its
time-scarred stones, gleaming with a dulled whiteness from the rank and
overgrown shrubbery, she heard the purr of an automobile.
Turning carelessly, she noticed a bright red car, with the glossy, shiny
look of newness, coming slowly in her direction, and quickly perceived
that its only occupant was the bold-eyed man who had annoyed her in the
post-office. She quickly glanced in another direction, but, to her
surprise, the car came to a sudden stop, and as the man threw away his
cigar, while doffing his cap, he said, pleasantly, “You have chosen
rather a dreary place to linger, have you not, on this beautiful
afternoon? Would you not like a little ride,—just a help up the hill,
you know?”
For a moment Nathalie was tongue-tied with astonishment, and was about
to walk quickly away, when sudden resentment at the man’s impertinence
overwhelmed her. Swinging about, with marked emphasis she answered in
stiff formality, “Possibly I might—with friends.” The next second she
was hurrying down the road, without waiting to see the man’s eyes darken
with annoyance, as he emitted a low whistle. With the peculiar motion of
the head already referred to, he started up the car, and a moment later
whirled around the bend out of sight.
Nathalie in her haste, caused by her anger and annoyance at the man’s
impertinence, was oblivious to the fact that the clouds had been
gathering for a thunderstorm, until she heard a loud clap of thunder and
a drop of rain swirled into her face. She was tempted to start and run,
for she was an arrant coward in a thunderstorm, but remembering that a
swiftly moving object is apt to attract the lightning, she curtailed her
speed, trying to make as much headway as she could by extra long
strides.
Oh, it was coming down in great big drops! What should she do? But with
her heart thumping nervously, she kept resolutely on her way, covering
her face with her hands in a spasm of terror every time a streak of
lightning zigzagged before her eyes. Oh, she had reached the tea-house!
She would take refuge on the wide veranda.
The next instant she was racing across the road; but before she gained
the desired haven, a deafening clap of thunder, followed by a blinding
glare of red flame, came bolting through the trees, causing her to utter
a loud, frightened scream, as she stumbled blindly up the steps. Another
instant and the door of the house was flung wide, as a sweet-faced lady,
with pleasant, smiling eyes, hurriedly beckoned for her to hasten in.
Nathalie, with a little cry of relief, made a wild rush for the door. As
the lady closed it, with shaking limbs and white lips, but with an
attempt at a smile the girl cried, “Oh, you are very kind to let me come
in, for I am just about drenched”; quickly pulling off her hat as she
spoke, and then shaking her wet, clinging skirts.
“Oh, my dear child! you must come in and take off your wet things,” at
this moment came in sudden call from an adjoining room, whose door was
standing ajar. Nathalie started in surprise, for the voice was
singularly low and sweet, in strange contrast to the somewhat
high-sounding, rather unpleasant voices of the few villagers whom she
had heard conversing, when waiting for her mail in the post-office.
Fearing she would be intruding,—she had noticed that the lady who had
opened the door for her, although she smiled pleasantly, had not
seconded the invitation,—she shook her head. “Oh, no,” she protested
with evident embarrassment, “I shall not take cold. I can stand here
until the storm is over. I am sure I shall be all dry in a moment or
so.”
But as the voice insisted that she come in, and the woman with the
smiling eyes laid her hand on her arm as if to lead her into the room,
she reluctantly entered. As she attempted to stammer forth her thanks,
and her fear of trespassing upon their kindness, she saw that the owner
of the voice was an elderly lady, evidently an invalid, for she sat in a
Morris chair by the window, propped up with pillows. As she motioned for
the girl to come nearer, and slowly and awkwardly put forth her hand to
feel her wet skirts, Nathalie noticed that her hands were swathed with
white cloths.
“Dear me,” she murmured worriedly, “you are wet. I am afraid you will
take cold. But just take off your blouse and skirt, and Mona will dry
them for you in a few moments by the kitchen fire.”
Then, with a few strange motions of the bandaged hands to the
sweet-faced woman,—which immediately revealed to Nathalie that she was
deaf and dumb,—the wet garments were quickly removed and taken out to
the kitchen to dry. Presently the girl, with humorous amazement, found
herself snugly wrapped in a silk Japanese kimono, seated in a big chair
by the invalid lady, gazing at her in silent admiration.
It was a face that could lay no real claim to beauty, and yet to
Nathalie there was a singular charm in the clear-cut outlines of the
delicate features, and the soft, warm tints of a complexion that,
although many years past youth’s fresh coloring, resembled a blush-rose.
But it was the eyes that held Nathalie, black-lashed, deep-set, with a
calm, peaceful expression in their deep blue; and the brown hair,
slightly threaded with gray, parted in the middle, and curling in a
natural wave on each side of her face, gave it the quaint sweetness of
some old-time miniature.
Fascinated, as it were, by the charm of the lady’s personality, the girl
was soon chatting volubly, as she told how she came to get caught in the
storm. “I am sure I should have reached home before the rain came,” she
cried in an aggrieved voice, “if it had not been for that _horrid_ man.
For I intended going home by the road he took, which is much shorter,
but he had made me so nervous by his rudeness that I took the longest
way back, for I was afraid I should meet him again.”
“Oh, you must not feel annoyed at receiving an invitation to ride in an
automobile when trudging up these mountain roads,” laughed the lady,
“for it is quite the customary thing to give a pedestrian a lift up the
hills. But I think, in your case,” she added more soberly, “that you did
right in refusing the man’s offer, for he was rude, as you say, and all
young girls should be careful.”
Won by her companion’s sympathetic interest, Nathalie told that they
were spending the summer at Seven Pillars, up near “Peckett’s on Sugar
Hill,” but she was cautious not to tell of the peculiar conditions of
their stay, or of her aunt’s strange letter. Miss Whipple, as that
proved to be the lady’s name, said that she had known her aunt, Mrs.
Renwick, and considered her a very interesting woman, although, to be
sure, she was somewhat eccentric. Nathalie also told about her Liberty
Girls, a subject that was always close to her heart, and how she was
going to try to teach liberty to the little settlement-boys, who were
coming up to stay with her for a few weeks.
The invalid, and also her sister, were both greatly interested in
Nathalie’s merry chatter; for Mona had come from the kitchen and seated
herself on a low stool by the feet of her sister, who would interpret to
her as the girl rattled on. In return for Nathalie’s confidences she
told how she and her sister, although having been born in the White
Mountains, had lived since childhood in Boston. On the death of their
parents, after meeting with some reverses, she explained, they had
determined to come up to the old homestead and start a sweet-pea farm,
as her sister was passionately fond of flowers.
It was delightful work, she said, and it meant so much that was
beautiful and joyous to her sister, who, of course, on account of her
infirmity, was deprived of many pleasures that other people enjoyed.
They had an old farm-hand who had lived with them when they were small
children, who did the rough gardening, and who made the farm pay by
selling the flowers to the mountain hotels.
“The tea-house was my sister’s inspiration,” continued Miss Whipple,
“and has always been a source of great enjoyment to us both, as so many
of the young people from the hotels and boarding-houses would drop in of
an afternoon for a cup of tea, or a little dance, as I always used to
make it a point to be on hand to play for them. My sister,” she added a
little sadly, “although deprived herself of the joys of girlhood, has
always been passionately devoted to the young, and has spent any amount
of labor in trying to make our little tea-room attractive.
“But now, as I cannot play any more,—you see I am the victim of
inflammatory rheumatism,”—she held up her bandaged hands
pathetically,—“the young people do not come in as much as they did. It
is a great disappointment to us both,” concluded the invalid dolefully,
“although perhaps my sister is partly compensated by her work among her
flowers.
“But I am wrong to complain in this way,” she hastened to add, a sudden
expression of contrition darkening the sweetness of her glance, “for
every one has to endure disappointment and sorrow, sooner or later, as
my mother used to tell me when I was a girl; and, after all, ours might
have been much worse. I try to comfort myself with the thought that all
these little jars of life are just ‘helps’ to fit one for the greater
life beyond. Indeed,” she added softly, “I grow ashamed of myself for
thinking I am even disappointed, when I think of the renunciation, the
sufferings, and the agony of the Man of Sorrows, that we might have
joy.”
Nathalie made no reply, not only because she was at a loss for words to
express her sympathy, but stilled, possibly, by the beautiful look of
calm peace that had crept into the sweet eyes.
“But I am wearying you,” smiled the invalid, her eyes lighting with a
warm glow, “making you think I am a great martyr because I am deprived
of a few things that I think needful to my happiness. Perhaps I am in a
particularly rebellious mood to-day, for I am so anxious to read a book
a friend sent me, but with my poor hands I cannot hold it, and it makes
my neck ache to read from the bookstand. But here comes Mona with your
dried clothing; yes, and to bring me off my cross of martyrdom by her
sweet patience, for she is always cheery and smiling under _her_ great
deprivations.”
“Oh, and she can’t even read to you!” lamented Nathalie impulsively,
suddenly reminded of what it must mean to live with a person who could
not talk to you.
“Yes, and that is one of the nails in the cross,” said the shut-in, with
whimsical sweetness, “for I not only want some one to talk, to read to
me, but sometimes I just yearn for the sound of a human voice. Oh, but I
am getting selfish again—for,—Yes, as soon as you get your gown on,
you must go with Mona to see her sweet peas; she would love to show them
to you.”
“And I would love to see them,” replied the girl as she dropped the
kimono and slipped into her skirt, “for I, too, adore flowers.” And
then, as Nathalie fastened up her blouse, and put on her belt, Miss
Whipple made her sister understand that their guest wanted to see her
bunches of sweet peas.
Mona’s face lighted happily as she comprehended, and in a few moments
she and Nathalie were standing in an outer shed, where masses of the
dainty flowers were piled in heaps, waiting to be tied into bunches,
their delicate odor filling the place with quite perceptible fragrance.
Nathalie watched the deaf-and-dumb woman tie a few bunches, dimpling in
gratified embarrassment as she softly touched the blossoms. She held a
beautifully pink-tinted one against the girl’s cheek, to indicate that
they were of the same hue, and then smilingly fastened a big bunch to
her waist.
By this time the worst of the storm was over, and Nathalie, seeing that
it had settled down to a slow drizzle, decided that she must hurry on,
for fear her mother would worry. So, after thanking her kind hostesses,
and declaring that she would return their umbrella very soon,—she had
promised to make them a real visit, as Miss Whipple called it, in answer
to their repeated urgings,—she hurried out into the rain and was soon
on her homeward way.
It was not a pleasant walk, this plodding over a road deep with mud, and
in some places running in tiny rivulets, for the girl had no rubbers on,
but she kept up her cheer by whistling softly, for not a person was in
sight until she reached the road through the woods, leading to Seven
Pillars. Here she spied a queer-looking little figure in black, hobbling
on ahead of her with a cane, but no umbrella.
Something, perhaps it was the basket the woman carried, suggested that
she might be the old lady who had called the afternoon before, so the
girl hurried her steps, hoping, by the proffer of her umbrella, to atone
for the seeming rudeness of her reception of the previous day.
As she reached the black figure, she pantingly cried, “Oh, won’t you
come under my umbrella, for I am sure you must be wet.” As she spoke she
peered at the woman’s face, almost hidden by the wide brim of an old,
rusty-looking black bonnet. But the bright blue eyes in the withered
face, under its halo of black, only stared coldly, stonily, while the
drooping mouth, seamed with a network of fine wrinkles, and deep lines
of worry and disappointment, narrowed into a tightly compressed slit of
red.
But Nathalie, notwithstanding the disdainful glare, and the woman’s
oppressive silence, pushed her umbrella over her head, and, somewhat to
her own amusement, after a shuffle or two, was soon walking in step to
the old woman’s hobble.
“It has been quite a storm, hasn’t it?” ventured the girl, although her
cheeks were flushed with embarrassment under the ill-timed silence of
the woman, who acted not only as if she could dispense with the shelter
of her umbrella, but with her company as well.
The only reply to the girl was a sniff,—sounding almost like a
sneer,—but, determined not to be daunted by the old woman’s surliness,
Nathalie kept up her chatter, telling how charmed they were with the
mountains, especially with Seven Pillars, with its magnificent view, and
expressed her regret that they had not been at home the afternoon
before, explaining that her mother had been lying down and did not know
of her call.
Presently, with a sudden movement, the old lady came to a halt. Before
Nathalie could understand what she was stopping for,—her umbrella was
held so closely over her companion’s head that she didn’t perceive the
splash of red peeping from between the trees,—she had turned in at a
little gate and the girl suddenly realized that the queer old lady was
her neighbor of the little red house!
For a moment she was speechless; then a smile dawned in her eyes, as she
suddenly understood why her greeting had not been returned when passing
by earlier in the afternoon. Quickly recovering her wits, however, she
stepped forward, and as she held the gate open for her new-found
neighbor to pass through, she cried, “Oh, I am so glad I met you, and
know that we are near neighbors. Mother will be very pleased to meet
you, I am sure, and will soon run over to see you.”
But no reply was forthcoming, and Nathalie, her patience at a boiling
point, hurried on, inwardly vowing that she was never going to speak to
that cantankerous old woman again, for had she not done her best to
apologize for an unintentional slight? As she reached the veranda with
its magic seven pillars her eyes gleamed humorously, as she suddenly
realized how funny she must have appeared, hobbling along with that old
woman. What a funny way she had of sniffing, and _that_ old black
poke-bonnet. Then she wondered if the rest of their neighbors were as
peculiar and queer as the old lady in the little red house.