Thankful Rest Part 11

Lucy kept the smile upon her face, not wis.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 n.o.body but you?"

"I have been was.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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."