New Chronicles of Rebecca - Kate Wiggin 2 стр.

Afraid? they both echoed uncomprehendingly.

Lizy Ann and Mr. Perkins, perceiving that the fear of a dead presence had not entered the minds of Rebecca or Emma Jane, said nothing, but drove off together, counseling them not to stray far away from the cabin and promising to be back in an hour.

There was not a house within sight, either looking up or down the shady road, and the two girls stood hand in hand, watching the wagon out of sight; then they sat down quietly under a tree, feeling all at once a nameless depression hanging over their gay summer-morning spirits.

It was very still in the woods; just the chirp of a grasshopper now and then, or the note of a bird, or the click of a far-distant mowing machine.

Were WATCHING! whispered Emma Jane. They watched with Granpa Perkins, and there was a great funeral and two ministers. He left two thousand dollars in the bank and a store full of goods, and a paper thing you could cut tickets off of twice a year, and they were just like money.

They watched with my little sister Mira, too, said Rebecca. You remember when she died, and I went home to Sunnybrook Farm? It was winter time, but she was covered with evergreen and white pinks, and there was singing.

There wont be any funeral or ministers or singing here, will there? Isnt that awful?

I spose not; and oh, Emma Jane, no flowers either. We might get those for her if theres nobody else to do it.

Would you dare put them on to her? asked Emma Jane, in a hushed voice.

I dont know; I cant tell; it makes me shiver, but, of course, we COULD do it if we were the only friends she had. Lets look into the cabin first and be perfectly sure that there arent any. Are you afraid?

N-no; I guess not. I looked at Granpa Perkins, and he was just the same as ever.

At the door of the hut Emma Janes courage suddenly departed. She held back shuddering and refused either to enter or look in. Rebecca shuddered too, but kept on, drawn by an insatiable curiosity about life and death, an overmastering desire to know and feel and understand the mysteries of existence, a hunger for knowledge and experience at all hazards and at any cost.

Emma Jane hurried softly away from the felt terrors of the cabin, and after two or three minutes of utter silence Rebecca issued from the open door, her sensitive face pale and woe-begone, the ever-ready tears raining down her cheeks. She ran toward the edge of the wood, sinking down by Emma Janes side, and covering her eyes, sobbed with excitement:

Oh, Emma Jane, she hasnt got a flower, and shes so tired and sad-looking, as if shed been hurt and hurt and never had any good times, and theres a weeny, weeny baby side of her. Oh, I wish I hadnt gone in!

Emma Jane blenched for an instant. Mrs. Dennett never said THERE WAS TWO DEAD ONES! ISNT THAT DREADFUL? But, she continued, her practical common sense coming to the rescue, youve been in once and its all over; it wont be so bad when you take in the flowers because youll be used to it. The goldenrod hasnt begun to bud, so theres nothing to pick but daisies. Shall I make a long rope of them, as I did for the schoolroom?

Yes, said Rebecca, wiping her eyes and still sobbing. Yes, thats the prettiest, and if we put it all round her like a frame, the undertaker couldnt be so cruel as to throw it away, even if she is a pauper, because it will look so beautiful. From what the Sunday school lessons say, shes only asleep now, and when she wakes up shell be in heaven.

THERES ANOTHER PLACE, said Emma Jane, in an orthodox and sepulchral whisper, as she took her ever-present ball of crochet cotton from her pocket and began to twine the whiteweed blossoms into a rope.

Oh, well! Rebecca replied with the easy theology that belonged to her temperament. They simply couldnt send her DOWN THERE with that little weeny baby. Whod take care of it? You know page six of the catechism says the only companions of the wicked after death are their father the devil and all the other evil angels; it wouldnt be any place to bring up a baby.

Whenever and wherever she wakes up, I hope she wont know that the big baby is going to the poor farm. I wonder where he is?

Perhaps over to Mrs. Dennetts house. She didnt seem sorry a bit, did she?

No, but I suppose shes tired sitting up and nursing a stranger. Mother wasnt sorry when Granpa Perkins died; she couldnt be, for he was cross all the time and had to be fed like a child. Why ARE you crying again, Rebecca?

Oh, I dont know, I cant tell, Emma Jane! Only I dont want to die and have no funeral or singing and nobody sorry for me! I just couldnt bear it!

Neither could I, Emma Jane responded sympathetically; but praps if were real good and die young before we have to be fed, they will be sorry. I do wish you could write some poetry for her as you did for Alice Robinsons canary bird, only still better, of course, like that you read me out of your thought book.

I could, easy enough, exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by the idea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an emergency. Though I dont know but it would be kind of bold to do it. Im all puzzled about how people get to heaven after theyre buried. I cant understand it a bit; but if the poetry is on her, what if that should go, too? And how could I write anything good enough to be read out loud in heaven?

A little piece of paper couldnt get to heaven; it just couldnt, asserted Emma Jane decisively. It would be all blown to pieces and dried up. And nobody knows that the angels can read writing, anyway.

They must be as educated as we are, and more so, too, agreed Rebecca. They must be more than just dead people, or else why should they have wings? But Ill go off and write something while you finish the rope; its lucky you brought your crochet cotton and I my lead pencil.

In fifteen or twenty minutes she returned with some lines written on a scrap of brown wrapping paper. Standing soberly by Emma Jane, she said, preparing to read them aloud: Theyre not good; I was afraid your fatherd come back before I finished, and the first verse sounds exactly like the funeral hymns in the church book. I couldnt call her Sally Winslow; it didnt seem nice when I didnt know her and she is dead, so I thought if I said friend it would show she had somebody to be sorry.

I think thats perfectly elegant! exclaimed Emma Jane, kissing Rebecca fervently. You are the smartest girl in the whole State of Maine, and it sounds like a ministers prayer. I wish we could save up and buy a printing machine. Then I could learn to print what you write and wed be partners like father and Bill Moses. Shall you sign it with your name like we do our school compositions?

No, said Rebecca soberly. I certainly shant sign it, not knowing where its going or wholl read it. I shall just hide it in the flowers, and whoever finds it will guess that there wasnt any minister or singing, or gravestone, or anything, so somebody just did the best they could.

No, said Rebecca soberly. I certainly shant sign it, not knowing where its going or wholl read it. I shall just hide it in the flowers, and whoever finds it will guess that there wasnt any minister or singing, or gravestone, or anything, so somebody just did the best they could.

III

The tired mother with the weeny baby on her arm lay on a long carpenters bench, her earthly journey over, and when Rebecca stole in and placed the flowery garland all along the edge of the rude bier, death suddenly took on a more gracious and benign aspect. It was only a childs sympathy and intuition that softened the rigors of the sad moment, but poor, wild Sal Winslow, in her frame of daisies, looked as if she were missed a little by an unfriendly world; while the weeny baby, whose heart had fallen asleep almost as soon as it had learned to beat, the weeny baby, with Emma Janes nosegay of buttercups in its tiny wrinkled hand, smiled as if it might have been loved and longed for and mourned.

Weve done all we can now without a minister, whispered Rebecca. We could sing, God is ever good out of the Sunday school song book, but Im afraid somebody would hear us and think we were gay and happy. Whats that?

A strange sound broke the stillness; a gurgle, a yawn, a merry little call. The two girls ran in the direction from which it came, and there, on an old coat, in a clump of goldenrod bushes, lay a child just waking from a refreshing nap.

Its the other baby that Lizy Ann Dennett told about! cried Emma Jane.

Isnt he beautiful! exclaimed Rebecca. Come straight to me! and she stretched out her arms.

The child struggled to its feet, and tottered, wavering, toward the warm welcome of the voice and eyes. Rebecca was all mother, and her maternal instincts had been well developed in the large family in which she was next to the eldest. She had always confessed that there were perhaps a trifle too many babies at Sunnybrook Farm, but, nevertheless, had she ever heard it, she would have stood loyally by the Japanese proverb: Whether brought forth upon the mountain or in the field, it matters nothing; more than a treasure of one thousand ryo a baby precious is.

You darling thing! she crooned, as she caught and lifted the child. You look just like a Jack-o-lantern.

The boy was clad in a yellow cotton dress, very full and stiff. His hair was of such a bright gold, and so sleek and shiny, that he looked like a fair, smooth little pumpkin. He had wide blue eyes full of laughter, a neat little vertical nose, a neat little horizontal mouth with his few neat little teeth showing very plainly, and on the whole Rebeccas figure of speech was not so wide of the mark.

Oh, Emma Jane! Isnt he too lovely to go to the poor farm? If only we were married we could keep him and say nothing and nobody would know the difference! Now that the Simpsons have gone away there isnt a single baby in Riverboro, and only one in Edgewood. Its a perfect shame, but I cant do anything; you remember Aunt Miranda wouldnt let me have the Simpson baby when I wanted to borrow her just for one rainy Sunday.

My mother wont keep him, so its no use to ask her; she says most every day shes glad were grown up, and she thanks the Lord there wasnt but two of us.

And Mrs. Peter Meserve is too nervous, Rebecca went on, taking the village houses in turn; and Mrs. Robinson is too neat.

People dont seem to like any but their own babies, observed Emma Jane.

Well, I cant understand it, Rebecca answered. A babys a baby, I should think, whose ever it is! Miss Dearborn is coming back Monday; I wonder if shed like it? She has nothing to do out of school, and we could borrow it all the time!

I dont think it would seem very genteel for a young lady like Miss Dearborn, who boards round, to take a baby from place to place, objected Emma Jane.

Perhaps not, agreed Rebecca despondently, but I think if we havent got anyanyPRIVATE babies in Riverboro we ought to have one for the town, and all have a share in it. Weve got a town hall and a town lamp post and a town watering trough. Things are so uneven! One house like mine at Sunnybrook, brimful of children, and the very next one empty! The only way to fix them right would be to let all the babies that ever are belong to all the grown-up people that ever are,just divide them up, you know, if theyd go round. Oh, I have a thought! Dont you believe Aunt Sarah Cobb would keep him? She carries flowers to the graveyard every little while, and once she took me with her. Theres a marble cross, and it says: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SARAH ELLEN, BELOVED CHILD OF SARAH AND JEREMIAH COBB, AGED 17 MONTHS. Why, thats another reason; Mrs. Dennett says this one is seventeen months. Theres five of us left at the farm without me, but if we were only nearer to Riverboro, how quick mother would let in one more!

We might see what father thinks, and that would settle it, said Emma Jane. Father doesnt think very sudden, but he thinks awful strong. If we dont bother him, and find a place ourselves for the baby, perhaps hell be willing. Hes coming now; I hear the wheels.

Lizy Ann Dennett volunteered to stay and perform the last rites with the undertaker, and Jack-o-lantern, with his slender wardrobe tied in a bandanna handkerchief, was lifted into the wagon by the reluctant Mr. Perkins, and jubilantly held by Rebecca in her lap. Mr. Perkins drove off as speedily as possible, being heartily sick of the whole affair, and thinking wisely that the little girls had already seen and heard more than enough of the seamy side of life that morning.

Discussion concerning Jack-o-lanterns future was prudently deferred for a quarter of an hour, and then Mr. Perkins was mercilessly pelted with arguments against the choice of the poor farm as a place of residence for a baby.

His father is sure to come back some time, Mr. Perkins, urged Rebecca. He couldnt leave this beautiful thing forever; and if Emma Jane and I can persuade Mrs. Cobb to keep him a little while, would you care?

No; on reflection Mr. Perkins did not care. He merely wanted a quiet life and enough time left over from the public service to attend to his blacksmiths shop; so instead of going home over the same road by which they came he crossed the bridge into Edgewood and dropped the children at the long lane which led to the Cobb house.

Mrs. Cobb, Aunt Sarah to the whole village, sat by the window looking for Uncle Jerry, who would soon be seen driving the noon stage to the post office over the hill. She always had an eye out for Rebecca, too, for ever since the child had been a passenger on Mr. Cobbs stagecoach, making the eventful trip from her home farm to the brick house in Riverboro in his company, she had been a constant visitor and the joy of the quiet household. Emma Jane, too, was a well-known figure in the lane, but the strange baby was in the nature of a surprisea surprise somewhat modified by the fact that Rebecca was a dramatic personage and more liable to appear in conjunction with curious outriders, comrades, and retainers than the ordinary Riverboro child. She had run away from the too stern discipline of the brick house on one occasion, and had been persuaded to return by Uncle Jerry. She had escorted a wandering organ grinder to their door and begged a lodging for him on a rainy night; so on the whole there was nothing amazing about the coming procession.

The little party toiled up to the hospitable door, and Mrs. Cobb came out to meet them.

Rebecca was spokesman. Emma Janes talent did not lie in eloquent speech, but it would have been a valiant and a fluent child indeed who could have usurped Rebeccas privileges and tendencies in this direction, language being her native element, and words of assorted sizes springing spontaneously to her lips.