Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin
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“Rebecca,” said Emma Jane, with the nearest approach to tragedy that her nature would permit, “I don’t know as I shall be able to bear it, and if anything happens to me, I ask you solemnly to bury that number of The Pilot with me.”
Rebecca did not seem to think this the expression of an exaggerated state of feeling, inasmuch as she replied, “I know; that’s just the way it seemed to me at first, and even now, whenever I’m alone and take out the Pilot back numbers to read over my contributions, I almost burst with pleasure; and it’s not that they are good either, for they look worse to me every time I read them.”
“If you would only live with me in some little house when we get older,” mused Emma Jane, as with her darning needle poised in air she regarded the opposite wall dreamily, “I would do the housework and cooking, and copy all your poems and stories, and take them to the post-office, and you needn’t do anything but write. It would be perfectly elergant!”
“I’d like nothing better, if I hadn’t promised to keep house for John,” replied Rebecca.
“He won’t have a house for a good many years, will he?”
“No,” sighed Rebecca ruefully, flinging herself down by the table and resting her head on her hand. “Not unless we can contrive to pay off that detestable mortgage. The day grows farther off instead of nearer now that we haven’t paid the interest this year.”
She pulled a piece of paper towards her, and scribbling idly on it read aloud in a moment or two:—
“Will you pay a little faster?” said the mortgage to the farm;
“I confess I’m very tired of this place.”
“The weariness is mutual,” Rebecca Randall cried;
“I would I’d never gazed upon your face!”
“A note has a ‘face,’” observed Emma Jane, who was gifted in arithmetic. “I didn’t know that a mortgage had.”
“Our mortgage has,” said Rebecca revengefully. “I should know him if I met him in the dark. Wait and I’ll draw him for you. It will be good for you to know how he looks, and then when you have a husband and seven children, you won’t allow him to come anywhere within a mile of your farm.”
The sketch when completed was of a sort to be shunned by a timid person on the verge of slumber. There was a tiny house on the right, and a weeping family gathered in front of it. The mortgage was depicted as a cross between a fiend and an ogre, and held an axe uplifted in his red right hand. A figure with streaming black locks was staying the blow, and this, Rebecca explained complacently, was intended as a likeness of herself, though she was rather vague as to the method she should use in attaining her end.
“He’s terrible,” said Emma Jane, “but awfully wizened and small.”
“It’s only a twelve hundred dollar mortgage,” said Rebecca, “and that’s called a small one. John saw a man once that was mortgaged for twelve thousand.”
“Shall you be a writer or an editor?” asked Emma Jane presently, as if one had only to choose and the thing were done.
“I shall have to do what turns up first, I suppose.”
“Why not go out as a missionary to Syria, as the Burches are always coaxing you to? The Board would pay your expenses.”
“I can’t make up my mind to be a missionary,” Rebecca answered. “I’m not good enough in the first place, and I don’t ‘feel a call,’ as Mr. Burch says you must. I would like to do something for somebody and make things move, somewhere, but I don’t want to go thousands of miles away teaching people how to live when I haven’t learned myself. It isn’t as if the heathen really needed me; I’m sure they’ll come out all right in the end.”
“I can’t see how; if all the people who ought to go out to save them stay at home as we do,” argued Emma Jane.
“Why, whatever God is, and wherever He is, He must always be there, ready and waiting. He can’t move about and miss people. It may take the heathen a little longer to find Him, but God will make allowances, of course. He knows if they live in such hot climates it must make them lazy and slow; and the parrots and tigers and snakes and bread-fruit trees distract their minds; and having no books, they can’t think as well; but they’ll find God somehow, some time.”
“What if they die first?” asked Emma Jane.
“Oh, well, they can’t be blamed for that; they don’t die on purpose,” said Rebecca, with a comfortable theology.
In these days Adam Ladd sometimes went to Temperance on business connected with the proposed branch of the railroad familiarly known as the “York and Yank ‘em,” and while there he gained an inkling of Sunnybrook affairs. The building of the new road was not yet a certainty, and there was a difference of opinion as to the best route from Temperance to Plumville. In one event the way would lead directly through Sunnybrook, from corner to corner, and Mrs. Randall would be compensated; in the other, her interests would not be affected either for good or ill, save as all land in the immediate neighborhood might rise a little in value.
Coming from Temperance to Wareham one day, Adam had a long walk and talk with Rebecca, whom he thought looking pale and thin, though she was holding bravely to her self-imposed hours of work. She was wearing a black cashmere dress that had been her aunt Jane’s second best. We are familiar with the heroine of romance whose foot is so exquisitely shaped that the coarsest shoe cannot conceal its perfections, and one always cherishes a doubt of the statement; yet it is true that Rebecca’s peculiar and individual charm seemed wholly independent of accessories. The lines of her figure, the rare coloring of skin and hair and eyes, triumphed over shabby clothing, though, had the advantage of artistic apparel been given her, the little world of Wareham would probably at once have dubbed her a beauty. The long black braids were now disposed after a quaint fashion of her own. They were crossed behind, carried up to the front, and crossed again, the tapering ends finally brought down and hidden in the thicker part at the neck. Then a purely feminine touch was given to the hair that waved back from the face,—a touch that rescued little crests and wavelets from bondage and set them free to take a new color in the sun.
Adam Ladd looked at her in a way that made her put her hands over her face and laugh through them shyly as she said: “I know what you are thinking, Mr. Aladdin,—that my dress is an inch longer than last year, and my hair different; but I’m not nearly a young lady yet; truly I’m not. Sixteen is a month off still, and you promised not to give me up till my dress trails. If you don’t like me to grow old, why don’t you grow young? Then we can meet in the halfway house and have nice times. Now that I think about it,” she continued, “that’s just what you’ve been doing all along. When you bought the soap, I thought you were grandfather Sawyer’s age; when you danced with me at the flag-raising, you seemed like my father; but when you showed me your mother’s picture, I felt as if you were my John, because I was so sorry for you.”
“That will do very well,” smiled Adam; “unless you go so swiftly that you become my grandmother before I really need one. You are studying too hard, Miss Rebecca Rowena!”
“Just a little,” she confessed. “But vacation comes soon, you know.”
“And are you going to have a good rest and try to recover your dimples? They are really worth preserving.”
A shadow crept over Rebecca’s face and her eyes suffused. “Don’t be kind, Mr. Aladdin, I can’t bear it;—it’s—it’s not one of my dimply days!” and she ran in at the seminary gate, and disappeared with a farewell wave of her hand.
Adam Ladd wended his way to the principal’s office in a thoughtful mood. He had come to Wareham to unfold a plan that he had been considering for several days. This year was the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the Wareham schools, and he meant to tell Mr. Morrison that in addition to his gift of a hundred volumes to the reference library, he intended to celebrate