Then it turned out that so much sewing was not good for her; her health was threatened; she had been used to farm work and "all out-doors." It was a "stump" again. That was all she called it; she did not talk piously about a "cross." What difference did it make?
There is another word, also, for "cross" in Hebrew.
Luclarion came at last to live with Mrs. Edward Shiere. And in that household, at eight and twenty, we have just found her.
III.
BY STORY-RAIL: TWENTY-SIX YEARS AN HOUR.
Laura Shiere did not think much about the "stump," when, in her dark gray merino travelling dress, and her black ribbons, nicely appointed, as Mrs. Oferr"s niece should be, down to her black kid gloves and broad-hemmed pocket-handkerchief, and little black straw travelling-basket (for morocco bags were not yet in those days), she stepped into the train with her aunt at the Providence Station, on her way to Stonington and New York.
The world seemed easily laid out before her. She was like a cousin in a story-book, going to arrive presently at a new home, and begin a new life, in which she would be very interesting to herself and to those about her. She felt rather important, too, with her money independence--there being really "property" of hers to be spoken of as she had heard it of late. She had her mother"s diamond ring on her third finger, and was comfortably conscious of it when she drew off her left-hand glove. Laura Shiere"s nature had only been stirred, as yet, a very little below the surface, and the surface rippled pleasantly in the sunlight that was breaking forth from the brief clouds.
Among the disreputable and vociferous crowd of New York hack drivers, that swarmed upon the pier as the _Ma.s.sachusetts_ glided into her dock, it was good to see that subduedly respectable and consciously private and superior man in the drab overcoat and the nice gloves and boots, who came forward and touched his hat to Mrs.
Oferr, took her shawl and basket, and led the way, among the aggravated public menials, to a handsome private carriage waiting on the street.
"All well at home, David?" asked Mrs. Oferr.
"All well, ma"am, thank you," replied David.
And another man sat upon the box, in another drab coat, and touched _his_ hat; and when they reached Waverley Place and alighted, Mrs.
Oferr had something to say to him of certain directions, and addressed him as "Moses."
It was very grand and wonderful to order "David" and "Moses" about.
Laura felt as if her aunt were something only a little less than "Michael with the sword." Laura had a susceptibility for dignities; she appreciated, as we have seen out upon the wood-shed, "high places, and all the people looking up."
David and Moses were brothers, she found out; she supposed that was the reason they dressed alike, in drab coats; as she and Frank used to wear their red merinos, and their blue ginghams. A little spasm did come up in her throat for a minute, as she thought of the old frocks and the old times already dropped so far behind; but Alice and Geraldine Oferr met her the next instant on the broad staircase at the back of the marble-paved hall, looking slight and delicate, and princess-like, in the grand s.p.a.ce built about them for their lives to move in; and in the distance and magnificence of it all, the faint little momentary image of Frank faded away.
She went up with them out of the great square hall, over the stately staircase, past the open doors of drawing-rooms and library, stretching back in a long suite, with the conservatory gleaming green from the far end over the garden, up the second stairway to the floor where their rooms were; bedrooms and nursery,--this last called so still, though the great, airy front-room was the place used now for their books and amus.e.m.e.nts as growing young ladies,--all leading one into another around the skylighted upper hall, into which the sunshine came streaked with amber and violet from the richly colored gla.s.s. She had a little side apartment given to her for her own, with a recessed window, in which were blossoming plants just set there from the conservatory; opposite stood a white, low bed in a curtained alcove, and beyond was a dressing-closet.
Laura thought she should not be able to sleep there at all for a night or two, for the beauty of it and the good time she should be having.
At that same moment Frank and her Aunt Oldways were getting down from the stage that had brought them over from Ipsley, where they slept after their day"s journey from Boston,--at the doorstone of the low, broad-roofed, wide-built, roomy old farm-house in Homesworth.
Right in the edge of the town it stood, its fields stretching over the south slope of green hills in sunny uplands, and down in meadowy richness to the wild, hidden, sequestered river-side, where the brown water ran through a narrow, rocky valley,--Swift River they called it. There are a great many Swift Rivers in New England. It was only a vehement little tributary of a larger stream, beside which lay larger towns; it was doing no work for the world, apparently, at present; there were no mills, except a little grist-mill to which the farmers brought their corn, cuddled among the rocks and wild birches and alders, at a turn where the road came down, and half a dozen planks made a bit of a bridge.
"O, what beautiful places!" cried Frank, as they crossed the little bridge, and glanced either way into a green, gray, silvery vista of shrubs and rocks, and rushing water, with the white spires of meadow-sweet and the pink hardback, and the first bright plumes of the golden rod nodding and shining against the shade,--as they pa.s.sed the head of a narrow, gra.s.sy lane, trod by cows" feet, and smelling of their milky breaths, and the sweetness of hay-barns,--as they came up, at length, over the long slope of turf that carpeted the way, as for a bride"s feet, from the roadside to the very threshold. She looked along the low, treble-piled garden wall, too, and out to the open sheds, deep with pine chips; and upon the broad brown house-roof, with its long, gradual decline, till its eaves were within reach of a child"s fingers from the ground; and her quick eye took in facilities.
"O, if Laura could see this! After the old shed-top in Brier Street, and the one tree!"
But Laura had got what the shed-top stood for with her; it was Frank who had hearkened to whole forests in the stir of the one brick-rooted fir. To that which each child had, it was already given.
In a week or two Frank wrote Laura a letter. It was an old-fashioned letter, you know; a big sheet, written close, four pages, all but the middle of the last page, which was left for the "superscription." Then it was folded, the first leaf turned down twice, lengthwise; then the two ends laid over, toward each other; then the last doubling, or rather trebling, across; and the open edge slipped over the folds. A wafer sealed it, and a thimble pressed it,--and there were twenty-five cents postage to pay. That was a letter in the old times, when Laura and Frank Shiere were little girls. And this was that letter:--
DEAR LAURA,--We got here safe, Aunt Oldways and I, a week ago last Sat.u.r.day, and it is _beautiful_. There is a green lane,--almost everybody has a green lane,--and the cows go up and down, and the swallows build in the barn-eaves. They fly out at sundown, and fill all the sky up. It is like the specks we used to watch in the sunshine when it came in across the kitchen, and they danced up and down and through and away, and seemed to be live things; only we couldn"t tell, you know, what they were, or if they really did know how good it was. But these are big and real, and you can see their wings, and you know what they mean by it. I guess it is all the same thing, only some things are little and some are big. You can see the stars here, too,--such a sky full. And that is all the same again.
There are beautiful roofs and walls here. I guess you would think you were high up! Harett and I go up from under the cheese-room windows right over the whole house, and we sit on the peak by the chimney. Harett is Mrs. Dillon"s girl. Not the girl that lives with her,--her daughter. But the girls that live with people are daughters here. Somebody"s else, I mean.
They are all alike. I suppose her name is Harriet, but they all call her Harett. I don"t like to ask her for fear she should think I thought they didn"t know how to p.r.o.nounce.
I go to school with Harett; up to the West District. We carry brown bread and b.u.t.ter, and doughnuts, and cheese, and apple-pie in tin pails, for luncheon. Don"t you remember the brown cupboard in Aunt Oldways" kitchen, how sagey, and doughnutty, and good it always smelt? It smells just so now, and everything tastes just the same.
There is a great rock under an oak tree half way up to school, by the side of the road. We always stop there to rest, coming home. Three of the girls come the same way as far as that, and we always save some of our dinner to eat up there, and we tell stories. I tell them about dancing-school, and the time we went to the theatre to see "Cinderella," and going shopping with mother, and our little tea-parties, and the Dutch dolls we made up in the long front chamber. O, _don"t_ you remember, Laura?
What different pieces we have got into our remembrances already! I feel as if I was making patchwork. Some-time, may-be, I shall tell somebody about living _here_. Well, they will be beautiful stories! Homesworth is an elegant place to live in. You will see when you come next summer.
There is an apple tree down in the south orchard that bends just like a horse"s back. Then the branches come up over your head and shade you. We ride there, and we sit and eat summer apples there. Little rosy apples with dark streaks in them all warm with the sun. You can"t think what a smell they have, just like pinks and spice boxes. Why don"t they keep a little way off from each other in cities, and so have room for apple trees? I don"t see why they need to crowd so. I hate to think of you all shut up tight when I am let right out into green gra.s.s, and blue sky, and apple orchards. That puts me in mind of something! Zebiah Jane, Aunt Oldways" girl, always washes her face in the morning at the pump-basin out in the back dooryard, just like the ducks. She says she can"t spatter round in a room; she wants all creation for a slop-bowl. I feel as if we had all creation for everything up here. But I can"t put all creation in a letter if I try. _That_ would spatter dreadfully.
I expect a long letter from you every day now. But I don"t see what you will make it out of. I think I have got all the _things_ and you won"t have anything left but the _words_. I am sure you don"t sit out on the wood-shed at Aunt Oferr"s, and I don"t believe you pound stones and bricks, and make colors. Do you know when we rubbed our new shoes with pounded stone and made them gray?
I never told you about Luclarion. She came up as soon as the things were all sent off, and she lives at the minister"s.
Where she used to live is only two miles from here, but other people live there now, and it is built on to and painted straw color, with a green door.
Your affectionate sister, FRANCES SHIERE.
When Laura"s letter came this was it:--
DEAR FRANK,--I received your kind letter a week ago, but we have been very busy having a dressmaker and doing all our fall shopping, and I have not had time to answer it before. We shall begin to go to school next week, for the vacations are over, and then I shall have ever so much studying to do. I am to take lessons on the piano, too, and shall have to practice two hours a day. In the winter we shall have dancing-school and practicing parties. Aunt has had a new bonnet made for me. She did not like the plain black silk one. This is of _gros d"Afrique_, with little bands and cordings round the crown and front; and I have a dress of _gros d"Afrique_, too, trimmed with double folds piped on. For every-day I have a new black _mousseline_ with white clover leaves on it, and an all-black French chally to wear to dinner. I don"t wear my black and white calico at all. Next summer aunt means to have me wear white almost all the time, with lavender and violet ribbons. I shall have a white muslin with three skirts and a black sash to wear to parties and to Public Sat.u.r.days, next winter. They have Public Sat.u.r.days at dancing-school every three weeks. But only the parents and relations can come. Alice and Geraldine dance the shawl-dance with Helena Pomeroy, with crimson and white Canton c.r.a.pe scarfs. They have showed me some of it at home.
Aunt Oferr says I shall learn the _gavotte_.
Aunt Oferr"s house is splendid. The drawing-room is full of sofas, and divans, and ottomans, and a _causeuse_, a little S-shaped seat for two people. Everything is covered with blue velvet, and there are blue silk curtains to the windows, and great looking-gla.s.ses between, that you can see all down into through rooms and rooms, as if there were a hundred of them. Do you remember the story Luclarion used to tell us of when she and her brother Mark were little children and used to play that the looking-gla.s.s-things were real, and that two children lived in them, in the other room, and how we used to make believe too in the slanting chimney gla.s.s? You could make believe it here with _forty_ children. But I don"t make believe much now. There is such a lot that is real, and it is all so grown up. It would seem so silly to have such plays, you know. I can"t help thinking the things that come into my head though, and it seems sometimes just like a piece of a story, when I walk into the drawing-room all alone, just before company comes, with my _gros d"Afrique_ on, and my puffed lace collar, and my hair tied back with long new black ribbons. It all goes through my head just how I look coming in, and how grand it is, and what the words would be in a book about it, and I seem to act a little bit, just to myself as if I were a girl in a story, and it seems to say, "And Laura walked up the long drawing-room and took a book bound in crimson morocco from the white marble pier table and sat down upon the velvet ottoman in the balcony window." But what happened then it never tells. I suppose it will by and by. I am getting used to it all, though; it isn"t so _awfully_ splendid as it was at first.
I forgot to tell you that my new bonnet flares a great deal, and that I have white lace quilling round the face with little black dotty things in it on stems. They don"t wear those close cottage bonnets now. And aunt has had my dresses made longer and my pantalettes shorter, so that they hardly show at all.
She says I shall soon wear long dresses, I am getting so tall.
Alice wears them now, and her feet look so pretty, and she has such pretty slippers: little French purple ones, and sometimes dark green, and sometimes beautiful light gray, to go with different dresses. I don"t care for anything but the slippers, but I _should_ like such ones as hers. Aunt says I can"t, of course, as long as I wear black, but I can have purple ones next summer to wear with my white dresses. That will be when I come to see you.
I am afraid you will think this is a very _wearing_ kind of a letter, there are so many "wears" in it. I have been reading it over so far, but I can"t put in any other word.
Your affectionate sister, LAURA SHIERE.
P.S. Aunt Oferr says Laura Shiere is such a good sounding name.
It doesn"t seem at all common. I am glad of it. I should hate to be common.
I do not think I shall give you any more of it just here than these two letters tell. We are not going through all Frank and Laura"s story. That with which we have especially to do lies on beyond. But it takes its roots in this, as all stories take their roots far back and underneath.
Two years after, Laura was in Homesworth for her second summer visit at the farm. It was convenient, while the Oferrs were at Saratoga.
Mrs. Oferr was very much occupied now, of course, with introducing her own daughters. A year or two later, she meant to give Laura a season at the Springs. "All in turn, my dear, and good time," she said.
The winter before, Frank had been a few weeks in New York. But it tired her dreadfully, she said. She liked the theatres and the concerts, and walking out and seeing the shops. But there was "no place to get out of it into." It didn"t seem as if she ever really got home and took off her things. She told Laura it was like that first old letter of hers; it was just "wearing," all the time.
Laura laughed. "But how can you live _without_ wearing?" said she.
Frank stood by, wondering, while Laura unpacked her trunks that morning after her second arrival at Aunt Oldways". She had done now even with the simplicity of white and violet, and her wardrobe blossomed out like the flush of a summer garden.
She unfolded a rose-colored muslin, with little raised embroidered spots, and threw it over the bed.
"Where _will_ you wear that, up here?" asked Frank, in pure bewilderment.