Thankful Rest written by Annie S. Swan
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Annie S. Swan >> Thankful Rest
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"You'll be one of the men, I guess," said Tom, stopping in front of
him. "Can you tell me where my Uncle Joshua is?"
The man grinned. "Air you Hetty's boy, youngster?"
"I'm Mrs. Hurst's son," corrected Tom proudly. "Who are you?"
"If I'm not yer Uncle Josh, I reckon he ain't be home terday,"
returned the man.--"Hi! up, Sally; you and me's not fit company, I
guess, for a city gent."
"If you _are_ Uncle Joshua, I beg your pardon I'm sure," said Tom
with his usual frankness. "Won't you shake hands, Uncle Joshua?"
Uncle Joshua took the thin, delicate hand in his own brown palm, and
looked at it curiously.
"Jes' as Hepsy said--Hetty's boy's more for ornament than use. Well,
youngster, now you're here ye'll work for yer bread, I hope. We're
poor folks here, an' can't keep idle hands. Ye'll hev to learn to
mind a team like this."
"I wouldn't mind if I'd a better horse, Uncle Josh," said Tom,
walking alongside of his uncle, and eying the hungry-looking steed
critically. "See his ribs. Don't you feed him ever, Uncle Josh?"
The man's face flushed angrily. "Shut up, younker!" he said savagely.
"Don't speak about things ye know nothing about."
Tom walked on a minute or two in silence, but in no way disconcerted.
"This is a very nice place, Uncle Josh," he said. "Mamma often told
us about it, but it's prettier than I thought it would be."
"The place'll do, I reckon," admitted Uncle Josh. "But farmin' ain't
what it was. It's a hard job gettin' meat an' drink out o'd
now-a-days."
"Mamma told us you were rich," said Tom in surprise. "But you can't
be, because--because--"
"Wal?" said Uncle Josh, with a slow, stupid smile.
"Because your horses are all thin, and _you_ wear these clothes; and
Aunt Hepsy doesn't dress like a lady. Rich people don't live so."
"You're a fool, youngster. Just your mother over again. You don't
know, I suppose, that to save money folks must live cheap, an' not be
all outside show. Ye'll learn better, maybe, afore ye've been long at
Thankful Rest,--Hi, Sally! Whoa, lass."
The thin, wretched-looking horse stood still, thankful to be released
from the heavy waggon; and Tom watched all his uncle's movements with
much interest. He followed him from the yard to the stable, saw him
give the five horses a scanty feed of corn and a pail of water.
"We'll go and hev a bite o' dinner now," he said; then, "Your
sister'll be indoors, I guess?"
Tom nodded, and the two proceeded to the house. Lucy was downstairs
by this time, awkwardly placing knives, forks, and plates on the
table, under Miss Hepsy's directions. A glad smile crept to her eyes
at sight of Tom; it seemed ages since he had gone out. She looked
timidly at her uncle as he shook hands with her, remarking she was a
pale-faced thing, and needed work and exercise to make her spry. Then
the company sat down, and Tom, if Lucy did not, did ample justice to
Miss Hepsy's cookery. It was an unsociable, uncomfortable meal. Aunt
and uncle ate, as they did everything else, as if for a wager, and
were finished before Lucy had touched her meat and potatoes.
"Look spry, child," said her aunt, beginning to clear away almost
immediately. "You'll ha' to learn to eat to some purpose. Time don't
last for ever."
Lucy pushed back her unfinished plateful and rose.
"Not dainty enough for ye, is it not?" was the next remark. "Ye'll
eat it by-and-by maybe."
"I'm not hungry, Aunt Hepsy," she said with quivering lips; and Tom
bit his to keep back angry words surging to them.
"May I go out for a little, Aunt Hepsy?" Lucy asked.
"When you've wiped them dishes you may," replied Aunt Hepsy. "I lost
two good hours goin' to that plaguy depot for you, so the least ye
can do is to help me through.--Josh, find summat for the boy to do;
'tain't no use hevin' him 'round idle lookin' for mischief."
"Come along to the barn then, What's-yer-name," said Uncle Josh,
picking up his hat and sauntering to the door.--"Don't be too hard on
that little 'un, Hepsy; she don't look over strong."
"Mind yer own business, will ye, Josh Strong," was Miss Hepsy's smart
rejoinder. "I guess I'm able to mind mine."
Under Miss Hepsy's directions, Lucy succeeded in washing up the
dishes without disaster, and was then requested to come to the far
parlour and receive a lesson in sweeping and dusting. Then baking
came on, and with one thing and another Miss Hepsy managed to keep
the child within doors and on her feet till past four o'clock. She
was fainting with fatigue, but would not complain, and Miss Hepsy was
too busy to observe the pallor on her face.
"May I sit down for a minute, please?" she said at last, after
bringing a huge can of flour from the larder. "I am afraid I am going
to faint, Aunt Hepsy;" and she looked like enough it, as she sank
wearily on the settle, and let her white lids droop over her tired
eyes.
Miss Hepsy was more than annoyed. "A delicate child above all
humbugs," she muttered, as she sprinkled a few drops of spring water
on the girl's face, and held her smelling-salts to her nostrils.
"Ye'd better go out an' get a mouthful of fresh air, I suppose," she
said ungraciously when Lucy rose at last, with a faint touch of
returning colour in her cheeks.
And Lucy gladly went upstairs for her hat, and crept out into the
beautiful sunshine. The garden gate was locked, but she managed to
turn the key, and went slowly, in a maze of delight, along the trim
paths, past beds of roses, hollyhocks, pansies, and sweet-scented
gilly-flowers. The orchard beyond looked tempting indeed, where the
sunbeams glistened through the bending boughs of apple, plum, and
cherry trees, on the soft carpet of grass beneath. She managed to
unfasten the gate there too, and choosing a wide-spreading
apple-tree, from which she could see the meadow and the river, flung
herself on the grass beneath it. There she fell asleep, and Tom found
her an hour after. His fine face looked worried and discontented, and
he flung himself beside her, saying gloomily,--
"How on earth I am to live here, Lucy Hurst, I don't know."
"What is it, Tom?" inquired she, forgetting her own troubles in
sympathy for him.
"Oh, Uncle Josh, that's all. He hasn't any patience with me, and
makes me speak up impertinently to him. And the things they say about
mamma are perfectly shameful. I won't bear it now, I won't."
His sister's gentle hand touched his lips to stem the passionate
words.
"You remember, Tom," she said softly, "what mamma said to us. We were
to endure all such little trials, remembering that it is God who
sends them. Think how grieved she would be if she could hear us
grumbling so soon."
"I don't care; I can't help it," said the boy recklessly. "It isn't
anything for you to be good, Lucy; you are just like mamma--a kind of
saint, I think. For me it is just a long battle all day. If a fellow
conquered in the end, it would not matter; but as it is--O Lucy,
Lucy! why did mamma die? It was so easy to be happy and good when we
had her to love and help us. I wish I were dead too."
Poor, proud, passionate Tom! His sister could only put her gentle arm
about his neck and cry too, her heart so sorely re-echoed the painful
longing in his voice.
So the first day at Thankful Rest did not promise very brightly for
Tom and Lucy Hurst.
V.
SUNDAY
Saturday was the busiest day in the week at Thankful Rest. There was
churning to be done, extra cooking for Sunday, mending and darning,
and the weekly polishing of every bit of brass, and copper, and tin
in the establishment. Lucy rubbed at them till her arms ached,
without bringing them to the required height of brightness, and was
at last sent off to pick the few remaining gooseberries for a tart.
That was a piece of work much more to her liking, and she lingered so
long out in the sunshine that Aunt Hepsy came at last, and scolded
her long and shrilly; which took all the enjoyment away. Tom received
his lessons from Uncle Josh outside; and, judging from his face when
he came in at dinner-time, he had not found them particularly
agreeable. Tom Hurst was a dainty youth, in fact, and shrank from
soiling his fingers with the tasks allotted to him: and seeing that
grim Uncle Josh had not spared him, the forenoon had been one long
battle; for, try as he might, Tom could not keep a bridle on his
tongue.
"I guess I'll hev a pesky deal o' trouble with that young 'un,
Hepsy," his uncle said that night when the children had gone to bed.
"He doesn't take to farm work; an' he's that peart I durstn't speak
to him. Queer thing if we've got to keep the young upstart in
idleness."
"Idleness!" quoth Miss Hepsy wrathfully. "I'd take a rope's end to
him if he didn't keep a civil tongue in his head. The gal's bad
enough; though she never speaks back she looks at me that proud-like
wi' them great eyes o' her'n, I feel as if I'd like to shake her.
There'll never be a day's peace now they've come."
"Tell ye what, though, Hepsy," said Josh. "I'm gwine to pay off
Brahm, an' make Tom do his work. He ain't that much younger, an' he
looks strong enough! Couldn't you do without Keziah, and that would
square expenses?"
"I'll see how the child turns out in a week or so. She's a pinin'
thing--doesn't eat enough to keep a mouse alive."
"It's a thankless thing, any way ye like to take it, Hepsy, hevin'
other folks' youngsters round. I don't see why we should be bothered
with 'em;" with which remark Josh went to bed.
Lucy awoke next morning, remembering it was Sunday, with a feeling of
gladness that they might perhaps chance to see their friend Mr.
Goldthwaite at church. The Strongs were regular as clock-work in
their half-day attendance at the meeting-house. The morn'ng was
devoted to feeding cattle, pigs, and poultry, and tidying up the
house; and after dinner the premises were left in charge of Brahm and
Keziah, and the master and mistress turned their footsteps towards
Pendlepoint. The meeting-house was almost close to the parsonage, and
was a pretty, primitive structure, with no attempt at display or
decoration, and yet so pleasant and homelike inside that Lucy felt a
sense of rest as her eyes wandered round it. Tom nudged her and
whispered, "Nice little chapel, Lucy;" at which Miss Hepsy held up a
warning finger and shook her head. Tom blushed and laughed, Aunt
Hepsy looked so intensely comical. Then she became very red in the
face, and opening her hymn-book, kept her eyes on its pages till Mr.
Goldthwaite came in. His eyes travelled straight to the Strongs' pew,
and Lucy thought she saw a kindly gleam of recognition in his eyes.
Carrie was at the harmonium. She, too, looked once or twice in their
direction; and both children found her face so sweet and pleasant
that they could not lift their eyes off it. The chapel was full, and
the singing of the hymn was so hearty and so sweet, that Lucy felt
her eyes dim, she could not tell why. But it seemed to remind her of
her mother.
Mr. Goldthwaite preached only half an hour; but his sermon was so
beautiful and comforting, and so easily understood, that Lucy thought
Sunday would recompense her for all the troubles of the week. Tom's
eyes never left Mr. Goldthwaite's earnest face, and I believe that
the memory of his words remained with the boy for weeks after. He had
never heard a sermon in his life he had understood and _felt_ like
this one. Uncle Josh snored rather noisily in the corner, and Aunt
Hepsy nodded occasionally over her Bible--the minister's message did
not even reach their ears.
When the service was over and they reached the church porch, they
found Miss Goldthwaite standing there. She had a nod and a smile for
every one, but her particular mission was with Tom and Lucy. She
shook hands with the uncle and aunt, and then bent her sweet eyes on
the children's faces.
"These be Hetty's children, Miss Goldthwaite," said Miss Hepsy. "Lucy
and Tom."
"Yes, I know," nodded Miss Goldthwaite. "I came round to see them. I
want them to take tea with me to-day, at my brother's special
request."
Miss Hepsy did not look at all delighted. "They'll jes' bother ye,
Miss Goldthwaite," said she; "an' besides, 'taint no use visitin' on
Sundays--I don't like it."
"It's hardly visiting, Miss Hepsy," said the young lady in the same
pleasant voice. "And when they are at Pendlepoint you may as well let
them. We will bring them safely home. Come now, Miss Hepsy, you know
nobody ever refuses me anything."
"Let them bide, Hepsy," said Uncle Josh, remembering what trouble and
expense the minister had spared him, and not wishing to appear so
unmindful of it. "I guess they won't come to no harm at the
parson's."
So Miss Hepsy was forced to grant a reluctant consent, and Miss
Carrie bore off the happy children in triumph. At the parsonage gate
Mr. Goldthwaite joined them, and gave them both a hearty welcome.
Even shy Lucy was at her ease immediately with Miss Carrie; for who
could resist that bright, caressing manner, and those beaming, loving
eyes? She carried Lucy off to her own pretty room to take off her
hat, and kept her there talking and showing her the beautiful view
from the window till Mr. Goldthwaite had to call to them to come to
tea. What a pleasant meal it was, and how the little company enjoyed
themselves. Then, when it was over, Mr. Goldthwaite took Tom to the
garden, and drew him on to talk of himself, of his hopes and
ambitions, and sympathized so heartily and cheerfully with him that
Tom began to think it was worth while coming to Thankful Rest, if for
nothing else than this pleasant hour at the parsonage. Meanwhile
Carrie had opened the piano, and sang low and softly one or two
hymns; and when she looked round, wondering why Lucy had moved from
her side, she saw her on the sofa with her face hidden. She rose, and
sitting down beside her, put her arm about her, and whispered
gently,--
"My poor child, what is it?"
"Mamma, Miss Goldthwaite," sobbed Lucy. "She used always to sing to
us on Sunday evenings just so, and it makes me feel dreadful to think
she never will any more."
"Yes, Lucy, I understand," said Carrie; and the very sound of her
voice soothed the child's troubled heart. "But you know who has
promised to comfort the mourning heart if we will but ask Him? Our
God is 'the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.'"
A quick smile broke through Lucy's tears. "If it were not for that,
Miss Goldthwaite," she said simply, "I should have died when mamma
did."
"And just think, dear," went on the sweet voice, "of the glad time
coming when we shall all meet, please God, in a happier world than
this. We shall not remember these sad hours then, shall we, Lucy? I
know, my dear, how lonely and sad and strange you feel here now; but
God can make us happy anywhere."
"Yes, Miss Carrie, I know it," returned the child simply and
earnestly; "only I am so troubled sometimes about Tom. Mamma was
often troubled about him too. He is so passionate and quick and
proud. Oh, I don't know how he is to get on with Uncle Joshua and
Aunt Hepsy!"
"We will hope for the best," said Miss Carrie cheerfully; "and
by-and-by, perhaps, a way may be opened up for him to get his heart's
desire.--Would you like to see my pets, Lucy? I have chickens, and
pigeons, and dogs, and kittens, and all sorts of things. Frank says
the yard is a menagerie."
"Yes, I would like it very much. There are some pretty chickens and
kittens at Aunt Hepsy's, but she won't let me pet them."
In the delight of examining Miss Goldthwaite's menagerie sadder
thoughts flew, and the evening sped on golden wings. The time came at
last for the two to bid a regretful good-bye to the parsonage and
turn their faces homewards. The minister and his sister accompanied
them half across the meadow, and bade them good-night, with many
promises of future meetings.
Tom and Lucy walked on in silence till they reached the paddock, and
then the lad said abruptly, "It will not be so hard to live here,
Lucy, if we can see them sometimes. I don't believe there's another
minister like Mr. Goldthwaite in the State; nor another minister's
sister either."
Lucy smiled, her heart re-echoing her brother's words.
"I have not felt so happy since mamma died," she said softly. "O Tom,
is it not true what she used to say--'That God gives us something to
be grateful for everywhere'?"
"Yes," said Tom soberly; and the next moment Aunt Hepsy's tall figure
appeared at the kitchen door, and her shrill voice broke the pleasant
Sabbath calm.
"Here, come in, you two. Air you going to stand there all night? It's
'most nine o'clock--time you were in bed. I guess you won't go
visitin' on Sunday any more."
VI.
LOSING HOLD OF THE BRIDLE.
It had rained all day, and not all that day only, but the best part
of the one before. Not a soft, gentle summer rain, but a fierce, wild
storm, which beat the poor flowers to the earth, spoiled the fruit,
and overflowed the river till half the meadow lay under water. There
was plenty of work in the barn for Uncle Josh and the men, and plenty
in the house for Aunt Hepsy and the girls. The scullery was full of
wet clothes waiting on a dry day. That of itself, not to speak of the
damage to the orchard, was sufficient to make Aunt Hepsy a very
disagreeable person to live with while the storm lasted. Her tongue
went from early morning till afternoon, scolding alternately at Lucy
and Keziah. The latter was a stolid being, on whom her mistress's
talking made no impression; but it made Lucy nervous and awkward, and
her work was very badly done indeed. At three o'clock Aunt Hepsy sent
her to wash her face, and gave her a long side of a sheet to hem. So
Lucy was sitting on the settle, with a very grave and
sorrowful-looking face, when Tom came in at four. His uncle had no
need of him just then, and had sent him to the house to be out of the
way. Keziah was feeding the calves, and Aunt Hepsy upstairs dressing,
if that word can be appropriately applied to the slight change her
toilet underwent in the afternoon. Tom sat down at the table in the
window, and leaning his arms upon it, looked out gloomily on the
desolate garden, over which the chill, wet mist hung like a pall.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
"How do you get on now, Lucy?" asked Tom at length. "How sober you
look. Has she been worrying you?"
"I daresay I am very stupid," said Lucy low and quietly; "but when
Aunt Hepsy talks so loud I don't know what I am doing."
Miss Hepsy entered at that moment, fortunately without having heard
Lucy's patient speech. "Don't lean your wet, dirty arms on the table,
boy," said she with a sharp glance at Tom. "If you must be in, sit on
your chair like a Christian."
Tom immediately sat up like a poker.
"What's yer uncle doin'?" was her next question.
"He's oiling waggon wheels," answered Tom, "and sent me in."
Miss Hepsy took out a very ugly piece of knitting from the
dresser-drawer, and sat down opposite Lucy. "It's a pity boys ain't
learned to sew and knit," she said grimly. "It would save a deal of
women's time doin' it for 'em. I think I'll teach you, Tom."
"No, thank you, Aunt Hepsy."
"You're much too smart with your tongue, young 'un," said Miss Hepsy
severely, and then relapsed into stolid silence. The click of her
knitting needles, the ticking of the clock, and the rain beating on
the panes, were the only sounds to be heard in the house. Tom drew a
half-sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket, laid it on the
table, and kept his attention there for a few minutes. Lucy ventured
to cast her eyes in his direction, and he held up the paper to her. A
smile ran all over her face and finally ended in a laugh. Aunt Hepsy
looked round suspiciously to see Tom stuffing something into his
pocket.
"What were you laughing at, Lucy?" Lucy looked distressed and
answered nothing.
"What's that you're stuffing into your pocket, Tom?" she said,
turning her eagle eyes again on Tom.
"A bit paper, aunt, that's all."
"People don't laugh at common bits o' paper, nor go stuffin' em into
pockets like that. Hand it over."
"I'd rather not, Aunt Hepsy," said the boy.
"I rather you would," was her dry retort. "Out with it."
"It's mine, Aunt Hepsy, and you wouldn't care to see it."
"How many more times am I to say out with it?" she said angrily.
"I'll let you feel the weight of my hand if you don't look sharp."
"It's mine, Aunt Hepsy. I won't let you see it," he said doggedly.
Miss Hepsy's face grew very red, and she flung her knitting on the
rug and strode up to him. "Give me that paper."
"Well, there 'tis; I hope you like it. I wish I'd made it uglier,"
cried he angrily, and flung the paper on the table.
Aunt Hepsy smoothed it out very deliberately, and held it up to the
light. It was a picture of herself, cleverly done, but highly
exaggerated, and the word _Scold_ printed beneath it. Slowly the red
faded from her face and was replaced by a kind of purple hue. She
lifted her hand and brought it with full force on Tom's cheek. He
sprang to his feet quivering with rage, and pain, and humiliation.
His fierce temper was up, and Lucy trembled for what was to follow.
"Next time you make a fool o' me, boy," said Aunt Hepsy with a slow
smile, "perhaps ye'll get summat ye'll like even less than that."
Then the boy's anger found vent in words. "If you weren't a woman I'd
knock you down. I hate you, and I wish I'd died before I came to this
horrid place. It's worse than being a beggar living with such people.
You touch me again, and I'll give it you though you are a woman."
Aunt Hepsy took him by the shoulders and pushed him before her out to
the yard. "Ye'll be cool, I guess, afore I let ye in again," she said
briefly, and then came back to Lucy.
She was weeping with her face hidden and her work lying on the settle
beside her.
"Nice brother that of your'n," said Aunt Hepsy. "If he ain't growin'
up to be hanged, my name ain't Hepsy Strong. Here, go on with your
seam, an' don't be foolin' there."
Lucy silently obeyed, but Aunt Hepsy could not control her thoughts,
and they went pitifully out into the rain after Tom. He stood a
minute or two in a dazed way, and then hurried from the yard, through
the garden and the orchard to the meadow. In one little moment the
victory over temper he had won and kept for weeks was gone; and in
the shame and sorrow which followed, only one person could help him,
and that was Mr. Goldthwaite. There had been many quiet talks with
him since the first Sunday evening, and his lessons had sunk deep
into the boy's heart, and he had indeed been earnestly trying to make
the best of the life and work which had no interest nor sweetness for
him. As he sped through the long, wet grass, heedless of the rain
pelting on his uncovered head, he felt more wretched than he had ever
done in his life before. He had to wade ankle-deep to the bridge, but
fortunately did not encounter a living soul all the way to the
parsonage. Miss Goldthwaite was sewing in the parlour window, and
looked up in amazement to see a drenched, bareheaded boy coming up
the garden path.
"Why, Tom, it can't be you, is it?" she exclaimed when she opened the
door. "What is it? Nobody ill at Thankful Rest, I hope."
"No," said Tom. "It's only me; I want to see Mr. Goldthwaite."
"He has just gone out, but will not be many minutes," said Miss
Goldthwaite, more amazed than ever. "Come in and get dried, and take
tea with me; I was just thinking to have it alone."
Looking at Miss Goldthwaite in her dainty gray dress and spotless
lace collar and blue ribbons, Tom began to realize that he had done a
foolish thing coming to the parsonage to bother her with his soaking
garments. He would have run off, but Miss Carrie prevented him by
pulling him into the lobby and closing the door. Then she made him
come to the kitchen and remove his boots and jacket. "I have not a
coat to fit, so you'll need to sit in a shawl," laughed she; and the
sound was so infectious that, miserable though he was, Tom laughed
too. Miss Carrie knew perfectly there was a reason for his coming,
and that it would come out by-and-by without asking. So it did. They
had finished tea, and Tom was sitting on a stool at the fire just
opposite Miss Goldthwaite. There had been silence for a little while.
"I had a frightful row with Aunt Hepsy this afternoon, Miss
Goldthwaite."
"I am very sorry to hear it," answered she very gravely. "What was it
about?"
Then the whole story came out; and then Miss Carrie folded up her
work, and bent her sweet eyes on the boy's downcast, sorrowful face.
"I am not going to lecture you, Tom," she said soberly. "But I am
sorry my brave soldier should have been such a coward to-day."
Tom flung up his head a little proudly. "I am not a coward, Miss
Goldthwaite."
"Yes, Tom; you remember how Jesus stood all the buffeting and cruelty
of his persecutors, when he could so easily have smitten them all to
death if he had willed. Compare your petty trials with his, and think
how weak you have been."
Tom was silent. "When my temper is up, Miss Goldthwaite," he said at
length, "I don't care for anything or anybody, except to get it out
somehow. I was keeping so straight, too; I hadn't once answered back
to Uncle Josh or Aunt Hepsy for weeks. It's no use trying to be
good."
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