Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm - Kate Douglas Wiggin (black male authors txt) 📗

APOLOGY REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM

“WE ARE SEVEN”

The old stage coach was rumbling along the dusty road that runs from Maplewood to Riverboro. The day was as warm as midsummer, though it was only the middle of May, and Mr. Jeremiah Cobb was favoring the horses as much as possible, yet never losing sight of the fact that he carried the mail. The hills were many, and the reins lay loosely in his hands as he lolled back in his seat and extended one foot and leg luxuriously over the dashboard. His brimmed hat of worn felt was well pulled over his eyes, and he revolved a quid of tobacco in his left cheek.

There was one passenger in the coach,—a small dark-haired person in a glossy buff calico dress. She was so slender and so stiffly starched that she slid from space to space on the leather cushions, though she braced herself against the middle seat with her feet and extended her cotton-gloved hands on each side, in order to maintain some sort of balance. Whenever the wheels sank farther than usual into a rut, or jolted suddenly over a stone, she bounded involuntarily into the air, came down again, pushed back her funny little straw hat, and picked up or settled more firmly a small pink sun shade, which seemed to be her chief responsibility, —unless we except a bead purse, into which she looked whenever the condition of the roads would permit, finding great apparent satisfaction in that its precious contents neither disappeared nor grew less. Mr. Cobb guessed nothing of these harassing details of travel, his business being to carry people to their destinations, not, necessarily, to make them comfortable on the way. Indeed he had forgotten the very existence of this one unnoteworthy little passenger.

When he was about to leave the post-office in Maplewood that morning, a woman had alighted from a wagon, and coming up to him, inquired whether this were the Riverboro stage, and if he were Mr. Cobb. Being answered in the affirmative, she nodded to a child who was eagerly waiting for the answer, and who ran towards her as if she feared to be a moment too late. The child might have been ten or eleven years old perhaps, but whatever the number of her summers, she had an air of being small for her age. Her mother helped her into the stage coach, deposited a bundle and a bouquet of lilacs beside her, superintended the “roping on” behind of an old hair trunk, and finally paid the fare, counting out the silver with great care.

“I want you should take her to my sisters’ in Riverboro,” she said. “Do you know Mirandy and Jane Sawyer? They live in the brick house.”

Lord bless your soul, he knew ‘em as well as if he’d made ‘em!

“Well, she’s going there, and they’re expecting her. Will you keep an eye on her, please? If she can get out anywhere and get with folks, or get anybody in to keep her company, she’ll do it. Good-by, Rebecca; try not to get into any mischief, and sit quiet, so you’ll look neat an’ nice when you get there. Don’t be any trouble to Mr. Cobb. —You see, she’s kind of excited.—We came on the cars from Temperance yesterday, slept all night at my cousin’s, and drove from her house—eight miles it is—this morning.”

“Good-by, mother, don’t worry; you know it isn’t as if I hadn’t traveled before.”

The woman gave a short sardonic laugh and said in an explanatory way to Mr. Cobb, “She’s been to Wareham and stayed over night; that isn’t much to be journey-proud on!”

“It WAS TRAVELING, mother,” said the child eagerly and willfully. “It was leaving the farm, and putting up lunch in a basket, and a little riding and a little steam cars, and we carried our nightgowns.”

“Don’t tell the whole village about it, if we did,” said the mother, interrupting the reminiscences of this experienced voyager. “Haven’t I told you before,” she whispered, in a last attempt at discipline, “that you shouldn’t talk about night gowns and stockings and—things like that, in a loud tone of voice, and especially when there’s men folks round?”

“I know, mother, I know, and I won’t. All I want to say is”—here Mr. Cobb gave a cluck, slapped the reins, and the horses started sedately on their daily task—“all I want to say is that it is a journey when”—the stage was really under way now and Rebecca had to put her head out of the window over the door in order to finish her sentence—“it IS a journey when you carry a nightgown!”

The objectionable word, uttered in a high treble, floated back to the offended ears of Mrs. Randall, who watched the stage out of sight, gathered up her packages from the bench at the store door, and stepped into the wagon that had been standing at the hitching-post. As she turned the horse’s head towards home she rose to her feet for a moment, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at a cloud of dust in the dim distance.

“Mirandy’ll have her hands full, I guess,” she said to herself; “but I shouldn’t wonder if it would be the making of Rebecca.”

All this had been half an hour ago, and the sun, the heat, the dust, the contemplation of errands to be done in the great metropolis of Milltown, had lulled Mr. Cobb’s never active mind into complete oblivion as to his promise of keeping an eye on Rebecca.

Suddenly he heard a small voice above the rattle and rumble of the wheels and the creaking of the harness. At first he thought it was a cricket, a tree toad, or a bird, but having determined the direction from which it came, he turned his head over his shoulder and saw a small shape hanging as far out of the window as safety would allow. A long black braid of hair swung with the motion of the coach; the child held her hat in one hand and with the other made ineffectual attempts to stab the driver with her microscopic sunshade.

“Please let me speak!” she called.

Mr. Cobb drew up the horses obediently.

“Does it cost any more to ride up there with you?” she asked. “It’s so slippery and shiny down here, and the stage is so much too big for me, that I rattle round in it till I’m ‘most black and blue. And the windows are so small I can only see pieces of things, and I’ve ‘most broken my neck stretching round to find out whether my trunk has fallen off the back. It’s my mother’s trunk, and she’s very choice of it.”

Mr. Cobb waited until this flow of conversation, or more properly speaking this flood of criticism, had ceased, and then said jocularly:—

“You can come up if you want to; there ain’t no extry charge to sit side o’ me.” Whereupon he helped her out, “boosted” her up to the front seat, and resumed his own place.

Rebecca sat down carefully, smoothing her dress under her with painstaking precision, and putting her sunshade under its extended folds between the driver and herself. This done she pushed back her hat, pulled up her darned white cotton gloves, and said delightedly:—

“Oh! this is better! This is like traveling! I am a real passenger now, and down there I felt like our setting hen when we shut her up in a coop. I hope we have a long, long ways to go?”

“Oh! we’ve only just started on it,” Mr. Cobb responded genially; “it’s more ‘n two hours.”

“Only two hours,” she sighed “That will be half past one; mother will be at cousin Ann’s, the children at home will have had their dinner, and Hannah cleared all away. I have some lunch, because mother said it would be a bad beginning to get to the brick house hungry and have aunt Mirandy have to get me something to eat the first thing.— It’s a good growing day, isn’t it?”

“It is, certain; too hot, most. Why don’t you put up your parasol?”

She extended her dress still farther over the article in question as she said, “Oh dear no! I never put it up when the sun shines; pink fades awfully, you know, and I only carry it to meetin’ cloudy Sundays; sometimes the sun comes out all of a sudden, and I have a dreadful time covering it up; it’s the dearest thing in life to me, but it’s an awful care.”

At this moment the thought gradually permeated Mr. Jeremiah Cobb’s slow-moving mind that the bird perched by his side was a bird of very different feather from those to which he was accustomed in his daily drives. He put the whip back in its socket, took his foot from the dashboard, pushed his hat back, blew his quid of tobacco into the road, and having thus cleared his mental decks for action, he took his first good look at the passenger, a look which she met with a grave, childlike stare of friendly curiosity.

The buff calico was faded, but scrupulously clean, and starched within an inch of its life. From the little standing ruffle at the neck the child’s slender throat rose very brown and thin, and the head looked small to bear the weight of dark hair that hung in a thick braid to her waist. She wore an odd little vizored cap of white leghorn, which may either have been the latest thing in children’s hats, or some bit of ancient finery furbished up for the occasion. It was trimmed with a twist of buff ribbon and a cluster of black and orange porcupine quills, which hung or bristled stiffly over one ear, giving her the quaintest and most unusual appearance. Her face was without color and sharp in outline. As to features, she must have had the usual number, though Mr. Cobb’s attention never proceeded so far as nose, forehead, or chin, being caught on the way and held fast by the eyes. Rebecca’s eyes were like faith,— “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Under her delicately etched brows they glowed like two stars, their dancing lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their glance was eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their steadfast gaze was brilliant and mysterious, and had the effect of looking directly through the obvious to something beyond, in the object, in the landscape, in you. They had never been accounted for, Rebecca’s eyes. The school teacher and the minister at Temperance had tried and failed; the young artist who came for the summer to sketch the red barn, the ruined mill, and the bridge ended by giving up all these local beauties and devoting herself to the face of a child,—a small, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes carrying such messages, such suggestions, such hints of sleeping power and insight, that one never tired of looking into their shining depths, nor of fancying that what one saw there was the reflection of one’s own thought.

Mr. Cobb made none of these generalizations; his remark to his wife that night was simply to the effect that whenever the child looked at him she knocked him galley-west.

“Miss Ross, a lady that paints, gave me the sunshade,” said Rebecca, when she had exchanged looks with Mr. Cobb and learned his face by heart. “Did you notice the pinked double ruffle and the white tip and handle? They’re ivory. The handle is scarred, you see. That’s because Fanny sucked and chewed it in meeting when I wasn’t looking. I’ve never felt the same to Fanny since.”

“Is Fanny your sister?”

“She’s one of them.”

“How many are there of you?”

“Seven.