Chapter 2

"Your brother's room is on t'other side o' the landing," explained Miss Hepsy; "an' I'll 'spect you to keep 'em both as clean's a new pin. I'm mighty partickler, mind, an' can't abide untidiness. An' if yer mother's brought ye up to think yersel' a lady, the sooner ye get rid of that notion the better, 'cos yell have to work here; we don't keep no idle hands. Get off your hat an' cape now, an' come down as fast's ye like, an' help set the table for dinner."

Miss Hepsy then whisked out of the room, and clattered down the stairs in haste.

Lucy moved to the window recess, and stood looking upon the peace and beauty without, until her eyes were brimming with tears. Then she knelt down by the side of the bed, sobbing pitifully, "Mamma, mamma! come back, O dear mamma! we have nobody on earth but you!"

IV.

THE NEW HOME.

Meanwhile Tom had gone on an exploring expedition. He investigated every outhouse and shed, frightened the geese and turkeys into fits by rushing through their paddock shouting at the pitch of his voice, caught the superannuated mule by the tail, and made her fly off like a four-year old, made friends with the savage watch-dog on the chain, coaxed the pigeons to fly to him, and finally went off to the fields in search of his uncle. On the road outside the farmyard gate he met a team, driven by a big uncouth-looking man, dressed in coarse trowsers, a red shirt, and a battered straw hat.

"You'll be one of the men, I guess," said Tom, stopping in front of him. "Can you tell me where my Uncle Joshua is?"

The man grinned. "Air you Hetty's boy, youngster?"

"I'm Mrs. Hurst's son," corrected Tom proudly. "Who are you?"

"If I'm not yer Uncle Josh, I reckon he ain't be home terday," returned the man.--"Hi! up, Sally; you and me's not fit company, I guess, for a city gent."

"If you _are_ Uncle Joshua, I beg your pardon I'm sure," said Tom with his usual frankness. "Won't you shake hands, Uncle Joshua?"

Uncle Joshua took the thin, delicate hand in his own brown palm, and looked at it curiously.

"Jes' as Hepsy said--Hetty's boy's more for ornament than use. Well, youngster, now you're here ye'll work for yer bread, I hope. We're poor folks here, an' can't keep idle hands. Ye'll hev to learn to mind a team like this."

"I wouldn't mind if I'd a better horse, Uncle Josh," said Tom, walking alongside of his uncle, and eying the hungry-looking steed critically. "See his ribs. Don't you feed him ever, Uncle Josh?"

The man's face flushed angrily. "Shut up, younker!" he said savagely. "Don't speak about things ye know nothing about."

Tom walked on a minute or two in silence, but in no way disconcerted.

"This is a very nice place, Uncle Josh," he said. "Mamma often told us about it, but it's prettier than I thought it would be."

"The place'll do, I reckon," admitted Uncle Josh. "But farmin' ain't what it was. It's a hard job gettin' meat an' drink out o'd now-a-days."

"Mamma told us you were rich," said Tom in surprise. "But you can't be, because--because--"

"Wal?" said Uncle Josh, with a slow, stupid smile.

"Because your horses are all thin, and _you_ wear these clothes; and Aunt Hepsy doesn't dress like a lady. Rich people don't live so."

"You're a fool, youngster. Just your mother over again. You don't know, I suppose, that to save money folks must live cheap, an' not be all outside show. Ye'll learn better, maybe, afore ye've been long at Thankful Rest,--Hi, Sally! Whoa, lass."

The thin, wretched-looking horse stood still, thankful to be released from the heavy waggon; and Tom watched all his uncle's movements with much interest. He followed him from the yard to the stable, saw him give the five horses a scanty feed of corn and a pail of water.

"We'll go and hev a bite o' dinner now," he said; then, "Your sister'll be indoors, I guess?"

Tom nodded, and the two proceeded to the house. Lucy was downstairs by this time, awkwardly placing knives, forks, and plates on the table, under Miss Hepsy's directions. A glad smile crept to her eyes at sight of Tom; it seemed ages since he had gone out. She looked timidly at her uncle as he shook hands with her, remarking she was a pale-faced thing, and needed work and exercise to make her spry. Then the company sat down, and Tom, if Lucy did not, did ample justice to Miss Hepsy's cookery. It was an unsociable, uncomfortable meal. Aunt and uncle ate, as they did everything else, as if for a wager, and were finished before Lucy had touched her meat and potatoes.

"Look spry, child," said her aunt, beginning to clear away almost immediately. "You'll ha' to learn to eat to some purpose. Time don't last for ever."

Lucy pushed back her unfinished plateful and rose.

"Not dainty enough for ye, is it not?" was the next remark. "Ye'll eat it by-and-by maybe."

"I'm not hungry, Aunt Hepsy," she said with quivering lips; and Tom bit his to keep back angry words surging to them.

"May I go out for a little, Aunt Hepsy?" Lucy asked.

"When you've wiped them dishes you may," replied Aunt Hepsy. "I lost two good hours goin' to that plaguy depot for you, so the least ye can do is to help me through.--Josh, find summat for the boy to do; 'tain't no use hevin' him 'round idle lookin' for mischief."

"Come along to the barn then, What's-yer-name," said Uncle Josh, picking up his hat and sauntering to the door.--"Don't be too hard on that little 'un, Hepsy; she don't look over strong."

"Mind yer own business, will ye, Josh Strong," was Miss Hepsy's smart rejoinder. "I guess I'm able to mind mine."

Under Miss Hepsy's directions, Lucy succeeded in washing up the dishes without disaster, and was then requested to come to the far parlour and receive a lesson in sweeping and dusting. Then baking came on, and with one thing and another Miss Hepsy managed to keep the child within doors and on her feet till past four o'clock. She was fainting with fatigue, but would not complain, and Miss Hepsy was too busy to observe the pallor on her face.

"May I sit down for a minute, please?" she said at last, after bringing a huge can of flour from the larder. "I am afraid I am going to faint, Aunt Hepsy;" and she looked like enough it, as she sank wearily on the settle, and let her white lids droop over her tired eyes.

Miss Hepsy was more than annoyed. "A delicate child above all humbugs," she muttered, as she sprinkled a few drops of spring water on the girl's face, and held her smelling-salts to her nostrils.

"Ye'd better go out an' get a mouthful of fresh air, I suppose," she said ungraciously when Lucy rose at last, with a faint touch of returning colour in her cheeks.

And Lucy gladly went upstairs for her hat, and crept out into the beautiful sunshine. The garden gate was locked, but she managed to turn the key, and went slowly, in a maze of delight, along the trim paths, past beds of roses, hollyhocks, pansies, and sweet-scented gilly-flowers. The orchard beyond looked tempting indeed, where the sunbeams glistened through the bending boughs of apple, plum, and cherry trees, on the soft carpet of grass beneath. She managed to unfasten the gate there too, and choosing a wide-spreading apple-tree, from which she could see the meadow and the river, flung herself on the grass beneath it. There she fell asleep, and Tom found her an hour after. His fine face looked worried and discontented, and he flung himself beside her, saying gloomily,--

"How on earth I am to live here, Lucy Hurst, I don't know."

"What is it, Tom?" inquired she, forgetting her own troubles in sympathy for him.

"Oh, Uncle Josh, that's all. He hasn't any patience with me, and makes me speak up impertinently to him. And the things they say about mamma are perfectly shameful. I won't bear it now, I won't."

His sister's gentle hand touched his lips to stem the passionate words.

"You remember, Tom," she said softly, "what mamma said to us. We were to endure all such little trials, remembering that it is God who sends them. Think how grieved she would be if she could hear us grumbling so soon."

"I don't care; I can't help it," said the boy recklessly. "It isn't anything for you to be good, Lucy; you are just like mamma--a kind of saint, I think. For me it is just a long battle all day. If a fellow conquered in the end, it would not matter; but as it is--O Lucy, Lucy! why did mamma die? It was so easy to be happy and good when we had her to love and help us. I wish I were dead too."

Poor, proud, passionate Tom! His sister could only put her gentle arm about his neck and cry too, her heart so sorely re-echoed the painful longing in his voice.

So the first day at Thankful Rest did not promise very brightly for Tom and Lucy Hurst.

V.

SUNDAY

Saturday was the busiest day in the week at Thankful Rest. There was churning to be done, extra cooking for Sunday, mending and darning, and the weekly polishing of every bit of brass, and copper, and tin in the establishment. Lucy rubbed at them till her arms ached, without bringing them to the required height of brightness, and was at last sent off to pick the few remaining gooseberries for a tart. That was a piece of work much more to her liking, and she lingered so long out in the sunshine that Aunt Hepsy came at last, and scolded her long and shrilly; which took all the enjoyment away. Tom received his lessons from Uncle Josh outside; and, judging from his face when he came in at dinner-time, he had not found them particularly agreeable. Tom Hurst was a dainty youth, in fact, and shrank from soiling his fingers with the tasks allotted to him: and seeing that grim Uncle Josh had not spared him, the forenoon had been one long battle; for, try as he might, Tom could not keep a bridle on his tongue.

"I guess I'll hev a pesky deal o' trouble with that young 'un, Hepsy," his uncle said that night when the children had gone to bed. "He doesn't take to farm work; an' he's that peart I durstn't speak to him. Queer thing if we've got to keep the young upstart in idleness."

"Idleness!" quoth Miss Hepsy wrathfully. "I'd take a rope's end to him if he didn't keep a civil tongue in his head. The gal's bad enough; though she never speaks back she looks at me that proud-like wi' them great eyes o' her'n, I feel as if I'd like to shake her. There'll never be a day's peace now they've come."

"Tell ye what, though, Hepsy," said Josh. "I'm gwine to pay off Brahm, an' make Tom do his work. He ain't that much younger, an' he looks strong enough! Couldn't you do without Keziah, and that would square expenses?"

"I'll see how the child turns out in a week or so. She's a pinin' thing--doesn't eat enough to keep a mouse alive."

"It's a thankless thing, any way ye like to take it, Hepsy, hevin' other folks' youngsters round. I don't see why we should be bothered with 'em;" with which remark Josh went to bed.

Lucy awoke next morning, remembering it was Sunday, with a feeling of gladness that they might perhaps chance to see their friend Mr. Goldthwaite at church. The Strongs were regular as clock-work in their half-day attendance at the meeting-house. The morn'ng was devoted to feeding cattle, pigs, and poultry, and tidying up the house; and after dinner the premises were left in charge of Brahm and Keziah, and the master and mistress turned their footsteps towards Pendlepoint. The meeting-house was almost close to the parsonage, and was a pretty, primitive structure, with no attempt at display or decoration, and yet so pleasant and homelike inside that Lucy felt a sense of rest as her eyes wandered round it. Tom nudged her and whispered, "Nice little chapel, Lucy;" at which Miss Hepsy held up a warning finger and shook her head. Tom blushed and laughed, Aunt Hepsy looked so intensely comical. Then she became very red in the face, and opening her hymn-book, kept her eyes on its pages till Mr. Goldthwaite came in. His eyes travelled straight to the Strongs' pew, and Lucy thought she saw a kindly gleam of recognition in his eyes. Carrie was at the harmonium. She, too, looked once or twice in their direction; and both children found her face so sweet and pleasant that they could not lift their eyes off it. The chapel was full, and the singing of the hymn was so hearty and so sweet, that Lucy felt her eyes dim, she could not tell why. But it seemed to remind her of her mother.

Mr. Goldthwaite preached only half an hour; but his sermon was so beautiful and comforting, and so easily understood, that Lucy thought Sunday would recompense her for all the troubles of the week. Tom's eyes never left Mr. Goldthwaite's earnest face, and I believe that the memory of his words remained with the boy for weeks after. He had never heard a sermon in his life he had understood and _felt_ like this one. Uncle Josh snored rather noisily in the corner, and Aunt Hepsy nodded occasionally over her Bible--the minister's message did not even reach their ears.

When the service was over and they reached the church porch, they found Miss Goldthwaite standing there. She had a nod and a smile for every one, but her particular mission was with Tom and Lucy. She shook hands with the uncle and aunt, and then bent her sweet eyes on the children's faces.

"These be Hetty's children, Miss Goldthwaite," said Miss Hepsy. "Lucy and Tom."

"Yes, I know," nodded Miss Goldthwaite. "I came round to see them. I want them to take tea with me to-day, at my brother's special request."

Miss Hepsy did not look at all delighted. "They'll jes' bother ye, Miss Goldthwaite," said she; "an' besides, 'taint no use visitin' on Sundays--I don't like it."

"It's hardly visiting, Miss Hepsy," said the young lady in the same pleasant voice. "And when they are at Pendlepoint you may as well let them. We will bring them safely home. Come now, Miss Hepsy, you know nobody ever refuses me anything."

"Let them bide, Hepsy," said Uncle Josh, remembering what trouble and expense the minister had spared him, and not wishing to appear so unmindful of it. "I guess they won't come to no harm at the parson's."

So Miss Hepsy was forced to grant a reluctant consent, and Miss Carrie bore off the happy children in triumph. At the parsonage gate Mr. Goldthwaite joined them, and gave them both a hearty welcome. Even shy Lucy was at her ease immediately with Miss Carrie; for who could resist that bright, caressing manner, and those beaming, loving eyes? She carried Lucy off to her own pretty room to take off her hat, and kept her there talking and showing her the beautiful view from the window till Mr. Goldthwaite had to call to them to come to tea. What a pleasant meal it was, and how the little company enjoyed themselves. Then, when it was over, Mr. Goldthwaite took Tom to the garden, and drew him on to talk of himself, of his hopes and ambitions, and sympathized so heartily and cheerfully with him that Tom began to think it was worth while coming to Thankful Rest, if for nothing else than this pleasant hour at the parsonage. Meanwhile Carrie had opened the piano, and sang low and softly one or two hymns; and when she looked round, wondering why Lucy had moved from her side, she saw her on the sofa with her face hidden. She rose, and sitting down beside her, put her arm about her, and whispered gently,--

"My poor child, what is it?"

"Mamma, Miss Goldthwaite," sobbed Lucy. "She used always to sing to us on Sunday evenings just so, and it makes me feel dreadful to think she never will any more."

"Yes, Lucy, I understand," said Carrie; and the very sound of her voice soothed the child's troubled heart. "But you know who has promised to comfort the mourning heart if we will but ask Him? Our God is 'the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.'"

A quick smile broke through Lucy's tears. "If it were not for that, Miss Goldthwaite," she said simply, "I should have died when mamma did."

"And just think, dear," went on the sweet voice, "of the glad time coming when we shall all meet, please God, in a happier world than this. We shall not remember these sad hours then, shall we, Lucy? I know, my dear, how lonely and sad and strange you feel here now; but God can make us happy anywhere."

"Yes, Miss Carrie, I know it," returned the child simply and earnestly; "only I am so troubled sometimes about Tom. Mamma was often troubled about him too. He is so passionate and quick and proud. Oh, I don't know how he is to get on with Uncle Joshua and Aunt Hepsy!"

"We will hope for the best," said Miss Carrie cheerfully; "and by-and-by, perhaps, a way may be opened up for him to get his heart's desire.--Would you like to see my pets, Lucy? I have chickens, and pigeons, and dogs, and kittens, and all sorts of things. Frank says the yard is a menagerie."

"Yes, I would like it very much. There are some pretty chickens and kittens at Aunt Hepsy's, but she won't let me pet them."

In the delight of examining Miss Goldthwaite's menagerie sadder thoughts flew, and the evening sped on golden wings. The time came at last for the two to bid a regretful good-bye to the parsonage and turn their faces homewards. The minister and his sister accompanied them half across the meadow, and bade them good-night, with many promises of future meetings.

Tom and Lucy walked on in silence till they reached the paddock, and then the lad said abruptly, "It will not be so hard to live here, Lucy, if we can see them sometimes. I don't believe there's another minister like Mr. Goldthwaite in the State; nor another minister's sister either."

Lucy smiled, her heart re-echoing her brother's words.

"I have not felt so happy since mamma died," she said softly. "O Tom, is it not true what she used to say--'That God gives us something to be grateful for everywhere'?"

"Yes," said Tom soberly; and the next moment Aunt Hepsy's tall figure appeared at the kitchen door, and her shrill voice broke the pleasant Sabbath calm.

"Here, come in, you two. Air you going to stand there all night? It's 'most nine o'clock--time you were in bed. I guess you won't go visitin' on Sunday any more."

VI.

LOSING HOLD OF THE BRIDLE.

It had rained all day, and not all that day only, but the best part of the one before. Not a soft, gentle summer rain, but a fierce, wild storm, which beat the poor flowers to the earth, spoiled the fruit, and overflowed the river till half the meadow lay under water. There was plenty of work in the barn for Uncle Josh and the men, and plenty in the house for Aunt Hepsy and the girls. The scullery was full of wet clothes waiting on a dry day. That of itself, not to speak of the damage to the orchard, was sufficient to make Aunt Hepsy a very disagreeable person to live with while the storm lasted. Her tongue went from early morning till afternoon, scolding alternately at Lucy and Keziah. The latter was a stolid being, on whom her mistress's talking made no impression; but it made Lucy nervous and awkward, and her work was very badly done indeed. At three o'clock Aunt Hepsy sent her to wash her face, and gave her a long side of a sheet to hem. So Lucy was sitting on the settle, with a very grave and sorrowful-looking face, when Tom came in at four. His uncle had no need of him just then, and had sent him to the house to be out of the way. Keziah was feeding the calves, and Aunt Hepsy upstairs dressing, if that word can be appropriately applied to the slight change her toilet underwent in the afternoon. Tom sat down at the table in the window, and leaning his arms upon it, looked out gloomily on the desolate garden, over which the chill, wet mist hung like a pall. Neither spoke for several minutes.

"How do you get on now, Lucy?" asked Tom at length. "How sober you look. Has she been worrying you?"

"I daresay I am very stupid," said Lucy low and quietly; "but when Aunt Hepsy talks so loud I don't know what I am doing."

Miss Hepsy entered at that moment, fortunately without having heard Lucy's patient speech. "Don't lean your wet, dirty arms on the table, boy," said she with a sharp glance at Tom. "If you must be in, sit on your chair like a Christian."

Tom immediately sat up like a poker.

"What's yer uncle doin'?" was her next question.

"He's oiling waggon wheels," answered Tom, "and sent me in."

Miss Hepsy took out a very ugly piece of knitting from the dresser-drawer, and sat down opposite Lucy. "It's a pity boys ain't learned to sew and knit," she said grimly. "It would save a deal of women's time doin' it for 'em. I think I'll teach you, Tom."

"No, thank you, Aunt Hepsy."

"You're much too smart with your tongue, young 'un," said Miss Hepsy severely, and then relapsed into stolid silence. The click of her knitting needles, the ticking of the clock, and the rain beating on the panes, were the only sounds to be heard in the house. Tom drew a half-sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket, laid it on the table, and kept his attention there for a few minutes. Lucy ventured to cast her eyes in his direction, and he held up the paper to her. A smile ran all over her face and finally ended in a laugh. Aunt Hepsy looked round suspiciously to see Tom stuffing something into his pocket.

"What were you laughing at, Lucy?" Lucy looked distressed and answered nothing.

"What's that you're stuffing into your pocket, Tom?" she said, turning her eagle eyes again on Tom.

"A bit paper, aunt, that's all."

"People don't laugh at common bits o' paper, nor go stuffin' em into pockets like that. Hand it over."

"I'd rather not, Aunt Hepsy," said the boy.

"I rather you would," was her dry retort. "Out with it."

"It's mine, Aunt Hepsy, and you wouldn't care to see it."

"How many more times am I to say out with it?" she said angrily. "I'll let you feel the weight of my hand if you don't look sharp."

"It's mine, Aunt Hepsy. I won't let you see it," he said doggedly.

Miss Hepsy's face grew very red, and she flung her knitting on the rug and strode up to him. "Give me that paper."

"Well, there 'tis; I hope you like it. I wish I'd made it uglier," cried he angrily, and flung the paper on the table.

Aunt Hepsy smoothed it out very deliberately, and held it up to the light. It was a picture of herself, cleverly done, but highly exaggerated, and the word _Scold_ printed beneath it. Slowly the red faded from her face and was replaced by a kind of purple hue. She lifted her hand and brought it with full force on Tom's cheek. He sprang to his feet quivering with rage, and pain, and humiliation. His fierce temper was up, and Lucy trembled for what was to follow. "Next time you make a fool o' me, boy," said Aunt Hepsy with a slow smile, "perhaps ye'll get summat ye'll like even less than that."

Then the boy's anger found vent in words. "If you weren't a woman I'd knock you down. I hate you, and I wish I'd died before I came to this horrid place. It's worse than being a beggar living with such people. You touch me again, and I'll give it you though you are a woman."

Aunt Hepsy took him by the shoulders and pushed him before her out to the yard. "Ye'll be cool, I guess, afore I let ye in again," she said briefly, and then came back to Lucy.

She was weeping with her face hidden and her work lying on the settle beside her.

"Nice brother that of your'n," said Aunt Hepsy. "If he ain't growin' up to be hanged, my name ain't Hepsy Strong. Here, go on with your seam, an' don't be foolin' there."