Thankful Rest written by Annie S. Swan
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7 THANKFUL REST.
A Tale.
By ANNIE S. SWAN.
Author of "Aldersyde," "Carlowrie" "Shadowed" &c. &c.
There is no road, though rough and steep,
Without an end at last,
And every rock upon the way
By patience can be passed.
There are few human hearts too hard
For gentleness to win;
Somewhere a hidden chink appears
Where love may enter in.
1889
CONTENTS
I. UNWELCOME NEWS.
II. THE PARSONAGE.
III. THE ARRIVAL.
IV. THE NEW HOME.
V. SUNDAY.
VI. LOSING HOLD OF THE BRIDLE.
VII. THE RED HOUSE.
VIII. UP THE PEAK.
IX. A DAY TO BE REMEMBERED.
X. ON THE LAKE.
XI. HOPES FULFILLED.
XII. WEARY DAYS.
XIII. LUCY FINDS THE KEY.
XIV. A GREAT CHANGE.
XV. THE WEDDING.
XVI. FIVE YEARS AFTER.
THANKFUL REST.
I.
UNWELCOME NEWS.
It was the prettiest homestead in all the township, everybody said,
and it had the prettiest name. It stood a mile or so beyond
Pendlepoint on the farther side of the river, from which it was
separated by a broad meadow, where in the summer time the sleek kine
stood udder-deep in cowslips and clover.
It was a long, low, comfortable-looking house, hidden by lovely
creeping plants, and sheltered at the back by the old elm trees in
the paddock, and at the front by the apple trees in the orchard.
Perhaps it was because it had such a snug, cosy, restful look about
it that it had been queerly christened Thankful Rest. The land
adjoining the homestead was rich and fertile, and brought in every
year a crop worth a goodly competence to its possessors. The family
at Thankful Rest consisted of two people--Joshua Strong and his
sister Hepzibah. You are to make their acquaintance immediately, but
a remark made once by old Reuben Waters, their next neighbour, may
perhaps give you an idea of their characters better than any long
description of mine:----
"For crankiness and nearness, and unneighbourly sourness, give me
Josh Strong and his sister Hepsy. They can't be equalled, I bet, in
all Connecticut."
You will be able to judge by-and-by of the correctness of Reuben's
estimate. On a lovely August afternoon Miss Hepzibah Strong was
ironing in the kitchen at Thankful Rest. I wish you could have seen
that kitchen; your eyes would have ached with its painful
cleanliness. The stone flags were as cool and clean as water and
hands could make them; the stove shone like burnished silver; the
dresser and the table, at which Miss Hepzibah was at work, were white
as snow; and the array of tins on the wall was perfectly dazzling
with brightness. The wide diamond-paned casement stood open to admit
what little air happened to be abroad that sultry afternoon. How
pleasant it was, to be sure, to look out upon the flower-laden
garden; upon the sunny orchard, rich and golden with its precious
harvest; upon the silver thread of the river winding through the
green meadow beyond; and to see and feel all the loveliness with
which God had clothed the world. But Miss Hepzibah had no eyes for
any of the beauties I have mentioned; she was intent upon her work,
and hung on the clothes-horse piece after piece of stiff, spotless
linen, which, as she could boast, could not be equalled in the
township. Miss Hepzibah herself was not a pretty picture. She was a
woman of thirty-five or thereabouts; with a thin, brown, hard-looking
face; sharp, twinkling gray eyes; and a long, grim, resolute mouth.
She wore a short skirt of dark material, a lilac calico jacket, and a
huge white apron. On ordinary occasions her head was adorned by a cap
of fearful workmanship and dimensions, but in the heat of her work
she had thrown it off, and her scanty brown hair was fastened tightly
back in a cue behind.
Just as the old eight-day clock in the lobby solemnly struck four,
there was a loud knock at the back door, and the post-messenger from
Pendlepoint strode into the kitchen, holding in his hand a
black-edged letter.
"Bad news for ye, Miss Hepsy, I doubt," he said. "It'll be from your
sister in Newhaven, I reckon."
Miss Hepzibah took the black-edged letter coolly in her hand, eyed it
stolidly for a second, and then laid it on the table. "Sit down a
minute, Ebenezer, an' I'll bring ye a glass of cider," she said.
And Ebenezer saw her depart to the larder nothing loath. But if he
thought Miss Hepsy meant to open the letter and confide its contents
to him he was mistaken, for she pushed it aside and went on with her
ironing. So after being briefly rested and refreshed, he went his
way, bidding her a surly good-afternoon. Still the letter lay
untouched upon the table till the last collar was hung on the horse,
the irons set on the flags to cool, and the blanket folded in the
dresser. Then Miss Hepsy broke the seal, and read without change of
expression what ought to have been a sorrowful intimation to her, the
news of the death of her younger and only sister, who had married and
been left a widow in Newhaven. But before Miss Hepsy had read to the
end, her expression _did_ change, and she exclaimed, "Wal, if this
ain't about the humbugginest fix. Hetty's boy and gal got to come
here--nowhere else to go. Wonder what Josh'll say?"
Miss Hepsy sat down, and, crossing her long hands on her lap,
remained deep in thought till the old clock struck again, five this
time. Then she sprang to her feet, whisked the letter into the table
drawer, and fetching out baking-board and flour-basin, proceeded to
make dough for a supper cake. It was barely ready when her brother
came in at six, and he looked slightly surprised to see no signs of
the supper on the table.
"I've had a letter from Newhaven, Josh," Miss Hepsy said abruptly.
"Hetty's dead; you won't be surprised to hear, I suppose. It's from
her minister; and he says you've got to come up right away and see
about things, an' fetch back the boy and gal with you. They've got
nowhere else to go, he says, an' we're their nearest kinsfolk. I got
thinkin' it over, and forgot my work, like a fool."
Joshua Strong's grim face grew grimmer, if possible, as he listened
to his sister's words. He reached out his hand for the letter she had
taken from the drawer, and slowly spelt it to the end.
"There ain't anything for it but grin and bear it, Hepsy," he said.
"Though I don't see what business folks has marryin' an' dyin' an'
leavin' their children to poor folks to keep. It'll be a mighty
difference to expense havin' other two mouths to feed an' backs to
clothe."
"An' what I'm to make of two fine gentry children, as Hetty's are
sure to be, round all the time, I don't know," said Miss Hepsy,
whisking off a griddle cake with unnecessary vigour. "I declare Hetty
might have had more sense than think we could do with 'em. I'm rare
upset about it, I can tell ye."
"It doesn't say what she died o'," said Joshua meditatively, twirling
the letter in his brown fingers.
"Died o'?" repeated Miss Hepsy tartly. "Why, of pinin' arter that
husband o' her'n. What's her fine scholar done for her now, I wonder?
Left her a lone widder to die off and leave penniless children to
other folks to keep. But I'll warrant they'll work for their meat at
Thankful Rest. I'll have no stuck-up idle notions here."
"How am I to get to Newhaven jes' now, I'd like to know," said
Joshua, "and all that corn waitin' to be stacked? It's clean beyond
me."
Miss Hepsy thought a moment. "I have it. Miss Goldthwaite was here
to-day, an' she said the parson was goin' to Newhaven to-morrow to
stay a day or two. We'll get him to see to things an' bring the
children down. I'll go to Pendlepoint whenever I've got my supper,
an' ask him. Here, ask the grace quick an' let's be hurryin'," she
said; and before the few mumbled words had fallen from Joshua's lips,
Miss Hepsy was well through with her first cup of tea!
At that moment, in a darkened chamber in a quiet city street, two
orphan children clung to each other weeping, wondering fearfully to
see so white, and cold, and still, the sweet face which had been wont
to smile upon them as only a mother can.
They wept, but the days were at hand when they would realize more
bitterly than now what they had lost, and how utterly they were left
alone.
II.
THE PARSONAGE.
In the pleasant front parlour of the parsonage at Pendlepoint, the
Rev. Frank Goldthwaite and his sister were lingering over their
tea-table. He was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, with an
open kindly face, and grave thoughtful eyes, which yet at times could
sparkle with merriment as bright as that which so often shone in his
sister's blue orbs. A bright, winsome, lovable maiden was Carrie
Goldthwaite, the very joy of her brother's heart, and the apple of
every eye in the township. The brother and sister were deeply
attached to each other, the fact that they were separated from their
father's happy home in New York drawing them the more closely
together. They had been talking of Mr. Goldthwaite's projected visit
on the morrow, and he had at last succeeded in repeating faithfully
all the commissions his sister wished him to execute, when the
swinging of the garden gate, and a firm tread on the gravel, made
Miss Goldthwaite rise and peep behind the curtain.
"It's Miss Hepsy, Frank," she said with a very broad smile;
"something very important must it be which brings her here. I don't
think she has been to the parsonage since the day we came."
The next moment Miss Goldthwaite's "help" ushered in Miss Hepsy
Strong, attired in a shawl of brilliant hues and a marvellous bonnet.
She dropped a courtesy to the parson, and sat down on the extreme
edge of the chair Miss Goldthwaite offered her, declining, at the
same time, her offer of a cup of tea. Evidently, Miss Hepsy was not
used to company manners.
"I've made bold to come down to-night, sir," she said, fixing her
keen eyes on Mr. Goldthwaite's pleasant face, "knowin' you was goin'
to Newhaven to-morrow, to ask if you would do Josh and me a
kindness."
"If I can, Miss Strong," returned the minister courteously, "be sure
I shall be very glad to do so."
"You've heard tell, I reckon," said Miss Hepsy, "of our sister Hetty
as married the schoolmaster in Newhaven?"
Mr. Goldthwaite nodded.
"Well, she's dead," continued Miss Hepsy with a business-like
stolidity inexplicable to Carrie Goldthwaite's warm heart, "an' she's
left two children, which Josh an' me'll hev to take, I reckon, seein'
their parents is both dead now. We'd a letter to-day from the
minister there--Mr. Penn he calls hisself, I think."
"Yes, I know him," put in Mr. Goldthwaite.
"He wants Josh to come up right away, which he can't possibly do an'
the corn not in the barn yet. A day's worth so many dollars jes' now,
an' can't be throwed away. Now, sir, will ye be so kind as to see to
things at Hetty's, an' fetch the children with you when ye come back?
It'll be a great favour to Josh and me."
The minister concealed what he thought, and answered courteously that
he should do his best. Then Miss Hepsy rose and shook out her green
skirts.
"The address is Fifteenth Street, sir, an' Hetty's name was Hurst. I
reckon ye'll find it easy enough. That's all; I'll be goin' now.--No,
thanks, Miss Goldthwaite, I can't sit down; it's 'most milking time,
and if Keziah's left to do it herself, there's no saying what might
happen.--So, good evenin', and thank ye, sir;" and before the brother
and sister recovered from their amazement, Miss Hepsy had whisked out
of the room, and the next minute her firm, man-like tread broke upon
their ears again. Mr. Goldthwaite looked at his sister with a comical
smile, which was answered by a peal of laughter from her sweet lips.
"I can't help it indeed, Frank," she said. "I am so sorry for the
poor children, bereft of both parents. Their mother was a refined,
gentle creature, too, I have been told; of a different mould from
Miss Hepsy. The calmness, though, to ask you to do all this simply
because Joshua is too hard to spare a day's labour! Are you doing
altogether right, Frank, I wonder, in taking it off his hands?"
"I could not refuse it, Carrie," returned the minister. "Like you, I
am sorry for the poor little orphans. Their life will not be all
sunshine, I fear, at Thankful Rest."
Miss Goldthwaite sighed, and from the open window watched in silence
Miss Hepsy's brilliant figure crossing the river by the bridge a
hundred yards beyond the parsonage gate.
"I think, Frank, that among all your parishioners there is not a more
unhappy pair than Joshua Strong and his sister. I wish they could be
made to see how differently God meant them to spend their lives. It
saddens me to see their hardness and sourness."
"Perhaps these little children may do them good, dear," returned the
minister gravely. "It would not be the first time God has used the
influence of little children to do what no other power on earth
could. We will pray it may be so."
"Yes," returned Carrie Goldthwaite; and the shade deepened on her
sweet face as she added again, "Poor little things! it will be a sore
change from the tender care of a mother. We must do what we can,
Frank, to make their home at Thankful Rest as happy as possible. We
had such a happy one ourselves, I feel an intense pity for those who
have not. There is Judge Keane on horseback at the gate. He wants
either you or me to go out and speak with him."
The minister rose, and both stepped out to the veranda, and down the
steps to the garden. The judge had alighted, and fastening his bridle
to the gate-post, came up the path to meet them. He was an old man,
with white hair and beard; but his fine figure was as erect and
stately as it had been a quarter of a century before. He shook hands
cordially with the minister, touched Carrie Goldthwaite's brow with
his lips, and then said, in a brisk, cheerful voice,--
"My wife heard you were going to Newhaven for a couple of days, and
sent me down to say she would expect you, miss," (he nodded to
Carrie,) "at the Red House to-morrow, to stay till he comes back. I
may say yes, I suppose?"
"Yes, and thank you, Judge Keane," said Miss Goldthwaite with a
little grateful smile. "Even with Abbie's company, it is very dull
when Frank is away. Won't you come in?"
The judge shook his head, and turned to the gate again. "Not
to-night, my dear. Good-night, and good-bye, Frank."
"Have you no commissions, judge?" asked the minister. "I shall have
plenty of time at my disposal; my own business is very little."
"No, I think not," returned the judge. "But, let me see."
Miss Goldthwaite moved to the gate, and laid her hand caressingly on
Beauty's glossy neck.
"I only envy you one thing, Judge Keane," she said; "and this is it.
What a beauty she is!"
The judge laughed, and his eyes lingered on the slim, girlish figure
in its dainty muslin garb; and on the sweet, unclouded face, which
was a true index to the happy heart within.
"Beauty shall be yours by-and-by," he laughed; and a swift wave of
colour swept across her face, and she hid it in the animal's glossy
mane.--"Safe journey, Frank. Come to the Red House for your sister
when you want her.--Steady, Beauty." He sprang to the saddle, and
held out his hand to Carrie.
"I'm glad you've said yes, my dear," he whispered, with a mischievous
twinkle in his gray eyes, "or a certain young man would have thought
nothing of coming to take you by main force. Shall I tell him of that
sweet blush? Or--"
But Miss Goldthwaite had fled, and Beauty flew off like an arrow.
III.
THE ARRRIVAL.
On Friday morning, Miss Hepsy received a brief note from Mr.
Goldthwaite, stating that he had attended the funeral of Mrs. Hurst,
paid the little she had owed in Newhaven, and would be at Pendlepoint
by the noon cars that day, when he requested Miss Hepsy to be in
waiting at the depot to meet her nephew and niece.
Now, Friday was Miss Hepsy's cleaning day. Although ordinary eyes
would have been puzzled to point out what spot in that shining domain
required more than the touch of a duster, the house was upturned from
ceiling to basement, and received such sweeping and dusting and
polishing, such scouring and scrubbing, that it was a marvel Miss
Hepsy was not exhausted at the end of it. She had just turned out the
parlour chairs into the lobby, and was busy with broom and dust-pan,
sweeping up invisible dust, when Ebenezer brought her Mr.
Goldthwaite's letter. So much did it upset her, that he had to depart
without his glass of cider, for she took no more notice of him than
if he had been one of the pillars at the door. It was eleven o'clock
almost; it would take her every moment to dress and be at the depot
in time; so she had to set the chairs back into the half-swept room,
replace her working garb by the green dress and the plaid shawl, take
her blue umbrella and trudge off, leaving the management of the
dinner to Keziah. Her frame of mind as she did so augured ill for the
welcome of her sister's children.
The cars were half an hour late, and Miss Hepsy strode up and down
the platform in a ferment of wrath and impatience, thinking of the
dinner under awkward Keziah's supervision; of the sweeping and
dusting and baking all to be done in the afternoon; of the bother two
strange children were sure to be; of a hundred and one things, which
brought her temper up to fever heat by the time the train puffed into
the depot. From the window of a first-class compartment two faces
looked out eagerly, but failed to recognize in Miss Hepsy the sister
of the dear dead mother they had so lately lost. Miss Hepsy saw Mr,
Goldthwaite step out first, followed by a tall, handsome-looking boy,
well dressed and refined-looking, who in his turn assisted with care
and tenderness a slight, delicate-looking girl, who bore such a
strong resemblance to her dead mother that her aunt had no difficulty
in recognizing her. She stamped forward, nodded to Mr. Goldthwaite,
and held out a hand in turn to each of the children.
"I'm tired to death waitin' on these pesky cars," she said,
addressing herself to Mr. Goldthwaite. "I hope they've behaved
themselves, sir, an' not bothered ye.--Bless me, children, don't
stare at me so; I'm your Aunt Hepzibah. You look as if you had never
seen a woman afore."
"There is a trunk, Miss Hepsy," said Mr. Goldthwaite, unable to help
an amused smile playing about his mouth. "You will need to send a
cart for it.--They have been very good children indeed, and instead
of bothering, have greatly helped to make my journey enjoyable."
"I'm glad to hear it, I'm sure," said Miss Hepsy, looking very much
as if she was not glad at all. "Well, I guess we'd better be
movin'.--What's your name, boy?" she said, turning to the lad with an
abruptness which made him start.
"My name is Tom, aunt," he answered promptly; "this is Lucy."
"Miss Hetty might have called one of ye after her own kin.--Well,
good-day, Mr. Goldthwaite; I guess Josh'll walk down to the parsonage
at night an' pay up.--Come along."
"Good-bye, Tom, good-bye, Lucy, in the meantime," said the minister
kindly. "We shall see each other often, I fancy."
"Oh, sir, I hope so," said Lucy, speaking for the first time. "You
have been so kind to us when we had nobody else." Her dark eyes
suddenly overflowed, and she turned away to follow her aunt, while
Tom, whistling to vent some strong feeling, went on in front.
Miss Hepsy walked as if for a wager, and never opened her mouth once,
until they stood upon the threshold of Thankful Rest.
"Now, look here; this is yer home," she said; then, fixing grim eyes
alternately on their faces, "an' I hope ye'll behave, an' show yer
gratitude for it. That's all.--I bet Keziah's burned the soup;" with
which words Miss Hepsy burst into the kitchen, ready to extinguish
the unfortunate "help" if everything was not up to the mark. The
brother and sister lingered a moment on the threshold, feeling new
and strange and sad, their welcome had been so disappointing.
"Lucy," said Tom Hurst suddenly, "do you believe that woman's mamma's
sister? I don't."
"Of course she is," returned Lucy. "And you must not call her 'that
woman,' Tom; she is our aunt, mamma's sister, you know, and we must
behave, she says."
Tom made a wry face. "I don't feel like behaving any," he said. "But
I say, Lucy, isn't this a prime place?"
Lucy's eyes beamed as they looked round the pretty, peaceful
homestead, with its laden orchard, wealth of flowers and glorious
summer beauty. But she did not answer.
"We'd better go in, I suppose, though we weren't asked," said Tom. "I
wonder if it's near dinner-time; I'm famished."
He pushed open the door, and, followed by Lucy, entered the
wide-bricked kitchen. A sudden change had taken place in Aunt Hepsy's
appearance. In the twinkling of an eye she had donned her working
garb again, and was paring potatoes at the table. Fortunately, the
dinner had progressed satisfactorily during her absence.
"Come in and sit down," she said, pointing to the settle at the fire.
"Ye'll be hungry, I reckon; but it'll soon be dinner-time. I don't
approve of eating 'tween meals.--I guess you never did any of this
kind o' work, Lucy?"
"No, Aunt Hepsy," returned Lucy timidly. "I've seen Hannah do it;
that was our girl."
"Humph; ye won't be long here before ye can pare potatoes as well as
Hannah. You'll be willin' to learn, I hope?"
"I shall do my best, Aunt Hepsy," returned the girl meekly.
"Mamma never pared potatoes, Aunt Hepsy," said Tom boldly.
"No; I know she didn't, boy," said Miss Hepsy severely. "Your mother
was as useless as a bit o' Sunday china.--I hope you won't be like
her, Lucy."
"I hope she will, Aunt Hepsy," spoke up Tom again. "Mamma was
perfectly splendid, everybody said."
"You'd better go outside, boy," said Miss Hepsy wrathfully, "till you
learn to speak respectfully to your aunt. I know what your mother
was. She was my own sister, I hope."
Tom caught up his cap and fled, nothing loath; his aunt irritated
him, and made him forget himself.
"How old are you, child?" said Miss Hepsy, turning to Lucy, after a
moment's silence.
"I am fourteen past, Aunt Hepsy; Tom is twelve."
Miss Hepsy dropped her paring-knife and stared.
"Bless me, child, you don't look more'n nine, and that great boy
looks years older'n you. What have ye fed on?"
Lucy smiled faintly. "I have not been very strong this summer, Aunt
Hepsy; and I was so anxious about mamma being so poorly. I couldn't
sleep at nights, nor eat anything hardly. I suppose that's what made
me thin." Miss Hepsy sniffed.
"Have any of ye been to school?" was her next question.
"No, Aunt Hepsy. Papa taught us till he died, and then mamma kept up
our lessons as well as she could. Tom is a good scholar; and, oh,
such a beautiful painter!"
"Painter!" echoed Miss Hepsy. "What, fence rails and gates?"
Lucy looked very much shocked. "Oh no; he draws landscapes and
things, and went to the Art School as long as mamma could afford it.
Then he practised at home. He means to be a great painter some day,
like the ones he read about."
"Humph!" said Miss Hepsy contemptuously. "I guess his uncle'll find
him work in painting the farm an' the gates afresh this fall. It'll
save a man. Now then, there's them taters on. Come upstairs an' I'll
show you your room."
Lucy rose at once, and obediently followed her aunt along the wide
flagged passage and up the polished oak steps to a tiny little
chamber in the attic fiat. It was poorly furnished, but it was
scrupulously clean; and from the window Lucy's delighted eyes caught
a glimpse of the broad green meadow, the shining water of the river,
and beyond, the houses of the town nestling in the shadow of the
giant slopes of Pendle Peak.
"Your brother's room is on t'other side o' the landing," explained
Miss Hepsy; "an' I'll 'spect you to keep 'em both as clean's a new
pin. I'm mighty partickler, mind, an' can't abide untidiness. An' if
yer mother's brought ye up to think yersel' a lady, the sooner ye get
rid of that notion the better, 'cos yell have to work here; we don't
keep no idle hands. Get off your hat an' cape now, an' come down as
fast's ye like, an' help set the table for dinner."
Miss Hepsy then whisked out of the room, and clattered down the
stairs in haste.
Lucy moved to the window recess, and stood looking upon the peace and
beauty without, until her eyes were brimming with tears. Then she
knelt down by the side of the bed, sobbing pitifully, "Mamma, mamma!
come back, O dear mamma! we have nobody on earth but you!"
IV.
THE NEW HOME.
Meanwhile Tom had gone on an exploring expedition. He investigated
every outhouse and shed, frightened the geese and turkeys into fits
by rushing through their paddock shouting at the pitch of his voice,
caught the superannuated mule by the tail, and made her fly off like
a four-year old, made friends with the savage watch-dog on the chain,
coaxed the pigeons to fly to him, and finally went off to the fields
in search of his uncle. On the road outside the farmyard gate he met
a team, driven by a big uncouth-looking man, dressed in coarse
trowsers, a red shirt, and a battered straw hat.
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