Annie S. (Annie Shepherd) Swan - fewyang
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Thankful Rest, by Annie S. Swan
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Title: Thankful Rest
Author: Annie S. Swan
Release Date: July 28, 2004 [eBook #12998]
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG THANKFUL REST***
E-text prepared by Roy Brown
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.
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.
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 and she exclaimed, "Wal, if this ain't about the change, 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.
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.
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."