Thankful Rest written by Annie S. Swan
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Annie S. Swan >> Thankful Rest
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"No use? Why, Tom, if everybody gave up at the first stumble, what
would become of the world, do you think? Our life, you know, is
nothing but falling and rising again, and will be till we reach the
land where all these trials are over. Keep up a brave heart. Begin
again, and keep a double watch over self."
"I feel as if it would be easy enough to do it when I'm talking to
you or Mr. Goldthwaite, but at home it is different. I shall never be
able to get on with them though I live a hundred years. And O Miss
Goldthwaite, you don't know how I want to go on drawing and painting.
I feel as if I could die sometimes because I can't."
"When the time comes, dear; and it will come sooner, perhaps, than
you think," said Miss Carrie hopefully. "You will prize it all the
more because of this sharp discipline. Do your duty like a man, and
believe me, God will reward you for it one day."
"I will try, Miss Goldthwaite," said Tom with a new great earnestness
of face and voice.
"Now," said Miss Carrie then, with a quick, bright smile, "I'm going
to send you home. I don't mean to tell my brother anything about your
visit. Our talk is to be a secret. He would be so grieved that you
have come to grief again through that tongue of yours. And I hope it
will be a long time before its master loses hold of the bridle
again." She went with him to the kitchen and helped him to dress, and
then opened the door for him. "Now, Tom, you are to go home and tell
your aunt you are sorry for what happened this afternoon; because you
should not have spoken as you did. And remember, Tom, that a
soldier's first duty is obedience." And without giving him a chance
to demur, she nodded good-bye and ran into the house.
It was raining heavily still, but that Tom did not mind; he was
wondering how to frame his apology to his aunt, and how she would
receive it.
It was dark when he reached Thankful Rest, and the kitchen door was
barred. He knocked twice, and was answered at last by Aunt Hepsy, who
looked visibly relieved. Feeling that if he waited till he was in the
light his courage would flee, he said hurriedly,--
"I've been to the parsonage, Aunt Hepsy, and I want to tell you I'm
sorry I drew the picture and spoke to you as I did. If you'll forgive
me this time I won't be so rude again."
Aunt Hepsy looked slightly amazed. "Dear me, boy, I am thankful to
see ye home again; ye've gev Lucy a fever almost. See an' don't do it
again, that's all." And that was all Tom ever heard about the
afternoon's explosion.
VII.
THE RED HOUSE.
Judge Keane's place was a mile out of Pendlepoint. It was in the
opposite direction from Thankful Rest, and stood within its own
extensive grounds, at the base of the Peak. The house was built a
little way up the slope, and commanded a magnificent view of the
great plain and the river, whose silver thread was visible long after
all other objects receded from view. You have made the acquaintance
of the judge already; let us accompany Mr. Goldthwaite and his sister
to the Red House on a mild October evening, and make friends with the
rest of the family. When the minister and his sister were ushered
into Mrs. Keane's drawing-room, its only occupants were that lady and
her two daughters, Alice and Minnie. The former was a tall, stately
young lady, like her father, stiff and reserved to strangers, but
much liked by her friends, among whom Carrie Goldthwaite was the
chief. Minnie Keane was a bright-eyed, curly-haired maiden of
fifteen, wild as an antelope, and as full of fun and frolic as any
one of her pet kittens. Their mother was an invalid, seldom able to
leave her couch;--not a fretful invalid, you must understand, but a
sweet, gentle, unselfish woman, who bore her pain and weakness
without a murmur, so that those she loved might be spared pain on her
account. Mr. Goldthwaite often said that Mrs. Keane's life was the
best sermon he had ever come across; and I think he was right. The
brother and sister received a warm welcome. Miss Keane and Carrie
withdrew to the wide window for a private chat, while Mr. Goldthwaite
remained by Mrs. Keane's sofa. He was an especial favourite of hers.
Minnie disappeared, and ere long Judge Keane and his second son,
George, appeared in the drawing-room. It is not necessary for me to
describe Mr. George Keane, except to say that he was his father's
right hand, and the greatest comfort of his mother's life; and that
is saying a great deal, isn't it? When he came in Alice found
something to do at her mother's couch, and her seat in the window did
not long remain unoccupied. There was quite a hum of conversation in
the room, and then when candles were brought in, and the curtains
drawn, Miss Keane said with a smile,--
"We have not had our pilgrimage up the Peak this fall. If we don't
have it soon it will be too late."
"Frank and I were talking of it yesterday," said Carrie Goldthwaite.
"The days are so pleasant, why not have it this week or beginning of
next?"
"Well," said Judge Keane, "settle the day when you are at it; I was
beginning to think our annual excursion was to be forgotten this
fall."
"This is Thursday, and to-morrow is my class day at Pendlepoint,"
said Miss Keane. "Saturday won't suit you, Mr. Goldthwaite?"
"Monday would be better," admitted Frank.
"Then Monday be it," said the judge. "We will start at twelve, and
luncheon at the summit at one."
"And, O papa, mayn't the big waggon go?" pleaded Minnie. "I want to
take Mopsy and Ted and Silver Tail."
"And all the live stock on the place, little one," laughed her
father. "What do you say, Mr. Goldthwaite? Minnie thinks the kittens
would enjoy the view immensely."
"The suggestion about the big waggon is opportune," said Mr. George
Keane. "Last year some of the ladies would not have objected to a
seat in it before we reached the top."
"Some of the gentlemen, too," said Alice Keane with a sly smile. "I
propose the big waggon for faint-hearted climbers, and the little one
for rugs and provisions."
"I am going to make a petition, Judge Keane," said Carrie
Goldthwaite. "I have two little friends who would enjoy the excursion
as much as any of us, and they have not much enjoyment in their
lives. I mean those orphan children at Thankful Rest. Will you let
them come?"
"With all my heart; no need to ask, my dear," said the judge
heartily; "and we will do our best to make them enjoy themselves."
"Thank you, Judge Keane," said Carrie, and her face wore the
expression the old man liked particularly to see there.
"I see them in church regularly," said Miss Keane. "The girl is a
remarkably pretty child. Robert was quite charmed with her face when
he was here a fortnight ago. I believe he was thinking what a study
she was for a picture instead of listening to you, Mr. Goldthwaite."
"I scarcely think it, Miss Keane," answered Frank smiling. "At least
he took me to task severely afterwards about a remark in my sermon
which he did not approve."
"Orphans, did you say, Carrie?" asked Mrs. Keane gently. "Was their
mother Deacon Strong's youngest daughter Hetty?"
"The same, Mrs. Keane," answered Carrie. "And she must have been very
different from her brother and sister, for the children have been
evidently trained by a refined and cultured mind. Lucy is a perfect
lady, child though she is."
"I feel very much interested," said Mrs. Keane.
"I knew their mother slightly, and liked her much. Could you not
bring the children to see me some day?"
"I shall try, Mrs. Keane; but it is not an easy task begging a
favour from Miss Hepsy, and she seems determined to keep them at
home. I have to take Lucy by main force when I want her at the
parsonage."
"I hope they'll come, anyway," put in Minnie, "because I never have
anybody to speak to. One grows tired, even of the Peak, when there's
nobody but grown-up people to go on to. That's why I want Mopsy and
Ted and Silver Tail. It wouldn't be so lonesome. But they can stay at
home if Lucy comes."
"Poor Minnie," said her father, laughing with the rest at the child's
aggrieved tone. "We must do all we can to persuade them, then, to
spare you the necessity of frightening the cats out of their wits."
"I'll go up to Thankful Rest to-morrow and extract permission from
Miss Hepsy," said Carrie, "though I am not very hopeful of the
result.--Come, Frank, we must be off; it is nearly eight."
"You will let us know on Sunday, then, if they can come," said Miss
Keane; and with cordial good-nights the friends parted.
Early next afternoon Miss Goldthwaite walked up to Thankful Rest on
her mission to Miss Hepsy. That lady was making preserves, for which
Lucy had been kept since early morning paring and coring apples and
stoning plums. As Miss Goldthwaite passed the kitchen window, she
caught a glimpse of a slight figure almost lost in a huge apron, and
a very white, weary-looking face bent over the basket of fruit. Aunt
Hepsy was grimly stirring a panful of plums over the stove, and did
not look particularly overjoyed to see Miss Goldthwaite; but Lucy
did.
"Always busy, Miss Hepsy," said Carrie briskly, not choosing to mind
the snappy greeting she received. "I declare I always feel a lazy,
good-for-nothing creature when I come to Thankful Rest.--Here, Lucy
child, sit down and let me do your work while I am here; you look
tired."
The quiet eyes raised themselves in loving gratitude to the sweet
face, and she was not slow to avail herself of the chance of a
moment's rest. Miss Hepsy sniffed, but made no audible demur.
"What splendid fruit, Miss Hepsy!" said the visitor after a moment's
silence; "I have seen none like it in Pendlepoint this fall."
"It's well enough," said Miss Hepsy, a little mollified. "Your folks
all well, Miss Goldthwaite?"
"Thank you, yes; and papa and mamma are coming from New York next
week, if the weather keeps fine. I can hardly sleep or eat for joy,
Miss Hepsy; and Frank is almost as bad."
"You be like children about your father and mother yet," said Miss
Hepsy brusquely. "I reckon you'd better not marry in Pendlepoint, or
there'll be an end to your goin' home any more."
Carrie laughed.
"I don't see why it should come to an end then, Miss Hepsy," she
said. "Even married people get a holiday sometimes."
"I guess they don't see many o' them," replied Miss Hepsy. "I think
you're a fool to marry, anyway, Miss Goldthwaite, when the parson
thinks such a heap of you."
Carrie laughed again, more amused than ever.
"Talking of holidays, Miss Hepsy," she said, "I want you to give this
patient little maiden one, and Tom too."
"Not if I know it," answered Miss Hepsy promptly.
"Oh yes you will," said Miss Goldthwaite serenely. "We are to have a
picnic up the Peak on Monday, in Judge Keane's waggon. I've set my
heart on Lucy and Tom, and half a day is nothing."
"It makes 'em idle and restless for days, Miss Goldthwaite," said
Aunt Hepsy, with grim decision, "an' I ain't a-goin' to have it, so
let it a be."
Miss Goldthwaite held her peace a moment, and then went straight up
to Aunt Hepsy, and, to Lucy's amazement, laid her two hands on her
shoulders and looked into her face with laughing eyes. "Do you know
you are the most disagreeable woman in the township, Miss Hepsy, and
that there isn't another would be so cross with me as you are? I'll
come up and pare apples for two whole days if you'll let me have Lucy
and Tom. Look me in the face and refuse me if you dare."
Miss Hepsy actually smiled. "I never saw sech a cretur," she said.
"Ye'd move the very Peak wi' them eyes o' your'n. I'm real sorry for
Mr. George Keane, anyway. Well, have yer own way, and go off home.
You're only hinderin' my work, and I hain't a minute to lose."
"Thank you, Miss Hepsy," said Carrie, with a very eloquent glance of
her irresistible eyes.--"Now, Lucy," said she then, turning to the
child, "come down to the parsonage on Monday morning at eleven, you
and Tom, and we will go up to the Red House together. Good-bye, dear;
the fresh air up the Peak will brighten that white face, I hope.
Don't forget, now."
"Forget! O Miss Carrie," was all she said, but her eyes were very dim
as she returned her kiss. Lucy had been feeling peculiarly sad and
down-hearted, and Miss Goldthwaite had come and brought with her the
sunshine which seemed to follow her everywhere.
Then Carrie bade Miss Hepsy good-bye, and went away. Looking about
her as she went through the garden, she espied Tom painting waggon
wheels in the yard. A few steps took her to the boy's side, and he
looked up with a glad smile of surprise.
"Busy too, Tom," she said pleasantly. "I don't think this place
should be called Thankful Rest. Nobody seems to take a rest here. How
do you like this work?"
"Don't ask me, Miss Goldthwaite," said the lad. "You remember you
told me to make the best of it; but it isn't easy."
"It will grow easy by-and-by," she said, and laid her hand a moment
on his arm, and her beautiful eyes grew grave and earnest. "Does my
soldier find his Captain able to help even in dark hours?"
"Yes, Miss Goldthwaite." That was all, but it was said so simply and
earnestly that Carrie's heart grew glad.
"We are to have a picnic up the Peak on Monday in Judge Keane's
waggon," said she after a moment. "Your aunt has promised to let you
and Lucy come. Will you like it?"
"Like it! Up the Peak! O Miss Goldthwaite," said the boy, looking
away to the towering hill beyond, "I have wished I could go every day
since I came. How good you are to Lucy and me!"
"She will tell you when to be ready. In the meantime I must go," said
Miss Goldthwaite with her pleasant smile. "Good-bye, and success to
the waggon-painting."
VIII.
UP THE PEAK.
Tom and Lucy Hurst peered anxiously out of their chamber windows at
six o'clock on Monday morning to see a clear, calm, beautiful sky,
with a faint roseate flush in the east, where, by-and-by, the sun
would come up brilliantly. Aunt Hepsy was as cross as two sticks, and
Uncle Josh morose and taciturn; but even these things failed to damp
their spirits, and at a quarter to eleven they set off, a very happy
pair, across the meadow to the parsonage. Both looked well. Lucy's
mourning, though simple and inexpensive, was wonderfully becoming;
and some fine delicate lace, which had been her mother's, relieved
the sombre black dress nicely. Miss Goldthwaite was very proud of her
friends, and told them so when she greeted them. They were just in
time, and the four set off, Tom in front with Miss Goldthwaite, and
Lucy walking with the minister. She was shy and quiet, but somehow
nobody could be long afraid of Mr. Goldthwaite. He possessed his
sister's charm of manner, and drew Lucy on to talk in spite of
herself. At the Red House there was a great bustle. The big waggon
was at the front door, and the little one at the back, into which the
cook was stowing all sorts of eatables. Minnie Keane, in a state of
great excitement, was flying about with a tiny kitten in each arm,
the mother following at her heels mewing piteously for her children
to be left in safety. Minnie dropped the kittens when she saw the
party from the parsonage coming round the avenue, and ran to meet
them. Miss Goldthwaite made the introductions, and then she and Mr.
Goldthwaite passed into the house, leaving the children beside the
waggon. There was but a moment's shyness, and then the irrepressible
Minnie's tongue began to go freely.
"You look nice, Lucy," she said frankly. "I guess we'll have a good
time to-day. There always is a good time when papa takes us
anywhere."
"This is a nice horse," said Tom, feeling he must say something.
"What's his name?"
"Oh, that's Billy. He's very old, and rather cross. You should see
papa's Beauty. Come to the stable and I'll show you her."
She drew Lucy's arm within her own and darted off, Tom following.
Minnie was quite at home in the stable, and familiar with every
animal in it. Beauty pricked up her ears and whinnied at the touch of
Minnie's caressing fingers.
"You ask Miss Goldthwaite about Beauty," she said. "She thinks there
isn't another horse like her in the world.--Don't you love horses,
Lucy?"
"Yes; I love all animals," replied Lucy. "I saw some nice little
kittens round there."
"Yes; I've three. We'd better go round now, I think; perhaps they'll
want to be going.--I'm glad it's a fine day; aren't you, Tom?"
"I think I am. I looked out at six this morning to see if it was.
It'll be glorious up the Peak."
As the three came round to the front door again, Miss Keane appeared
on the threshold. She looked very tall and stately and awe-inspiring
with her trailing dress and eye-glass. Yet her smile as she shook
hands with the children was so pleasant that Lucy forgot to be afraid
of her.
"My mother would like to see you, Tom and Lucy," she said. "Will you
come upstairs? she is not able to leave the room, you know.--Minnie,
I wish you would look round for papa. It is just twelve; we should be
going."
Minnie scampered off, and Tom and Lucy followed Miss Keane up the
broad staircase into the drawing-room, the beauty of which held them
spellbound for a few minutes. On a couch near the fire lay a lady,
with gray hair and a pale, thin, worn face, which wore such an
expression of peace and happiness that Lucy felt her heart go out to
her at once. Mr. and Miss Goldthwaite and George Keane were there
also. Mrs. Keane held out both her hands, and the two came shyly
forward--Tom blushing a little to be among so many strangers.
"I am glad to see you, my dears," she said very heartily.--"Kiss me,
Lucy. I knew your mother, dear. You remind me of her very much."
The ready tears sprang to Lucy's eyes. Kindness always moved her
thus, and she took a stool close to the couch, while Tom's eyes
wandered round the room, lingering hungrily on the exquisite
water-colours on the walls. It was long since he had had such an
opportunity. At Thankful Rest the art collection consisted of a few
family portraits, ludicrous alike in execution and in colouring. A
smile and a glance passed from Mr. Goldthwaite to his sister as they
noted how speedily the boy became absorbed.
"These are my brother Robert's drawings," said Miss Keane, touching
his arm and beckoning him to come nearer. "You are fond of painting,
I think?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Tom, his face flushing a little. "And these
are so beautiful, I could not help looking at them."
"If you will come up to the Red House some other day, I shall show
you all my brother's sketch-books and odd drawings," said Miss Keane.
"I am very fond of the work myself, and might perhaps be able to help
you a little, you know, and I think you would make a clever pupil;
what do you say?"
The eyes behind the glasses beamed so kindly at him that Tom forgot
that his first impression of her had been unpleasant, and a warm
flush of gratitude answered her better than his words. They were few
and sad enough.
"There is nothing I should like so much in the world, ma'am, and I
thank you very much; but I can't come--my uncle and aunt would not
let me."
"I must see about that," said Miss Keane promptly; and at that moment
Judge Keane's stately figure appeared in the doorway.
"Are you going to sit there all day, you young folk?" he called out
hastily.--"Oh, here you are, little ones;--glad to see you, my lad;"
and he gave Tom's hand a warm grasp, and touched Lucy's white face
with his forefinger.
"Want some roses there, doesn't she, wife?" he said. "There'll be a
glorious air up the Peak to-day, it will bring them there, if
anything will."
"I wish you could have come, dear Mrs. Keane," whispered Carrie as
she bent a moment over the couch before they passed out; "you used to
be the very sunshine of us all."
"I think of you, dear, and am happy in my own way at home," she
replied with her sweet smile; "take care of yourself and of this pale
little maiden.--Lucy dear, good-bye. Come and see me again."
"Indeed I will, if I can, ma'am," replied Lucy earnestly; and then
they all went away. Minnie was already in the big waggon waiting
impatiently for the start.
"You will go inside too, little one, I suppose," said the judge to
Lucy; and with one swing of his strong arms he placed her beside
Minnie. "The rest of us will walk a piece, I fancy. As this is
supposed to be a climbing expedition, we must make some show, at
least, to begin with."
There was a general laugh, and Tom and Lucy thought there could not
be so pleasant an old gentleman as Judge Keane anywhere.
Miss Keane elected Tom for her cavalier, and made him feel very
important indeed, by treating him as if he were quite a man; and they
got into a very interesting talk about the great painters and their
work. She was astonished to find what a thorough knowledge the boy
had of the subject, and how well he could talk on what interested him
most.
"Robert must see this young artist," was her mental comment. The
judge followed behind with Mr. Goldthwaite; while Mr. George Keane
and Miss Goldthwaite brought up the rear, walking very slowly, and
talking very earnestly. Nobody took any notice of them whatever,
evidently being of opinion that they were quite capable of amusing
each other. The waggon-path, winding gradually up the mountain side,
was rough and stony, and even Billy's cautious feet stumbled
sometimes; and the two girls were jolted so that they laughed till
they cried.
"I think we'd better get out; don't you, Lucy?" cried Minnie at last,
"else there'll be none of us left to see the top of the Peak. I never
was so sore in my life. Isn't it fun though?"
"Yes; and the sun is so bright, and everybody so kind, and everything
so pleasant, I don't know what to do," said Lucy with softening eyes.
Minnie looked at her curiously.
"I say, don't you have any good times at your home, Lucy?" she asked
soberly.
"Sometimes--not very often," answered Lucy reluctantly.
"I don't think your aunt is a very nice woman anyway," said Minnie
with her usual candour. "She looked at me so one day in church,
'cause I laughed right out at a funny little dog with a stumpy tail
running in and right up to Mr. Goldthwaite. Wouldn't you have laughed
too?"
"I don't know," said Lucy; "if it was very funny, I daresay I would."
"How pretty you are," said Minnie after a while; "my sister Alice
says so--I guess she knows." Lucy blushed, not being accustomed to
such plain speaking. "I think Miss Goldthwaite perfectly elegant,"
went on the young critic. "She is going to marry my brother George,
do you know?"
"Is she?" asked Lucy, much interested.
"Yes; and papa and mamma are crazed about her. Everybody is. Isn't
she just splendid?"
"There is nobody like her," answered Lucy. Minnie could never know
what she had been and was to her.
"Lovers are stupid, don't you think?" asked Minnie again. "They
always go away by themselves, and things; you just watch George and
Carrie to-day. It is a great trial to me."
"What is?" asked Mr. George Keane, pausing at the side of the waggon.
Minnie laughed outright, so did Lucy.
"It's a secret," replied she in a very dignified way.--"O Miss
Goldthwaite, are you coming into the waggon?"
"Yes;--will you make room for me, Lucy?"
Lucy moved further up the cushion, and Mr. George Keane assisted Miss
Goldthwaite to her place.
"O Carrie, succumbed already!" cried Miss Keane.
"Won't you come in too?" replied Carrie.
"No, thank you; I mean to climb to the top. Somebody must sustain the
credit of our sex."
"I know it's safe in your hands, Alice," said Carrie serenely.--"Lucy
dear, you look happy. Do you enjoy it?"
The sparkle in Lucy's eyes answered her better than any words.
The road was becoming rougher and steeper, and Billy's progress
slower and slower, and the summit of the Peak drawing nearer and
nearer. Miss Keane and Tom had got ahead of the waggon, and were the
first to reach the top. At last Billy, with a great pull, brought the
waggon to the level ground, and then stood still. They all alighted,
and, forming a little circle, stood drinking in the beauty of the
scene. Wondering how Tom would be affected, Miss Keane turned to
speak to him, but he had gone; and looking round, she saw him
standing by a huge boulder, but his face was turned away, and
understanding why he felt it best to be alone for a few minutes, she
did not venture to disturb him. It was a panorama of wonderful
beauty. They seemed to stand up among the clouds, the air was so pure
and cool and bracing. Far beneath, the houses of the town looked like
a tiny ant-nest, enveloped in a filmy haze. The great plain stretched
around for miles and miles, dotted here and there by many a pretty
homestead, and intersected by the winding river, glinting and
glistening in the sun as it hurried on and on to join the far-off
sea. Far across the plain the smoke of distant cities obscured the
horizon, but none of the noise or bustle was borne on the breeze to
this lonely mountain peak. A great silence fell upon the little
company, and some bright eyes grew dim as they looked upon the beauty
of the world the great Creator had made.
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