Chapter 3

Lucy silently obeyed, but Aunt Hepsy could not control her thoughts, and they went pitifully out into the rain after Tom. He stood a minute or two in a dazed way, and then hurried from the yard, through the garden and the orchard to the meadow. In one little moment the victory over temper he had won and kept for weeks was gone; and in the shame and sorrow which followed, only one person could help him, and that was Mr. Goldthwaite. There had been many quiet talks with him since the first Sunday evening, and his lessons had sunk deep into the boy's heart, and he had indeed been earnestly trying to make the best of the life and work which had no interest nor sweetness for him. As he sped through the long, wet grass, heedless of the rain pelting on his uncovered head, he felt more wretched than he had ever done in his life before. He had to wade ankle-deep to the bridge, but fortunately did not encounter a living soul all the way to the parsonage. Miss Goldthwaite was sewing in the parlour window, and looked up in amazement to see a drenched, bareheaded boy coming up the garden path.

"Why, Tom, it can't be you, is it?" she exclaimed when she opened the door. "What is it? Nobody ill at Thankful Rest, I hope."

"No," said Tom. "It's only me; I want to see Mr. Goldthwaite."

"He has just gone out, but will not be many minutes," said Miss Goldthwaite, more amazed than ever. "Come in and get dried, and take tea with me; I was just thinking to have it alone."

Looking at Miss Goldthwaite in her dainty gray dress and spotless lace collar and blue ribbons, Tom began to realize that he had done a foolish thing coming to the parsonage to bother her with his soaking garments. He would have run off, but Miss Carrie prevented him by pulling him into the lobby and closing the door. Then she made him come to the kitchen and remove his boots and jacket. "I have not a coat to fit, so you'll need to sit in a shawl," laughed she; and the sound was so infectious that, miserable though he was, Tom laughed too. Miss Carrie knew perfectly there was a reason for his coming, and that it would come out by-and-by without asking. So it did. They had finished tea, and Tom was sitting on a stool at the fire just opposite Miss Goldthwaite. There had been silence for a little while.

"I had a frightful row with Aunt Hepsy this afternoon, Miss Goldthwaite."

"I am very sorry to hear it," answered she very gravely. "What was it about?"

Then the whole story came out; and then Miss Carrie folded up her work, and bent her sweet eyes on the boy's downcast, sorrowful face. "I am not going to lecture you, Tom," she said soberly. "But I am sorry my brave soldier should have been such a coward to-day."

Tom flung up his head a little proudly. "I am not a coward, Miss Goldthwaite."

"Yes, Tom; you remember how Jesus stood all the buffeting and cruelty of his persecutors, when he could so easily have smitten them all to death if he had willed. Compare your petty trials with his, and think how weak you have been."

Tom was silent. "When my temper is up, Miss Goldthwaite," he said at length, "I don't care for anything or anybody, except to get it out somehow. I was keeping so straight, too; I hadn't once answered back to Uncle Josh or Aunt Hepsy for weeks. It's no use trying to be good."

"No use? Why, Tom, if everybody gave up at the first stumble, what would become of the world, do you think? Our life, you know, is nothing but falling and rising again, and will be till we reach the land where all these trials are over. Keep up a brave heart. Begin again, and keep a double watch over self."

"I feel as if it would be easy enough to do it when I'm talking to you or Mr. Goldthwaite, but at home it is different. I shall never be able to get on with them though I live a hundred years. And O Miss Goldthwaite, you don't know how I want to go on drawing and painting. I feel as if I could die sometimes because I can't."

"When the time comes, dear; and it will come sooner, perhaps, than you think," said Miss Carrie hopefully. "You will prize it all the more because of this sharp discipline. Do your duty like a man, and believe me, God will reward you for it one day."

"I will try, Miss Goldthwaite," said Tom with a new great earnestness of face and voice.

"Now," said Miss Carrie then, with a quick, bright smile, "I'm going to send you home. I don't mean to tell my brother anything about your visit. Our talk is to be a secret. He would be so grieved that you have come to grief again through that tongue of yours. And I hope it will be a long time before its master loses hold of the bridle again." She went with him to the kitchen and helped him to dress, and then opened the door for him. "Now, Tom, you are to go home and tell your aunt you are sorry for what happened this afternoon; because you should not have spoken as you did. And remember, Tom, that a soldier's first duty is obedience." And without giving him a chance to demur, she nodded good-bye and ran into the house.

It was raining heavily still, but that Tom did not mind; he was wondering how to frame his apology to his aunt, and how she would receive it.

It was dark when he reached Thankful Rest, and the kitchen door was barred. He knocked twice, and was answered at last by Aunt Hepsy, who looked visibly relieved. Feeling that if he waited till he was in the light his courage would flee, he said hurriedly,--

"I've been to the parsonage, Aunt Hepsy, and I want to tell you I'm sorry I drew the picture and spoke to you as I did. If you'll forgive me this time I won't be so rude again."

Aunt Hepsy looked slightly amazed. "Dear me, boy, I am thankful to see ye home again; ye've gev Lucy a fever almost. See an' don't do it again, that's all." And that was all Tom ever heard about the afternoon's explosion.

VII.

THE RED HOUSE.

Judge Keane's place was a mile out of Pendlepoint. It was in the opposite direction from Thankful Rest, and stood within its own extensive grounds, at the base of the Peak. The house was built a little way up the slope, and commanded a magnificent view of the great plain and the river, whose silver thread was visible long after all other objects receded from view. You have made the acquaintance of the judge already; let us accompany Mr. Goldthwaite and his sister to the Red House on a mild October evening, and make friends with the rest of the family. When the minister and his sister were ushered into Mrs. Keane's drawing-room, its only occupants were that lady and her two daughters, Alice and Minnie. The former was a tall, stately young lady, like her father, stiff and reserved to strangers, but much liked by her friends, among whom Carrie Goldthwaite was the chief. Minnie Keane was a bright-eyed, curly-haired maiden of fifteen, wild as an antelope, and as full of fun and frolic as any one of her pet kittens. Their mother was an invalid, seldom able to leave her couch;--not a fretful invalid, you must understand, but a sweet, gentle, unselfish woman, who bore her pain and weakness without a murmur, so that those she loved might be spared pain on her account. Mr. Goldthwaite often said that Mrs. Keane's life was the best sermon he had ever come across; and I think he was right. The brother and sister received a warm welcome. Miss Keane and Carrie withdrew to the wide window for a private chat, while Mr. Goldthwaite remained by Mrs. Keane's sofa. He was an especial favourite of hers. Minnie disappeared, and ere long Judge Keane and his second son, George, appeared in the drawing-room. It is not necessary for me to describe Mr. George Keane, except to say that he was his father's right hand, and the greatest comfort of his mother's life; and that is saying a great deal, isn't it? When he came in Alice found something to do at her mother's couch, and her seat in the window did not long remain unoccupied. There was quite a hum of conversation in the room, and then when candles were brought in, and the curtains drawn, Miss Keane said with a smile,--

"We have not had our pilgrimage up the Peak this fall. If we don't have it soon it will be too late."

"Frank and I were talking of it yesterday," said Carrie Goldthwaite. "The days are so pleasant, why not have it this week or beginning of next?"

"Well," said Judge Keane, "settle the day when you are at it; I was beginning to think our annual excursion was to be forgotten this fall."

"This is Thursday, and to-morrow is my class day at Pendlepoint," said Miss Keane. "Saturday won't suit you, Mr. Goldthwaite?"

"Monday would be better," admitted Frank.

"Then Monday be it," said the judge. "We will start at twelve, and luncheon at the summit at one."

"And, O papa, mayn't the big waggon go?" pleaded Minnie. "I want to take Mopsy and Ted and Silver Tail."

"And all the live stock on the place, little one," laughed her father. "What do you say, Mr. Goldthwaite? Minnie thinks the kittens would enjoy the view immensely."

"The suggestion about the big waggon is opportune," said Mr. George Keane. "Last year some of the ladies would not have objected to a seat in it before we reached the top."

"Some of the gentlemen, too," said Alice Keane with a sly smile. "I propose the big waggon for faint-hearted climbers, and the little one for rugs and provisions."

"I am going to make a petition, Judge Keane," said Carrie Goldthwaite. "I have two little friends who would enjoy the excursion as much as any of us, and they have not much enjoyment in their lives. I mean those orphan children at Thankful Rest. Will you let them come?"

"With all my heart; no need to ask, my dear," said the judge heartily; "and we will do our best to make them enjoy themselves."

"Thank you, Judge Keane," said Carrie, and her face wore the expression the old man liked particularly to see there.

"I see them in church regularly," said Miss Keane. "The girl is a remarkably pretty child. Robert was quite charmed with her face when he was here a fortnight ago. I believe he was thinking what a study she was for a picture instead of listening to you, Mr. Goldthwaite."

"I scarcely think it, Miss Keane," answered Frank smiling. "At least he took me to task severely afterwards about a remark in my sermon which he did not approve."

"Orphans, did you say, Carrie?" asked Mrs. Keane gently. "Was their mother Deacon Strong's youngest daughter Hetty?"

"The same, Mrs. Keane," answered Carrie. "And she must have been very different from her brother and sister, for the children have been evidently trained by a refined and cultured mind. Lucy is a perfect lady, child though she is."

"I feel very much interested," said Mrs. Keane.

"I knew their mother slightly, and liked her much. Could you not bring the children to see me some day?"

"I shall try, Mrs. Keane; but it is not an easy task begging a favour from Miss Hepsy, and she seems determined to keep them at home. I have to take Lucy by main force when I want her at the parsonage."

"I hope they'll come, anyway," put in Minnie, "because I never have anybody to speak to. One grows tired, even of the Peak, when there's nobody but grown-up people to go on to. That's why I want Mopsy and Ted and Silver Tail. It wouldn't be so lonesome. But they can stay at home if Lucy comes."

"Poor Minnie," said her father, laughing with the rest at the child's aggrieved tone. "We must do all we can to persuade them, then, to spare you the necessity of frightening the cats out of their wits."

"I'll go up to Thankful Rest to-morrow and extract permission from Miss Hepsy," said Carrie, "though I am not very hopeful of the result.--Come, Frank, we must be off; it is nearly eight."

"You will let us know on Sunday, then, if they can come," said Miss Keane; and with cordial good-nights the friends parted.

Early next afternoon Miss Goldthwaite walked up to Thankful Rest on her mission to Miss Hepsy. That lady was making preserves, for which Lucy had been kept since early morning paring and coring apples and stoning plums. As Miss Goldthwaite passed the kitchen window, she caught a glimpse of a slight figure almost lost in a huge apron, and a very white, weary-looking face bent over the basket of fruit. Aunt Hepsy was grimly stirring a panful of plums over the stove, and did not look particularly overjoyed to see Miss Goldthwaite; but Lucy did.

"Always busy, Miss Hepsy," said Carrie briskly, not choosing to mind the snappy greeting she received. "I declare I always feel a lazy, good-for-nothing creature when I come to Thankful Rest.--Here, Lucy child, sit down and let me do your work while I am here; you look tired."

The quiet eyes raised themselves in loving gratitude to the sweet face, and she was not slow to avail herself of the chance of a moment's rest. Miss Hepsy sniffed, but made no audible demur.

"What splendid fruit, Miss Hepsy!" said the visitor after a moment's silence; "I have seen none like it in Pendlepoint this fall."

"It's well enough," said Miss Hepsy, a little mollified. "Your folks all well, Miss Goldthwaite?"

"Thank you, yes; and papa and mamma are coming from New York next week, if the weather keeps fine. I can hardly sleep or eat for joy, Miss Hepsy; and Frank is almost as bad."

"You be like children about your father and mother yet," said Miss Hepsy brusquely. "I reckon you'd better not marry in Pendlepoint, or there'll be an end to your goin' home any more."

Carrie laughed.

"I don't see why it should come to an end then, Miss Hepsy," she said. "Even married people get a holiday sometimes."

"I guess they don't see many o' them," replied Miss Hepsy. "I think you're a fool to marry, anyway, Miss Goldthwaite, when the parson thinks such a heap of you."

Carrie laughed again, more amused than ever.

"Talking of holidays, Miss Hepsy," she said, "I want you to give this patient little maiden one, and Tom too."

"Not if I know it," answered Miss Hepsy promptly.

"Oh yes you will," said Miss Goldthwaite serenely. "We are to have a picnic up the Peak on Monday, in Judge Keane's waggon. I've set my heart on Lucy and Tom, and half a day is nothing."

"It makes 'em idle and restless for days, Miss Goldthwaite," said Aunt Hepsy, with grim decision, "an' I ain't a-goin' to have it, so let it a be."

Miss Goldthwaite held her peace a moment, and then went straight up to Aunt Hepsy, and, to Lucy's amazement, laid her two hands on her shoulders and looked into her face with laughing eyes. "Do you know you are the most disagreeable woman in the township, Miss Hepsy, and that there isn't another would be so cross with me as you are? I'll come up and pare apples for two whole days if you'll let me have Lucy and Tom. Look me in the face and refuse me if you dare."

Miss Hepsy actually smiled. "I never saw sech a cretur," she said. "Ye'd move the very Peak wi' them eyes o' your'n. I'm real sorry for Mr. George Keane, anyway. Well, have yer own way, and go off home. You're only hinderin' my work, and I hain't a minute to lose."

"Thank you, Miss Hepsy," said Carrie, with a very eloquent glance of her irresistible eyes.--"Now, Lucy," said she then, turning to the child, "come down to the parsonage on Monday morning at eleven, you and Tom, and we will go up to the Red House together. Good-bye, dear; the fresh air up the Peak will brighten that white face, I hope. Don't forget, now."

"Forget! O Miss Carrie," was all she said, but her eyes were very dim as she returned her kiss. Lucy had been feeling peculiarly sad and down-hearted, and Miss Goldthwaite had come and brought with her the sunshine which seemed to follow her everywhere.

Then Carrie bade Miss Hepsy good-bye, and went away. Looking about her as she went through the garden, she espied Tom painting waggon wheels in the yard. A few steps took her to the boy's side, and he looked up with a glad smile of surprise.

"Busy too, Tom," she said pleasantly. "I don't think this place should be called Thankful Rest. Nobody seems to take a rest here. How do you like this work?"

"Don't ask me, Miss Goldthwaite," said the lad. "You remember you told me to make the best of it; but it isn't easy."

"It will grow easy by-and-by," she said, and laid her hand a moment on his arm, and her beautiful eyes grew grave and earnest. "Does my soldier find his Captain able to help even in dark hours?"

"Yes, Miss Goldthwaite." That was all, but it was said so simply and earnestly that Carrie's heart grew glad.

"We are to have a picnic up the Peak on Monday in Judge Keane's waggon," said she after a moment. "Your aunt has promised to let you and Lucy come. Will you like it?"

"Like it! Up the Peak! O Miss Goldthwaite," said the boy, looking away to the towering hill beyond, "I have wished I could go every day since I came. How good you are to Lucy and me!"

"She will tell you when to be ready. In the meantime I must go," said Miss Goldthwaite with her pleasant smile. "Good-bye, and success to the waggon-painting."

VIII.

UP THE PEAK.

Tom and Lucy Hurst peered anxiously out of their chamber windows at six o'clock on Monday morning to see a clear, calm, beautiful sky, with a faint roseate flush in the east, where, by-and-by, the sun would come up brilliantly. Aunt Hepsy was as cross as two sticks, and Uncle Josh morose and taciturn; but even these things failed to damp their spirits, and at a quarter to eleven they set off, a very happy pair, across the meadow to the parsonage. Both looked well. Lucy's mourning, though simple and inexpensive, was wonderfully becoming; and some fine delicate lace, which had been her mother's, relieved the sombre black dress nicely. Miss Goldthwaite was very proud of her friends, and told them so when she greeted them. They were just in time, and the four set off, Tom in front with Miss Goldthwaite, and Lucy walking with the minister. She was shy and quiet, but somehow nobody could be long afraid of Mr. Goldthwaite. He possessed his sister's charm of manner, and drew Lucy on to talk in spite of herself. At the Red House there was a great bustle. The big waggon was at the front door, and the little one at the back, into which the cook was stowing all sorts of eatables. Minnie Keane, in a state of great excitement, was flying about with a tiny kitten in each arm, the mother following at her heels mewing piteously for her children to be left in safety. Minnie dropped the kittens when she saw the party from the parsonage coming round the avenue, and ran to meet them. Miss Goldthwaite made the introductions, and then she and Mr. Goldthwaite passed into the house, leaving the children beside the waggon. There was but a moment's shyness, and then the irrepressible Minnie's tongue began to go freely.

"You look nice, Lucy," she said frankly. "I guess we'll have a good time to-day. There always is a good time when papa takes us anywhere."

"This is a nice horse," said Tom, feeling he must say something. "What's his name?"

"Oh, that's Billy. He's very old, and rather cross. You should see papa's Beauty. Come to the stable and I'll show you her."

She drew Lucy's arm within her own and darted off, Tom following. Minnie was quite at home in the stable, and familiar with every animal in it. Beauty pricked up her ears and whinnied at the touch of Minnie's caressing fingers.

"You ask Miss Goldthwaite about Beauty," she said. "She thinks there isn't another horse like her in the world.--Don't you love horses, Lucy?"

"Yes; I love all animals," replied Lucy. "I saw some nice little kittens round there."

"Yes; I've three. We'd better go round now, I think; perhaps they'll want to be going.--I'm glad it's a fine day; aren't you, Tom?"

"I think I am. I looked out at six this morning to see if it was. It'll be glorious up the Peak."

As the three came round to the front door again, Miss Keane appeared on the threshold. She looked very tall and stately and awe-inspiring with her trailing dress and eye-glass. Yet her smile as she shook hands with the children was so pleasant that Lucy forgot to be afraid of her.

"My mother would like to see you, Tom and Lucy," she said. "Will you come upstairs? she is not able to leave the room, you know.--Minnie, I wish you would look round for papa. It is just twelve; we should be going."

Minnie scampered off, and Tom and Lucy followed Miss Keane up the broad staircase into the drawing-room, the beauty of which held them spellbound for a few minutes. On a couch near the fire lay a lady, with gray hair and a pale, thin, worn face, which wore such an expression of peace and happiness that Lucy felt her heart go out to her at once. Mr. and Miss Goldthwaite and George Keane were there also. Mrs. Keane held out both her hands, and the two came shyly forward--Tom blushing a little to be among so many strangers.

"I am glad to see you, my dears," she said very heartily.--"Kiss me, Lucy. I knew your mother, dear. You remind me of her very much."

The ready tears sprang to Lucy's eyes. Kindness always moved her thus, and she took a stool close to the couch, while Tom's eyes wandered round the room, lingering hungrily on the exquisite water-colours on the walls. It was long since he had had such an opportunity. At Thankful Rest the art collection consisted of a few family portraits, ludicrous alike in execution and in colouring. A smile and a glance passed from Mr. Goldthwaite to his sister as they noted how speedily the boy became absorbed.

"These are my brother Robert's drawings," said Miss Keane, touching his arm and beckoning him to come nearer. "You are fond of painting, I think?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Tom, his face flushing a little. "And these are so beautiful, I could not help looking at them."

"If you will come up to the Red House some other day, I shall show you all my brother's sketch-books and odd drawings," said Miss Keane. "I am very fond of the work myself, and might perhaps be able to help you a little, you know, and I think you would make a clever pupil; what do you say?"

The eyes behind the glasses beamed so kindly at him that Tom forgot that his first impression of her had been unpleasant, and a warm flush of gratitude answered her better than his words. They were few and sad enough.

"There is nothing I should like so much in the world, ma'am, and I thank you very much; but I can't come--my uncle and aunt would not let me."

"I must see about that," said Miss Keane promptly; and at that moment Judge Keane's stately figure appeared in the doorway.

"Are you going to sit there all day, you young folk?" he called out hastily.--"Oh, here you are, little ones;--glad to see you, my lad;" and he gave Tom's hand a warm grasp, and touched Lucy's white face with his forefinger.

"Want some roses there, doesn't she, wife?" he said. "There'll be a glorious air up the Peak to-day, it will bring them there, if anything will."

"I wish you could have come, dear Mrs. Keane," whispered Carrie as she bent a moment over the couch before they passed out; "you used to be the very sunshine of us all."

"I think of you, dear, and am happy in my own way at home," she replied with her sweet smile; "take care of yourself and of this pale little maiden.--Lucy dear, good-bye. Come and see me again."

"Indeed I will, if I can, ma'am," replied Lucy earnestly; and then they all went away. Minnie was already in the big waggon waiting impatiently for the start.

"You will go inside too, little one, I suppose," said the judge to Lucy; and with one swing of his strong arms he placed her beside Minnie. "The rest of us will walk a piece, I fancy. As this is supposed to be a climbing expedition, we must make some show, at least, to begin with."

There was a general laugh, and Tom and Lucy thought there could not be so pleasant an old gentleman as Judge Keane anywhere.