Kitabı oku: «Violet: A Fairy Story», sayfa 5
CHAPTER XIX.
GOING TO SCHOOL
Violet's years were like her days – busy and joyous; for they were spent in making all about her happy, and in finding new wonder and beauty in the world.
Winter evenings she would sit on her cricket at the old people's feet, and amuse them by telling her adventures on the way to and from school, or the wonderful things she had learned there.
Perhaps it had stormed, and she would describe how beautiful it was to see every thing folded in a mantle of white snow, and to run through the pearly dust, and scatter it far and wide, and to see it gathering like a world of blossoms in the branches of the dark pine trees.
Then she would tell how, when it cleared away, every thing shone, and glittered, and stood so still in the cold, blue air, and she could not hear her own footsteps any more than those of the squirrels that darted along the stone wall, and how she had sung, and shouted, and clapped her hands for company.
Or she had found a half-frozen bird, and, picking it up with her own half-frozen hands, had warmed it to life, while she felt its little frightened heart beating beneath her shawl – that heart and her own the only moving things in the wide, white silence.
And then how glad it made her feel when her bird sprang forth into the sky again, and she watched his shadow circling round and round her, until he alighted in a tree just as she passed underneath, and, with his fluttering wings sent down a shower of snow flakes all over her.
This, she supposed, was the only way he had of telling how well and strong he felt, and how he loved her for what she had done to him.
But Violet could hardly make the old folks believe what she heard at school about far-off countries and strange animals – snakes large enough to crush a horse and rider in their folds, and fishes so huge that half a dozen people could sit inside of them.
Every child knows these things now, and has pictures of them in his books; but when Reuben and Mary were young there were few schools; and they, poor people, had to work instead of study.
On summer mornings, after her work was done, Violet would bring home roots from her favorite wood, and plant them about the house, until you would hardly know it, it was so buried in beautiful green vines.
You could not have made Violet think there was a pleasanter home on earth than hers, when the clematis was starred all over with white blossoms, and the honeysuckle she had trained over the door was full of bright yellow flowers, and the hop vine hung full of its beautiful cones, and among all shone the bright pink wild roses, and the whole air was sweet with her own favorite violets.
Birds built nests within the vine, and hatched their young, and sang loudly and sweetly to their friends in the hut as often as they cared to hear.
CHAPTER XX.
OLD REUBEN DEAD
Nothing pleased Reuben half as much as to sit in the shadow of the vines, watch the flowers grow, and feel that all this beauty was Violet's work; for the old gardener loved flowers dearly; and when he had grown too old to work himself, he was so glad to feel that his garden pets need not be smothered up in weeds, and die.
So there he sat in the sun day after day, while he grew thinner and more feeble; and one pleasant afternoon, when Violet thought he had taken too long a nap, she went to waken him for fear he might take cold.
But she paused to look at the good old man as he sat there with his hands folded on his bosom, and such a beautiful smile on the wrinkled face, and the wind stirring the gray locks, while his head rested among the fresh summer leaves.
Reuben never awoke; he was dead.
Violet burst into tears, and wished for a moment that she could die herself; but she thought of the mother who was too infirm to take care of herself, and who had lived with Reuben longer and would feel his loss more than she.
Just then a bird flew from his nest in the vine, and soaring slowly, sang low at first, and sweetly, and then louder and louder, till he was lost among the clouds.
And Violet remembered what her father had said so often, that one of these days he should shake off the old aching body, and soar as lightly as any bird, and live as happily, up in that calm heaven.
They buried Reuben under a great elm tree in sight of his own garden, and where he had often rested after his work, and watched the orioles building their nests or teaching their young to sing.
Lonely and sad enough it was in the hut when Violet and her mother went home and saw the old man's empty chair, and his garden tools hanging on the wall.
"It won't be long before I shall follow him," said old Mary, "and then God will take care of our child."
"But I will take care of my mother first, for a great many years," said Violet, drawing closer, and putting her arms around Mary protectingly; for Violet, though still young, was no longer a little child, as when we knew her first. The blue eyes, though, were just as bright and as full of love and tenderness; and the light hair, which was folded now in wavy bands over a calm white forehead, when the light touched it, had the same golden look as of old. She had grown tall too, and healthy, and was graceful as a bird, and had a low, musical voice like the brook, and a smile like sunshine, and, in short, was beautiful as a fairy herself.
While she sat there, with her low, sweet voice, trying to console her mother, and now and then her own sunny smile breaking through even her tears, the door opened, and their landlord entered.
He had sold the pasture and the whole blackberry hill to a rich man who would build there immediately; and they must move this very night, for the hut stood in his way.
CHAPTER XXI.
A NEW HOME AND OLD FRIENDS
Trouble seemed to come all at once; they had no money and no place to store their humble furniture; but Violet always hoped for the best, and only smiled when they began to move the rough chairs and table her father had nailed together.
"There's one comfort," she said; "our things are not so fine that a little dew will hurt them. We may leave them here till we find a better place."
But it did make her heart ache to see the men tear away her vines, even from above old Reuben's seat, and then, with a few axe strokes, batter down the wall, till nothing was left of the dear old home but a little pile of boards.
"We had better go to this rich man and tell our story," said her mother, as they walked sadly out of the pasture for, as they thought, the last time.
"He was boarding," the landlord said, "at a hotel in the village where Reuben had carried his marketing, only three or four miles thence."
So, leaning on Violet's arm, old Mary crept along the dusty road, farther than she had walked for many a day, and was tired enough when they reached the hotel door.
Not so Violet, who was full of hope, and had in her head more plans than one for finding a new home.
They asked for the stranger, Dr. Story, were led to his parlor, and told their simple tale. He was interested at once, and very angry that they had been treated so badly on his account, and offered to give them money, while he hardly took his eyes from Violet's face.
"No," she said, smiling; "we did not come to beg, but thought, as we had lost our home through you, you might be willing to help us find another."
"And how shall I do that?" asked the doctor.
Then Violet told him that she had studied evenings so long it seemed to her she could teach in the village school; but she was poor, and had no friends to speak a good word for her with the committee.
"What is your name?" asked the gentleman, suddenly.
"Violet."
"I thought so; and what has become of Toady?"
It was the doctor who had mended Toady's leg so many years ago, and the young man who sat reading on the sofa was no other than Alfred, his son, with the fairy Ambition still keeping him hard at work, and making him care for little else but books.
He looked up though, and listened to Violet's story, and, as he watched her, actually closed his book, and always afterwards closed it if she entered the room; for fairy Love was stronger than Ambition, and he could no more see in the purple light which fell from her wings than an owl could in broad noonday.
"But where is Narcissa?" asked Violet.
The father's face grew sad as he told how, the very day they were at the hut, in riding home the carriage was overturned, and Narcissa not only lamed for life, but thrown against a tree, one of whose branches entered her eye and put it out.
When Violet heard of this her eyes filled with tears, and forgetting all the unkindness she had received from this girl, she only remembered how handsome Narcissa was, and how happy she seemed as they drove away.
And the fairy Love shed such a beautiful light around the poor berry girl, that Ambition hid in a corner, and Alfred didn't think of his books again that day.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE NEW OLD HOME
The doctor lent them money enough to hire a pleasant, sunny room in the village street, where her mother could sit and watch the passers by when she was tired of knitting and reading, for she was alone now almost all the day, and Violet was mistress of the village school.
One morning, as Mary sat in her comfortable chair, and was wishing old Reuben could see what a beautiful home she had, a carriage drove to the door below, and then came a knock at her own door, and Dr. Story entered.
"I have come to give you a ride this pleasant day," he said. "We will call for Violet. Wouldn't you like to see how I have improved the old blackberry field?"
Mary was delighted. She had never ridden in a carriage in her life; and to go in that splendid one of the doctor's, with velvet cushions, and footmen behind! She sat very straight, you may be sure, and kept tucking in her gown; for though it was new, she was afraid it might harm the seats, and her wrinkled face was shining all over with smiles.
They met Violet on her way home from school, and she was almost as much pleased as the old lady with her ride.
But what was their surprise to find, instead of the little footpath, a broad avenue through the pasture, with young trees on each side, and the hill where the blackberry vines had been, covered with waving oats, and in front of Violet's own beloved wood a beautiful great house large as a palace!
"But now look on the other side," said Dr. Story.
Where the old hut had stood was the prettiest little cottage you ever saw, with the very clematis, and honeysuckle, and wild roses Violet had planted trained over it; and there was Reuben's garden all in order, just as they had left it; and under the great elm tree there was his grave, with a new white stone at the head, and the old man's name and age cut in it.
They alighted at the cottage door, and Violet noticed how the air was perfumed with her own favorite flowers. While Alfred stooped to gather some of these for Violet, his father said, —
"Do you remember, Mary, whose birthday this is?"
"Sure enough, it's Violet's!" exclaimed the old woman.
"And this," said the doctor, "is Violet's birthday present – this house and garden, and these beds of flowers."
But before they could thank him, he added, —
"In return, you are to give up your school, and teach my own children. Will you do it, Violet? They are so young it will be easy at first, and meantime you shall have teachers yourself."
Pleased as Violet and Mary were, I don't think they were half as glad as Alfred, who threw his book down into the grass so suddenly at his father's speech, I should not be surprised if it broke fairy Ambition's head.
CHAPTER XXIII.
ALFRED
The cottage was all furnished, and had even a foot stove for the old lady, and a soft, stuffed easy chair in the parlor, while on the woodshed wall hung Reuben's tools; and what do you think hopped up from under a board as Violet stood looking at these? Toady, on his three legs, who winked his one round eye at her, as if he would say, "Isn't all this fine?"
Then there was a school room, where Violet's pupils came every morning, and learned to love her as if she were their own sister.
After school she would tell them stories about the birds, and squirrels, and flowers, among which she had lived so long, or take them to walk in the old pleasant places.
They told their sister Narcissa, who, like Violet, was grown to a young lady now, so much about the new teacher, that one pleasant day she went to the cottage with them.
Violet was grieved to see how the handsome face was scarred and spoiled; but Narcissa said, —
"It was the best thing that ever happened to me, Violet – that accident; it cured me of pride and selfishness."
And it had, truly. Narcissa was so gentle and patient, you would not have known her for the same person. She grew as fond of Violet as the children were; and when they were busy in the school room, studying, she would often sit and read to the old lady in the sunny little room where she slept and spent almost all her time. This room looked out towards the violet beds, and over it the vines grew most luxuriantly; their blossoms looked in at her window, and their shadows flickered over the bright-red carpet; while old Mary sat in her easy chair thinking of Reuben, who was dead and gone, and rejoicing that she could live and die where every thing reminded her of him, and be buried by his side.
By his side she was buried, under the great elm tree, but not until she had lived many years in the cottage with Violet – the happiest years of her life.
Then Violet's friends at the great house said she had better go and live with them, it was so lonely in the old place now; and about this time Alfred came home from India, where he had lived long enough to grow very sickly and very rich.
He told Violet that he had been earning money to take care of her, and now, if she would be his wife, they might still live in the cottage and be happy all their days.
But Alfred's father was proud and ambitious, and would not be satisfied to have his son marry a poor berry girl. This Violet knew well enough; so she never told Alfred that she loved him, but only said "No" to his offers, at which he felt so badly he threatened to shoot himself.
But instead of this, he concluded afterwards to marry some one else – a lady, rich, and accomplished, and gay, who made the great house merrier than it had ever been before she went to it.
There were balls, and parties, and concerts, strangers coming and going constantly; there was no such thing as quiet.
Violet was unwilling to exchange for this her pleasant, sunny little cottage; the vines and the elm tree and crowded garden beds had grown so dear to her, and the very birds and squirrels seemed to know and love Violet, and sing and chip to her, "Do stay."
How could she refuse? Who would take care of poor Toady if she went? and who would feed the old faded cat lying now on the doorstep half asleep, opening half an eye sometimes to watch her kittens play, and then going off into a doze again like a worn-out grandmother, as she had become.
Who will believe it? – she was the same kitten that followed Violet into the wood about the time our story began, and wasn't old enough then to catch a cricket or keep from drowning in the brook.
