OUT INTO THE WORLD.
"There! That is the _third_ time I have called that girl this morning!
She can lie in bed now until she gets tired of it! It is so provoking!
And after telling her last night that I should want her early. I am out
of all patience!"
Willie could not suppress a smile as this volley of indignation greeted
him upon entering the breakfast room on the morning following the scenes
related in our last chapter, although his heart was sad, but he made no
reply and Fanny continued: "I _had_ made up my mind to let her stay a
while longer; perhaps through the winter, for after all it is hard to be
sent out into the world to earn one's own living! Besides, _she_ would
never get along! No one would have patience with her, for work she will
not! And how can a poor girl get her living if she will not work? But it
is all up now! I can't and won't support her for nothing!" Fanny's rapid
step and the brisk rattling of the breakfast dishes kept up all the time
an active accompaniment to her words as she continued talking while
preparing their early morning meal.
Willie listened to it all as he sat by the window and looked out upon
the dewy grass and took in the soft beauties of the variegated landscape
that lay stretched out before him, over which the first rays of the
summer sun came gently stealing, driving back the dark shadows into the
thick woodland upon the hillside. He then opened the window. There was
music in the maple trees near where the robins had built their
nests--there was fragrance in the cool fresh breeze that came and fanned
his troubled brow. Just outside the yard the hay-makers stood with
laughter and jest while they whetted their glittering scythes
preparatory to their daily labor, while all the time their brown faces
wore the pleasant smile of health and contentment. Poor Willie! He could
only sit and look at them and pray for patience and resignation.
A remark from Fanny recalled him, and he replied: "I would go and call
her but it would be useless for she is not here!"
"Not here? What do you mean? Has she gone?"
"Yes, she has gone, and it is my opinion Sister that you will miss her
nearly if not quite as much as _I_."
"Gone! The heartless creature! This is all the thanks one ever gets for
taking care of a good-for-nothing nobody for years! It is pretty pay now
to clear out just as she _might_ have been of some use, and without a
word too!"
"You must have forgotten all you have been saying to her ever since we
received the sad news of Father's death," replied Willie with some
bitterness. "Still you are mistaken; she did not leave without a word.
She has told me several times that she was going, although I could not
believe it, and when I came out of my room I found this letter under my
door. You can read it if you wish when you have time."
Without a word she took it from his hand and read as follows: "I cannot
_say_ good-bye Willie, and so as soon as the gray dawn creeps over the
mountain top I shall steal from this house and go--God only knows where!
I came here eight years ago a little strange child, leaving the first
real friend in all my life far behind on the road to grieve at my
absence, and now I _go_ leaving only you my brother to be sad because I
am not here. _You_ will miss me; and when I think how lonely you will be
without your 'little Phebe' to talk to I shall shed many tears. O,
Willie! It is dreadful to leave the only one who loves us to go off
alone, but I shall find friends, I know I shall! Do not be unhappy. Tell
Fanny sometime, if she _ever_ inquires as to my welfare, that I should
have been happier to-night if she had loved me, or at least had
exercised more patience with my many faults. I know I have tried her.
Somehow I am not like the other girls about here; they are satisfied,
but _I_--yes, Willie, I want to fly--go up among the clouds or down
among the pearls--I don't know which, but some spirit goads me on--God
only knows where. I am looking out to-night upon the world where I am
going for my new life with more fear and trembling than when in a little
open boat I drifted away over a stormy ocean all alone. But it is better
so. A hundred times I have shivered and shrunk before the storm of
Fanny's indignation, and as I remember it, a peace steals over me even
now with the great unknown future before me. I did desire to do all she
asked of me, but I could not and so I must go! Perhaps she may yet
think kindly of me, who knows? I am strong to-night dear Willie,
notwithstanding this paper has so many tear-stains upon it! How a few
days have changed me--no longer a child but a woman going forth, as
Crazy Dimis commanded me, 'to make my fate, make omens.' So good-bye;
remember what I told you you of Mrs. Ernest. PHEBE."
It was finished and Fanny handed it back to her brother without
speaking. O how long that day seemed! The sun came out hot and sultry,
drinking up the dew from the grass and withering the soft petals of the
flowers; the locust sang his monotonous song in the shade and the mowers
went busily on with their work, and the hours crept slowly by. Fanny was
unusually silent; her busy hands seemed never to tire, but her face all
day wore a weary, anxious look such as betokened thought.
It was late in the afternoon, just before the time for milking, that she
came and seated herself on the lounge by her brother. Perhaps the memory
of that mother who once sat there on just such a bright summer evening
four years before came back to her, for it was then when she told Phebe
never to leave her poor lame boy, always to love and comfort him. Who
was to blame that the child was now an outcast, or that the poor
motherless cripple sat there in that very spot lonely and sad? She did
not speak for a moment as if ashamed of the womanly emotion that swelled
her bosom. At last she said hurriedly: "What did Phebe mean about Mrs.
Ernest?"
"She has told me that I could hear about her by going there
occasionally."
"Why did you not go to-day?"
"I thought I would wait until to-morrow, then perhaps I might hear
more," was the low reply. "She can have no definite plans as yet, but I
will go in the morning."
"I will harness Rover any time for you," continued Fanny as she moved
away to attend to her evening duties.
Willie dropped his head upon the pillow beside him and lay there
motionless and still until the twilight shadows came creeping in at the
window, covering him with a thick black pall. He could have wished that
night that they might have buried him forever with their sombre folds,
so harshly did life's greatest joys contrast with his overwhelming
griefs!
Early the next morning Willie was on his way to the village drawn by the
faithful Rover. It was a long time since he had been over that road
alone, and at first he felt like shrinking from the task.
A carriage came and swept over the brow of the hill, drew nearer, then
passed him. A lady occupied the back seat alone. She was a stranger but
their eyes met. Hers so full of tenderness and pity--his bright with
apprehension and suspense. He was sure that a tear glistened in her blue
eye, but when he turned to look again she was gone. The driver he knew.
The carriage belonged to the village hotel, and "Frank" always drove
that span of grays. Once more Willie turned to look, and as he did so
saw that the lady had bent forward as if to speak to him. "She knows how
to sympathize with such as _I_," he thought, "for her expression was so
kindly and gentle. Those eyes--they were so like my mother's. A deep,
heavenly look as if wishing for something she had not yet received,
which found its way into hers before they closed forever!" and a tear
dimmed his own vision for a moment only; then his thoughts returned to
the beauties around him and to _her_ he was going perhaps to see again.
The roads were fine and Rover was in excellent spirits, so that in a
short time the village church loomed up in sight. Close by it was the
parsonage--beyond the long row of neatly-painted dwellings surrounded
with bright green shrubbery and a pleasant lawn reaching to the road,
finally the hotel with its balconies and lofty cupola, which overtopped
the principal business portion of the unassuming little town. To the
farther store on the main street Willie was to go on an errand for his
sister, but first of all he would call at the parsonage. How his heart
bounded with the prospect of coming joy, then sank again as the
uncertainty rolled over him. Where was Phebe?
And where was Phebe? That morning, with her eyes full of tears she had
stood in the little chamber where she had spent so many pleasant hours
and dreamed so many pleasant dreams; the room she must now leave, with
all of its hallowed associations, its garnered memories, to prove the
Father's unfailing promises of care and protection!
"You could not have forseen all this dear, dear Mother!" she mused as
she turned to the window where the white marble stood so chill and
comfortless in the morning shadows, "or you would never have placed your
helpless boy in my care. But I must go. This pleasant cottage is my home
no more! The flowers I have planted in the garden yonder--the bed of
lilies these hands have tended so long for _your_ sake must bloom on
without me."
The first rays of the morning sun crept up from behind the eastern hills
and rested as a sweet prophetic peace on the tree-tops that reared their
stately heads above the lingering night shades, and taking the letter
she had written the night previously stole softly from the room and
thrust it under the door where Willie was sleeping all unconscious of
the wretchedness that was wringing such bitter tears from her loving
heart as she thought how he would miss her, and how lonely would be his
morning ride down by the little pond without her. "Farewell!" she
whispered, and then descended the stairs, stopping a moment to kiss the
noble Rover and quickly passed on out in the world! The short past with
its changes, its reachings and its longings were to be left behind,
while the broad future with its hopes, allurements and ambitions lay
before her. With a shrinking heart but firm tread she stepped into the
untried path and walked steadily forward. Someone has said that "the
secret of true blessedness is _character_, not condition; that happiness
consists in not _where_ we are but _what_ we are. Our lives resemble
much the Alpine countries, where winter is found at the side of summer,
and where it is but a step from a garden to a glacier." Our little
heroine found this to be so. It had been summer in the little cottage,
not all sunshine nor all storms, for the days were as ever changeful and
the years scattered over her life their shadows and their peaceful
calms. "Go help fate make omens" Crazy Dimis had said, and with many a
firm resolve she had said to Willie, "I will do it!" There was a world
of mysteries before her out of which the "omens" were to be created, and
little did she understand the way in which she was to be led. The
perjured woman whose daughter had given birth to "Lily-Pearl" had
listened to the whisperings of the serpent, and the great problem of
justice was to be worked out in the ever changing adventures of "poor
little Phebe," and now with a satchel in her hand she had left _all_ she
had known of love, and was alone upon the road where the cool morning
zephyrs petted and caressed her. "My life!" she thought as she walked on
towards the parsonage. "If we are God's children we need not fear the
developments of His changing providences," Mr. Ernest had said to her
one day while speaking to him of her future, and now these words came to
her as bright and cheering as the rays of the morning sun, for both had
driven away the darkness from her faith. Years after did memory return
to this early morn to tread again the sandy road and listen to the
chorus of the birdling's song, or watch with palpitating heart the
silvery glories as they spread themselves over the eastern sky; and then
return to the noonday scenes of an eventful life through which she had
been guided.
[Illustration]