Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
“What next?” said Ruth gayly. She was growing happy. David and she were comrades, and they had accomplished one purpose together; now they were ready for more. It was beautiful work, albeit there was a sad side to it which her brother had not thought of yet. She was unpacking and putting about the things which she had laid away in sadness and tears. Everything was full of associations oldie dear ones who were gone, for whom and by whom and with whom they had been purchased. It was hard to keep back the tears sometimes and yet she felt that this was the very work those dear ones would have liked the precious things to be put to, so she went bravely and even gladly on with her work. There might be tears for the quiet of her own room, but she must have only smiles here, for the old house had been gloomy long enough, and she was come that she might help to win home to heaven and Jesus the two brothers, so long strangers to her.
“We will work at the parlor I think, and in there,” pointing to the large room adjoining the kitchen, which had been so long a dusty, unused bedroom. “It you don't mind I want to make a lovely dining room out of that, with a library in the front room beyond. The little room adjoining the parlor would make a nice retreat for my piano and a couch for you to lie on and listen to the music sometimes, if you arc willing to cut the doorway a little wider so that it will take in the fretwork archway that used to be between the parlors at home. It is in the hallway at home. This is the only place I can think of where it would fit prettily.”
David assented eagerly. He would cut any number of doorways, if she wanted them, though it did puzzle him a little to know what fretwork was. However he held his peace, for he had confidence in the present architect.
“I want to keep all signs of work from the halls and kitchen and the places where Joseph usually goes, so that his room will be a complete surprise. Shall we leave our own rooms till the last? Then we can work at them at our leisure?”
David agreed and they went to work. The painters and paperers were kept close within certain rooms. The transformation in the old house went on, and so did the village tongues.
Mrs. Chatterton ran in to see old Mrs. Haskins and took her knitting. Ellen Amelia hovered about with her paper in her hand and her hair in curl papers. She was going to a church supper that night.
“They say,” said Mrs. Chatterton, as she picked up some stitches she had dropped, “that there's great doings goin' on over to Benedicts'. I guess that girl's a piece. That aunt and uncle 't adopted her must have been awful rich. I guess you'd be surprised if you knew how many loads of furniture I counted at my window yesterday, and 't ain't all there yet, I heard.”
“Well, I guess she's used to havin' things mighty stylish,” responded the New York grandmother. “John, he says she has pictures painted right onto the walls, of trees and things, and she's fixed something in the room, he don't know what, that made the sunshine streak right in on anything she wanted it to shine on, even though 'twas a dark day. I s'pose it's one o' them new kind of Eddysun things you read about. They do most anything now.”
“You don't say!” said Mrs. Chatterton, pausing to take in this great wonder and pack it away for further transportation. “One o' them Edsun machines fer makin' sunshine! Well, I ain't sure but I'd like to have one. Well, she's got some funny idees about paint. My son's wife's brother did the paintin', and he tried fer all he was worth to 'dvise her 'bout things, but she would have her own way, an' a mighty funny one it was too. I wonder what Joseph'll say 'bout it all when he comes back. Strange he went off so sudden, ain't it? I wonder if he knows.”
And that night Joseph came back.
JOSEPH was cross. He had not enjoyed his trip so much as he had expected. Somehow everything with which he had come in contact had made him discontented, and as he came in sight of the farmhouse he scowled at it and hated it. Perhaps he added a little hate with the thought that it contained the sister who had come in to interrupt the quiet and have her own way. He did not want to go in but neither did he wish to go anywhere else, and besides, he must make report to his brother at once of the result of his trip.
David met him as he came around to the back door and gave him a hearty welcome. Indeed he could hardly keep the light of the secret upstairs from shining in his face. He had a fear lest his brother should read the story of the new room in his eyes before he went in. He got Joseph's report in a few words and then turned away. He wanted his brother to go upstairs at once, as he was sure he would; so he went to attend to some small unnecessary matter among the milk pans, that he might not seem to be watching him.
Joseph went upstairs. It was growing dusky outside, and Ruth had taken advantage of the moment that her brothers had been talking together, to slip upstairs and light the lamp which shed its soft green glow over the new room and even shimmered unusually under the crack of the door. Joseph paused in wonder at it, and looked up and down the hall to see if in his preoccupation he had made a mistake and was standing in front of the wrong door. Then he threw the door open and gazed, first in wonder, then in dismay, and then in anger. What was all this? the door of a palace open before him? He made one step across the soft rug and looked down and then brushed his eyes to see if some cobweb were across them which hindered the vision. It was beautiful, it was wonderful, but it did not belong to him; and in his present mood he desired to be alone in his own room. Where then was that old retreat? Had it been spirited away? Oh! with a flash he understood it all now. During his absence my lady Ruth had pitched upon his poor room as the only one she wished to occupy, and had arranged it with her own things to suit herself. Their house was not good enough for her. She had taken his room without his leave. She might at least have told him before he left and given him some notice of where his bed had been moved. He was intruding upon her room it seemed, when he had but thought to go to his own. Well, he should not trouble them further to tell him where his things were, and he shut the yellow cream door with a slam and thundered down the stairs and out at the kitchen door, shutting it also with a heavy jar. If they chose to thus ignore his rights he would show them he could get along without their help. What he meant to do he was not sure yet, except that he would not sleep in that house that night. And he wished them thoroughly to understand that he was angry beyond recall. He went with long strides down the walk and out the gate to the road, but he turned his face away from the village for once.
David, standing behind the shed door, watched him with dismay. What had happened? Was Joseph displeased at the change in his room? Had they then failed after all? Notice that he classed himself with his sister in the enterprise. He had gone over completely to her leader-ship. He turned and went in the house. Ruth stood in the kitchen by the pleasant, attractive tea table, with a look of mingled fear and dismay. Fortunately Sally was upstairs putting on a clean apron preparatory to waiting upon the table, for though they had not yet established the dining room, things were beginning to be served in some sort of order, such as she was used to in the city.
“What is the matter, David? What has happened? Doesn't he like it?”
There were tears in her eyes and David felt at that moment as if he would like to go after his younger brother and chastise him severely. He had no business to be such a bear. Ruth went on: “I had just lighted his lamp and slipped over to my room as he came up the stairs and opened his door. He stood still a minute and then he shut the door very hard and went downstairs. I came right down after him, but he isn't anywhere around.”
David tried to comfort her as best he could. He did not quite understand what was the matter with Joseph, for he had been sure he would be pleased. But yet, on general principles Joseph was often displeased. He seemed to be always out of harmony with himself and with everything about him. But Ruth was not easily consoled. She ate little supper that night, though David did his best to keep up a show of eating himself and to talk cheerfully. Joseph did not come back. Ruth went soon to her room and wept. By and by she slipped upon her knees and tried to pray, but it seemed as though she had set her heart so upon the success of this her plan, and had been so sure she was being guided by a higher Power than her own, that she could not rally from the shock of finding that it had failed. She never doubted that it had failed, and that Joseph was exceedingly angry that they had meddled with his room, and had gone off, perhaps never to return. She had little creeping thoughts of doubt as to whether her prayers had not all been in vain, though she put them aside and would not give place to them. But it did seem strange that she should have been living with such a firm belief in that promise, “Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name I will do it,” and now had come this failure. Then she remembered the first part of that verse again, and it became to her like a rebuke for doubting her Lord. "Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain." Surely she had forgotten. She had not taken up this work for God, but he had led her to it, had put her into it, and ordained that it should be as he wanted it. Nothing could really fail of what he had planned, and he had promised that it should bring forth fruit, the fruit he wanted, and that it should be fruit that should remain; not just the kind that blossomed and formed and then fell off with the first wind of storm or blight that came along. He was able to make good come out of even this failure, disappointment though it was for her. She dried her eyes at last and went to bed, first looking out of her window in the vain hope that she might see something moving down the road to the gate. Oh, if her brother would but return, she would replace his old room just as it was, if he wanted it so; she would beg his pardon for having displeased him. Then she turned away from the window and tried to hum
He holds the key of all unknown,
And I am glad;
If other hands should hold the key,
Or if he trusted it to me,
I might be sad.
She sighed as she thought of what to-morrow might bring of certainty about Joseph, and then the hymn answered her:
What if to-morrow's cares were here
Without its rest?
I'd rather he unlocked the day,
And, as the hours swing open, say,
“My will is best.”
Then she laid her soul down to rest saying:
Enough; this covers all my wants
And so I rest;
For what I cannot, he can see,
And in his care I safe shall be,
Forever blest.
Out there, not many feet away from her window, over in the great hay barn, lay the young ingrate who had so torn the peace of mind of his family. He had stolen softly back after walking about two miles, for the exertion of his day's trip made him feel suddenly weary, now that the first heat of anger had worn away. He would not go back into the house, neither would he go to the village. He wanted to lie down and rest. The sweet hay in the great barn was easy of access by a little side door of which he carried the key, and so, while his brother and sister were worrying about him, he was sleeping heavily from sheer weariness. When the morning broke he rubbed his eyes and wondered where he was; and then it all came back to him, but his own stubbornness came as well. He was hungry but he would not go in and eat. It was early. He found some old clothes which were almost unused, a coat and a pair of overalls which he had kept in the front of the barn for occasional service, and with these he arranged a working suit; and taking a wash and a drink at the pump and his tools from their places, he went breakfastless to the wood lot to work. It did his angry soul good to have this revenge of feeling that they had driven him from home and to his work without food. Of course this could not go on forever, but while he worked he could think and decide what should be done. He felt pretty certain that he would go away somewhere, and that at once; but he wanted to think his plans over a little more before he put them into execution. And so he chopped angrily away at the trunk of an old tree and thought and grew hungrier and more stubborn with each hour, and the autumn sun rose high and clear, but it brought no cheer to him. It seemed to him now that all the universe was against him and was exulting in the fact that it was so.
Ruth did not know what to do with herself. To take up the work of finishing the house where they had left it the day before was impossible. Her heart was no longer in it. She would much rather have packed up all her things and sent them back to the storage house, replacing the old furniture now. All the plans seemed wrong. David at her earnest request had started out immediately after breakfast to see if he could find a trace of Joseph. Ruth was restless. She wished she were a man and familiar with her surroundings that she might go also. She tried to work at this and that, but her restless spirit would not be put down. She went from one window to another, and the tears were very near the surface. If she could but go out and search and in some way make amends for what she had done. She felt certain that she would break down and cry outright if the morning went on much longer and David did not come with word. She would go out and see if she could not find him. Suddenly the remembrance of her bicycle came to mind. It had not yet been unpacked, and was at that moment in its crate in the front room, which was to be a library, behind all sorts of boxes and chairs and tables. Could she get it out and uncrate it? She knew enough about the machine to put it together, when once she had it out, she was certain. At least she would try, for it would give her something to do with a purpose. This standing about and waiting was intolerable. Her vivid imagination through the night had conjured up all sorts of things that Joseph might have done, and she blamed her own sweet services for him for it all.
She went at once to the front room, armed with hatchet and hammer and screw-driver. It proved a work of time and strength to get the crate out of the tangle of furniture, and when at last this was accomplished she found the task of uncrating no easy one. But at last the machine was out and put together, and oiling it hastily she ran upstairs to put on her bicycle suit. With a few hasty directions to Sally, who had learned not to be surprised at almost anything her young mistress under-took, she started on her way, knowing no way in the whole place and having no fixed idea except to go somewhere and to find her brother Joseph. It was a lovely, clear, cool morning and the roads were perfect for a ride, but she took no thought of that. She rode steadily and rapidly, looking about with eyes which searched but saw not much of what she looked upon. Indeed, so hurried and earnest was she that she did not take her usual care to look about her and take her bearings that she might return without any trouble. She only thought about her errand. Down the road toward the village she started and rode as far as the Chatterton house, but then she reflected that David had probably gone on to the village to search and she would better go elsewhere. A long stretch of smooth, much-traveled road led off to the right just beyond the Chatterton place, so without much thought she turned upon it and flew on.
“For the land sake!” ejaculated Mrs. Chatterton, glancing up from her darning at the front sitting-room window, and dropping her lapful of stockings she hastened to the kitchen windows which looked on the side road to get a further view. Eliza Barnes, who was helping Mrs. Chatterton for a few days while she got the apple butter and mince-meat for the winter out of the way, dropped her dishcloth and went to the other window to see what it was that so interested Mrs. Chatterton.
“My land!” said she, her mouth open, her hands on her hips. “A girl on a bicycle! Don't she go it though? Who can she be?” Eliza was not favored by living on the direct road to the village and therefore did not know who the young woman was.
“I ain't sure, but I rather suspect it's that new Benedic' girl. I told 'em I thought they'd find she was a highflier. The idea! It isn't considered decent; but I s'pose them city folks do anything they please. She hasn't got no kind of a ma now to tend to her and you can't expect two boys to hold her in; besides, I heard Joseph was away from home and I see David a driving like mad by here an hour and more ago. She's just waited till they got off, that's what she's done. Somebody ought to tell David; such disgraceful goin's on! What would their poor father and mother say if they could rise up in their graves and know it all? It's a mercy they can't, I declare.”