Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm

by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

  XVI

  SEASONS OF GROWTH

  The days flew by; as summer had melted into autumn so autumn had givenplace to winter. Life in the brick house had gone on more placidly oflate, for Rebecca was honestly trying to be more careful in theperformance of her tasks and duties as well as more quiet in her plays,and she was slowly learning the power of the soft answer in turningaway wrath.

  Miranda had not had, perhaps, quite as many opportunities in which tolose her temper, but it is only just to say that she had not fullyavailed herself of all that had offered themselves.

  There had been one outburst of righteous wrath occasioned by Rebecca'sover-hospitable habits, which were later shown in a still more dramaticand unexpected fashion.

  On a certain Friday afternoon she asked her aunt Miranda if she mighttake half her bread and milk upstairs to a friend.

  "What friend have you got up there, for pity's sake?" demanded auntMiranda.

  "The Simpson baby, come to stay over Sunday; that is, if you'rewilling, Mrs. Simpson says she is. Shall I bring her down and show her?She's dressed in an old dress of Emma Jane's and she looks sweet."

  "You can bring her down, but you can't show her to me! You can smuggleher out the way you smuggled her in and take her back to her mother.Where on earth do you get your notions, borrowing a baby for Sunday!"

  "You're so used to a house without a baby you don't know how dull itis," sighed Rebecca resignedly, as she moved towards the door; "but atthe farm there was always a nice fresh one to play with and cuddle.There were too many, but that's not half as bad as none at all. Well,I'll take her back. She'll be dreadfully disappointed and so will Mrs.Simpson. She was planning to go to Milltown."

  "She can un-plan then," observed Miss Miranda.

  "Perhaps I can go up there and take care of the baby?" suggestedRebecca. "I brought her home so 't I could do my Saturday work just thesame."

  "You've got enough to do right here, without any borrowed babies tomake more steps. Now, no answering back, just give the child somesupper and carry it home where it belongs."

  "You don't want me to go down the front way, hadn't I better just comethrough this room and let you look at her? She has yellow hair and bigblue eyes! Mrs. Simpson says she takes after her father."

  Miss Miranda smiled acidly as she said she couldn't take after herfather, for he'd take any thing there was before she got there!

  Aunt Jane was in the linen closet upstairs, sorting out the cleansheets and pillow cases for Saturday, and Rebecca sought comfort fromher.

  "I brought the Simpson baby home, aunt Jane, thinking it would help usover a dull Sunday, but aunt Miranda won't let her stay. Emma Jane hasthe promise of her next Sunday and Alice Robinson the next. Mrs.Simpson wanted I should have her first because I've had so muchexperience in babies. Come in and look at her sitting up in my bed,aunt Jane! Isn't she lovely? She's the fat, gurgly kind, not thin andfussy like some babies, and I thought I was going to have her toundress and dress twice each day. Oh dear! I wish I could have aprinted book with everything set down in it that I COULD do, and then Iwouldn't get disappointed so often."

  "No book could be printed that would fit you, Rebecca," answered auntJane, "for nobody could imagine beforehand the things you'd want to do.Are you going to carry that heavy child home in your arms?"

  "No, I'm going to drag her in the little soap-wagon. Come, baby! Takeyour thumb out of your mouth and come to ride with Becky in yourgo-cart." She stretched out her strong young arms to the crowing baby,sat down in a chair with the child, turned her upside downunceremoniously, took from her waistband and scornfully flung away acrooked pin, walked with her (still in a highly reversed position) tothe bureau, selected a large safety pin, and proceeded to attach herbrief red flannel petticoat to a sort of shirt that she wore. Whetherflat on her stomach, or head down, heels in the air, the Simpson babyknew she was in the hands of an expert, and continued gurgling placidlywhile aunt Jane regarded the pantomime with a kind of dazed awe.

  "Bless my soul, Rebecca," she ejaculated, "it beats all how handy youare with babies!"

  "I ought to be; I've brought up three and a half of 'em," Rebeccaresponded cheerfully, pulling up the infant Simpson's stockings.

  "I should think you'd be fonder of dolls than you are," said Jane.

  "I do like them, but there's never any change in a doll; it's alwaysthe same everlasting old doll, and you have to make believe it's crossor sick, or it loves you, or can't bear you. Babies are more trouble,but nicer."

  Miss Jane stretched out a thin hand with a slender, worn band of goldon the finger, and the baby curled her dimpled fingers round it andheld it fast.

  "You wear a ring on your engagement finger, don't you, aunt Jane? Didyou ever think about getting married?"

  "Yes, dear, long ago."

  "What happened, aunt Jane?"

  "He died--just before."

  "Oh!" And Rebecca's eyes grew misty.

  "He was a soldier and he died of a gunshot wound, in a hospital, downSouth."

  "Oh! aunt Jane!" softly. "Away from you?"

  "No, I was with him."

  "Was he young?"

  "Yes; young and brave and handsome, Rebecca; he was Mr. Carter'sbrother Tom."

  "Oh! I'm so glad you were with him! Wasn't he glad, aunt Jane?"

  Jane looked back across the half-forgotten years, and the vision ofTom's gladness flashed upon her: his haggard smile, the tears in histired eyes, his outstretched arms, his weak voice saying, "Oh, Jenny!Dear Jenny! I've wanted you so, Jenny!" It was too much! She had neverbreathed a word of it before to a human creature, for there was no onewho would have understood. Now, in a shamefaced way, to hide herbrimming eyes, she put her head down on the young shoulder beside her,saying, "It was hard, Rebecca!"

  The Simpson baby had cuddled down sleepily in Rebecca's lap, leaningher head back and sucking her thumb contentedly. Rebecca put her cheekdown until it touched her aunt's gray hair and softly patted her, asshe said, "I'm sorry, aunt Jane!"

  The girl's eyes were soft and tender and the heart within her stretcheda little and grew; grew in sweetness and intuition and depth offeeling. It had looked into another heart, felt it beat, and heard itsigh; and that is how all hearts grow.

  Episodes like these enlivened the quiet course of every-day existence,made more quiet by the departure of Dick Carter, Living Perkins, andHuldah Meserve for Wareham, and the small attendance at the winterschool, from which the younger children of the place stayed away duringthe cold weather.

  Life, however, could never be thoroughly dull or lacking in adventureto a child of Rebecca's temperament. Her nature was full ofadaptability, fluidity, receptivity. She made friends everywhere shewent, and snatched up acquaintances in every corner.

  It was she who ran to the shed door to take the dish to the "meat man"or "fish man;" she who knew the family histories of the itinerant fruitvenders and tin peddlers; she who was asked to take supper or pass thenight with children in neighboring villages--children of whose parentsher aunts had never so much as heard. As to the nature of thesefriendships, which seemed so many to the eye of the superficialobserver, they were of various kinds, and while the girl pursued themwith enthusiasm and ardor, they left her unsatisfied and heart-hungry;they were never intimacies such as are so readily made by shallownatures. She loved Emma Jane, but it was a friendship born ofpropinquity and circumstance, not of true affinity. It was herneighbor's amiability, constancy, and devotion that she loved, andalthough she rated these qualities at their true value, she was alwayssearching beyond them for intellectual treasures; searching and neverfinding, for although Emma Jane had the advantage in years she wasstill immature. Huldah Meserve had an instinctive love of fun whichappealed to Rebecca; she also had a fascinating knowledge of the world,from having visited her married sisters in Milltown and Portland; buton the other hand there was a certain sharpness and lack of sympathy inHuldah which repelled rather than attracted. With Dick Carter she couldat least talk intelligently
about lessons. He was a very ambitious boy,full of plans for his future, which he discussed quite freely withRebecca, but when she broached the subject of her future his interestsensibly lessened. Into the world of the ideal Emma Jane, Huldah, andDick alike never seemed to have peeped, and the consciousness of thiswas always a fixed gulf between them and Rebecca.

  "Uncle Jerry" and "aunt Sarah" Cobb were dear friends of quite anothersort, a very satisfying and perhaps a somewhat dangerous one. A visitfrom Rebecca always sent them into a twitter of delight. Her merryconversation and quaint comments on life in general fairly dazzled theold couple, who hung on her lightest word as if it had been a prophet'sutterance; and Rebecca, though she had had no previous experience,owned to herself a perilous pleasure in being dazzling, even to acouple of dear humdrum old people like Mr. and Mrs. Cobb. Aunt Sarahflew to the pantry or cellar whenever Rebecca's slim little shape firstappeared on the crest of the hill, and a jelly tart or a frosted cakewas sure to be forthcoming. The sight of old uncle Jerry's spare figurein its clean white shirt sleeves, whatever the weather, always madeRebecca's heart warm when she saw him peer longingly from the kitchenwindow. Before the snow came, many was the time he had come out to siton a pile of boards at the gate, to see if by any chance she wasmounting the hill that led to their house. In the autumn Rebecca wasoften the old man's companion while he was digging potatoes or shellingbeans, and now in the winter, when a younger man was driving the stage,she sometimes stayed with him while he did his evening milking. It issafe to say that he was the only creature in Riverboro who possessedRebecca's entire confidence; the only being to whom she poured out herwhole heart, with its wealth of hopes, and dreams, and vague ambitions.At the brick house she practiced scales and exercises, but at theCobbs' cabinet organ she sang like a bird, improvising simpleaccompaniments that seemed to her ignorant auditors nothing short ofmarvelous. Here she was happy, here she was loved, here she was drawnout of herself and admired and made much of. But, she thought, if therewere somebody who not only loved but understood; who spoke herlanguage, comprehended her desires, and responded to her mysteriouslongings! Perhaps in the big world of Wareham there would be people whothought and dreamed and wondered as she did.

  In reality Jane did not understand her niece very much better thanMiranda; the difference between the sisters was, that while Jane waspuzzled, she was also attracted, and when she was quite in the dark foran explanation of some quaint or unusual action she was sympathetic asto its possible motive and believed the best. A greater change had comeover Jane than over any other person in the brick house, but it hadbeen wrought so secretly, and concealed so religiously, that itscarcely appeared to the ordinary observer. Life had now a motiveutterly lacking before. Breakfast was not eaten in the kitchen, becauseit seemed worth while, now that there were three persons, to lay thecloth in the dining-room; it was also a more bountiful meal than ofyore, when there was no child to consider. The morning was madecheerful by Rebecca's start for school, the packing of the luncheonbasket, the final word about umbrella, waterproof, or rubbers; theparting admonition and the unconscious waiting at the window for thelast wave of the hand. She found herself taking pride in Rebecca'simproved appearance, her rounder throat and cheeks, and her bettercolor; she was wont to mention the length of Rebecca's hair and add aword as to its remarkable evenness and lustre, at times when Mrs.Perkins grew too diffuse about Emma Jane's complexion. She threwherself wholeheartedly on her niece's side when it became a questionbetween a crimson or a brown linsey-woolsey dress, and went through amemorable struggle with her sister concerning the purchase of a redbird for Rebecca's black felt hat. No one guessed the quiet pleasurethat lay hidden in her heart when she watched the girl's dark head bentover her lessons at night, nor dreamed of her joy it, certain quietevenings when Miranda went to prayer meeting; evenings when Rebeccawould read aloud Hiawatha or Barbara Frietchie, The Bugle Song, or TheBrook. Her narrow, humdrum existence bloomed under the dews that fellfrom this fresh spirit; her dullness brightened under the kindlingtouch of the younger mind, took fire from the "vital spark of heavenlyflame" that seemed always to radiate from Rebecca's presence.

  Rebecca's idea of being a painter like her friend Miss Ross wasgradually receding, owing to the apparently insuperable difficulties insecuring any instruction. Her aunt Miranda saw no wisdom in cultivatingsuch a talent, and could not conceive that any money could ever beearned by its exercise, "Hand painted pictures" were held in littleesteem in Riverboro, where the cheerful chromo or the dignified steelengraving were respected and valued. There was a slight, a very slighthope, that Rebecca might be allowed a few music lessons from MissMorton, who played the church cabinet organ, but this depended entirelyupon whether Mrs. Morton would decide to accept a hayrack in return fora year's instruction from her daughter. She had the matter underadvisement, but a doubt as to whether or not she would sell or rent herhayfields kept her from coming to a conclusion. Music, in common withall other accomplishments, was viewed by Miss Miranda as a trivial,useless, and foolish amusement, but she allowed Rebecca an hour a dayfor practice on the old piano, and a little extra time for lessons, ifJane could secure them without payment of actual cash.

  The news from Sunnybrook Farm was hopeful rather than otherwise. CousinAnn's husband had died, and John, Rebecca's favorite brother, had goneto be the man of the house to the widowed cousin. He was to have goodschooling in return for his care of the horse and cow and barn, andwhat was still more dazzling, the use of the old doctor's medicallibrary of two or three dozen volumes. John's whole heart was set onbecoming a country doctor, with Rebecca to keep house for him, and thevision seemed now so true, so near, that he could almost imagine hishorse ploughing through snowdrifts on errands of mercy, or, lessdramatic but none the less attractive, could see a physician's neatturncut trundling along the shady country roads, a medicine casebetween his, Dr. Randall's, feet, and Miss Rebecca Randall sitting in ablack silk dress by his side.

  Hannah now wore her hair in a coil and her dresses a trifle below herankles, these concessions being due to her extreme height. Mark hadbroken his collar bone, but it was healing well. Little Mira wasgrowing very pretty. There was even a rumor that the projected railroadfrom Temperance to Plumville might go near the Randall farm, in whichcase land would rise in value from nothing-at-all an acre to somethingat least resembling a price. Mrs. Randall refused to consider anyimprovement in their financial condition as a possibility. Content towork from sunrise to sunset to gain a mere subsistence for herchildren, she lived in their future, not in her own present, as amother is wont to do when her own lot seems hard and cheerless.