Rose o' the River
Page 7
THE LITTLE HOUSE
The autumn days flew past like shuttles in a loom. The river reflectedthe yellow foliage of the white birch and the scarlet of the maples. Thewayside was bright with goldenrod, with the red tassels of the sumac,with the purple frost-flower and feathery clematis.
If Rose was not as happy as Stephen, she was quietly content, and feltthat she had more to be grateful for than most girls, for Stephensurprised her with first one evidence and then another of thoughtfulgenerosity. In his heart of hearts he felt that Rose was not wholly his,that she reserved, withheld something; and it was the subjugation ofthis rebellious province that he sought. He and Rose had agreed to waita year for their marriage, in which time Rose's cousin would finishschool and be ready to live with the old people; meanwhile Stephen hadlearned that his maiden aunt would be glad to come and keep house forRufus. The work at the River Farm was too hard for a girl, so he hadpersuaded himself of late, and the house was so far from the villagethat Rose was sure to be lonely. He owned a couple of acres between hisplace and the Edgewood bridge, and here, one afternoon only a monthafter their engagement, he took Rose to see the foundations of a littlehouse he was building for her. It was to be only a story-and-a-halfcottage of six small rooms, the two upper chambers to be finished offlater on. Stephen had placed it well back from the road, leaving spacein front for what was to be a most wonderful arrangement of flower-beds,yet keeping a strip at the back, on the river-brink, for a smallvegetable garden. There had been a house there years before--so manyyears that the blackened ruins were entirely overgrown; but a few elmsand an old apple-orchard remained to shade the new dwelling and givewelcome to the coming inmates.
Stephen had fifteen hundred dollars in bank, he could turn his hand toalmost anything, and his love was so deep that Rose's plumb-line hadnever sounded bottom; accordingly he was able, with the help of twosteady workers, to have the roof on before the first of November. Theweather was clear and fine, and by Thanksgiving clapboards, shingles,two coats of brown paint, and even the blinds had all been added. Thisexhibition of reckless energy on Stephen's part did not wholly commenditself to the neighborhood.
"Steve's too turrible spry," said Rose's grandfather; "he'll triphimself up some o' these times."
"You never will," remarked his better half, sagely.
"The resks in life come along fast enough, without runnin' to meet 'em,"continued the old man. "There's good dough in Rose, but it ain't more'nhalf riz. Let somebody come along an' drop in a little more yeast, orset the dish a little mite nearer the stove, an' you'll see what'llhappen."
"Steve's kept house for himself some time, an' I guess he knows moreabout bread-makin' than you do."
"There don't nobody know more'n I do about nothin', when my pipe'sdrawin' real good an' nobody's thornin' me to go to work," replied Mr.Wiley; "but nobody's willin' to take the advice of a man that's seen theworld an' lived in large places, an' the risin' generation is in aturrible hurry. I don' know how 't is: young folks air allers settin'the clock forrard an' the old ones puttin' it back."
"Did you ketch anything for dinner when you was out this mornin'?" askedhis wife. "No, I fished an' fished, till I was about ready to drop, an'I did git a few shiners, but land, they wa'n't as big as the worms I wasketchin' 'em with, so I pitched 'em back in the water an' quit."
During the progress of these remarks Mr. Wiley opened the door under thesink, and from beneath a huge iron pot drew a round tray loaded with aglass pitcher and half a dozen tumblers, which he placed carefully onthe kitchen table.
"This is the last day's option I've got on this lemonade-set," he said,"an' if I'm goin'to Biddeford to-morrer I've got to make up my mind herean' now."
With this observation he took off his shoes, climbed in his stockingfeet to the vantage ground of a kitchen chair, and lifted a stone chinapitcher from a corner of the highest cupboard shelf where it had beenhidden.
"This lemonade's gittin' kind o' dusty," he complained, "I cal'lated tohev a kind of a spree on it when I got through choosin' Rose's weddin'present, but I guess the pig'll he v to help me out."
The old man filled one of the glasses from the pitcher, pulled up thekitchen shades to the top, put both hands in his pockets, and walkedsolemnly round the table, gazing at his offering from every possiblepoint of view.
There had been three lemonade sets in the window of a Biddeford crockerystore when Mr. Wiley chanced to pass by, and he had brought home theblue and green one on approval.
To the casual eye it would have appeared as quite uniquely hideous untilthe red and yellow or the purple and orange ones had been seen; afterthat, no human being could have made a decision, where each was sounparalleled in its ugliness, and Old Kennebec's confusion of mind wouldhave been perfectly understood by the connoisseur.
"How do you like it with the lemonade in, mother?" he inquired eagerly."The thing that plagues me most is that the red an' yaller one I hedhome last week lights up better'n this, an' I believe I'll settle onthat; for as I was thinkin' last night in bed, lemonade is mostly anevenin' drink an' Rose won't be usin' the set much by daylight. Rootbeer looks the han'somest in this purple set, but Rose loves lemonadebetter'n beer, so I guess I'll pack up this one an' change it to-morrer.Mebbe when I get it out o' sight an' give the lemonade to the pig I'llbe easier in my mind."
In the opinion of the community at large Stephen's forehandedness in thematter of preparations for his marriage was imprudence, and his desirefor neatness and beauty flagrant extravagance. The house itself was afoolish idea, it was thought, but there were extenuating circumstances,for the maiden aunt really needed a home, and Rufus was likely to marrybefore long and take his wife to the River Farm. It was to be hoped inhis case that he would avoid the snares of beauty and choose a goodstout girl who would bring the dairy back to what it was in Mrs.Waterman's time.
All winter long Stephen labored on the inside of the cottage, mostly byhimself. He learned all trades in succession, Love being his onlymaster. He had many odd days to spare from his farm work, and if he hadnot found days he would have taken nights. Scarcely a nail was drivenwithout Rose's advice; and when the plastering was hard and dry, thewall-papers were the result of weeks of consultation.
Among the quiet joys of life there is probably no other so deep, sosweet, so full of trembling hope and delight, as the building and makingof a home,--a home where two lives are to be merged in one and flow ontogether, a home full of mysterious and delicious possibilities, hiddenin a future which is always rose-colored.
Rose's sweet little nature broadened under Stephen's influence; but shehad her moments of discontent and unrest, always followed quickly byremorse.
At the Thanksgiving sociable some one had observed her turquoiseengagement ring,--some one who said that such a hand was worthy of adiamond, that turquoises were a pretty color, but that there was onlyone stone for an engagement ring, and that was a diamond. At theChristmas dance the same some one had said her waltzing would make her"all the rage" in Boston. She wondered if it were true, and wonderedwhether, if she had not promised to marry Stephen, some splendid beingfrom a city would have descended from his heights, bearing diamonds inhis hand. Not that she would have accepted them; she only wondered.These disloyal thoughts came seldom, and she put them resolutely away,devoting herself with all the greater assiduity to her muslin curtainsand ruffled pillow-shams. Stephen, too, had his momentary pangs. Therewere times when he could calm his doubts only by working on the littlehouse. The mere sight of the beloved floors and walls and ceilingscomforted his heart, and brought him good cheer.
The winter was a cold one, so bitterly cold that even the rapid water atthe Gray Rock was a mass of curdled yellow ice, something that had onlyoccurred once or twice before within the memory of the oldestinhabitant.
It was also a very gay season for Pleasant River and Edgewood. Never hadthere been so many card-parties, sleigh rides and tavern dances, andnever such wonderful skating. The river was one gleaming, glitteringthoroughfare
of ice from Milliken's Mills to the dam at the Edgewoodbridge. At sundown bonfires were built here and there on the mirror likesurface, and all the young people from the neighboring villages gatheredon the ice; while detachments of merry, rosy-cheeked boys and girls,those who preferred coasting, met at the top of Brigadier Hill, fromwhich one could get a longer and more perilous slide than from any otherpoint in the township.
Claude Merrill, in his occasional visits from Boston, was very much inevidence at the Saturday evening ice parties. He was not an artist atthe sport himself, but he was especially proficient in the art ofstrapping on a lady's skates, and murmuring--as he adjusted the lastbuckle,--"The prettiest foot and ankle on the river!" It cannot bedenied that this compliment gave secret pleasure to the fair villagemaidens who received it, but it was a pleasure accompanied by electricshocks of excitement. A girl's foot might perhaps be mentioned, if afellow were daring enough, but the line was rigidly drawn at the ankle,which was not a part of the human frame ever alluded to in the politesociety of Edgewood at that time.
Rose, in her red linsey-woolsey dress and her squirrel furs and cap, wasthe life of every gathering, and when Stephen took her hand and theyglided up stream, alone together in the crowd, he used to wish that theymight skate on and on up the crystal ice-path of the river, to the moonitself, whither it seemed to lead them.