Thankful Rest written by Annie S. Swan
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Annie S. Swan >> Thankful Rest
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In the evening he came down to the drawing-room, where he was treated
as a hero. Everybody made so much of him that he began to feel
uncomfortable, and took refuge at last with Mr. Robert Keane, who
good-naturedly showed him the sketch-book he had filled in Europe,
and explained everything to him, as if he found pleasure in it. And
he did find pleasure, for Tom was an enthusiastic listener.
No inquiry had come from Thankful Rest, which had astonished Mrs.
Keane very much. She thought they would be sure to feel anxious about
Tom's recovery. She did not know Joshua Strong and his sister. The
following morning Dr. Gair said Tom might go home as soon as he
liked; so Miss Alice drove him and Lucy to Thankful Rest in the
course of the forenoon. Miss Hepsy was plucking chickens for the
market, and tossed up her head when her nephew and niece appeared
before her.
"I wonder you'd come back at all after livin' so long among gentle
folk. It'll be a long time, I reckon, afore ye get the chance to jump
through the ice after Miss Goldthwaite or any other miss.--Here,
Lucy, get off yer hat, and lend a hand wi' them chickens.--You'll
find plenty wood in the shed, boy, waitin' to be chopped, if yer
uncle hain't anything else for ye to do. Off ye go."
The contrast between the happy circle they had left and their own
home was so painful that Lucy's tears fell fast as she went to do her
aunt's bidding. And Tom departed to the wood-shed with a very
downcast and rebellious heart.
XI.
HOPES FULFILLED.
On the afternoon of the following day Mr. Goldthwaite came to
Thankful Rest, accompanied by Mr. Robert Keane. Lucy opened the door
to them; and seeing a stranger with the parson, her aunt shouted to
her to show them into the sitting-room. It was a chill and gloomy
place, though painfully clean and tidy--utterly destitute of comfort.
Lucy shut the door upon them, and went back to tell her aunt that the
stranger was Mr. Robert Keane.
"What's their business here, I'd like to know?" she said as she
whisked off her white apron and smoothed her hair beneath her cap.
Lucy knew, but discreetly held her peace. Miss Hepsy stalked across
the passage and into the sitting-room, her looks asking as plainly as
any words what they wanted.
"This is Mr. Robert Keane, Miss Strong," said the minister. "He wants
to see you and your brother, I think, on a little business."
Miss Hepsy elevated her eyebrows, and shook hands with Mr. Keane in
silence.
"Josh is in the barn. I s'pose I'd better send for him," she said.
And Mr. Keane answered courteously--"If you please."
She opened the door and called to Lucy to run to the barn for her
uncle.
"Yes, Aunt Hepsy," answered Lucy, her sweet, clear tones contrasting
strongly with her aunt's unpleasant voice.
"Miss Goldthwaite's all right again, eh?" she asked, sitting down
near the door.
"I am thankful to say my sister is none the worse of her adventure,"
answered Mr. Goldthwaite. "But for Tom's bravery the consequences
might have been more serious."
"H'm, I told him it would be a precious long time afore he got on the
ice again to be laid up, botherin' strange folks, an' I guess I'll
keep my word."
"You must not be so hard on him, Miss Strong," said the minister. "He
is a very fine lad, and tries very hard to please you, I know."
Aunt Hepsy remained silent.
"What a pretty place you have, Miss Strong," said Mr. Keane's
pleasant, well-modulated voice. "The Peak shows splendidly from this
window."
"The place aren't no great thing, sir," said Miss Hepsy.--"Here's
Josh." She opened the door, and Uncle Josh appeared on the threshold
in his working garb, grimy and dust-stained, as he had come from
repairing the mill. He pulled his hair to the minister, and bowed
awkwardly to Mr. Keane.
"Sit down, Josh," said Miss Hepsy, but Josh preferred to stand. There
was just a moment's constrained silence.
"I have called to see you, Mr. Strong," said Robert Keane, plunging
into the subject without further delay, "about your nephew Tom. He is
very anxious to become a painter, I find. Would you have any
objections to me putting him in the way of life to which his desire
and talent point him?"
"Has the ungrateful little brat been carrying his grumbling among you
folks?" said Miss Hepsy wrathfully.
"Be quiet, Hepsy," said Joshua Strong very imperatively.
"I don't quite understand you, sir," he said to Mr. Keane. "I can't
afford to send the boy anywhere to learn anything, if ye mean that.
He'll never do no good on a farm, for sartin; but he kin work for his
livin' here, an' that's all I kin do for 'im."
"I am a painter myself," said Mr. Keane, guessing they were unaware
of the fact, and now wishing to state his intentions as briefly and
plainly as possible; "and from what I have seen of your nephew I
believe his talent for art to be very great indeed. What I mean is
this: give him up to me; I will take him back to Philadelphia, and
take entire care of his training. It will not cost you a farthing,
Mr. Strong. Do you understand?"
"We're poor folks, but we don't take charity even for Hetty's
children," said Miss Hepsy pointedly. "We've never been offered it
afore."
Mr. Keane might have waxed angry at the impertinent remark. He was
only inwardly amused. "It is not charity, Miss Strong," he said
good-humouredly. "I expect Tom will be able to repay anything he may
cost me. I hope you will not stand in the lad's way. He is a born
artist, and will never do good in any other sphere.--Come, Mr.
Strong, say yes, and let us shake hands over the bargain."
It was proof of the rare delicacy of Robert Keane's nature that he
put the matter in the light of a favour to himself. Mr. Goldthwaite
admired and honoured his friend at that moment more than he had ever
done before.
Aunt Hepsy preserved a rigid and unbending silence.
Uncle Josh stood twirling his thumbs reflectively. It was to cost him
nothing, not a farthing; and he would be rid of the bother the
hot-headed youngster was to him. But for his sister he would have
granted a ready assent.
"Wal, Hepsy?" he said in an inquiring tone.
"You're the master, Josh, I reckon. Do as ye please. It's all one to
me;" and to their amazement she flounced out of the room and banged
the door behind her.
"I'm much obleeged to you, Mr. Keane," said Josh, finding his tongue
in a marvellously short time. "I've no objections. As I said afore,
he's an idle, peart young 'un; no good at farm work. I hope yell be
able to make a better job o' him than I've done."
"I am not afraid," said Mr. Robert Keane. "And I am obliged to you
for granting my request. Can I see Tom?"
"I reckon you may," said Uncle Josh slowly. "Wal, I'll be off to that
plaguy mill. Good-day to you.--My respects to Miss Goldthwaite,
parson." Once more Uncle Josh pulled his forelock, and shambled out
of the room.
"It doesn't cause them much concern anyway," said Mr. Keane when the
door closed. "They are a bright pair; I should be afraid of that
woman myself. How that mite of a girl stands it I don't know."
Before Mr. Goldthwaite had time to answer, the door opened, and a
very eager, excited-looking boy appeared on the threshold.
"Well, Tom, my boy," said Mr. Keane, holding out his hand, "the
bargain's sealed. You belong to me now."
"Has Uncle Josh--has Aunt Hepsy said I might?" he said breathlessly.
"Oh, it is too good to be true!"
"True enough," said Mr. Keane, laughing at the lad's manner.--"Please
assure him of it, Mr. Goldthwaite."
Mr. Goldthwaite laid his hand on the lad's shoulder, and bent his
grave eyes on his beaming face. "I congratulate you," he said
heartily. "And I hope that by-and-by all Pendlepoint will be proud of
the name of Tom Hurst."
Tom drew his hand across his eyes. "I can't help it, sir," he said
apologetically. "But if you knew how much I've wished for this and
dreamed of it.--Oh, I feel I can never be grateful enough to you, Mr.
Keane!"
"Nonsense," said Mr. Keane. "Well, we must be going. Show us the way
out, will you, Tom? Your aunt has deserted us. I don't leave for a
fortnight yet. I shall see you again in a day or two."
Aunt Hepsy, however, had not altogether forgotten the duties of
hospitality, and now reappeared and asked them to stay to tea. Her
face had cleared a little, and she seemed to regret her previous
rudeness. Her invitation, however, was courteously declined.
"You're here, I see, Tom," she said severely. "Well, I hope you're
properly grateful to Mr. Keane for doing so much for you. An' I hope
ye'll mend yer ways, an' be a better boy than ye've been."
"I am very grateful, Aunt Hepsy," said Tom very quietly. "And I will
try to be what you say."
Something in his face and eyes touched even Aunt Hepsy, and it came
upon her very suddenly to wonder if she had not treated him a little
unjustly. "He's a biddable cretur, too," she said to Mr. Keane. "An'
p'raps he'll take more kindly to your kind o' life than ours. I don't
think much o' them useless ways o' livin' myself, but there's
differences."
"Some day perhaps, Miss Strong, when Tom comes back a great man,"
laughed Mr. Keane, as he shook hands with her and Tom, "you'll admit
you've changed your mind. If you do I'll come along and have a good
laugh at you."
A smile actually appeared on Miss Hepsy's face. "He's a real
pleasant-spoken gentleman, Mr. Robert Keane," said Aunt Hepsy, as she
shut the door.--"Well, Tom, I hope ye'll get yer fill o' paintin'
now."
Tom's eyes beamed, but he made no verbal reply. Lucy followed him to
the door as he passed out to the barn again.
"O Tom, I am so glad," she whispered joyfully; and Tom answered by
tossing his cap in the air and trying to bound up after it.
"Glad? I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels, Lucy," he
said. "It's the happiest day of my life."
Lucy kept the smile upon her face, not wishing to damp his joy, but
her heart was very sore. For what did Tom's departure mean for her?
It meant parting from all she had on earth; it meant a life of utter
loneliness and lovelessness, save for the dear outside friends she
could see so seldom. It was Lucy's nature ever to unselfishly bury
her own troubles and try to join in the happiness of others.
"A fortnight only," she said to herself as she went back to her work.
"What will become of me?"
The days sped fleetly for her, but slowly for Tom, who was eager to
be gone. Mr. Robert Keane paid frequent visits to Thankful Rest, and
all arrangements were satisfactorily made. Lucy went about, saying
little, and preserving her sweet serenity to the last. She busied
herself with Tom's small wardrobe, adding a touch here and there to
make it complete; and wept bitter tears over her work, as many
another sister has done before and since. It was not till the last
night that a thought of her came to cloud Tom's sky. They were
sitting together at the stove in the fading twilight, Lucy's face
very grave and sad.
"I say Lucy, though," Tom said, "how awfully lonely it will be for
you when I'm gone. Why, whatever will you _do_?"
"Think of you, and look for your letters," she said, her lips
quivering. "You will not forget me altogether, Tom?"
A pang of remorse shot through Tom's heart. He came to her side and
threw one arm round her, remembering how his mother's last charge had
been to take care of Lucy, and how poorly he had done it after all.
Lucy had taken care of him instead.
"Lucy, I'm a perfectly horrid boy," he said in a queer, quick way.
"Don't you hate me?"
"Hate you? O Tom, I've nobody but you."
Her sunny head drooped a moment against his arm, and her tears fell
without restraint. "I didn't mean to, Tom," she said at last, looking
up with a faint smile, "but I couldn't help it. I feel dreadful to
think of you going away."
"When I'm a man, Lucy," he said manfully, "what a perfectly stunning
little home you and I shall have together. It won't be so long--why,
I'm thirteen."
"Only about ten or twelve years," said Lucy, able to laugh now. "I
shall be gray-haired long before that time."
"You! why, you'll be the same as you are at fifty. You are like
mamma; she never grew any older-looking. You must write often, mind,
Lucy, and tell me all about everything and everybody."
Lucy promised, and, feeling very sad again, rose to light the lamp in
case she should break down. Aunt Hepsy was wonderfully kind that
night--she could be kind sometimes if she liked--and, altogether, the
evening passed pleasantly. Tom went to bed early, as they were to
start by the morning train. Lucy followed almost immediately. About
half-an-hour afterwards Aunt Hepsy went upstairs to put a forgotten
article into Tom's trunk, and was arrested by sounds in Lucy's room.
The door was a little ajar, and Aunt Hepsy peered in. Lucy was
undressed and sitting at the window, her arms on the dressing-table,
and her whole frame shaking with sobs. Once or twice Aunt Hepsy heard
the word "Mamma." The passion of grief and longing in the girl's
voice made something come into Aunt Hepsy's throat, and she slipped
noiselessly downstairs.
"I don't feel easy in my mind, Josh," she said when she re-entered
the kitchen. "I'm feared we've been rayther hard on Hetty's children.
She never did us any harm."
"Did I say she did, Hepsy?" asked Uncle Josh, serenely puffing away
at his pipe. "You was allus the worst at her and at the children. Ye
put upon that Lucy in a perfectly awful way."
"Shut up," said Miss Hepsy in a tone which admitted of no further
remark, and the subject dropped.
There was a great bustle in the morning, and before Lucy had time to
think about anything Tom had kissed her for the last time, and the
waggon drove away. He waved his handkerchief to her till they were
out of sight; and then she went back to the house sad and pale and
cheerless.
"I guess you needn't fly round much to-day, Lucy," said Aunt Hepsy
with unusual thoughtfulness. "Ye don't look very spry, and feel down
a bit. Never mind, he ain't away for ever."
"Thank you, Aunt Hepsy," said Lucy gently. "I'd rather work, if you
please. It takes up my mind better. Let me wash these dishes."
Aunt Hepsy surmised the tears were kept for the loneliness of her own
chamber. She was right. Only to her mother's God did Lucy Hurst pour
out all her grief, and from Him sought the help and comfort none can
give so well as He.
XII.
WEARY DAYS.
The unusual softening of heart and manner visible in Aunt Hepsy at
the time of Tom's departure disappeared before the lapse of many
days. You see, she had gone on in the old, sour, cross-grained way so
long, she felt most at home in it. She did not _feel_ unkindly
towards gentle, patient Lucy; but her manner was so ungracious, and
her words so sharp, you will not wonder that Lucy could not read
beneath the surface. She was very quiet, very sober, and very
listless; striving, too, to do her duties as well as aforetime, but
lacking physical strength. Tom's letters, frequent and full of hope
and happiness, were the chief solace of the girl's lonely life. Mr.
and Miss Goldthwaite came sometimes yet to Thankful Rest; but these
were family visits, and Lucy had few opportunities of quiet talk with
her friends. Many invitations had come from the Red House, but to
each and all Aunt Hepsy returned a peremptory refusal.
"I'm not going to have her learn to fly round for ever at folks'
houses. She has plenty to do at home, and she'll do it, you take my
word for it. Tell Judge Keane's folks I'm mighty obliged to them, but
Lucy can't come. Let that be an end of it." So she said to Miss
Goldthwaite one day; and she carried the message, slightly modified,
to Mrs. Keane. So the days and weeks slipped away, till Winter had to
hide his diminished head before the harbingers of Spring. In the
closing days of March the ice broke up on the river, and all nature
seemed to spring to life again. Green blades and tiny blossoms began
to peep above ground, and the birds sang their songs of gladness on
the budding boughs. It was a busy time at Thankful Rest, both indoors
and out. In the first week of April began that awful revolution, Miss
Hepsy Strong's spring-cleaning. It was her boast that she could
accomplish in one week what other housewives could accomplish only in
three. For every half-idle hour Lucy had enjoyed during the winter
she had to atone now; for Aunt Hepsy kept her sweeping, and scouring,
and dusting, and trotting upstairs and down, till the girl's strength
almost failed her. She did not complain, however, and Aunt Hepsy was
too much absorbed to see that her powers were overtaxed. The cleaning
was triumphantly concluded on Saturday night, and Lucy crept away
early to bed, but was unable to sleep from fatigue. She came
downstairs next morning so wan and white that Aunt Hepsy feared she
was going to turn sick on her hands. But Lucy said she was well
enough, and would go to church as usual. Thinking she looked really
ill, Miss Goldthwaite came round to the porch after the service.
"Lucy, what is it, child? your face is quite white. Do you feel well
enough?"
Lucy smiled a little, and slipping her hand through Miss
Goldthwaite's arm, walked with her down the path.
"This has been cleaning week," she said in explanation, "and I have
had more to do than usual. I daresay I'll be all right now."
But Miss Goldthwaite did not feel satisfied, and said so to her
brother at the tea-table that night.
"I'm going up to Thankful Rest, Frank, to tell Miss Hepsy to be
careful of Lucy. It is time somebody told her; she grows so thin,
and, I notice, eats nothing."
Mr. Goldthwaite's anxiety exceeded his sister's, if that were
possible, but he said very little. Accordingly, next afternoon Miss
Goldthwaite betook herself to Thankful Rest. Finding the garden gate
locked, she went round by the back, and in the yard encountered Lucy
bending under the weight of two pails of water. She set them down on
beholding Miss Goldthwaite; and Carrie noticed that her hand was
pressed to her side, and that her breath came very fast.
"You are not fit to carry these, Lucy," said she very gravely. "Is
there nobody but you?"
"I have been washing some curtains and things to-day, Miss
Goldthwaite, and Aunt Hepsy thinks the water from the spring in the
low meadow better for rinsing them in."
"Does she?" said Miss Goldthwaite, and her sweet lips closed together
more sternly than Lucy had ever seen them do before.
Lucy passed into the wash-house with her pails, and Miss Goldthwaite
went into the house without knocking. Miss Hepsy was making
buckwheats, and greeted her visitor pleasantly enough. She sat down
in the window, turned her eyes on Miss Hepsy's face, and said
bluntly,--
"I'm going to say something which will likely vex you, Miss Hepsy,
but I can't help it. I've been wanting to say it this long time."
Miss Hepsy did not look surprised, or even curious, she only said
calmly,--
"It wouldn't be the first time you've vexed me, Miss Goldthwaite, by
a long chalk."
"It's about Lucy, Miss Hepsy," continued Miss Goldthwaite. "Can't you
see she's hardly fit to do a hand's turn at work? I met her out there
carrying a load she was no more fit to carry than that kitten."
"Ain't she?" inquired Miss Hepsy quite unmoved. "What else?"
"There she is; I see her through the door. Look at her, and _see_ if
she is well. If she doesn't get rest and that speedily, she'll go
into a decline, as sure as I sit here. I had a sister," said Carrie
with a half sob, "who died of decline, and she looked exactly as Lucy
does."
Miss Hepsy walked from the dresser to the stove and back again before
she spoke. "When did you find out, Miss Goldthwaite, that Hepsy
Strong could not mind her own affairs and her own folks?"
It was said in Miss Hepsy's most disagreeable manner, which was very
disagreeable indeed; but Miss Goldthwaite did not intend to be
disconcerted so soon.
"You have a kind heart, I know, Miss Hepsy, though you show it so
seldom. You must know Lucy's value by this time, and if you haven't
learned to love her, I don't know what you are made of. Be gentle
with her, Miss Hepsy; she is very young--and she has no mother."
Miss Hepsy's temper was up, and she heard the gentle pleading
unmoved.
"Ye've meddled a good deal wi' me, Miss Goldthwaite," she said
slowly, "and I've never told ye to mind yer own business before, but
I tell ye now. An' though ye are the parson's sister, ye say things I
can't stand. Ye'd better be goin'; an' ye needn't come to Thankful
Rest again till ye can let me an' my concerns alone."
Miss Goldthwaite rose at once, not angry, only grieved and
disappointed.
"Good-bye, then, Miss Hepsy. It was only my love for Lucy made me
speak. I'm sorry I've offended you. She is a dear, good girl. Some
day, perhaps, you will be sorry you did not listen to my words," she
said, and went away.
Not many words, good or bad, did Aunt Hepsy speak in the house that
night. Lucy, busy with her mending, wondered what had passed that
afternoon that Miss Goldthwaite's stay had been so brief. Aunt
Hepsy's eyes rested keenly on Lucy's pale, sweet face more than once,
and she was forced to admit that it was paler and thinner and more
worn-looking than it need be. But she hardened her heart, and refused
to obey its more kindly promptings. A few more days went by. Lucy
grew weaker, and flagged in her work; and Aunt Hepsy watched her, and
_would not_ be the first to take needful steps. On Sunday morning
Lucy did not come downstairs at the usual time, and even the
clattering of breakfast dishes failed to bring her. At length Aunt
Hepsy went upstairs. Lucy was still in bed.
"Are you sick, child?" said Aunt Hepsy in a strange quick voice.
Lucy answered very feebly,--"I'm afraid I'm goin' to be, Aunt Hepsy.
I tried to get up, but I couldn't; and I haven't slept any all
night."
"Where do you feel ill?"
"All over," said the girl wearily. "I've felt so for a long time, but
I tried to go about. Are you angry because I'm going to be sick, Aunt
Hepsy? It'll be a bother to you; but perhaps I'm going to mamma."
"Do you want to kill me outright, Lucy?" said her aunt; and even in
her weakness Lucy opened her eyes wide in surprise. "If you speak
about goin' to yer ma again," she said, "ye will kill me. Ye've got
to lie there an' get better as fast as you like. I'll send for Dr.
Gair, an' nurse ye night and day."
Aunt Hepsy could have said a great deal more, but a something in her
throat prevented her. She went downstairs immediately, and despatched
the boy for Dr. Gair. During his absence, she endeavoured to induce
Lucy to take some breakfast, but in vain.
"I'm real sick, Aunt Hepsy," she said. "Just let me lie still. I
don't want anything but just to be quiet."
Within the hour Dr. Gair came to Thankful Rest, for Miss Hepsy's
message had been urgent. He was an old man, blunt-mannered, but truly
tenderhearted, and a great favourite in the township. He had not been
once at Thankful Rest since Deacon Strong's death, for neither the
brother nor sister had ever had a day's illness in their lives. He
made his examination of Lucy in a few minutes, and Miss Hepsy watched
with a sinking heart how very grave his face was when he turned to
her. He had few questions to ask, and these Lucy answered as simply
as she could.
"Am I going to be very sick, Dr. Gair?" said Lucy.
"Yes, my dear; but please God, we may pull you through," said the old
man softly. "In the meantime I can't do much; I'll look in again in
the afternoon."
Miss Hepsy followed him in silence down the stairs, and he drew on
his gloves in the lobby without speaking.
"This is a case of gross neglect, Miss Strong," he said at length.
"The girl's delicate frame is thoroughly exhausted by over-fatigue
and want of attention."
"Tell me something I don't know, Dr. Gair," said she sharply.
"And if she recovers, of which I am more than doubtful," he continued
sternly, "it is to be hoped you will turn over a new leaf in your
treatment of her. I am a plain man, Miss Strong, not given to gilding
a bitter pill. If your niece dies, you may take home the blame to
yourself. Good morning."
"I know all that, my good man, better than you can tell me," said
Aunt Hepsy grimly. "You do your best to bring her round, an' I won't
forget it. I've been a wicked woman, Dr. Gair, an' I s'pose the
Lord's goin' to punish me now; an' he couldn't have chosen a surer
way than by sending sickness to Lucy. Good morning."
Aunt Hepsy shut the door, and went into the kitchen. There Joshua sat
anxiously awaiting the doctor's verdict.
"There ain't much hope, Josh," she said briefly.
"Ain't there, Hepsy? It's a bad job for the little 'un."
"An' for more than her, I reckon," returned his sister shortly. "I've
lived one and forty years at Thankful Rest, Josh, an' I never felt as
I do this day. I'd a mighty deal rather be sick myself than see the
child's white face. If she gets round, I'll be a better woman, with
the Lord's help. How He's borne with me so long's a marvel I can't
comprehend. One and forty years, Josh Strong, and Lucy jes' fifteen.
She's done a deal more good in one day o' her life than you or me
ever did in all ours. The Lord forgive us, Josh, an' help us to make
a better use o' what's left. Jes' step down to Pendlepoint, will ye,
an' ask the parson an' his sister up. I guess Lucy'd be pleased to
see 'em. One an' forty years, dear, dear; an' Lucy jes' fifteen."
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