“Yes, I would,” Martha answered.
So at noon, when they had eaten their dinners, Laura took up her grammar and said, “Ready, Martha?” Martha smiled back at her.
Then Clarence asked, “Is that why you study all the time, to keep up with your class in town?”
“Yes, I study at night but I have to study here, too,” Laura answered, passing by him toward the blackboard. Clarence whistled, “Whew!” under his breath, but Laura paid no attention.
At the blackboard she worked with Martha until Martha could diagram a complex compound sentence all by herself. Martha said, “I understand it now! After this, I won’t dread the grammar recitation so much.”
So that was the trouble, Laura thought. Martha had dreaded grammar so much that she could not learn it.
“Don’t dread a lesson,” Laura said. “I’ll always be glad to study any of them with you, if you want me to.” Martha’s brown eyes smiled almost like Ida’s as she said, “I would like to, sometimes. Thank you.” Laura wished that she need not be the teacher; she and Martha were the same age, and might have been friends.
She had decided what to do about Clarence’s history lessons. He was far behind Charles and Martha, but Laura asked him no questions that he could not answer, and when she set the lesson for next day she said, “This doesn’t mean you, Clarence; it would make your lesson far too long. Let me see. How many pages are you behind?”
He showed her, and she said, “How many do you think you can learn? Would three be too much?”
“No,” he said. There was nothing else he could say, no contention he could make.
“Then the class is dismissed,” Laura said. She wondered what Clarence would do. Pa’s advice and Ma’s was working well so far, but would it work with Clarence?
She did not ask him many questions next day, but he seemed to know the three pages perfectly. Charles and Martha were now nine pages ahead of him. Laura set them seven pages more, and said to Clarence, “Would another three pages be too much? You may take that much if you like.”
“I’ll learn it,” Clarence said, and this time he looked at Laura with a friendly smile.
She was so surprised that she almost smiled back. But she said quickly, “Make it shorter if it is too much.”
“I’ll learn it,” Clarence repeated.
“Very well,” Laura said. “Class dismissed.”
She was becoming adjusted to the pattern of the days. A silent breakfast in the chill of early morning, a shivering walk to the cold school shanty; then the usual round of recitations, with recess and noon breaking it into four equal parts. Then the cold walk back to the Brewsters’ house for a cheerless supper, an evening of study, and sleep on the narrow sofa. Mrs. Brewster was always sullen and silent. She seldom even quarreled at Mr. Brewster any more.
The week passed and Friday came again. When the history class came forward to recite, Clarence said, “You may hear me recite as far as Martha and Charles. I’ve caught up with them.”
Laura was amazed. She exclaimed, “But how could you, Clarence?”
“If you can study at night, I can,” Clarence said. Laura smiled at him again. She could have liked him so much, if she had not been the teacher. The brown sparkles in his eyes were like the blue sparkles in Pa’s. But she was the teacher.
“That is good,” she said. “Now you can all three go on together.”
With four o’clock came the music of sleigh bells, and Clarence loudly whispered, “Teacher’s beau!”
Laura’s cheeks grew hot, but she said quietly, “You may put away your books. School is dismissed.”
She dreaded that Clarence might shout again, but he did not. He was well on his way toward home with Tommy and Ruby when Laura shut the shanty door behind her and Almanzo tucked her again into the cutter.
Chapter 7
A Knife in the Dark
The third week went by, and the fourth. Now there were only four weeks more. Though every morning Laura was anxious about the school day ahead, still it was not as bad as the Brewsters’ house, and every afternoon at four o’clock she drew a breath of relief; one more day had gone well.
There were no blizzards yet, but February was very cold. The wind was like knives. Every Friday and Sunday, Almanzo Wilder had made the long, cold drive, to take her home. Laura did not know how she could get through the week, without looking forward to Saturday at home. But she felt sorry for Almanzo, who was making those cold drives for nothing.
Much as she wanted to go home every week, she did not want to be under such an obligation to anyone. She was going with him only to get home, but he did not know that. Perhaps he was expecting her to go driving with him after she went home to stay. She did not want to feel obliged to go with him, neither could she be unfair, or deceitful. She felt that she must explain this to him, but she did not know how.
At home, Ma worried because she was thinner. “Are you sure you get enough to eat at Brewster’s?” Ma asked, and Laura answered, “Oh, yes, a great plenty! But it doesn’t taste like home cooking.”
Pa said, “You know, Laura, you don’t have to finish the term. If anything worries you too much, you can always come home.”
“Why, Pa!” Laura said, “I couldn’t quit. I wouldn’t get another certificate. Besides, it’s only three weeks more.”
“I’m afraid you’re studying too hard,” Ma said. “You don’t look like you get enough sleep.”
“I go to bed every night at eight o’clock,” Laura assured her.
“Well, as you say, it’s only three weeks more,” said Ma.
No one knew how she dreaded to go back to Mrs. Brewster’s. It would do no good to tell them. Being at home every Saturday raised her spirits and gave her courage for another week. Still, it was not fair to take so much from Almanzo Wilder.
He was driving her out to the Brewsters’ that Sunday afternoon. They hardly ever spoke during those long drives; it was too cold to talk. The jingling sleigh bells sounded frosty in the sparkling cold, and the light cutter sped so fast that the north wind following it was not very sharp on their backs. But he must face that wind all the way back to town.
The Brewsters’ shanty was not far ahead when Laura said to herself: “Stop shilly-shallying!” Then she spoke out. She said, “I am going with you only because I want to get home. When I am home to stay, I will not go with you any more. So now you know, and if you want to save yourself these long, cold drives, you can.”
The words sounded horrid to her as she said them. They were abrupt and rude and hateful. At the same time, a dreadful realization swept over her, of what it would mean if Almanzo did not come for her again. She would have to spend Saturdays and Sundays with Mrs. Brewster.
After a startled moment, Almanzo said slowly, “I see.”
There was no time to say more. They were at Mrs. Brewster’s door, and the horses must not stand and get chilled. Quickly Laura got out, saying, “Thank you.” He touched his hand to his fur cap and the cutter went swiftly away.
“It is only three weeks more,” Laura said to herself, but she could not keep her spirits from sinking.
All that week the weather grew colder. On Thursday morning Laura found that the quilt had frozen stiff around her nose while she slept. Her fingers were so numb that she could hardly dress. In the other room the stove lids were red hot, but the heat seemed unable to penetrate the cold around it.
Laura was holding her numbed hands above the stove when Mr. Brewster burst in, tore off his boots and began violently rubbing his feet. Mrs. Brewster went quickly to him.
“Oh, Lewis, what’s the matter?” she asked so anxiously that Laura was surprised.
“My feet,” Mr. Brewster said. “I ran all the way from the schoolhouse but there’s no feeling in them.”
“Let me help,” his wife said. She took his feet into her lap and helped him rub them. She was so concerned and so kind that she seemed like another woman. “Oh, Lewis, this dreadful country!” she said. “Oh, am I h
urting you?”
“Go on,” Mr. Brewster grunted. “It shows the blood’s coming back into them.”
When they had saved his half-frozen feet, Mr. Brewster told Laura not to go to school that day. “You would freeze,” he said.
She protested, “But the children will come, and I must be there.”
“I don’t think they’ll come,” he said. “I built a fire, and if they do come, they can get warm and go home again. There will be no school today,” he said flatly.
That settled it, for a teacher must obey the head of the school board.
It was a long, wretched day. Mrs. Brewster sat huddled in a quilt, close to the stove, and sullenly brooding. Mr. Brewster’s feet were painful, and Johnny fretted with a feverish cold. Laura did the dishes, made her bed in the freezing cold, and studied her schoolbooks. When she tried to talk, there was something menacing in Mrs. Brewster’s silence.
At last it was bedtime. Laura hoped desperately that tomorrow she could go to school; meantime, she could escape by going to sleep. The cold in the bedroom took her breath away and stiffened her hands so she could hardly undress. For a long time she lay too cold to sleep, but slowly she began to be warmer.
A scream woke her. Mrs. Brewster screamed, “You kicked me!”
“I did not,” Mr. Brewster said. “But I will, if you don’t go put up that butcher knife.”
Laura sat straight up. Moonlight was streaming over her bed from the window. Mrs. Brewster screamed again, a wild sound without words that made Laura’s scalp crinkle.
“Take that knife back to the kitchen,” Mr. Brewster said.
Laura peeped through the crack between the curtains. The moonlight shone through the calico, and thinned the darkness so that Laura saw Mrs. Brewster standing there. Her long white flannel nightgown trailed on the floor and her black hair fell loose over her shoulders. In her upraised hand she held the butcher knife. Laura had never been so terribly frightened.
“If I can’t go home one way, I can another,” said Mrs. Brewster.
“Go put that knife back,” said Mr. Brewster. He lay still, but tensed to spring.
“Will you or won’t you?” she demanded.
“You’ll catch your death of cold,” he said. “I won’t go over that again, this time of night. I’ve got you and Johnny to support, and nothing in the world but this claim. Go put up that knife and come to bed before you freeze.”
The knife stopped shaking, as Mrs. Brewster’s fist clenched on the handle.
“Go put it back in the kitchen,” Mr. Brewster ordered.
After a moment, Mrs. Brewster turned and went to the kitchen. Not until she came back and got into bed did Laura let the curtains fall together again. Softly she drew the bedcovers over her and lay staring at the curtain. She was terribly frightened. She dared not sleep. Suppose she woke to see Mrs. Brewster standing over her with that knife? Mrs. Brewster did not like her.
What could she do? The nearest house was a mile away; she would freeze if she tried to reach it in this cold. Wide awake, she stared at the curtains and listened. There was no sound but the wind. The moon went down, and she stared at the dark until the gray winter daylight came. When she heard Mr. Brewster build the fire and Mrs. Brewster beginning to cook breakfast, she got up and dressed.
Nothing was different; breakfast was the usual silent meal. Laura went to school as soon as she could get away. She felt safe there, for the day. It was Friday.
The wind was blowing fiercely. Fortunately it was not a blizzard wind, but it scoured hard particles of snow from the frozen drifts and drove them through every crack in the shanty’s north and west walls. From all sides the cold came in. The big coal heater seemed to make no impression on that cold.
Laura called the school to order. Though she was near the stove, her feet were numb and her fingers could not grip a pencil. She knew that it was colder in the seats.
“Better put your coats on again,” she said, “and all of you come to the fire. You may take turns sitting in the front seat or standing by the stove to get warm. Study as best you can.”
All day the snow was blown low across the prairie, and through the schoolroom’s walls. Ice froze thick on the water pail, and at noon they set their dinner pails on the stove to thaw the frozen food before they ate it. The wind was steadily growing colder.
It cheered Laura to see how well every pupil behaved. Not one took advantage of the disorder to be idle or unruly. No one whispered. They all stood by the stove, studying, and quietly turning about to warm their backs, and all their recitations were good. Charles and Clarence took turns, going out into the wind to get coal from the bin and keep up the fire.
Laura dreaded the day’s end. She was afraid to go back to the house. She was sleepy; she knew that she must sleep, and she feared to sleep in Mrs. Brewster’s house. All day tomorrow and Sunday she must be in that house with Mrs. Brewster, and much of the time Mr. Brewster would be at the stable.
She knew that she must not be afraid. Pa had always said that she must never be afraid. Very likely, nothing would happen. She was not exactly afraid of Mrs. Brewster, for she knew that she was quick, and strong as a little French horse. That is, when she was awake. But she had never wanted so much to go home.
It had been right to tell Almanzo Wilder the truth, but she wished that she had not done it so soon. Still, he would not have come so far in such bitter cold, anyway. Every moment the wind blew stronger, and colder.
At half past three they were all so cold that she thought of dismissing school early. The mile that Martha and Charles must walk, worried her. On the other hand, she should not cut short the pupils’ opportunity for learning, and this was not a blizzard.
Suddenly she heard sleigh bells. They were coming! In a moment they were at the door. Prince and Lady passed the window, and Clarence exclaimed, “That Wilder’s a bigger fool than I thought he was to come out in this weather!”
“You may all put away your books,” Laura said. It was much too cold for the horses to stand outdoors. “It is growing colder, and the sooner everyone reaches home, the better,” she said. “School is dismissed.”
Chapter 8
Cold Ride
“Careful of the lantern,” was all that Almanzo said as he helped her into the cutter. Several horse blankets were spread over the seat, and on their ends, under the fur buffalo robes, a lantern stood burning to warm the nest for Laura’s feet.
When she ran into the house, Mr. Brewster said, “You aren’t thinking of such a thing as driving in this cold?”
“Yes,” she answered. She lost no time. In the bedroom, she buttoned on her other flannel petticoat, and pulled over her shoes her other pair of woolen stockings. She doubled her thick black woolen veil and wrapped it twice around her face and hood, and wound its long ends around her throat. Over that she put her muffler, crossed its ends on her chest, and buttoned her coat over all. She ran out to the cutter.
Mr. Brewster was there, protesting. “You folks are fools to try it,” he said. “It is not safe. I want him to put up here for the night,” he said to Laura.
“Think you’d better not risk it?” Almanzo asked her.
“Are you going back?” she asked him.
“Yes, I’ve got stock to take care of,” he said.
“Then I’m going,” she said.
Prince and Lady started swiftly into the wind. It struck through all the woolen folds and took Laura’s breath away. She bent her head into it, but she felt it flowing like icy water on her cheeks and chest. Her teeth clenched to keep from chattering.
The horses were eager to go. Their trotting feet drummed on the hard snow and every sleigh bell cheerily rang. Laura was thankful for the speed that would soon reach shelter from the cold. She was sorry when they trotted more slowly. They dropped into a walk, and she supposed that Almanzo was slowing them for a rest. Probably horses must not be driven too hard against such a bitter wind.
She was surprised when he stopped them, and got o
ut of the cutter. Dimly through the black veil she saw him going to their drooping heads, and she heard him say, “Just a minute, Lady,” as he laid his mittened hands on Prince’s nose. After a moment he took his hands away with a scraping motion, and Prince tossed his head high and shook music from his bells. Quickly Almanzo did the same thing to Lady’s nose, and she too, tossed up her head. Almanzo tucked himself into the cutter and they sped on.
Laura’s veil was a slab of frost against her mouth that made speaking uncomfortable, so she said nothing, but she wondered. Almanzo’s fur cap came down to his eyebrows, and his muffler covered his face to his eyes. His breath froze white on the fur and along the muffler’s edge. He drove with one hand, keeping the other under the robes, and often changing so that neither hand would freeze.
The horses trotted more slowly again, and again he got out and went to hold his hands on their noses. When he came back Laura asked him, “What’s the matter?”
He answered, “Their breath freezes over their noses till they can’t breathe. Have to thaw it off.”
They said no more. Laura remembered the cattle drifting in the October blizzard that began the Hard Winter; their breath had smothered them, till they would have died if Pa had not broken the ice from their noses.
The cold was piercing through the buffalo robes. It crept through Laura’s wool coat and woolen dress, through all her flannel petticoats and the two pairs of her woolen stockings drawn over the folded legs of her warm flannel union suit. In spite of the heat from the lantern, her feet and her legs grew cold. Her clenched jaws ached, and two sharp little aches began at her temples.
Almanzo reached across and pulled the robes higher, tucking them behind her elbows.
“Cold?” he asked.
“No,” Laura answered clearly. It was all she could say without letting her teeth chatter. It was not true, but he knew that she meant she was not so cold that she could not bear it. There was nothing to do but go on, and she knew that he was cold, too.
Again he stopped the horses and got out into the wind, to thaw the ice from their noses. Again the bells rang out merrily. The sound seemed as cruel, now, as the merciless wind. Though her veil made a darkness, she could see that the sun was shining bright on the white prairie. Almanzo came back into the cutter.
These Happy Golden Years Page 5