It was not very cheerful to look forward to seeing a friend of one's
youth crippled and disabled; beside, Tom Aldis always felt a nervous
dread in being where people were ill and suffering. He thought once or
twice how little compassion for Nancy these country neighbors
expressed. Even her father seemed inclined to boast of her, rather
than to pity the poor life that was so hindered. Business affairs and
conference were appointed for that afternoon, so that by the middle of
the morning he found himself walking up the yard to the Gales' side
door.
There was nobody within call. Mr. Aldis tapped once or twice, and then
hearing a voice he went through the narrow unpainted entry into the
old kitchen, a brown, comfortable place which he well remembered.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you," Nancy was calling from her little
bedroom beyond. "Come in, come in!"
He passed the doorway, and stood with his hand on hers, which lay
helpless on the blue-and-white coverlet. Nancy's young eyes, untouched
by years or pain or regret, looked up at him as frankly as a child's
from the pillow.
"Mother's gone down into the field to pick some peas for dinner," she
said, looking and looking at Tom and smiling; but he saw at last that
tears were shining, too, and making her smile all the brighter. "You
see now why I couldn't write," she explained. "I kept thinking I
should. I didn't want anybody else to thank you for the books. Now sit
right down," she begged her guest. "Father told me all he could about
last night. You danced with Addie Porter."
"I did," acknowledged Tom Aldis, and they both laughed. "We talked
about old times between the figures, but it seemed to me that I
remembered them better than she did."
"Addie has been through with a good deal of experience since then,"
explained Nancy, with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I wish I could have danced again with you," said Tom bravely, "but I
saw some scholars that did you credit."
"I have to dance by proxy," said Nancy; and to this there was no
reply.
Tom Aldis sat in the tiny bedroom with an aching heart. Such activity
and definiteness of mind, such power of loving and hunger for life,
had been pent and prisoned there so many years. Nancy had made what
she could of her small world of books. There was something very
uncommon in her look and way of speaking; he felt like a boy beside
her, he to whom the world had given its best luxury and widest
opportunity. As he looked out of the small window, he saw only a ledgy
pasture where sheep were straying along the slopes among the bayberry
and juniper; beyond were some balsam firs and a glimpse of the sea. It
was a lovely bit of landscape, but it lacked figures, and Nancy was
born to be a teacher and a lover of her kind. She had only lacked
opportunity, but she was equal to meeting whatever should come. One
saw it in her face.
"You don't know how many times I have thought of that cold day in
Boston," said Nancy from her pillows. "Your aunt was beautiful. I
never could tell you about the rest of the day with her, could I? Why,
it just gave me a measure to live by. I saw right off how small some
things were that I thought were big. I told her about one or two
things down here in Rodney that troubled me, and she understood all
about it. 'If we mean to be happy and useful,' she said, 'the only way
is to be self-forgetful.' I never forgot that!"
"The seed fell upon good ground, didn't it?" said Mr. Aldis with a
smile. He had been happy enough himself, but Nancy's happiness
appeared in that moment to have been of another sort. He could not
help thinking what a wonderful perennial quality there is in
friendship. Because it had once flourished and bloomed, no winter
snows of Maine could bury it, no summer sunshine of foreign life could
wither this single flower of a day long past. The years vanished like
a May snowdrift, and because they had known each other once they found
each other now.
It was like a tough little sprig of gray everlasting; the New England
edelweiss that always keeps a white flower ready to blossom safe and
warm in its heart.
They entertained each other delightfully that late summer morning. Tom
talked of his wife and children as he had seldom talked of them to any
one before, and afterward explained the land interests which had
brought him back at this late day to East Rodney.
"I came down meaning to sell my land to a speculator," he said, "or to
a real estate agency which has great possessions along the coast; but
I'm very doubtful about doing it, now that I have seen the bay again
and this lovely shore. I had no idea that it was such a magnificent
piece of country. I was going on from here to Mount Desert, with a
half idea of buying land there. Why isn't this good enough that I own
already? With a yacht or a good steam launch we shouldn't be so far
away from places along the coast, you know. What if I were to build a
house above Sunday Cove, on the headland, and if we should be
neighbors! I have a friend who might build another house on the point
beyond; we came home from abroad at about the same time, and he's
looking for a place to build, this side of Bar Harbor." Tom was half
confiding in his old acquaintance, and half thinking aloud. "These
real estate brokers can't begin to give a man the value of such land
as mine," he added.
"It would be excellent business to come and live here yourself, if you
want to bring up the value of the property," said Nancy gravely. "I
hear there are a good many lots staked out between here and Portland,
but it takes more than that to start things. There can't be any
prettier place than East Rodney," she declared, looking affectionately
out of her little north window. "It would be a great blessing to city
people, if they could come and have our good Rodney air."
The friends talked on a little longer, and with great cheerfulness and
wealth of reminiscence. Tom began to understand why nobody seemed to
pity Nancy, though she did at last speak sadly, and make confession
that she felt it to be very hard because she never could get about the
neighborhood to see any of the old and sick people. Some of them were
lonesome, and lived in lonesome places. "I try to send word to them
sometimes, if I can't do any more," said Nancy. "We're so apt to
forget 'em, and let 'em feel they aren't useful. I can't bear to see
an old heart begging for a little love. I do sometimes wish I could
manage to go an' try to make a little of their time pass pleasant."
"Do you always stay just here?" asked Tom with sudden compassion,
after he had stood for a moment looking out at the gray sheep on the
hillside.
"Oh, sometimes I get into the old rocking-chair, and father pulls me
out into the kitchen when I'm extra well," said Nancy proudly, as if
she spoke of a yachting voyage or a mountaineer's exploits. "Once a
doctor said if I was only up to Boston"--her voice fell a little with
a touch of wistfulness--"perhaps I could have had more done, and could
have got about with some kind of a chair. But that was a good while
ago: I never let myself worry about it. I am so busy right here that I
don't know what would happen if I set out to travel."