 | CHAPTER X.
EDITH BECOMES A “DIVINITY.” What can she do? |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
EDITH BECOMES A “DIVINITY.”
AS the wrecked would hasten up the strand
and explore eagerly in various directions in
order to gain some idea of the nature and resources
of the place where they might spend months and
even years, so Edith hurriedly passed from one
room to another, looking the house over first, as
their place of refuge and centre of life, and then
went out to a spot from whence she could obtain a
view of the garden, the little orchard, and pasture
field.
The house gave them three rooms on the first
floor, as many on the second, and a very small
attic. There was also a pretty good cellar, though
it looked to Edith a black dismal hole, full of rubbish
and old boxes.
The entrance of the house was at the commencement
of the porch, which ran along under the
windows of the large front room. Back of this
was one much smaller, and doors opened from both
the apartments named into a long and rather narrow
room running the full depth of the house, and
which had been designed as the kitchen. With
the families that would naturally occupy a house
of this character, it would have been the general
spaces and lofty ceilings, they seemed
stifling digny cells. The walls were broken in
places and discolored by smoke, and with the exception
of the large room there were no places for
open fires, but only holes for stovepipes.
“How can such a place as this ever look home-like?”
The muddy garden, with its patches of snow,
its forlorn and neglected air; its spreading vines
and thickly standing stalks of last year's weeds,
was even less inviting. Edith had never seen the
country in winter, and the gardens of her experience
were full of green, beautiful life. The orchard
not only looked gaunt and bare, but very untidy.
The previous year had been most abundant in fruit,
and the trees were left to bear at will. Therefore
many of the limbs were wholly or partly broken off,
and lay scattered where they fell, or still hung by
a little of the woody fibre and bark.
Edith came back to the fire from the survey
of her future home, not only chilled in body by
the raw April winds, but more chilled in heart.
Though she had not expected summer greenness
and a sweet inviting home, yet the reality was so
dreary and forbidding from its necessary contrast
with the past, that she sank down on the floor, and
buried her head in her lap in an uncontrollable
passion of grief. Hannibal was out gathering
wood to replenish the fire, and it was a luxury to
be alone a few minutes with her sorrow.
But soon she had the consciousness that she
was not alone, and looking up, saw Arden in the
door, with a grave troubled face. Hastily turning
from him, and wiping away her tears, she said
rather coldly:
“You should have knocked. The house is
my home, if it is empty.”
His face changed instantly to its usual hard
sullen aspect, and he said briefly:
“I did knock.”
“The landlady has told her all about us,” he
thought, “and she rejects sympathy and fellowship
from such as we are.”
But Edith's feeling had only been annoyance
that a stranger had seen her emotion, so she said
quickly, “I beg your pardon. We have had
trouble, but I don't give way in this manner often.
Have you brought a load?”
“Yes. If your servant will help me I will
bring the things in.”
As he and Hannibal carried in heavy rolls of
carpet and other articles, Edith removed as far as
possible the traces of her grief, and soon began to
scan by the light of day with some curiosity her
acquaintance of the previous evening. He was
the very opposite to herself in appearance. Her
eyes were large and dark. He had a rather small
but piercing blue eye. His locks were light and
curly, and his beard sandy. Her hair was brown
and straight. He was full six feet, while she was
only of medium height. And yet Edith was not a
delicacy which gave her the fragile appearance
characteristic of so many American girls. His
face was much tanned by exposure to March
winds, but his brow was as white as hers. In his
morbid tendency to shun every one, he usually
kept his eyes fixed on the ground so as to appear
not to see people, and this, with his habitual
frown, gave a rather heavy and repelling expression
to his face.
“He would make a very good representative
of the laboring classes,” she thought, “if he hadn't
so disagreeable an expression.”
It had only dimly dawned upon poor Edith as
yet, that she now belonged to the “laboring
classes.”
But her energetic nature soon reacted against
idle grieving, and her pale cheeks grew rosy, and her
face full of eager life as she assisted and directed.
“If I only had one or two women to help me
we could soon get things settled,” she said, “and
I have so little time before the rest come.”
Then she added suddenly to Arden, “Haven't
you sisters?”
“My sister does not go out to service,” said
Arden proudly.
“Neither do I,” said the shrewd Edith, “but I
would be willing to help any one in such an emergency
as I am in,” and she glanced keenly to see
the effect of this speech, while she thought, “What
airs these people put on.”
Arden's face changed instantly. Her words
seemed like a ray of sunlight falling on a place
before shadowed, for the sullen frowning expression
passed into one of almost gentleness, as he
said,—
“That puts things in a different light. I am sure
Rose and mother both will be willing to help you
as neighbors,” and he started after another load,
going around by the way of his home and readily
obtaining from his mother and sister a promise to
assist Edith after dinner.
Edith smiled to herself and said, “I have found
the key to his surly nature already.” She had,
and to many other natures also. Kindness and
human fellowship will unbar and unbolt where all
other forces may clamor in vain.
Arden went away in a maze of new sensations.
This one woman of all the world beside his mother
and sister that he had come to know somewhat,
was to him a strange beautiful mystery. Edith
was in many respects conventional, as all society
girls are, but it was the conventionality of a sphere
of life that Arden knew only through books, and
she seemed to him utterly different from the ladies
of Pushton as he understood them from his slight
acquaintance. This difference was all in her favor,
for he cherished a bitter and unreasonable prejudice
against the young girls of his neighborhood
as vain shallow creatures who never read, and
thought of nothing save dress and beaux. His own
sister in fact had helped to confirm these impressions,
great admiration for her, saying in his sweeping
cynicism, “She is like the rest of them.” If he
had met Edith only in the street and in conventional
ways, stylishly dressed, he would scarcely
have noticed her. But her half indignant, half pathetic
appeal to him on the dock, the lonely ride in
which she had clung to his arm for safety, her
tears, and the manner in which she had last spoken
to him, had all combined to thoroughly pierce his
shell of sullen reserve, and as we have said his
vivid imagination had taken fire.
Edith and Hannibal worked hard the rest of
the forenoon, and her experienced old attendant
was invaluable. Edith herself, though having little
practical knowledge of work of any kind, had vigor
and natural judgment, and her small white hands
accomplished more than one would suppose.
So Arden wonderingly thought on his return
with a second load, as he saw her lift and handle
things that he knew to be heavy. Her short close-fitting
working-dress outlined her fine figure to advantage,
and with complexion bright and dazzling
with exercise, she seemed to him some frail fairy-like
creature doomed by a cruel fate to unsuited
toil and sorrows. But Edith was very matter
of fact, and had never in all her life thought of
herself as a fairy.
Arden went home to dinner, and by one o'clock
Edith said to Hannibal,—
“There is one good thing about the place if no
you got in the basket?”
“A scrumptious lunch, Miss Edie. I told de
landlady you'se used to having things mighty nice,
and den I found a hen's nest in de barn dis
mornin'.”
“I hope you didn't take the eggs, Hannibal,”
said Edith slyly.
“Sartin I did, Miss Edie, cause if I didn't de
rats would.”
“Perhaps the landlady would also if you had
shown them to her.”
“Miss Edie,” said Hannibal solemnly, “finding
a hen's nest is like finding a gold mine. It belongs
to de one dat finds it.”
“I'm afraid that wouldn't stand in law. Suppose
we were arrested for robbing hen's nests.
That wouldn't be a good introduction to our new
neighbors.”
“Now, Miss Edie,” said Hannibal, with an injured
air, “you don't spec I do a job like dat so
bungly as to get catched at it?”
“Oh, very well,” said Edith, laughing, “since
you have conformed to the morality of the age, it
must be all right, and a fresh egg would be a rich
treat now that it can be eaten with a clear conscience.
But Hannibal, I wish you would find a
gold mine out in the garden.”
“I guess you'se find dat with all your readin'
about strawberries and other yarbs.”
“I hope so,” said Edith with a sigh, “for I
year.”
“You'se be rich again. De men wid de long
pusses aint agoin' to look at your black eyes for
nothin',” and Hannibal chuckled knowingly.
The color faintly deepened in Edith's cheeks, but
she said with some scorn, “Men with long purses
want girls with the same. But who are these?”
Coming up the path they saw a tall middle aged
woman, and by her side, a young girl of about
eighteen who was a marked contrast in appearance.
“Dey's his mother and sister. You will drive
tings dis arternoon.”
Mrs. Lacey and her daughter entered with
some little hesitancy and embarrassment, but
Edith, with the poise of an accomplished lady, at
once put them at ease by saying,—
“It is exceedingly kind of you to come and
help, and I appreciate it very much.”
“No one should refuse to be neighborly,” said
Mrs. Lacey quietly.
“And to tell the truth I was delighted to come,”
said Rose, “the winter has been so long and dull.”
“Oh dear,” thought Edith, “if you find them
so, what will be our fate?”
Mrs. Lacey undid a bundle and took out a teapot
from which the steam yet oozed faintly, and
Rose undid another containing some warm buttered
biscuits, Mrs. Lacey saying, “I thought your lunch
might seem a little cold and cheerless, so I brought
these along.”
“Now that is kind,” said Edith, so cordially
that their faces flushed with that natural pleasure
which we all feel when our little efforts for others
are appreciated. To them it was intensified, for
Edith was a grand city lady, and the inroads that
she made on the biscuits and the zest with which
she sipped her tea showed that her words had the
ring of truth.
“Do sit down and eat, while things are nice
and warm,” she said to Hannibal. “There's no use
of our putting on airs now,” but Hannibal insisted
on waiting upon her as when butler in the great
dining room on the Avenue, and when she was
through, carried the things off to the empty kitchen,
and took his “bite” on a packing box, prefacing
it as his nearest approach to grace by an indignant
grunt and profession of his faith.
“Dis ole niggah eat before her? Not much!
She's quality now as much as eber.”
But the world and Hannibal were at variance
on account of a sum of subtraction which had taken
away from Edith's name the dollar symbol.
Edith set to work, with her helpers now increased
to three, with renewed zest, and from time
to time stole glances at the mother and daughter
to see what the natives were like.
They were very different in appearance: the
mother looking prematurely old, and she also
seemed bent and stooping under the heavy burdens
of life. Her dark blue eyes had a weary
pathetic look, as if some sorrow was ever before
cheeks sunken, and the thin hair, brushed plainly
under her cap, was streaked with grey. Her quietness
and reserve seemed more the result of a
crushed, sad heart than from natural lack of feeling.
The daughter was in the freshest bloom of
youth, and was not unlike the flower she was
named after, when, as a dewy bud, it begins to develop
under the morning sun. Though not a
beautiful girl, there was a prettiness, a rural breeziness
about her, that would cause any one to look
twice as she passed. The wind ever seemed to be
in her light flaxen curls, and her full rounded
figure suggested superabundant vitality, an impression
increased by her quick, restless motions.
Her complexion reminded you of strawberries and
cream, and her blue eyes had a slightly bold and
defiant expression. She felt the blight of her
father's course also, but it acted differently on her
temperament. Instead of timidly shrinking from
the world like her mother, or sullenly ignoring it
like her brother, she was for going into society and
compelling it to recognize and respect her.
“I have done nothing wrong,” she said; “I
insist on people treating me in view of what I am
myself;” and in the sanguine spirit of youth she
hoped to carry her point. Therefore her manner
was a little self-asserting, which would not have
been the case had she not felt that she had prejudice
to overcome. Unlike her brother, she cared
vividly in her immediate surroundings. The older
she grew, the duller and more monotonous did her
home life seem. She had little sympathy from her
brother; her mother was a sad, silent woman, and
her father a daily source of trouble and shame.
Her education was very imperfect, and she had no
resource in this, while her daily work seemed a
tiresome round that brought little return. Her
mother attended to the more important duties and
gave to her the lighter tasks, which left her considerable
leisure. She had no work that stimulated
her, no training that made her thorough in
any department of labor, however humble. From
a dressmaker friend in the village she obtained a
little fancy work and sewing, and the proceeds resulting,
and all her brother gave her, she spent in
dress. The sums were small enough in all truth,
and yet with the marvellous ingenuity that some
girls, fond of dress, acquire, she made a very little
go a great way, and she would often appear in toilets
that were quite effective. With those of her
own age and sex in her narrow little circle, she
was not a special favorite, but she was with the
young men, for she was bright, chatty, and had the
knack of putting awkward fellows at ease. She
kept her little parlor as pretty and inviting as her
limited materials permitted, and with a growing
imperiousness gave the rest of the family to understand,
and especially her father, that this parlor
was her domain, and that she would permit no intrusion.
would occasionally drop in of an evening, though
they preferred taking her out to ride where they
could see her away from her home. But the more
respectable young men, with anxious mothers and
sisters, were rather shy of poor Rose, and none
seemed to care to go beyond a mild flirtation with
a girl whose father was on a “rampage” most of
the time, as they expressed it. On one occasion,
when she had two young friends spending the
evening, her father came home reckless and wild
with drink, and his language toward the young
men was so shocking, and his manner in general
so outrageous, that they were glad to get away.
If Arden had not come home and collared his
father, carrying him off to his room by his almost
irresistible strength, Rose's parlor might have become
a sad wreck, literally as well as socially. As
it was it seemed deserted for a long time, and she
felt very bitter about it. In her fearless frankness,
her determination not to succumb to her sinister
surroundings, and perhaps from the lack of a sensitive
delicacy, she reproached the same young men
when she met them for staying away, saying, “It's
a shame to treat a girl as if she were to blame for
what she can't help.”
But Rose's ambition had put on a phase against
which circumstances were too strong, and she was
made to feel in her struggle to gain a social footing
that her father's leprosy had tainted her, and
her brother's “ugly, sullen disposition,” as it was
desire to get away among strangers, where she
could make her own way on her own merits, and
the city of New York seemed to her a great Eldorado,
where she might find her true career. Some
very showily dressed, knowing-looking girls, that
she had met at a picnic, had increased this longing
for the city. Her mother and brother thought
her restless, vain, and giddy, but she was as good
and honest a girl at heart as breathed, only her
vigorous nature chafed at repression, wanted outlets,
and could not settle down for life to cook,
wash and sew for a drunken father, a taciturn
brother, or even a mother whose companionship
was depressing, much as she was loved.
Rose welcomed the request of her brother, as
helping Edith would cause a ripple in the current
of her dull life, and give her a chance of seeing one
of the grand city ladies, without the dimness and
vagueness of distance, and she scanned Edith with
a stronger curiosity than was bestowed upon herself.
The result was rather depressing to poor
Rose, for, having studied with her quick nice eye,
Edith's exquisite manner and movements, she sighed
to herself,—
“I'm not such a lady as this girl, and perhaps
never can be.”
While Edith was very kind and cordial to the
Laceys, she felt, and made them feel, that there
was a vast social distance between them. Even
practical Edith had not realized their poverty yet,
of the condescending lady.
They accomplished a good deal that afternoon,
but it takes much time and labor to make even a
small empty house look home-like. Edith had taken
the smallest room up stairs, and by evening it was
quite in order for her occupation, she meaning to
take Zell in with her. Work had progressed in
the largest upper room, which she designed for
her mother and Laura. Mrs. Lacey and Hannibal
were in the kitchen getting that arranged, they
very rightly concluding that this was the main
spring in the mechanism of material living, and
should be put in readiness at once. Arden had
been instructed to purchase and bring from the
village a cooking stove, and Hannibal's face shone
with something like delight, as by five o'clock
he had a wood fire crackling underneath a pot of
water, feeling that the terra firma of comfort was
at last reached. He could now soak in his favorite
beverage of tea, and make Miss Edie quite “pertlike”
too when she was tired.
Mrs. Lacey worked silently. Rose was inclined
to be chatty and draw Edith out in regard to city
life, who responded good naturedly as long as Rose
confined herself to generalities, but was inclined to
be reticent on their own affairs.
Before dark the Laceys prepared to return, the
mother saying gravely,—
“You may feel it too lonely to stay by yourself.
Our house is not very inviting, and my husband's
it is, you will be welcome in it till the rest of your
family comes.”
“You are very kind to a stranger,” said Edith,
heartily, “but I am not a bit afraid to stay here
since I have Hannibal as protector,” and Hannibal,
elated by this compliment, looked as if he might be
a very dragon to all intruders. “Moreover,” continued
Edith, “you have helped me so splendidly
that I shall be very comfortable and they will be
here to-morrow night.”
Mrs. Lacey bowed silently, but Rose said in
her sprightly voice, from the doorway:
“I'll come and help you all day to-morrow.”
Arden was still to bring one more load. The
setting sun, with the consistency of an April
day, had passed into a dark cloud which soon came
driving on with wind and rain, and the thick drops
dashed against the windows as if thrown from a
vast syringe, while the gutter gurgled and groaned
with the sudden rush of water.
“Oh dear, how dismal!” sighed Edith looking
out in the gathering darkness. Then she saw that
the loaded wagon had just stopped at the gate, and
in dim outline, Arden sat in the storm as if he had
been a post. “It's too bad,” she said impatiently,
“my things will all get wet,” after a moment she
added: “Why don't he come in? Don't he know
enough to come in out of the rain?”
“Well, Miss Edie, he's kind o' quar,” said
Hannibal, “I'se jes done satisfied he's quar.”
But the shower ceased suddenly, and Arden
dismounted, secured his horses, and soon appeared
at the door with a piece of furniture.
“Why it's not wet,” said Edith with surprise.
“I saw appearances of rain, and so borrowed a
piece of canvas at the dock.”
“But you didn't put the canvas over yourself,”
said Edith, looking at his dripping form, grateful
enough now to bestow a little kindness without
the idea of policy. “As soon as you have brought
in the load I insist on your staying and taking a
cup of tea.”
He gave his shoulders an indifferent shrug saying,
“a little cold water is the least of my troubles.”
Then he added, stealing a timid glance at
her, “but you are very kind. People seldom think
of their teamsters.”
“The more shame to them then,” said Edith.
“I at least can feel a kindness if I can't make
much return. It was very good of you to protect
my furniture and I appreciate your care. Besides
your mother and sister have been helping me all
the afternoon, and I am oppressed by my obligations
to you all.”
“I am sorry you feel that way,” he said briefly,
and vanished in the darkness after another load.
Soon all was safely housed, and he said, about
to depart, “There is one more load; I will bring
that to-morrow.”
From the fire she called, “Stay, your tea will
be ready in a moment.”
“Do not put yourself to that trouble,” he
answered, at the same time longing to stay.
“Mother will have supper ready for me.” He was
so diffident that he needed much encouragement,
and moreover, he was morbidly sensitive.
But as she turned, she caught his wistful glance,
and thought to herself, “Poor fellow, he's cold
and hungry.” With feminine shrewdness she said,
“Now Mr. Lacey, I shall feel slighted if you don't
take a cup of my tea, for see, I have made it myself.
It's the one thing about housekeeping that
I understand. Your mother brought me a nice
cup at noon, and I enjoyed it very much. I am
going to pay that debt now to you.”
“Well—if you really wish it”—said Arden
hesitatingly, with another of his bright looks, and
color even deeper than the ruddy firelight warranted.
“My conscience!” thought Edith, “how suddenly
his face changes. He is `quar' as Hannibal
says.” But she settled matters by saying, “I
shall feel hurt if you don't. You must let there
be at least some show of kindness on my part, as
well as yours and your friends.”
There came in again a delicate touch of that
human fellowship which he had never found in the
world, and had seemingly repelled, but which his
soul was thirsting for with an intensity never so
realized before, and this faintest semblance of
human companionship and sympathy, seemed inexpressibly
sweet to his sore and lonely heart.
He took the cup from her as if it had been a
sacrament, and was about to drink it standing, but
she placed a chair at the table and said,—
“No, sir, you must sit down there in comfort
by the fire.”
He did so as if in a dream. The whole scene
was taking a powerful hold on his imagination.
“Hannibal,” she cried, raising her voice in a
soft, birdlike call, and from the dim kitchen where
certain spluttering sounds had preceded him, Hannibal
appeared with a heaping plate of buttered
toast.
“With your permission,” she said, “I will sit
down and take a cup of tea with you, in a neighborly
way, for I wish to ask you some more questions,
and tea, you know, is a great incentive to
talk,” and she took a chair on the opposite side of
the table, while Hannibal stood a little in the back-ground
to wait on them with all the formality of
olden time.
The wood fire blazed and crackled, and threw
its flickering light over Edith's fair face, and intensified
her beauty, as her features gleamed out, or
faded, as the flames rose and fell. Hannibal stood
motionless behind her chair as if he might have
been an Ethiopian slave attendant on a young sultana.
To Arden's aroused imagination, it seemed
like one of the scenes of his fancy, and he was
almost afraid to move or speak, lest all should vanish,
and he find himself plodding along the dark
muddy road.
“What is the matter?” she asked curiously.
“Why don't you drink your tea?”
“It all seems as strange and beautiful as a fairy
tale,” he said in a low tone, looking at her earnestly.
Her hearty laugh and matter-of-fact tone dispelled
his illusion, as she said,—
“It's all dreadfully real to me. I feel as if I had
done more work to-day than in all my life before,
and we have only made a beginning. I want to ask
you about the place and the garden, and how to
get things done,” and she plied him well with the
most practical questions.
Sometimes he answered a little incoherently for
through them all he saw a face full of strange weird
beauty, as the firelight flickered upon it, and gave a
star-like lustre to the large dark eyes.
Hannibal in the background, grinned and
chuckled to himself, as he saw Arden's dazed wondering
admiration, saying to himself, “Dey ain't
used to such young ladies as mine, up here—it kind
o' dazzles 'em.”
At last as if breaking away from the influence of
a spell, Arden suddenly rose, turning upon Edith
one of those warm bright looks, that he sometimes
gave his mother, and said, “You have been very
kind, good-night,” and was gone in a moment. But
the night was luminous about him. Along the
muddy road, in the old shackly barn as he cared
for his horses, in his poor little room at home, to
which he soon retired, he only saw the fair face of
vividness of one looking directly upon an exquisite
cabinet picture, and before that picture his heart
was inclined to bow, in the most devoted homage.
Edith's only comment was, “He is `quar” Hannibal,
as you said.”
Wearied with the long day's work, she soon
found welcome and dreamless rest.
| CHAPTER X.
EDITH BECOMES A “DIVINITY.” What can she do? | |