Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (17 page)

 
          
           
"How anybody with every mortal thing to be happy with CAN be out-of-sorts
passes me. She fussed about every piller, chair, trunk, and mite of food last
night, and kept that poor tired lady trotting till I was provoked. She's right
pleasant this morning though, and as pretty as a picture in her ruffled gown
and that blue thing on her head," answered Becky from the pantry, as she
rattled out the pie-board, little dreaming who sat hidden behind the grape-vine
festoons that veiled the corner by the spring.

 
          
           
"Well, she's got redder hair 'n' we have, so she needn't be so grand and
try to hide it with blue nets," added one little voice.

 
          
           
"Yes, and it's ever so much shorter 'n' ours, and curls all over her head
like Daisy's wool. I should think such a big girl would feel real ashamed
without
no
braids," said the other child, proudly
surveying the tawny mane that hung over her shoulders,—for like most red-haired
people all the children were blessed with luxuriant crops of every shade from
golden auburn to regular carrots.

 
          
           
"I think it's lovely.
Suppose it had to be cut off when
she had the fever.
Wish I could get rid of my mop, it's such a
bother;" and Becky was seen tying a clean towel over the great knot that
made her head look very like a copper kettle.

 
          
           
"Now fly round, deary, and get them pies ready. I'll have these fowls on
in a minute, and then go to my butter. You run off and see if you can't find
some wild strawberries for the poor girl, soon's ever you are through with them
beans, children. We must kind of pamper her up for a spell till her appetite
comes back," said the mother.

 
          
           
Here the chat ended, and soon the little girls were gone, leaving Becky alone
rolling out pie-crust before the pantry window. As she worked her lips moved,
and Emily, still peeping through the leaves, wondered what she was saying, for
a low murmur rose and fell, emphasized now and then with a thump of the
rolling-pin.

 
          
           
"I mean to go and find out. If I stand on that wash-bench I can look in
and see her work. I'll show them all that
I
'm
NOT 'fussy,' and can be 'right pleasant' if I like."

 
          
           
With this wise resolution Emily went down the little path, and after pausing to
examine the churn set out to dry, and the row of pans shining on a neighboring
shelf, made her way to the window, mounted the bench while Becky's back was
turned, and pushing away the morning-glory vines and scarlet beans that ran up
on either side peeped in with such a smiling face that the crossest cook could
not have frowned on her as an intruder.

 
          
           
"May I see you work? I can't eat pies, but I like to watch people make
them. Do you mind?"

 
          
           
"Not a bit. I'd ask you to come in, but it's dreadful hot here, and not
much room," answered Becky, crimping round the pastry before she poured in
the custard. "I'm going to make a nice little pudding for you; your mother
said you liked 'em; or would you rather have whipped cream with a mite of jelly
in it?" asked Becky, anxious to suit her new boarder.

 
          
           
"Whichever is easiest to make. I don't care what I eat. Do tell me what
you were saying. It sounded like poetry," said Emily, leaning both elbows
on the wide ledge with a pale pink morning-glory kissing her cheek, and a
savory odor reaching her nose.

 
          
           
"Oh, I was mumbling some verses. I often do when I work, it sort of helps
me along; but it must sound dreadfully silly," and Becky blushed as if
caught in some serious fault.

 
          
           
"I do it, and it's a great comfort when I lie awake. I should think you
WOULD want something to help you along, you work so hard. Do you like it,
Becky?"

 
          
           
The familiar name, the kind tone, made the plain face brighten with pleasure as
its owner said, while she carefully filled a pretty bowl with a golden mixture
rich with fresh eggs and country milk—

 
          
           
"No, I don't, but I ought to. Mother isn't as strong as she used to be,
and there's a sight to do, and the children to be brought up, and the mortgage
to be paid off; so if
I
don't fly
round, who will? We are doing real well now, for Mr. Walker manages the farm
and gives us our share, so our living is all right; then boarders in summer and
my school in winter helps a deal, and every year the boys can do more, so I'd
be a real sinner to complain if I do have to step lively all day."

 
          
           
Becky smiled as she spoke, and straightened her bent shoulders as if settling
her burden for another trudge along the path of duty.

 
          
           
"Do you keep school? Why, how old are you, Becky?" asked Emily, much
impressed by this new discovery.

 
          
           
"I'm eighteen. I took the place of a teacher who got sick last fall, and I
kept school all winter. Folks seemed to like me, and I'm going to have the same
place this year. I'm so glad, for I needn't go away and the pay is pretty good,
as the school is large and the children do well. You can see the school-house
down the valley, that red brick one where the roads meet;" and Becky
pointed a floury finger, with an air of pride that was pleasant to see.

 
          
           
Emily glanced at the little red house where the sun shone hotly in summer, and
all the winds of heaven must rage wildly in winter time, for it stood, as
country schools usually do, in the barest, most uninviting spot for miles
around.

 
          
           
"Isn't it awful down there in winter?" she asked, with a shiver at
the idea of spending days shut up in that forlorn place, with a crowd of rough
country children.

 
          
           
"Pretty cold, but we have plenty of wood, and we are used to snow and
gales up here. We often coast down, the whole lot of us, and that is great fun.
We take our dinners and have games noon-spells, and so we get on first rate;
some of my boys are big fellows, older than I am; they clear the roads and make
the fire and look after us, and we are real happy together."

 
          
           
Emily found it so impossible to imagine happiness under such circumstances that
she changed the subject by asking in a tone which had unconsciously grown more
respectful since this last revelation of Becky's abilities,—

 
          
           
"If you do so well here, why don't you try for a larger school in a better
place?"

 
          
           
"Oh, I couldn't leave mother yet; I hope to some day, when the girls are
older, and the boys able to get on alone. But I can't go now, for there's a
sight of things to do, and mother is always laid up with rheumatism in cold
weather. So much butter-making down cellar is bad for her; but she won't let me
do that in summer, so I take care of her in winter. I can see to things night
and morning, and through the day she's quiet, and sits piecing carpet-rags and
resting up for next spring. We made and wove all the carpets in the house,
except the parlor one. Mrs. Taylor gave us that, and the curtains, and the
easy-chair. Mother takes a sight of comfort in that."

 
          
           
"Mrs. Taylor is the lady who first came to board here, and told us and
others about it," said Emily.

 
          
           
"Yes, and she's the kindest lady in the world! I'll tell you all about her
some day, it's real interesting; now I must see to my pies, and get the
vegetables on," answered Becky, glancing at the gay clock in the kitchen
with an anxious look.

 
          
           
"Then I won't waste any more of your precious time. May I sit in that
pretty place; or is it your private bower?" asked Emily, as she dismounted
from the wash-bench.

 
          
           
"Yes, indeed you may. That's mother's resting-place when work is done.
Father made the spring long ago, and I put the ferns there. She can't go
rambling round, and she likes pretty things, so we fixed it up for her, and she
takes comfort there nights."

 
          
           
Becky bustled off to the oven with her pies, and Emily roamed away to the big
barn to lie on the hay, enjoying the view down the valley, as she thought over
what she had seen and heard, and very naturally contrasted her own luxurious
and tenderly guarded life with this other girl's, so hard and dull and narrow.
Working all summer and teaching all winter in that dismal little school-house,
with no change but home cares and carpet-weaving! It looked horrible to
pleasure-loving Emily, who led the happy, care-free life of girls of her class,
with pleasures of all sorts, and a future of still greater luxury, variety, and
happiness, opening brightly before her.

 
          
           
It worried her to think of any one being contented with such a meagre share of
the good things of life, when she was unsatisfied in spite of the rich store
showered upon her. She could not understand it, and fell asleep wishing every
one could be comfortable,—it was so annoying to see them grubbing in kitchens,
teaching in bleak school-houses among snow-drifts, and wearing ugly calico
gowns.

 
          
           
A week or two of quiet, country fare and the bracing mountain air worked
wonders for the invalid, and every one rejoiced to see the pale cheeks begin to
grow round and rosy, the languid eyes to brighten, and the feeble girl who used
to lie on her sofa half the day now go walking about with her alpenstock, eager
to explore all the pretty nooks among the hills. Her mother blessed Mrs. Taylor
for suggesting this wholesome place. The tired "school marms," as
Emily called the three young women who were their fellow-boarders,
congratulated her as well as themselves on the daily improvement in strength
and spirits all felt; and Becky exulted in the marvellous effects of her native
air, aided by mother's good cookery and the cheerful society of the children,
whom the good girl considered the most remarkable and lovable youngsters in the
world.

 
          
           
Emily felt like the queen of this little kingdom, and was regarded as such by
every one, for with returning health she lost her fretful ways, and living with
simple people, soon forgot her girlish airs and vanities, becoming very sweet
and friendly with all about her. The children considered her a sort of good
fairy who could grant wishes with magical skill, as various gifts plainly
proved. The boys were her devoted servants, ready to run errands, "hitch
up" and take her to drive at any hour, or listen in mute delight when she
sang to her guitar in the summer twilight.

 
          
           
But to Becky she was a special godsend and comfort, for before the first month
had gone they were good friends, and Emily had made a discovery which filled
her head with brilliant plans for Becky's future, in spite of her mother's
warnings, and the sensible girl's own reluctance to be dazzled by enthusiastic
prophecies and dreams.

 
          
           
It came about in this way. Some three weeks after the two girls met, Emily went
one evening to their favorite trysting-place,—Becky's bower among the laurels.
It was a pretty nook in the shadow of a great gray bowlder near the head of the
green valley which ran down to spread into the wide intervale below. A brook
went babbling among the stones and grass and sweet-ferns, while all the slope
was rosy with laurel-flowers in their times, as the sturdy bushes grew thickly
on the hill-side, down the valley, and among the woods that made a rich
background for these pink and white bouquets arranged with Nature's own careless
grace.

 
          
           
Emily liked this spot, and ever since she had been strong enough to reach it,
loved to climb up and sit there with book and work, enjoying the lovely
panorama before her. Floating mists often gave her a constant succession of pretty
pictures; now a sunny glimpse of the distant lake, then the church spire
peeping above the hill, or a flock of sheep feeding in the meadow, a gay
procession of young pilgrims winding up the mountain, or a black cloud heavy
with a coming storm, welcome because of the glorious rainbow and its shadow
which would close the pageant.

 
          
           
Unconsciously the girl grew to feel not only the beauty but the value of these
quiet hours, to find a new peace, refreshment, and happiness, bubbling up in
her heart as naturally as the brook gushed out among the mossy rocks, and went
singing away through hayfields and gardens, and by dusty roads, till it met the
river and rolled on to the sea. Something dimly stirred in her, and the healing
spirit that haunts such spots did its sweet ministering till the innocent soul
began to see that life was not perfect without labor as well as love, duty as
well as happiness, and that true contentment came from within, not from
without.