Phoebe Deane (30 page)

" Land sake, child, what's took yeh ? 'Course not. Why if that nimshi'd undertake to send yeh so much ez a blade o' grass I'd fling it in his mean little face. Don't you worry, dearie, you jest listen. 'Twas Nathaniel Graham sent you that rose. He said I wan't to say nothin' 'bout it till you got better, an' then I could say 'twas from him ef I wanted to. I didn't say anythin' yet 'cause I bed more to tell, but I ain't sure you are strong 'nough to hear any more now. Better take a nap first."

" No, Miranda; do tell me now."

" Wait, I reckon I better. I've most busted wantin' to tell yeh sev'ral times. Say, did you ever get a letter from Nathaniel Graham, Phoebe?"

" Why no, of course not, Miranda. Why would I get &' letter from him ? "

" Wait, he said he wrote you one once, an' he ask me did I know if you'd got it, an' I said No, I was sure you didn't, 'cause you said once you hadn't ever got a letter 'cept from your mother, an' so he said he'd write it over again fer yeh, an' I've hed it in my pocket fer a long time waitin' till I dared give it to yeh. So here 'tis, but I won't give it to yeh 'thout you promise to go right to sleep 'fore you read it fer you've hed more goin's on now than 's good fer yeh."

Phoebe protested that she must read the letter first, but Miranda was inexorable, and would not even show it to her until she promised. So meekly Phoebe promised, and went to sleep with the precious missive clasped in her hands, the wonder of it helping her to get quiet.

She slept a long time, for the excitement about the rose had taken her strength. When she awoke, before she opened her eyes she felt the letter, pressing the seals with her fingers, to make sure she had not been dreaming. She almost feared to open her eyes lest it should not be true. A letter for her all her own! Somehow she almost dreaded to break the seal and have the first wonder of it over. She had not thought what it might contain.

Miranda had brought a little pail of chicken broth that Marcia had made for Phoebe, and she had some steaming in a china bowl when Phoebe at last opened her eyes. She made her eat it before she opened the letter, and Phoebe smiled and acquiesced.

She lay smiling and quiet a long time after reading the letter, trying to get used to the thought that Nathaniel had remembered her, and cared to write to her; cared to have her write to him, too; it was not merely passing kindness toward a stranger. He wanted to be friends, real friends. It was good to feel that one had friends.

Phoebe looked over at the alert figure of Miranda, sitting bolt upright, watching her charge with anxiety to see if the letter was all that it should be, and then she laughed a soft little ripple that sounded like a shadow of her former self.

" Oh, you dear, good Miranda! You don't know how nice it all is to have friends, and a real letter."

" Is it a good letter ? " asked Miranda, wistfully.

" Read it," said Phoebe, handing it to her, smiling. " You certainly have a right to read it after all you have done to get it here."

Miranda took it shyly, and went over by the window where the setting sun made it a little less embarrassing. She read it slowly and carefully and the look on her face when she returned it showed she was satisfied.

" I seen him the mornin' he went back to New York," she admitted, after a minute. " He said he'd look fer that answer soon ez you got better. You're goin' to write, ain't you ? " anxiously. " 'Cause he seemed real set up about it."

" How soon may I answer it ? " she answered.

" We'll see," said Miranda, briskly. " The first business is to get strong."

They spent happy days together, those two girls, with nothing to worry them; and as Phoebe began to get strong and could be propped up with pillows for a little while each day Miranda at length allowed her to write a few lines in reply to her letter, and this was the message that in a few days thereafter traveled to New York.

"My Dear Mr. Graham:

" It was very pleasant to receive your letter and to know that you thought of me and prayed that I might get well. I think your prayers are being answered.

" It will be good to have a friend to write to me, and I shall be glad to correspond with you. I want to thank you for the beautiful rose. It helped me to get well. Its leaves are sweet yet.

" I have been a long time writing this, for I am very weak and tired yet, and Miranda will not let me write any more now, but you will understand and excuse me, will you not ? " Your friend

" Phcebe Deane."

Miranda had to go home soon after that, for it was plain Emmeline was wanting to get rid of her, and Marcia was to have guests for a couple of weeks. 'Squire Schuyler and his wife were coming to visit for the first time since little Hose's birth, for it was a long journey for an old man to take, and the 'Squire did not like to go away from home. Miranda felt that she must go, much as she hated to leave Phcebe, and so she bade her good-by, and Phoebe began to take care of herself.

She was able to walk around her room, and soon to go downstairs, but somehow when she got down into the old atmosphere something seemed to choke her, she felt weary and wanted to creep back to bed again. So, much to Emmeline's disgust, she did not progress as rapidly as she ought to have done.

" You need to git some ambition," said Emmeline, in disgust, the first morning Phcebe came down to breakfast, and sat back after one or two mouthfuls. There was fried ham and eggs, and fried potatoes. Anybody ought to be glad to get that, Emmeline thought.

But somehow they did not appeal to Phoebe, and she left her plate almost untasted.

" I think ef you'd get some work and do somethin' mebbe you'd get your strength again. I never see anybody hang back like you do. There ain't any sense in it. What's the matter with yeh, anyway ? "

" I don't know," said Phoebe, with an effort at cheerful- 'ness. " I try, but somehow I feel so heavy and tired all the time."

" She isn't strong yet, Emmeline," pleaded Albert, kindly.

"Wai, don't I know that?" snapped Emmeline. "But how's she ever goin' to get strong if she don't work it up ? "

Such little pin-pricks were hard to bear when Phoebe felt well, and now that her strength was but a breath she seemed not to be able to bear them at all, and after a short effort would creep back to her room and lie down.

Miranda discovered her all huddled in a little heap on her bed late one afternoon when she came up to bring Phoebe her second letter, for Nathaniel had arranged that for the present he would send his correspondence to Phoebe through Miranda. Neither of them said aloud that it was because Hiram Green brought up the Deanes's mail so often, but both understood.

Miranda and the letter succeeded in cheering up Phoebe, hut the ex-nurse felt that things were not going with her charge as prosperously as they should, and she took her trouble back to Marcia.

" Let's bring her down here, Miranda," proposed Marcia. " Father and mother are going home on Monday and it will be quiet and nice here. I think she might spend a month with us and get strong before she goes back and tries to work."

Miranda was delighted and took the first opportunity to convey the invitation to Phoebe, whose cheeks grew pink and eyes bright with anticipation. A whole month with Mrs. Spafford and Miranda! It was too good to be true.

It was Monday morning when they came for her with the big old chaise. Emmeline and Hank's sister were out hanging up clothes. Emmeline's mouth was full of clothespins, and her brow was dark, for Hank's sister talked much and worked slowly. Moreover, she made lumpy starch and could not be depended upon to keep the potatoes from burning if one went out to feed the chickens. It was hard to have trained up a good worker and then have her trail off in a thunder-storm and get sick and leave the work all on one's hands without ambition enough to get well. Emmeline was very ungracious to Marcia. She told Albert that she didn't see what business Mrs. Spafford had coming round to run their house. She thought Phoebe was better off at home, but Albert felt that Mrs. Spafford had been exceedingly kind.

So it was with little regret that Phoebe was carried away from her childhood's home, and into a sweet new world of loving kindness and joy, where the round cheeks and happiness of health might be coaxed back. Yet to Phoebe it was not an unalloyed bliss, for always there was the thought with her that by and by she must go back to the old life again, and she shuddered at the very thought of it, and could not bear to face it. It was like going to heaven for a little time and having to return to earth's trials again.

The spring had changed into the summer during Phoebe's illness and it was almost the middle of July when she began her beautiful visit at the Spaffords.

CHAPTER XXIII

Hiram Green had been exceedingly quiet since the night of the runaway.

The old plow-horse had kicked something loose about the chaise in his final lurch before he started to run, and it goaded his every step. He thought Hiram was striking him with a club. He thought the thunder was pursuing him; he thought the lightning was reaching for him as it darted through the livid sky; and down the road he flew, mile after mile, not slowing up for curves or excrescences in the road, but taking a short cut at the turns, rearing and shying at every flash of lightning. The chaise came lurching after, like one tied to a whirlwind, and Hiram, clinging, cursing, lashing out madly with his whip, was finally forced to spend his time in holding on, thinking every minute would be his last.

As the horse saw his own gate at last, however, he gave a final leap into the air, and bounded across the ditch, regardless of what was behind him, perhaps hoping to rid himself of it. The chaise lurched into the air and Hiram was tossed lightly over the fence and landed in the cow pasture. Something snapped, and the horse entered his own dooryard free at last from the thing which had been pursuing him.

The rain had begun to come down in driving sheets now, and brought Hiram to his feet in spite of his dazed condition. He looked about him in the alternate dimness and vivid brightness, and perceived that he was close to the Deanes. A moment's reflection made it plain that he must get up some kind of a story, so he put on the best face that he could and went in.

"We've had an accident," he explained, limping into the kitchen, where Emmeline was trying to get supper and keep the fretful baby quiet. " The blamed horse got scared at th' lightnin'. I seen what was goin' to happen an' I held him on his haunches fer a second while Phoebe jumped. She's back there a piece now, I reck'n, fer that blamed critter never stopped till he landed to home, an' he placed me in a awkward position in the cow pasture, with the chaise all broke up. I guess Phoebe's all right, fer I looked back an' thought I saw her tryin' to wave her hand to me, but I 'spect we better go hunt her up soon 's this here storm lets up. She'll likely go in somewheres. We'd just got past old Mis' Duzenberry's."

That was all the explanation the Deanes had ever had of the adventure. Phoebe had been too ill to speak of it at first, and after she got well enough to come downstairs and Albert had questioned her at the table about it she had shuddered, and turned so white saying: " Please don't, Albert. I can't bear to think of it," that he had never asked her again.

During her illness Hiram had been politely concerned about her welfare, taking the precaution to visit the post- office every day and inquire solicitously for any mail for her in a voice loud enough to be heard all over the room, and always being ready to tell just how she was when any one inquired. It never entered Albert's head that Hiram was not as anxious as he was during those days and nights when the fever held sway over the sweet young life. As for Emmeline, she made up her mind that where ignorance was bliss 'twas folly to be wise, and she kept her lips sealed, accepting Hiram's explanation, though all the time secretly she thought there might be some deeper reason for Phoebe's terrible appearance than just a runaway. She was relieved that Phoebe said nothing about it, if there had been trouble, and hoped it was forgotten.

The day after Phoebe went to the Spaffords to visit Hiram came up to see Emmeline in the afternoon when he knew Albert was out in the hayfield.

" Say, do you still favor livin' down to the village ? " he asked, seating himself without waiting for an invitation.

Emmeline looked up keenly, and wondered what was in the air.

"I hev said so," she remarked, tentatively, not willing to commit herself without further knowledge.

" Wai, you know that lot o' mine down there opposite the Seceder church? It has a big weepin' wilier same 's in the church yard, an a couple o' plum-trees in bearin'. How'd you like to live on thet lot?"

" H'm! " said Emmeline, stolidly. " Much good 'twould do me to like it. Albert'll never buy that lot, Hiram Green, there ain't no use askin' him. You wasn't thinkin' of buildin' there yerself, was yeh ? " Emmeline looked up sharply as this new thought entered her mind. Perhaps he wanted her to hold out the bait of a house in the village to Phoebe.

" Naw, I ain't goin' to build in no village at present, Mis' Deane," he remarked, dryly. " Too fur from work fer me, thank you. But I was thinkin' I'd heard you say you wanted to live in the village, an' I thought I'd make a bargain with you. Say, Emmeline, 'taint no use mincin' matters. I'm a' goin' to marry Phoebe Deane, an' I want you should help me to it. I'll make you this offer. It's a real generous one, too. The day I marry Phoebe Deane I'll give you a deed to that lot in the village. Now, what d'yeh say? Is't a bargain ? "