REBELLION.
But the poor, perhaps fortunately, have little time for mourning. As the
first hint of the long winter came in on the September's equinox, poor
Sara had to rouse herself, and she began to look about her with
despairing eyes. Friends, so far, had been most kind, and the little
family had never actually suffered; but now that the few summer
resources for picking up an occasional dollar were ended, what had they
to look forward to in the long months to come?
Reuben Olmstead had owned the poor little cottage in which they lived,
so a roof over their heads might be counted on, but not much besides;
for his share in the last fishing-expedition, promptly paid over by
Jasper, had soon been swallowed up by the family's needs, so greatly
reduced had they become before it arrived.
Sara was not, perhaps, a good financier,--few girls of barely eighteen
are,--but she had done her best, and her feeling had often been that of
a mother-bird, wearied by a long day's search for worms, who always
finds the mouths stretched wide as ever, clamoring for more. The task of
filling those mouths seemed a hopeless one.
"What can I do?" she thought, as she sat huddled over the tiny fire one
day, waiting for the children to come home from school. "The flour is
all gone, and the potatoes nearly, and so little wood!"
She shivered, then turned to see if the sleeping baby were well covered,
and resumed her dreary musing.
"I don't wonder our people almost welcome a wreck when they are so poor.
Of course it's wicked; but if there must be storms, and ships have got
to go to pieces--God forgive me! I believe I was almost wishing for one,
myself! If there were only something I could do; but what can I? Here
are the children; they must be cared for, and the baby above all,--what
can one do when there's a baby to look after? I suppose some would say,
ask her people to take him; but who is there? Her mother is dead, and
her father a deaf old man who can't live long; she had no sisters, and
her brothers are sailors who are off all the time. There's only her
cousin 'Liza, and I couldn't give the poor little fellow up to that
hard, coarse woman; besides, I promised her and I promised father to
care for him myself. If I could go out into the world, it seems as if I
might find a place; I am strong and young, and not afraid to work, but
here there is no opportunity."
Then, after a long, silent gaze into the fire,--
"God certainly knows all about it; he could help me if he would; I
wonder why he doesn't? Does he treat us as I sometimes do baby--corner
us all up till there's only one way to go, and so make us walk straight?
But to walk straight now looks as if it led to starvation."
Her head drooped lower, and her thoughts grew too roving and
uncontrolled for connected expression; in fact, her brooding had become
almost actual dreaming, when the door swung back with a bang, and the
two children rushed in, Molly screaming with laughter and resistance as
she fled before Morton, who was close at her heels.
"Sara! Sara! make him stop! I"--
She was stopped herself by a sudden crash, and all three stood in blank
affright and astonishment as the oval, gilt-framed mirror, which hung
between the front windows, fell to the floor in the midst of them, and
shivered into a dozen pieces. It had been one of the proud possessions
of their own mother when she came to the house as a bride, and was the
principal ornament of their humble living-room, as all swiftly
remembered; and besides, there was that gloomy superstition which had
been instilled into them since infancy,--a broken mirror meant death and
disaster.
Even Sara was not proof against this. In fact, there are scarcely any of
us, no matter how good and wise we may be, who do not have some such pet
remnant of barbarism clinging to our souls; and Sara now stood, pale and
aghast as the others, looking at that fateful, shattered glass! The
baby, thus rudely awakened, set up a lively scream, which broke the
spell of awed silence that seemed to have held them all until now.
Molly, with a flounce of resignation, cried out,--
"Well, it's more trouble, of course, but we're getting used to it fast!"
Sara said, rather sharply,--
"Go get the baby, Molly, and be quiet, if you can; and, Morton, help me
gather up the bits." While Morton, who was already down on the floor,
remarked in his slow, thoughtful way,--
"I don't see what we've done, Sara, to have things keep happening so
dreadful, do you?"
Sara did not know. Just then the usual sweetness of her nature seemed
turning to gall. If she could have put her thoughts into words, she
would have said it seemed as if some awful Thing, instead of the God of
love, sat up aloft mocking at her wretchedness; and she felt for the
instant, as she crossed the floor after the old broom, an impotent rage,
almost scorn, of this mighty power which could stoop to deal such
malignant blows against a helpless girl.
It was but a moment,--one of those fierce, instantaneous rebellions of
the natural heart, which overcome us all at times of utter
wretchedness,--then, just as she laid hands on the broom, there came a
cry, a choked, wondering cry from Morton,--"Sara! O Sara!"
She turned; what now?
The boy, in removing the larger fragments of the glass from the boards
at the back of the frame, had come across something slipped in between,
and now held it up with shaking hands and shining eyes. It was a neat
pile of greenbacks, laid out straight and trim, with a paper band pinned
around them. Sara looked, comprehended, and felt like falling on her
knees in repentant gratitude!
But, instead, she sprang towards him, and caught the package from his
hands. Twice she counted it; could it be possible? Here were three
hundred dollars; a sum that seemed like a fortune to the girl.
Three hundred dollars between them and suffering; and the Thing up aloft
became instantly a Friend, a Father, and a God!
Molly, attempting a pirouette with the baby, now stumbled amid the
_debris_, and for an instant distracted Sara's attention, as she
sprang to steady her, and catch the imperilled little one from her
irresponsible arms, and Morton remarked hesitantly,--
"Say, Sara, I guess I wasn't feeling just right about things, and I
declare this makes me sort of ashamed!"
"Ashamed? Pshaw! Well, it doesn't me!" cried Molly, dancing about. "Now
I can have a new dress, and some shoes--
"'Way hay, storm along, John,
Old Stormy, he'"--
"Molly! Molly! How often must I tell you not to sing those coarse sailor
songs? Now, do sit down, before you cut your feet on this glass. Morton,
you see poor mother did divide that money, after all. I presume she left
out just a few dollars for every-day expenses, which was what baby threw
in the fire, but this must be the bulk of the money that father brought
from Squire Scrantoun's."
"Yes," said Morton, still with solemn emphasis; "and perhaps, Sara,
broken looking-glasses don't always mean that somebody's going to die;
if they did, this would have broken last summer, wouldn't it?"
"I don't know just what to think, Morton," squeezing the baby for very
joy, while this great gladness made her eyes brilliant, "only I guess we
aren't forgotten, after all! I want to remember that always now, no
matter how sorrowful we may be; will you help me, Morton?"
"If I don't forget myself," said her brother; "it's kinder hard to feel
good when everything goes contrary, but I'll try;" and as he spoke, she
saw him select a sliver of the broken glass, and, wrapping it in a bit
of paper, lay it away in a drawer where he was allowed to keep his few
treasures.
"Why, what's that for, Morton?" she asked curiously.
He flushed a little, then said very low,--
"It's to make us remember," and she felt that the whole circumstance
must have made a deep impression on the boy.
Not so Molly. She mourned the glass because now she had no better place
before which to arrange her curls than in one of the larger pieces left,
which, being cracked, gave her such a resemblance to a certain old
fisherman with a broken nose, who was her special aversion, that she
hated to look at herself, which was, possibly, not a bad thing, for she
was in danger of growing vain of her pretty, piquant face these days.
But for a long time Sara went about the humble home with a humbler
heart. She felt that she had been a traitor to her Kingly Father, and
took the pretty little white cross madame had sent her and pinned it up,
face inwards, against the wall.
"I am not worthy to wear it," she said, "until I have done something to
atone for my rebellion."
But the winter passed quietly away; and, if no opportunity offered for
any great deed of atonement, there were always the little worries of
every day to be patiently borne, not the least of which was a sort of
nagging spirit which had gone abroad among the old neighbors and friends
of the Olmstead family. Possibly they were a trifle jealous of Sara's
looks and bearing; it may be those who had predicted failure for her,
"because them as keeps so stiddy to books ain't apt to hev much sense at
things what caounts," were disappointed that she succeeded so well,
or,--let us be charitable,--perhaps they thought the children all needed
a little maternal scolding on general principles; anyhow, whatever they
thought, there was something unpleasant in the air.
Sara felt it keenly, and drew still farther into her shell of reticence,
keeping closely to her studies and home duties, until the neighbors had
some excuse for their plaints that "she didn't care for nothin' nor
nobody but them pesky books!"
One day Mrs. Updyke came in, sniffing as usual, and casting a hasty
glance about the room with her cold, restless eyes.
"How d'ye do, Sairay?" she remarked, loosening her shawl. "I thort as
how ye mought be lonesome, so I come over an' brung my knittin' a while;
you got some on hand tew, I s'pose?"
"Well, not knitting, but I've sewing," said Sara, trying to feel
hospitable, and wondering what Mrs. Updyke would think if she should
confess that she scarcely knew the meaning of that word "lonesome." "Let
me take your hood and shawl, won't you?"
"Waal, while I set; is the babby's well as usual?" with a keen glance at
the little fellow, who was happily dragging a pasteboard cart on spool
wheels about the floor.
"Very well, thank you; and grows so fast! He walks nicely now, and can
say 'Monnie,' and 'Mawta,' and 'Wawa,'--that's me,--besides several
other words."
"H'm; got any flannils onto him?" "Oh, yes; I made some out of father's
old ones," with a sigh at the beloved name.
"Ye did, hey? Hope they fit som'ers near."
She now critically examined the room once more; but as it was far neater
than her own, she could not reasonably find any fault there, so started
on a new tack.
"How old's Morton?"
"Twelve next summer."
"Gittin' to be a big boy, ain't he?"
"Yes, and such a good one! He is a great help to me."
"Waal, he orter be; some boys o' twelve airns their own livin', don't ye
know?"
"Yes; and Morton can do something when it comes warmer, but he needs
more schooling yet, though, indeed, he often does odd jobs on a Saturday
that bring in a little. He's an industrious boy, and I want him to have
a good education."
"Waal, as to thet, some folks thinks too much o' book-larnin', _I_
say! Your fayther didn't hev much o' it to boast on, an' see what a good
pervider he was. Books is well enough, but sense is better, an'
forehandedness is best o' all."
As she talked, her needles clicked sharply amid the clouded blue yarn of
her half-formed sock, and her eyes, almost as sharp, kept roving about,
while the uneasy nose seemed determined to root out anything that might
escape them. Just then Molly came in breezily, her curls flying, and her
cheeks a bright pink, and, seeing the visitor, managed, all in one
instant, to give Sara a lightning glimpse of a most disgusted little
visage, even while she turned with a dimpling smile to say,--
"Why, Mrs. Updyke, is it you? Then that must be why Zeba Osterhaus and
Betty Pulcher were crossing the street in front of your house; I guess
they couldn't get in."
"Crossin' the street--where? Jest below?" beginning to wind up her yarn
hurriedly. "Hed they railly been to my haouse?"
"Well, I'm not sure, but I think so; I didn't ask 'em where they'd
been."
"And be they to thet little stuck-up Mis' Gurney's naow?"
"They went in there--yes."
"H'm. Jest bring my shawl, Sairay. Come to think on't, I've got an
arrant there myself this arternoon--come nigh to disremembering it.
Waal, good-day; why don't ye come over ever? When ye want advice, or
anythin', I'm allers there," and the woman ambled swiftly away, having
quite forgotten the lecture she had prepared for the "shiftless, bookish
gal" she was leaving, and only intent on learning what Zeba and Betty
could want with her opposite neighbor.
Molly dropped into a chair, and laughed merrily.
"Didn't I get rid of her slick, though? Say, Sara, what does she make
you think of?"
"Hush, Molly, she's a good soul, and means well."
"So's a cow, but you don't want her trampling all over your garden! I'll
tell you what she's like--an old rabbit in a cap. She keeps her nose
going just the same, and her ears are even longer."
"Molly! Molly!"
"Well, it's so, and you can't deny it. Do you know, Sara, she stopped
Morton and me this morning, when we were going to school, and told him
it was a shame for him to 'set araound, a-livin' on his sister, and he
ought to get a berth in one of the fishing-smacks, and would if he had
any grit to him.' It made Mort as blue as anything, and he's gone down
to Uncle Jabez Wanamead's now, to see about shipping."
"Molly, are you _sure?_" springing up in excitement. "I won't have
it. He's too young, and hasn't had half schooling enough; and, Molly,
are you certain he went there?"
Molly nodded, quite enjoying this excitement in her usually placid
sister.
"Then I must go after him, and leave you to tend Neddie. Oh, _why_
can't people mind their own affairs?"
Poor Sara, trembling all over, started hastily towards the wardrobe for
her outer wraps, when a stamping outside the door arrested her, and in a
moment the boy entered, knocking the last bit of snow from his boots as
he did so.
Sara's eyes, bent upon him, discovered something in his expression which
made her cry out,--"Morton, what have you been doing?"
"Doing? Why"--
"Tell me the truth!" she commanded, almost fiercely.
He turned upon Molly with sudden anger.
"Have you been tattling? I'll bet you have!"
"No, but I told Sara; you didn't tell me not to."
"Lots of good 'twould have done, if I had! You never kept a thing in
your life--never!"
"Did, too, Morton Olmstead!" her pout melting swiftly into a mischievous
smile.
"Well, what, I'd like to know?"
"My shell chain--so there! You've tried and tried to get it away, and
you never could!" at which comforting remembrance she broke into a
laugh, which was so infectious even Morton had to smile.
But he turned from her with a disdainful gesture, only to meet Sara's
anxious, questioning eyes.
"Well, I've shipped," he answered doggedly, "that's what!"
"Morton!" With the word all the strength seemed to go out of her, and
she dropped weakly into a chair.
"Who with?" she asked sternly, for once forgetting even grammatical
rules in her intense dismay.
"With Uncle Jabez Wanamead; he's going out in a week or two, and needs a
boy."
"Morton, you can't go!" a determined look settling over her white face.
"It's a rough, dreadful life! Old Jabez drinks like a fish, and you'll
have to mix his grog a dozen times a day; then you'll have all the dirty
work to do, day and night, and be sent aloft where a cat couldn't cling,
with the boat pitching like a sturgeon, and, as likely as not, be thrown
to the deck with a broken arm, if you're not killed outright. And when
all's said and done, you'll never be anything--_any_thing but a
fisherman!"
"What else was pa?" stoutly. "Anybody'd think you was ashamed of him!"
She hesitated for a moment, and in her excitement began pacing the room,
her face working with contending emotions, while the children sat still
and watched her, awed into silence. At length she stopped before them,
and seated herself in the chair which had always been that father's when
at home, and said, in a voice so sweet and sad that it thrilled even
Molly's careless little soul,--
"No, Morton, never, never ashamed of our father! Instead, I love and
revere him, for he was a true, good man,--'one of nature's noblemen,' as
Miss Prue once said,--but, listen, Morton! It wasn't _because_ he
was a fisherman, but in spite of it; for, though it is a life that makes
men brave, sturdy, fearless, and honest, it makes them also rough,
profane, and careless in life and death; in fact, it develops their
bodies, but not their minds or souls.
"And, O Morton, I so want you to be all that father was, and something
more. I want you to be educated and refined. That Mr. Glendenning was as
brave as the best of our fishermen, and dared face any storm, but how
kind he was, and gentle! How respectful to poor Zeba, how thoughtful for
his aunt and uncle, and what a gentleman in every way! Morton, I want
_you_ to be a gentleman too."
"He can't, Sara," put in Molly, her eyes big and round, "he's too poor;
a man's got to have at least a hundred dollars to be a gentleman, and
Morton hasn't but three cents."
Sara smiled, and the boy looked slowly from one to the other in a
ruminating way.
"But everybody's twitting me with being a lazy good-for-nothing, Sara,
and I can't stand it! Besides, I told Uncle Jabe I'd go, and now I've
got to."
"You can't; I forbid it!" her eyes flashing. "Go at once and tell him
that it is not to be thought of."
It was an unwise speech, as Sara instantly felt; for Morton, though he
could be coaxed into almost anything, was worse than a mule when driven.
Now the dogged look she was learning to dread settled over his face, and
he squared his shoulders sturdily.
"Well, I guess you'll find I can, Sara Olmstead, and it will take
somebody older and bigger'n you to stop me, too! So 'forbid' till you're
tired, if you like; I've given my word, and I'm going--that's settled!"
The poor girl's heart sank like lead, and she could have bitten her
unruly tongue out for those foolish words. She knew only too well that
Morton would have the support of nearly all their friends in Killamet,
who could see no reason why he should not follow his father's calling,
and begin, like him, at the bottom of the ladder, as "the boy."
Though they knew the hardness of the life, they reasoned that it "helped
toughen a youngster, and make a man of him." To them, Sara's ideas were
foolish and high-flown, their notion of a "gentleman" being too often
associated with city "lubbers" who came down to spy out the land--and
sea--in their ridiculous knickerbockers and helmets, and who did not
know a jib from a spanker, or had any idea when a sailor spoke of the
"hull" of his vessel, that he referred to anything but the sum of its
component parts! Gentlemen, as a class, were not held in high esteem at
Killamet. Even Captain Norris laughed at fine manners, and would
doubtless say,--
"Oh, give the boy a chance to try his sea-legs, if he wants to--a little
toughening won't hurt him."
No one but Miss Prue would thoroughly sympathize with, and stand by her,
and what were she and Miss Prue against so many?
They ate their supper in a glowering silence, unusual in that cottage,
even Molly for once being oppressed by the gloomy faces about her; then,
still in silence, she washed the few dishes, while Sara undressed the
baby; Morton, meanwhile, taking up a school-book, in which he sat
apparently absorbed, until his twin, happening to pass behind him,
stopped, and, with a flip of her dish-towel, cried out,--
"Why-y, Mort Olmstead, you're studying your g'oggerfy upside down!"
He gave her a scowl, but his face flushed sensitively, as he quickly
reversed the book, and Sara, turning a little from the fire, where she
was cuddling the baby, met his eyes with so loving and tender a look
that he could scarcely bear it. Something rose in his throat, threatened
to rise in his eyes too, and feeling that his only safety lay in flight,
he muttered that he had an errand down town, caught up his hat and
worsted tippet, and ran out of the door, nearly knocking some one over
who stood upon the step. "Well, I like being welcomed with open arms,"
laughed a manly voice outside; "but there is such a thing as too hearty
a greeting, eh, Morton?" and the boy, too dazed to speak, re-entered the
room, followed by Mr. Robert Glendenning.