 | CHAPTER II. Pictures of country life |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
Years went away, and one frosty moonlight night, the same
neighbor who led little Lidy away and kept her before, was
seen hurrying across the common, again, and the schoolmaster
to come forth and go searching about the town—the storekeeper
laid down his measure, saying, “Is there any bad news,
Mr. Rodwick?” for he knew by the manner of his inquiry for
George, that poor Mrs. Anderson was dead.
The husband wore a new hat deeply shrouded with crape at
her funeral, and new gloves, and George, who was grown to be
a big, saucy boy, wore gloves too, while Eliza wore an ill-fitting
bonnet that was not her own, and no gloves at all.
From that time Mr. Anderson did not look, nor seem like
himself, people said, and it was believed he was grieving himself
to death. They did not know, and he did not know, that
he had drawn all his life from his wife—she had bought his
food and his clothes, she had held him up and kept him up, and
when the crape he wore at her funeral grew dusty and fell to
pieces, he fell to pieces with it. He called Lidy to his bedside,
one day, and told her that her brother would soon have a fine
education—she must be content to suffer some privations till
that was accomplished, and then he would repay her handsomely—he
was a noble-hearted lad, and wonderfully gifted.
Lidy must look to him for advice now, and in all things subserve
his wishes.
“Dear, dear father,” cried Lidy, “you must not die—I can
not live without you,” and with all the power that was in her,
she strove to make pleasant the sick-room. She placed her
geranium pots and myrtles where he could see them, and let
the sunshine in at the windows that he might feel how bright
the world was without—but his eyes could not see the brightness
anywhere, and at length one night Casper was called to
write his will—he had nothing to bequeath, and his will was a
record of his wishes only. Little more was written than he
had spoken to Lidy, and all was to the effect that George was
her natural and proper guardian, that he was superior to her
in wisdom, and should be so in authority, and that if ever
his daughter forgot it, he wished her to read this testimonial
of her father's will.
So they were left alone in the world, the two orphans, with
no friend but the schoolmaster. Eliza Anderson had all her
mother's energy and aptitude. She could not only sew for the
town, and dresses too, and as she was not ashamed to work she
got along with her poverty very well. George inherited all
his father's smartness, and more than all his irresolution, but as
he grew older he grew better tempered, and whatever he was
to others, was seldom unamiable to Lidy. How could he be,
indeed, unless he had been a demon?
Often when she sat with her sewing at night, she would tell
the schoolmaster what great hopes she had of George, and how
ingeniously he could turn his hand to anything. Sometimes he
would smile and sometimes he would sigh, but whatever he
said it was evident he shared none of her enthusiasm. This
rather offended Lidy, for she received any slight to George as
a personal insult, and she would sit all the evening after some
hopeful allusion to him, silent, often sullen, saying to all the
master's little efforts to please her, that she had not a friend in
the world, and it was no use ever to hope for sympathy. It
was true that from the first the master had not loved George
much—first he had taken the petticoats from his little favorite,
then her playthings, and then she began to be big enough to
work for him, and from that time it was nothing else but work
for him, and for the master's part he could see no prospect of
anything else.
One night she appeared unusually happy, and to find her own
heart company enough. Once or twice she seemed on the
point of telling something to the master, but she checked herself,
and if she said anything it was evidently not what she at
first thought. “Well, Lidy,” he said, at length, “what is it?”
and at last it came out—about George, of course. He was
going to stay away from school and work in the garden the
would learn more in half the day, after such healthful exercise,
than he had done in the whole day. She had spent more
money for the hoe, and the spade, and garden seeds, to be sure,
than she could well afford, but then it was all going to be such
an improvement to George, to say nothing of the great advantage
it would be to her?
“Don't you think it will be a good thing for us both?” and
she went on to say it was a wonderful idea, and all his own—
she had never suggested anything like it to George. Did
it not look like beginning to do in earnest? and she concluded,
“maybe, after all, you will find you were mistaken about
him!”
“And maybe not,” said the schoolmaster, cooly—“where is
the boy?”
Eliza did not know where he was, and to be avenged upon
him for the humiliating confession he obliged her to make, she
said she did not know as it was any of his business.
“Of course it is not my business, but I can't bear to see you
so imposed upon,” and he very gently took her hand as he
spoke. She withdrew it blushing; covered her face, and burst
into tears. She was not a child, and he was her friend and
schoolmaster no more. She was become a woman, and he her
interested lover.
He had been gone an hour to the little chamber adjoining
his schoolroom, where he had slept since her mother's death,
when George came.
Lidy kept her face in the dark that he might not see how
red her eyes were, for she could not explain why she had been
crying. She hardly knew herself—and in a tone of affected
produced her package of seeds.
“Call me early,” he said, “I am going to work in earnest.
I am twelve years old now, and can do as much as a man!”
Lidy promised to call him, and never once thought necessity
ought to wake him, as it did her.
She was astir an hour earlier than common the next day—
and having called George, set to digging in the garden beds
with good-will. She was determined the schoolmaster should
find the work begun when he came to breakfast. Two or three
times she left her work to call George again, and at last,
yawning and complaining, he came. “He thought he would
feel more like working after breakfast,” he said, “rising so
early made his head dizzy,” and sitting down on a bank of
grass, he buried his forehead in his handkerchief, and with one
hand pulled the rake across the loose earth which his sister had
been digging. Poor boy, she thought, a cup of coffee will do
him good, and away she flew to make it.
“Really, George,” said the schoolmaster, when he sat down
to breakfast, “you have made a fine beginning—if you keep on
this way we shall be proud of you.”
Lidy noticed that he said, we shall be proud of you, and in
her confusion she twice put sugar in his coffee, and forgot to
give sugar to George at all. He sulked and sat back from the
table, affecting to believe that his sister had deprived him of
sugar in his coffee for the sake of giving the master a double
portion. And he concluded with saying, “It's pretty treatment
after my getting up at daybreak to work for you.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said the master,
provoked by his insolent words and sulky manner beyond silent
moreover it is for yourself you are working.” And he added
between his teeth, “if I had the management of you, I'd teach
you what pretty treatment was!”
“But you haven't the management of him, Mr. Rodwick,”
said Eliza, moving her chair further from him and nearer to
George.
“I am aware of it, Miss Anderson,” he replied, “and if you
will uphold him in his ugliness after this fashion, I must say I
should be sorry to be connected with him in any way!”
A look that was half defiance and half sneer, passed over the
face of Lidy, but she said nothing. At this moment the blacksmith
stopped at the door, to offer some seeds of an excellent
kind of cucumbers to his neighbor, whom in common with all
the village he greatly esteemed.
“You look pale, ma'am,” he said, as he laid the seeds on the
table beside her, “I'm afeard you have been working beyond
your strength;” and turning to the master, he explained how
he had seen her digging in the garden since daybreak. Her
face grew crimson, for she had not only suffered the master to
attribute the work to George, but had herself helped to deceive
him.
One glance he gave her, which to her appeared made up of
pity and contempt, and without one word went away from the
house. If her little deception had not been discovered, she
could have borne herself very proudly towards the master, but
now she was humiliated, not only in his estimation, but her
own. She was angry with him, with the blacksmith, with
George, and with herself. Yet for a good while she would not
give up even to herself, but sat sipping coffee and eating dry
the bitter tears kept rising and filling her eyes, for she would
not wipe them away. One moment she thought she did not
care for what had happened, and that she had a right to work
in the garden, and was not obliged to tell the master of it
either, as she knew of, and that if he had ever given George
credit for anything, she would not have tried to deceive him,
and at any rate, what she did was nothing to him; he had no
authority over either of them, she was glad of that. But under
all this bolstering, which she heaped up under her failing heart,
she felt sorry and ashamed, and knew that the master was in the
right, that he was a strict disciplinarian, and that in some sort he
was entitled to some authority over George, at least. He had
lived in the house with them always, had been their teacher, and
since their father's death their friend and guardian. George was
a bad, idle boy, she knew, and ran away from school when he
chose, and she knew too that he required a severe master, and
if Mr. Rodwick had softened matters a little she would not have
cared; but he was not the man to disguise plain truth—as far
as he saw he saw clearly, and made others see clearly too.
But when it was all turned over and over, Eliza was angry
with him more than with George, angry, because he knew the
truth, and angry because the truth was the truth—in some way,
his knowledge of facts made the facts, she thought.
And all the while she was turning things about, and yet not
reconciled to herself, nor to the master, nor to George, he sat
sullenly away from the table biting his finger-nails, and waiting
to be coaxed to eat.
For once there was no coaxing for him, and the breakfast
was removed without his having tasted it. Pulling his hat
him back and demanded authoritatively where he was going.
“To the tavern, to buy my breakfast.”
“No, you shall not,” she said, and forcing him to sit down
she sat by him and repeated to him the sacrifices she had all
her life made for him, “and what, after all, is the result?” she
said, “why, the more I do the more I may, and the less you
care for me?” and seeing that he was grinning in his hat, she
told him that she knew somebody who could make him mind,
thus owning to his face, like a weak, foolish, loving woman, that
she had no power over him.
“Well, Madam Rodwick,” he said, coolly, when she had
exhausted all epithets of threat and entreaty, and tenderness
and reproach, “if you have concluded your sermon I'll go and
get my breakfast.”
“You will go to work in the garden!” said the sister, “that
is what you will do!” and straight way she fell down to
entreaty, and with tears counted the money she had paid for
spade and hoe and seeds, and how illy she could afford it, and
how she had hoped, and how she still hoped that he was going
to be a good boy, a help and comfort to her.
“Well, I shan't mind old Casper, anyhow,” said the boy, at
length; and it was finally settled that he would go to work in
the garden, and that she would prepare him a nice, warm
breakfast. A few shovels of earth he moved from one place to
another, but there was really no work done, and Eliza saw
there was none done when she called him to the second breakfast.
She was completely discouraged and broken down now,
and told George so, and seeing that he heeded nothing, she
buried her face in her hands and fell to crying. She did not
she felt little courage to go to work. George would not help
her, and she was tired of working alone.
“It was too hot now, to work in the garden,” he replied,
“and too late to go to school,” and so he sauntered away, his
sister saying, as he went, “She did not know as she cared
where he went, nor what became of him.”
It was noon before she knew it, and the master came home,
and there was no dinner prepared; and the tailor called for
some promised work, and Eliza had been crying all day, and it
was not ready. He was disappointed, vexed, and said if she
could not keep her engagements he would find somebody that
would.
The master saw how it all was—that George was the beginning
of trouble, and that Eliza herself was not a little to blame,
and if he had said anything, he would have said what he thought,
but she asked for neither advice nor sympathy; and having told
her she need prepare no dinner for him, he returned to the school-house
and its duties, and as usual maintained a calm and quiet
demeanor, however much he might have been troubled at
heart.
When the school was done with, he did not return home at
once as was his custom, but opening his grammar, remained at
the window as long as he could see, and till after that.
All day George had not been seen nor heard of—and all day
Eliza had done nothing but cry and fret; but when night
came, and a messenger with it to say he was lying on the
ground, a little way out of town, drunken as he could be, she
began to see how much less to blame the schoolmoster had been
than she had tried to believe.
From her heart she wished he would come, but though suffering
most intensely she would not seek him, nor would she allow
him to know her wretchedness when he should come, so she
resolved. But all her proud resolves would not do. He came
at last in the same calm, confident way he always came, and
with some common words, meant to show that all was right,
and that he felt as usual, opened his book to await his supper,
which he saw no indication of.
“Mr. Rodwick,” she said, directly, in a voice that trembled in
spite of herself.
“Yes, what is it?” he answered, without looking from his
book.
It was very hard and very humiliating to tell him what it
was, but her love for George, and the fear that he might be
run over where he lay, overcame the last remnant of her pride,
and hiding her face, she sobbed out her sad confession and
appeal.
He did not say, “I knew it would be so,” nor “You are to
blame:” he only said, “Don't cry, Lidy—don't cry,” and putting
down his book, hurried away. In half an hour he came back,
and George with him, staggering and swearing, his clothes
soiled and his face dirty—bleeding at one side where he had
fallen against the rough ground. He would not be persuaded
to have his face washed, and his clothes brushed, nor would he
sit down or go to bed, nor do anything else, but swear that in
spite of old Casper or his old sister he would go back to the
tavern, he had enough good friends there.
Casper had returned to his book, and not till Eliza begged
him to interfere, did he speak one word, or seem to notice what
was passing, but he no sooner laid his hand on the boy, and
ceased to offer resistance, and was led away to bed without
more ado.
When the supper was eaten, Casper would have gone, but
Eliza said, “No, I want to talk about George.”
“Very well,” he said, seating himself, “what have you to
say?”
Eliza knew not what to say—she knew that she was troubled
and tormented, that George was idle enough and unpromising
enough, but that she loved him after all, and could not bear
that he should be compelled to right ways by any one but herself.
This was the amount of all she could say.
A clear, practical, common sense view of things the schoolmaster
took. He loved Eliza, and he said so, he admired all
that was good and discreet and womanly in her, and he said
so: he did not love George, and he disliked and disapproved of
her wavering and compromising course with him. He had no
great hopes of him at the best, nevertheless he could bring him
under subjection in some way, if Eliza would give him the right
to do so.
He told her what his fortunes and prospects were, without
exaggeration or depreciation; he numbered his years, every one
of them up before her, and her own, which were not half so
many, and then he said that all he was, and all he had, and all
he could do, which was not much, were hers to accept if she
would, but with the understanding that George should be subject
to his authority.
Eliza reminded him of her promise to her dead father: how
could she break that and be at peace with herself? and, moreover,
he admitted that he did not love George, and how could
schoolmaster argued that if she were willing to trust herself
with him, it was natural that she should be willing to trust the
management of her brother: and as for the sacred promise she
laid so much stress on, it was a bad promise exacted by a bad
father, and better broken than kept. And now, he concluded,
with the calmness of a third party summing up evidence, “You
have all the facts before you—look at them and decide as your
conscience dictates.”
The facts were unpleasant ones, some of them, and Eliza did
not like to look them in the face—she did not like to say definitely
what she would do nor when she would do it. When
George was older and provided for, or capable of providing
for himself, their lives should be joined and flow through all
fortune in a sentimental sunshine. All of which to the schoolmaster
was nothing but moonshine. With it he was not contented
—he wished to see the ground he stood upon, whatever it was,
and finally, when they separated, it had been agreed that whenever
George should be provided for they should be married;
and that during school hours he should be under the master's
control, and at other times Eliza's will should be his law.
Neither was satisfied with this arrangement, for both foresaw
it would result badly, in the beginning.
| CHAPTER II. Pictures of country life | |