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diff --git a/3419-h/3419-h.htm b/3419-h/3419-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c785cc6 --- /dev/null +++ b/3419-h/3419-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4592 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Rebecca Mary, by Annie Hamilton Donnell + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebecca Mary, by Annie Hamilton Donnell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rebecca Mary + +Author: Annie Hamilton Donnell + +Release Date: February 22, 2009 [EBook #3419] +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBECCA MARY *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + REBECCA MARY + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Annie Hamilton Donnell + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Contents + </h3> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> The Hundred and Oneth </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> The Thousand Quilt </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> The Bible Dream </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> The Cookbook Diary </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> The Bereavement </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Feel Doll </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Plummer Kind </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Article Seven </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Un-Plummered </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + The Hundred and Oneth + </h2> + <p> + Rebecca Mary took another stitch. Then another. “Ninety-sevvun, + ninety-eight,” she counted aloud, her little pointed face gravely intent. + She waited the briefest possible space before she took ninety-nine. It was + getting very close to the Time now. “At the hundred an' oneth,” Rebecca + Mary whispered. “It's almost it.” Her breath came quicker under her tight + little dress. Between her thin, light eyebrows a crease deepened + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Ninety—n-i-n-e,” she counted, “one hun-der-ed”—it was so very + close now! The next stitch would be the hundred and oneth. Rebecca Mary's + face suddenly grew quite white. + </p> + <p> + “I'll wait a m-minute,” she decided; “I'm just a little scared. When + you've been lookin' head to the hundred and oneth so LONG and you get the + very next door to it, it scares you a little. I'll wait until—oh, + until Thomas Jefferson crows, before I sew the hundred and oneth.” + </p> + <p> + Thomas Jefferson was prospecting under the currant bushes. Rebecca Mary + could see him distinctly, even with her nearsighted little eyes, for + Thomas Jefferson was snow-white. Once in a while he stalked dignifiedly + out of the bushes and crowed. He might do it again any minute now. + </p> + <p> + The great sheet billowed and floated round Rebecca Mary, scarcely whiter + than her face. She held her needle poised, waiting the signal of Thomas + Jefferson. At any minute.... He was coming out now! A fleck of snow-white + was pricking the green of the currant leaves. + </p> + <p> + “He's out. Any minute he'll begin to cr—” He was already beginning! + The warning signals were out—chest expanding, neck elongating, and + great white wing aflap. + </p> + <p> + “I'm just a little scared,” breathed the child in the foam of the sheet. + Then Thomas Jefferson crowed. + </p> + <p> + “Hundred and one!” Rebecca Mary cried out, clearly, courage born within + her at the crucial instant. The Time—the Time—had come. She + had taken her last stitch. + </p> + <p> + “It's over,” she panted. “It always was a-coming, and it's come. I knew it + would. When it's come, you don't feel quite so scared. I'm glad it's + over.” + </p> + <p> + She folded up the great sheet carefully, making all the edges meet with + painful precision. It took time. She had left the needle sticking in the + unfinished seam—in the hundred-and-oneth stitch—and close + beside it was a tiny dot of red to “keep the place.” + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca! Rebecca Mary!” Aunt Olivia always called like that. If there had + been still another name—Rebecca Mary Something Else—she would + have called: “Rebecca! Rebecca Mary! Rebecca Mary Something Else!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes'm; I'm here.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's 'here'?” sharply. + </p> + <p> + “HERE—the grape-arbor, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got your sheet?” + </p> + <p> + “I—yes'm.” + </p> + <p> + “Is your stent 'most done?” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary rose slowly to her reluctant little feet, and with the heavy + sheet across her arm went to meet the sharp voice. At last the Time had + come. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Aunt Olivia was waiting for her answer. Rebecca Mary groaned. Aunt + Olivia would not think it was “well.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Rebecca Mary Plummer, you came to fetch my answer, did you? You got + your stent 'most done?” Aunt Olivia's hands were extended for the folded + sheet. + </p> + <p> + “I've got it DONE, Aunt 'Livia,” answered little Rebecca Mary, steadily. + Her slender figure, in its quaint, scant dress, looked braced as if to + meet a shock. But Rebecca Mary was terribly afraid. + </p> + <p> + “Every mite o' that seam? Then I guess you can't have done it very well; + that's what I guess! If it ain't done well, you'll have to take it—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait—please, won't you wait, Aunt 'Livia? I've got to say + something. I mean, I've got all the over-'n'-overing I'm ever going to do + done. THAT'S what's done. The hundred-and-oneth stitch was my stent, and + it's done. I'm not ever going to take the hundred and twoth. I've + decided.” + </p> + <p> + Understanding filtered drop by drop into Aunt Olivia's bewildered brain. + She gasped at the final drop. + </p> + <p> + “Not ever going to take another stitch?” she repeated, with a calmness + that was awfuler than storm. + </p> + <p> + “No'm.” + </p> + <p> + “You've decided?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes'm.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask when this—this state of mind began?” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary girded herself afresh. She had such need of recruiting + strength. + </p> + <p> + “It's been coming on,” she said. “I've felt it. I knew all the time it was + a-coming—and then it came.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to be all there. Why must she say any more? But still Aunt + Olivia waited, and Rebecca Mary read grim displeasure in capitals across + the gray field of her face. The little figure stiffened more and more. + </p> + <p> + “I've over-'n'-overed 'leven sheets,” the steady little voice went on, + because Aunt Olivia was waiting, and it must, “and you said I did 'em + pretty well. I tried to. I was going to do the other one well, till you + said there was going to be another dozen. I couldn't BEAR another dozen, + Aunt Olivia, so I decided to stop. When Thomas Jefferson crowed I sewed + the hundred-and-oneth stitch. That's all there's ever a-going to be.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary stepped back a step or two, as if finishing a speech and + retiring from her audience. There was even the effect of a bow in the + sudden collapse of the stiff little body. It was Aunt Olivia's turn now to + respond—and Aunt Olivia responded: + </p> + <p> + “You've had your say; now I'll have mine. Listen to me, Rebecca Mary + Plummer! Here's this sheet, and here's this needle in it. When you get + good and ready you can go on sewing. You won't have anything to eat till + you do. I've got through.” + </p> + <p> + The grim figure swept right-about face and tramped into the house as + though to the battle-roll of drums. Rebecca Mary stayed behind, face to + face with her fate. + </p> + <p> + “She's a Plummer, so it'll be SO,” Rebecca Mary thought, with the dull + little thud of a weight falling into her heart. Rebecca Mary was a Plummer + too, but she did not think of that, unless the un-swerving determination + in her stout little heart was the unconscious recognition of it. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder”—her gaze wandered out towards the currant-bushes and came + to rest absently on Thomas Jefferson's big, white bulk—“I wonder if + it hurts very much.” She meant, to starve. A long vista of food-less days + opened before her, and in their contemplation the weight in her heart grew + very heavy indeed. + </p> + <p> + “We were GOING to have layer-cake for supper. I'm VERY fond of + layer-cake,” Rebecca Mary sighed, “I suppose, though, after a few weeks”—she + shuddered—“I shall be glad to have ANYTHING—just common + things, like crackers and skim-milk. Perhaps I shall want to eat a—horse. + I've heard of folks—You get very unparticular when you're starving.” + </p> + <p> + It was five o'clock. They WERE going to have supper at half past. She + could hear the tea things clinking in the house. She stole up to a window. + There was Aunt Olivia setting the layer-cake on the table. It looked plump + and rich, and it was sugared on top. + </p> + <p> + “There's strawberry jam in between it,” mused Rebecca Mary, regretfully. + “I wish it was apple jelly. I could bear it better if it was apple jelly.” + But it was jam. And there was honey, too, to eat with Aunt Olivia's little + fluffy biscuits. How very fond Rebecca Mary was of honey! + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia stood in the kitchen doorway and rang the supper bell in long, + steady clangs just as usual. But no one responded just as usual, and by + the token she knew Rebecca Mary had not taken the other stitch that lay + between her and supper. + </p> + <p> + “She's a Plummer,” sighed Aunt Olivia, inwardly, unrealizing her own + Plummership, as little Rebecca Mary had unrealized hers. Each recognized + only the other's. The pity that both must be Plummers! + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary stayed out of doors until bedtime. She made but one + confidant. + </p> + <p> + “I've done it, Thomas Jefferson,” she said, sadly. “You ought to be sorry + for me, because if you hadn't crowed I shouldn't have sewed the hundred + and oneth. But you're not really to BLAME,” she added, hastily, mindful of + Thomas Jefferson's feelings. “I should have done it sometime if you hadn't + crowed. I knew it was coming. I suppose now I shall have to starve. You'd + think it was pretty hard to starve, I guess, Thomas Jefferson.” + </p> + <p> + Thomas Jefferson made certain gloomy responses in his throat to the effect + that he was always starving; that any contributions on the spot in the way + of corn kernels, wheat grains, angleworms—any little delicacies of + the kind—would be welcome. And Rebecca Mary, understanding, led the + way to the corn bin. In the dark hours that followed, the intimacy between + the great white rooster and the little white girl took on tenderer tones. + </p> + <p> + At breakfast next morning—at dinner time—at supper—Rebecca + Mary absented herself from the house. Aunt Olivia set on the meals + regularly and waited with tightening heartstrings. It did not seem to + occur to her to eat her own portions. She tasted no morsel of all the + dainties she got together wistfully. At nightfall the second day she began + to feel real alarm. She put on her bonnet and went to the minister's. He + was rather a new minister, and the Plummers had always required a good + deal of time to make acquaintance. But in the present stress of her need + Aunt Olivia did not stop to think of that. + </p> + <p> + “You must come over and—and do something,” she said, at the + conclusion of her strange little story. “It seems to me it's time for the + minister to step in.” + </p> + <p> + “What can I do, Miss Plummer?” the embarrassed young man ejaculated, with + a feeling of helplessness. + </p> + <p> + “Talk to her,” groaned Aunt Olivia, in her agony. “Tell her what her duty + is. Rebecca Mary might listen to the minister. All she's got to do is to + take just one stitch to show her submission. It won't take but an instant. + I've got supper all out on the kitchen table—I don't care if it's + ten o'clock at night!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't a case for the minister. It's a case for the Society for the + Prevention of Cruelty to Children!” fumed the minister's kind little wife + inwardly. And she stole away in the twilight to deal with little Rebecca + Mary herself. She came back to the minister by and by, red-eyed and + fierce. + </p> + <p> + “You needn't go over; I've been. It won't do any good, Robert. That poor, + stiff-willed, set little thing is starving by inches!” + </p> + <p> + “I think her aunt is, too!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps—I can't help it, Robert, perhaps the—aunt—ought—to.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!—Felicia!” + </p> + <p> + “I told you I couldn't help it. She is so hungry, Robert! If you had seen + her—What do you think she was doing when I got there?” + </p> + <p> + “Crying?” + </p> + <p> + “Crying! She was laughing. <i>I</i> cried. She sat there under some + grapevines watching a great white rooster eat his supper. His name, I + think, is Thomas Jefferson.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Thomas Jefferson,” agreed the minister, with the assurance of + acquaintance. For Thomas Jefferson was one of his parishioners. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she was laughing at him in the shakiest, hungriest little voice you + ever heard. 'Is it good?' she says. 'It LOOKS good.' He was eating raw + corn. 'If I could, I'd eat supper with you when you're VERY hungry, you + don't mind eating things raw.' Then she saw me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I coaxed her, Robert. It didn't do any good. Tomorrow somebody must + go there and interfere.” + </p> + <p> + “She must be a remarkably strange child,” the minister mused. He was + thinking of the holding-out powers of the three children he had a + half-ownership in. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think Rebecca Mary IS a child, Robert. She must be fifty years + old, at the least. She and her aunt are about the same age. Perhaps if her + mother had lived, or she hadn't made so many sheets, or learned to knit + and darn and cook—” The minister's kind little wife finished out her + sentence with a sigh. She took up a little garment in dire straits to be + mended. It suggested things to the minister. + </p> + <p> + “Can Rhoda darn?” + </p> + <p> + “RHODA!” + </p> + <p> + “Or make sheets and bread and things?” + </p> + <p> + “Robert, don't you feel well? Where is the pain?” But the laugh in the + pleasant blue eyes died out suddenly. Little Rebecca Mary lay too heavy on + the minister's wife's heart for mirth. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia went into Rebecca Mary's room in the middle of the night. She + had been in three times before. + </p> + <p> + “She looks thinner than she did last time,” Aunt Olivia murmured, + distressedly. “Tomorrow night—how long do children live without + eating? It's four meals now—four meals is a great many for a little + thin thing to go without!” Aunt Olivia had been without four meals too; + she would have been able to judge how it felt—if she had remembered + that part. She stood in her scant, long nightgown, gazing down at the + little sleeper. The veil was down and her heart was in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary threw out her arm and sighed. “It LOOKS good, Thomas + Jefferson,” she murmured. “When you're VERY hungry you can eat things + raw.” Suddenly the child sat up in bed, wide-eyed and wild. She did not + seem to see Aunt Olivia at all. + </p> + <p> + “Once I ate a pie!” she cried. “It wasn't a whole one, but I should eat a + whole one now—I think I should eat the PLATE now.” She swayed back + and forth weakly, awake and not awake. + </p> + <p> + “Once I ate a layer-cake. There was jam in it. I wouldn't care if it was + apple jelly in it now—I'd LIKE apple jelly in it now. Once I ate a + pudding and a doughnut a-n-d—a—a—I think it was a horse. + I'd eat a horse now. Hush! Don't tell Aunt Olivia, but I'm going to eat—to—e-at—Thom-as—Jeffer—” + She swayed back on the pillows again. Aunt Olivia shook her in an agony of + fear—she was so white—she lay so still. + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca! Rebecca Mary! Rebecca Mary PLUMMER!” Aunt Olivia shrilled in her + ear. “You get right out o' bed this minute and come downstairs and eat + your supper! It's high time you had something in your stomach—I + don't care if it's twelve o'clock. You get right out o' bed REBECCA MARY!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia had the limp little figure in her arms, shaking it gently + again and again. Rebecca's startled eyes flew open. In that instant was + born inspiration in the brain of Aunt Olivia. She thought of an appeal to + make. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want ME to starve, too? Right here before your face and eyes? I + haven't eat a mouthful since you did, and I shan't till you DO.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary slid to the floor with a soft thud of little brown, bare + feet. Slow comprehension dawned in her eyes. “Are your—— did + you say YOU was starving, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes”—grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Does it hurt you—too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes”—unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “VERY much?” + </p> + <p> + “YES.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you eat something?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you don't. I'm waiting for you to.” + </p> + <p> + “Shan't you ever?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you don't.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary caught her breath in a sob. “Shall I be—to blame?” She + was moving towards the door now. With an irresistible impulse Aunt Olivia + gathered her in her arms, and covered her lean little face with kisses. + </p> + <p> + “You poor little thing! You poor little thing! You poor little thing!” + over and over. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary gazed up into the softened face and read something there. It + took her breath away. She could not believe it without further proof. + </p> + <p> + “You don't—I don't suppose you LOVE me?” panted Rebecca Mary. But + Aunt Olivia was gone out of the room in a swirl of white nightgown. + </p> + <p> + “Everything's on the table,” she called back from the stairs. “I'm going + to light a fire. You come right down. I think it's high time—” her + voice trailing out thinly. + </p> + <p> + “She does,” murmured Rebecca Mary, radiant of face. + </p> + <p> + At half past twelve o'clock they both ate supper, both in their scant, + white nightgowns, both very hungry indeed. But before she sat down in her + old place at the table, Rebecca Mary went round to Aunt Olivia's place and + whispered something rather shyly in her ear. She had been by herself in a + corner of the room for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I've sewed the hundred and twoth,” Rebecca Mary whispered. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Thousand Quilt + </h2> + <p> + “Good afternoon,” Rebecca Mary said, politely. + </p> + <p> + The minister's wife was cutting little trousers out of big ones—the + minister's big ones. It was the old puzzle of how to steer clear of the + thin places. + </p> + <p> + “Boys grow so!” sighed, tenderly, the minister's wife, over her work. She + had not heard the voice from the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Good afternoon”—again. + </p> + <p> + It was a quaint little figure in tight red calico standing there. It might + easily have stepped down from some old picture on the wall. Rebecca Mary + had a bundle in her arms. It was so large that it obscured breast and + face, and only a pair of grave blue eyes, presided over by thin, light + brows, seemed visible to the minister's wife. The trousers puzzle merged + into this one. Now who could— + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Oh, it's Miss Plummer's little girl Rebecca,” she said, cordially. + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca Mary her NIECE,” came, a little muffled, from behind the great + bundle. + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca Mary's niece—— Oh, you mean Miss Plummer's niece, and + your whole name is that! But I suppose she calls you Rebecca or Becky, for + short? Walk in, Rebecca.” + </p> + <p> + But Rebecca Mary was struggling with the paralyzing vision of Aunt Olivia + calling her Becky. She had passed by the lesser wonder of being called + Rebecca without the Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no'm, indeed; Aunt 'Livia never shortens me,” gently gasped the child. + And the minister's wife, measuring from the bundle down, smiled to + herself. There did not seem much room for shortening. + </p> + <p> + “But walk in, dear—you're going to walk in? I hope you have come to + make me a little call?” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary struggled out of her paralysis. Here was occasion for new + embarrassment. For Rebecca Mary was honest. + </p> + <p> + “N-o'm I mean, not a LITTLE call. I've come to spend the afternoon,” she + said, slowly, “and I've brought my work.” + </p> + <p> + The bundle—the great bundle—was her work! She advanced into + the room and began carefully to unroll it. It was the turn of the + minister's wife to be paralyzed. She pushed forward a chair, and the child + sat down in it. + </p> + <p> + “It's my Thousand Quilt that I'm making for Aunt 'Livia,” explained + Rebecca Mary. “It's 'most done. There's a thousand pieces in it, and I'm + on the nine hundred and ninety-oneth. I thought proberly you'd have some + work, so I brought mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see—” The minister's wife stood looking down at the tight + little red figure among the gorgeous waves of the Thousand Quilt. They + eddied and surged around it in dizzy reds and purples and greens. She was + conscious of being a little seasick, and for relief she turned back to the + puzzle of the little trousers. It had been in her mind at first to express + sorrow at Rhoda's being unfortunately away—and the boys. Now she was + glad she hadn't, for it was quite plain enough that the visitor had not + come to spend the afternoon with the minister's children, but with the + minister's wife. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't she that's young—it's I,” thought the minister's wife, + with kind, laughing eyes. “She's old enough to be my mother.” “How old are + you, dear?” she added, aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Me? I guess you mean Aunt 'Livia, don't you? It's Aunt 'Livia's birthday + I'm making it for, it's going to be a present. Once she gave me a present + on my birthday.” + </p> + <p> + Once!—the minister's wife remembered Rhoda's birthdays and the + boys'. Taken altogether, such a host of little birthdays! But this little + old, old visitor seemed to have had but one. + </p> + <p> + “My birthday is two days quicker than Aunt 'Livia's is,” volunteered the + visitor, sociably. “We're 'most twins, you see. Aunt 'Livia was fifty-six + that time she gave me the present. She's agoing to be fifty-nine when I + give her this quilt—it's taken me ever since to make it.” + </p> + <p> + The minister's wife looked up from her cutting. So Rebecca Mary was only + fifty-nine! + </p> + <p> + “It's quite a long quilt,” sighed Rebecca Mary. But pride woke in her eyes + as she gazed out on the splendors of the green and purple sea. “A Thousand + Quilt has so many stitches in it, but when you sew'em all yourself—when + you sew every single stitch—” The pride in Rebecca Mary's grave blue + eyes grew and grew. + </p> + <p> + “Robert,” the minister's wife said that night to the minister, “it's an + awful quilt, but you ought to have seen her eyes! It's taken her three + years to make it—maybe you wouldn't be proud yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe YOU wouldn't, if Rhoda had made it.” + </p> + <p> + “RHODA! Robert, she sewed one square of patchwork once and it made her + sick. I had to put her to bed. Speaking of 'once' reminds me—once + Rebecca Mary had a birthday present, Robert.” She waited a little + anxiously for him to understand. The minister always understood, but + sometimes he made her wait. + </p> + <p> + “Felicia, are you trying to make me cry?” he said, and she was satisfied. + She went across to him, as she always did when she wanted to cry herself. + The floor was strewn with the tiniest boy's engine and cars, and she + remembered, as she zigzagged among them, that they had been one of his + very last birthday presents. + </p> + <p> + “It was—Robert, what do you think the present was? I'll give you + three guesses, but I advise you to guess a rooster.” + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Jefferson,” murmured the minister, as one who was acquainted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is his name. How did you remember? She is very fond of him—he + is her intimatest friend, she says. So she is under great obligations to + her aunt. It's a large quilt, but it's none too large to 'cover' Thomas + Jefferson. I'm going to help her buy a lining and cotton batting.” + </p> + <p> + “Cracked corn will make a good lining, but cotton bat—” + </p> + <p> + “Robert, this is not a comedy! If you'd seen Rebecca Mary, and the quilt, + you'd call it a tragedy. You couldn't surprise me any if you told me she'd + quilted it herself!” + </p> + <p> + Down the road from Aunt Olivia's farm, across its southern boundary fence, + romped and shouted all day long the Tony Trumbullses. No one, except + possibly their mother, was quite certain how many of them there were; it + was a dizzy process to take their census. They were never still, in little + brown bare limbs nor shrill voices. From sunup to sundown the Tony + Trumbullses raced and laughed. Certainly they were happy. + </p> + <p> + The minister's wife had not dared to tell her Caller of the afternoon that + the minister's children were down there shouting and racing with the + little Tony Trumbullses. Dear, no!—not after Rebecca Mary in the + course of conversation had said that Aunt Olivia did not countenance the + Tony Trumbullses. Rebecca Mary did not say “countenance,” but it meant + that. + </p> + <p> + “Her aunt won't let her play with them, Robert. And she'd like to—you + needn't tell me Rebecca Mary wouldn't like to! I saw it in her poor little + solemn eyes. Besides, she said she asked her aunt once to let her. Robert, + aunts are cruel; I never knew it before. They've no business bringing up + little Rebecca Marys!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear! Felicia!” But in the minister's eyes was agreement. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia took afternoon naps with punctilious regularity—Aunt + Olivia herself was punctilious regularity. At half past one, day upon day, + she hung out the dish towel, hung up her kitchen apron, and walked with + unswerving course into her bedroom. There, disposed upon the dainty bed in + rigid lines of unrest, she rested. The naps were often long ones. + </p> + <p> + A little after the afternoon that Rebecca Mary spent at the minister's the + birthday quilt was finished. The thousandth tiny piece was neatly + over-'n'-overed to its gorgeous expanse. But Rebecca Mary was not content. + She longed to make it complete. She wanted to surprise Aunt 'Livia with + it, as Aunt 'Livia on that momentous birthday of her own had surprised her + with the little fluff-ball of yellow down that had grown into Thomas + Jefferson. That had been such a beautiful surprise, but this—Aunt + 'Livia had seen the quilt so many, many times! She had taught Rebecca + Mary's stiff little fingers to set the first stitches in it; she had made + her rip out this purple square and that pink-checked one, and this one and + that one and that. Oh, Aunt 'Livia was ACQUAINTED with the quilt! It would + not be much of a surprise. + </p> + <p> + But Rebecca Mary set her little pointed chin between her little brown + palms and pondered, and out of the pondering grew a plan so ambitious and + so daring that Rebecca Mary gasped in the throes of it. But she held her + ground and entertained it intrepidly. She even grew on friendly terms with + it in the end. Here was a way to surprise Aunt 'Livia; Rebecca Mary would + do it! That it would entail an almost endless amount of work did not daunt + her: Rebecca Mary was a Plummer, and Plummers were not to be daunted. The + long vista of patient hours of trying labor that the plan opened up before + her set her blood tingling like a warrior's on the eve of battle. What + were long, patient hours to a Plummer? Rebecca Mary girded up her loins + and went to meet them. + </p> + <p> + Thereafter at Aunt Olivia's nap times Rebecca Mary disappeared. Day upon + day, week upon week, she stole quietly away when the door of Aunt Olivia's + bedroom shut. The first time she went oddly loaded down with what would + have appeared—if there had been any one for it to “appear” to be a + bundle of long sticks. She made two trips into the unknown that first day. + The second time the bundle looked much like that one over which her grave + blue eyes had peered at the minister's wife when she went to spend the + afternoon with her. + </p> + <p> + It was spring when the mysterious disappearances began. It was summer + before Aunt Olivia woke up—not from her nap, but from her + inattention. Quite suddenly she came upon the realization that Rebecca + Mary was not about the house; nor about the grounds, for she instituted + prompt search. She went to all the child's odd little haunts—the + grapery, the orchard, the corn-house, even to her own beloved back yard, + full of sweet-scented hiding-nooks dear to a child, but sacred ground to + Aunt Olivia. Rebecca Mary sometimes did her “stents” there as a special + privilege; she might be there now, unprivileged. Aunt Olivia's back yard + was almost as full of flowery delights to Rebecca Mary as it was to Aunt + Olivia. + </p> + <p> + The child was not there—not anywhere. Aunt Olivia sought for Thomas + Jefferson to inquire of him, but Thomas Jefferson was missing too. She + went the rounds again. Where could the child be? + </p> + <p> + It was a hot, stinging day in late June when Aunt Olivia's suspicions + awoke. They had been long in rousing, but, once alert, they developed + rapidly into certainties. Her pale eyes glistened, her thin nostrils + dilated—Aunt Olivia's whole lean, sharp, unemotional person put on + suspicion. The child had gone to see the Tony Trumbullses. + </p> + <p> + “My land!” ejaculated Aunt Olivia, “after all my forbidding! And she a + Plummer!” She sat down suddenly as though a little faint. She had never + known a Plummer to disobey before; it was a new experience. It took time + to get used to it, and she sat still a long time, rigid and grim, on the + edge of the chair. Then as suddenly as she had sat down she got up. It + could not be—she refused to entertain the suspicion longer. Rebecca + Mary had NOT gone there to that forbidden place; she was in the garden + somewhere. Aunt Olivia, a little stiff as if from a chill, went once more + in search of the child. + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca! Rebecca Mary!” she called, at regular intervals. Then sharply, + “Rebecca Mary Plummer!” Her voice had thin cadences of suspicion lurking + in it against its will. + </p> + <p> + But there seemed really no doubt. One by one incriminating circumstances + occurred to Aunt Olivia. Rebecca Mary had longed to go so much; the Tony + Trumbullses, one at a time or in a tumultuous body, had urged her so + often; she herself had more than once caught the child gazing wistfully, + in passing by, at the bewildering, deafening, frolics of the little Tony + Trumbullses. Once Rebecca Mary had asked to go barefoot, as they went. + Once she had let out the tight little braids in her neck and rumpled her + thin little hair. Once Aunt Olivia had come upon her PLAYING. The + remembrance of it now tightened the lines around Aunt Olivia's lips. The + child had been running wildly about the yard, shouting in a strange, + excited, ridiculous way. When Aunt Olivia in stern displeasure had + demanded explanations, she had run on recklessly, calling back over her + shoulder: “Don't stop me! I'm a Tony Trumbull!” + </p> + <p> + “My land!” breathed Aunt Olivia, taking back the suspicion to her breast. + “After all my forbidding she's gone down there. She's BEEN going down + there dear knows how long. She's waited till I took my naps an' then went. + A PLUMMER!” + </p> + <p> + There was really nowhere else she could have gone. She had never wanted to + go anywhere else, except to the minister's, and Rebecca Mary was + punctilious and would not think of going THERE again till the minister's + wife had returned her visit. + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Olivia waited. As usual, she went to her room next day at nap + time and closed the door behind her. But when a little figure slipped down + the road towards the forbidden place a moment later, she was watching + behind her blinds. She was groaning as if in pain. + </p> + <p> + The little figure began to run staidly. Aunt Olivia groaned again. The + child was in a hurry to get there—she couldn't wait to walk! There + was guilt in every motion of the little figure. + </p> + <p> + “And she runs like a Plummer,” groaned Aunt Olivia. + </p> + <p> + The next day, and the next, Aunt Olivia watched behind her blinds. The + fourth day she put on her afternoon dress and followed the hurrying little + figure. Not at once—Aunt Olivia did not hurry. There was a sad + reluctance in every movement. It seemed a terrible thing to be following + Rebecca Mary—Rebecca Mary Plummer to a forbidden place. + </p> + <p> + Afar off Aunt Olivia heard faintly the shoutings that always heralded an + approach to the Tony Trumbullses, and shuddered. The tumult kept growing + clearer; she thought she detected a wild, excited little shout that might + be Rebecca Mary's. Her thin lips set into a stern, straight line. + </p> + <p> + A splash of red caught Aunt Olivia's eye as she drew nearer the joyous + whirl of little children. Rebecca Mary wore a little tight red dress. The + coil seemed closing in about the child. + </p> + <p> + Close to the southern boundary fence of Aunt Olivia's land stood an old + empty barn. It had been a place for storing surplus hay, once, when there + had been surplus hay. For many years now it had been empty. As Aunt Olivia + approached it she noticed that its great sliding door was open. Strange, + when for so long it had been shut! + </p> + <p> + “If that old barn door ain't open!” breathed Aunt Olivia, stopping in her + astonishment. “I ain't seen it open before in these ten years. Now, what I + want to know is, who opened it? Likely as not those screeching little wild + Injuns.” She strode across the stubby grass-ground to the barn and peered + into its cool, dim depths. Then Aunt Olivia uttered a little, bewildered + cry. Gradually the dimness took on light and the whole startling picture + within unfolded itself to her astonished eyes. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary was quilting. She was stooping earnestly over a gay expanse + of purples and reds and greens. Her little tight red back was towards Aunt + Olivia; it looked bent and strained. Rebecca Mary's eyes were very close + to the gay expanse. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Rebecca Mary began to speak, and Aunt Olivia's widened eyes + discovered a great, white rooster pecking about under the quilt. His big, + snowy bulk stood out distinct in the shadow of it. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad we're 'most through. Aren't you, Thomas Jefferson? It's been a + pretty LONG quilt. You get sort of tired when you quilt a LONG quilt. It + makes your back creak when you unbend it; and when you quilt in a barn, of + course you can't see without squinching, and it hurts your eyes to + squinch.” + </p> + <p> + Silence again, except for the industrious peck-peck of the great white + rooster. Aunt Olivia stood very still. + </p> + <p> + “You've been a great help, Thomas Jefferson,” began again the voice of + Rebecca Mary, after a little. “I'm very much obliged to you, as I've said + before. I don't know what I should have done without you. No, you needn't + answer. I couldn't hear a word you said. You can't hear with cotton in + both o' your ears,” Rebecca Mary sighed. There was no cotton in Aunt + Olivia's ears to shut out the soft little sound. “But of course you have + to wear it in, on account o' your conscience. It's conscience cotton, + Thomas Jefferson. I've explained before, but I don't know's you + understood. It seems a little unpolite to wear it in my ears, with you + here keeping me comp'ny. I s'pose you think it's un—unsociable. But + Aunt Olivia doesn't allow me to 'sociate with the Tony Trumbullses. Oh, + Thomas Jefferson, I wish she'd allow me to 'sociate!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia found herself wishing she had conscience cotton in both o' her + ears. + </p> + <p> + “They're such nice, cheerful little children! It makes you want to go + right over their fence and hollow too.” Rebecca Mary pronounced it + “hollow” with careful precision. Aunt Olivia would not approve of + “holler.” “And when you can't, you like to listen. But I s'posed listening + to them hollow would be 'sociating. So I put the cotton in.” + </p> + <p> + The joyous “hollowing” broke in waves of glee on Aunt Olivia's eardrums. + It seemed to be assaulting her heart. Oddly, now it did not sound + unmannerly and dreadful. It sounded nice and cheerful. A Plummer, even, + might be happy like that. + </p> + <p> + “Cotton is a very strange ex—exper'ence, Thomas Jefferson,” ran on + the little voice. “At first you 'most can't stand it, but you get over the + worst of it bymeby. Besides, we're getting 'most through now. Ain't that + splendid, Thomas Jefferson? And it's pretty lucky, too, because Aunt + 'Livia's birthday is getting very near. It—it almost scares me. + Doesn't it you? For I don't know how Aunt 'Livia looks when she's pleased—you + think she'll look pleased, don't you, Thomas Jefferson? It's such a long + quilt, and when you've sewed every stitch yourself—” + </p> + <p> + If Rebecca Mary had turned round then she would have seen how Aunt Olivia + looked when she was pleased. But the little figure at the quilting-frame + bent steadily to its task, only another soft sigh stealing into Aunt + Olivia's uncottoned ears. Thomas Jefferson pecked his way towards the open + door, and the lean figure there started back guiltily; Aunt Olivia did not + want to be recognized. + </p> + <p> + “You there under the quilt, Thomas Jefferson?” The little voice put on + tenderness. “Because I'm a-going to tell you something. Once Aunt 'Livia + gave ME a birthday present and it was YOU. Such a little mite of a yellow + chicken! That's why I'm making the quilt for Aunt 'Livia. It was three + years ago; I've loved you ever since,” added Rebecca Mary, simply. + </p> + <p> + For an instant Aunt Olivia stopped being a Plummer. A sob crept into her + throat. “Rebecca! Rebecca Mary! Rebecca Mary Plummer!” she cried, + involuntarily. Then she stepped back hastily, glad for the cotton in + Rebecca Mary's ears. For the surprise—she must not spoil the child's + hard-earned surprise. And, besides, Aunt Olivia wanted to be surprised. + </p> + <p> + It was a relief to get away. She could not look any longer at the picture + in the great cobwebby barn—the gorgeous quilt spread out to its full + extent, the empty scaffolds above Rebecca Mary stooping to her work, + Thomas Jefferson pecking about the floor. Aunt Olivia was not old; through + all the years ahead of her she would remember that picture. + </p> + <p> + She went straight to the southern boundary fence and looked across at the + jubilant little Tony Trumbullses. The one in a red dress like Rebecca + Mary's she singled out with a pointing finger. “YOU come here,” she + called. “I won't hurt you; no need to look scairt. Do you know who I am? + I'm Rebecca Mary's aunt. You know who Rebecca Mary is, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Gracious!” shrilled the little red Tony Trumbull, which Aunt Olivia took + for yes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, you know where I live. You see here—I want you all, the + whole kit o' you, to come to my house tomorrow morning to see Rebecca + Mary. I'm going to say it over again. Tomorrow morning, to see Rebecca + Mary!” setting apart the syllables with the pointing finger. “You can play + in my back yard,” said Aunt Olivia, sublimely unconscious of slang. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Bible Dream + </h2> + <p> + Rebecca Mary sat on the kitchen steps, shelling peas and trying not to + listen. She had begun a hummy little tune to help out, but in the + interstices of rattling peas and the verses of the tune she could + distinctly hear some of the things Aunt Olivia and the Caller were saying. + This was one of the things: + </p> + <p> + “She's offered a reward, but <i>I</i> don't calculate there's much chance + she'll ever see it again.” + </p> + <p> + A sigh followed. The voice was the Caller's, the sigh Aunt Olivia's. + </p> + <p> + “It's queer where it ever went to!” Aunt Olivia's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's all o' QUEER,” the Caller's, with mysterious hints in it that + made Rebecca Mary, out on the doorsteps, shudder suddenly and forget where + she was in the tune. Oh, oh, dear, did they s'pose—they couldn't + s'pose it had been STOLEN? + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary's little hard brown hand stopped halfway to the pea-basket + and fell limply at her side on the doorstep. It made a little thud as it + fell. Rebecca Mary's horrified gaze wandered out into the glare of + sunshine where wandered Thomas Jefferson, stepping daintily, hunting bugs. + That was his day's work. Thomas Jefferson was a hard worker. + </p> + <p> + The voices went on, but Rebecca Mary did not heed them now; she was + looking at Thomas Jefferson, but she did not see him. Not until—it + happened. On a sudden Thomas Jefferson, forgetful of dignity, made a swoop + for something that glittered in the grass. Then Rebecca Mary saw him—then + started to her feet with an inarticulate little cry, while in her honest + brown eyes the horror grew. Oh, oh, dear, what was that Thomas Jefferson + had swooped for? For a brief instant it had glittered in the grass—Rebecca + Mary knew in her soul that it had glittered. + </p> + <p> + Thomas Jefferson stretched his sheeny neck, curved it ridiculously, and + crowed. It sounded like a crow of triumph; that was the way he crowed when + the bug had been a delicious one. + </p> + <p> + The Caller was coming out, Aunt Olivia with her. Rebecca Mary could hear + the crackle of their starched skirts; Aunt Olivia's crackled loudest. + Rebecca Mary had always had a queer feeling that Aunt Olivia herself was + starched. There had never been a time when she could not remember her + carrying her head very stiffly and straight and never bending her back. + Nobody else in the world, Rebecca Mary reflected proudly, could pick up a + pin without bending. SHE couldn't, herself, even after she had privately + practiced a good deal. + </p> + <p> + “Good afternoon, Rebecca Mary; you out here?” the Caller nodded + pleasantly. Folks had such queer ways of saying things. How could you say + good afternoon to anybody if she WASN'T here? + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you hear Mrs. Dixey, Rebecca Mary? I guess you've forgot your + manners,” came in Aunt Olivia's crisp tones. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes'm, I have. I mean I DID. Yes'm, thank you, I'm out here,” quavered + Rebecca Mary. She was not afraid of the Caller and she had never been + afraid of Aunt Olivia, but the horror that was settling round her heart + made her clear little voice unsteady. Her eyes were still following Thomas + Jefferson on his mincing travels about the yard. The sunshine was on his + splendid white coat, but Rebecca Mary felt no pride in him. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't that the han'somest rooster! You ought to show him at the fair, I + declare! See how his feathers glisten in the sun!” + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Jefferson belongs to Rebecca Mary,” Aunt Olivia said, briefly. + “She raised him.” + </p> + <p> + “My! Well, he's han'some enough. Ain't it amusing how a nice-feeling + rooster like that will go stepping round as if he felt about too toppy to + live! He'd ought to wear diamonds.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh, dear, please don't!” breathed Rebecca Mary, softly, but neither + of the women heard her. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, I must be going. I've made a regular visit. But I tell John + when I get away from home, it feels so good I STAY! 'I don't get away any + too often,' I says, 'and I guess I've earnt the right.' Well, I must be + going if I'm ever going to! Good-bye, Miss Plummer—good-bye, Rebecca + Mary. All is, I hope Mis' Avery's boarder'll find her diamond, don't you? + But I don't calculate she will. Well, good afternoon. She hadn't ought to + have wore the ring, when she knew it was loose in the setting like that. + Some folks are just that careless! Well—” + </p> + <p> + But Rebecca Mary did not hear the rest of the Caller's leave-taking. She + had slipped away to Thomas Jefferson out in the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come here—come here with me!” she cried, intensely. “Come out + behind the barn where we can talk. I've got to say something to you that's + awful! I've GOT to, you've got to listen, Thomas Jefferson.” + </p> + <p> + It was still and terribly hot in the treeless glare behind the barn, but + it was all in the day's work to Thomas Jefferson. Behind the barn was a + beautiful place for bugs. + </p> + <p> + “Listen! Oh, you poor dear, you've got to listen!” Rebecca Mary cried. + “You've got to stop hunting for bugs—and don't you dare to crow! If + you crow, Thomas Jefferson, it will break my heart. I don't s'pose you + know what you've done—I don't know as you've done it—but + there's something awful happened. Oh, Thomas Jefferson, it glittered—I + saw it glitter!” Suddenly Rebecca Mary stooped and gathered Thomas + Jefferson into her arms. She held him with a passionate clasp against her + flat little calico breast. He was HERS. He was all the intimate friend she + had ever had. He had been her little downy baby and slept in her hand. She + had fed him and watched him grow and been proud of him. He was her all. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson, what was it that glittered in the + grass? Tell me and I'll believe you. Say it was a little piece o' glass + and I'll put you down and go get you some corn, and we'll never speak of + it again. But don't look at me like that—don't look at me like that! + You look—GUILTY!” + </p> + <p> + She rocked him in her arms. In her soul she knew what it was that had + glittered. But in Thomas Jefferson's soul—oh, they could not blame + Thomas Jefferson! + </p> + <p> + “You haven't got any soul, poor dear; poor dear, you haven't got any soul, + and you can't be guilty without a soul. They couldn't—hang—you.” + Her voice sank to the merest whisper. She tightened her clasp on the + great, soft body and smoothed the soft feathers with a tender, tremulous + little hand. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord didn't put anything in you but a stomach and a—a gizzard. + He left your soul out and you're not to blame for that. I don't blame you, + Thomas Jefferson, and of course the Lord don't. But Mrs. Avery's boarder—oh, + oh, dear, I'm afraid Mrs. Avery's boarder will! You mustn't tell—I + mean I mustn't. Nobody must know what it was that glittered in the grass. + Do you want to be—searched? + </p> + <p> + “You know 'xactly where she sat over to this house yesterday morning, when + she went by—and how she said you were too sweet for anything—and + how she flew her hand round with—with IT on it. You know as well as + I do. And it was loose, the di'mond-stone was loose. We didn't either of + us know that. We're not to blame if things are loose, and you're not to + blame for not having any soul. But oh, oh, dear, how dreadfully it makes + us both feel! You'd better give up crowing, Thomas Jefferson; I feel just + as if you'd let it out if you crew.” + </p> + <p> + At tea Rebecca Mary played with her spoon, while her berries swam, + untasted, in their yellow sea of cream. Aunt Olivia remonstrated. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you eat your supper, child?” she asked, sharply. Rebecca Mary + was always glad when she said child instead of Rebecca Mary, for then the + sharpness did not cut. She was feeling now for the glasses up in her thin + gray hair. Aunt Olivia could see everything through those glasses and it + made Rebecca Mary tremble to think—oh, oh, dear, suppose she should + see the secret hidden in Rebecca Mary's soul! It seemed as if Aunt Olivia + trained the glasses directly upon the corner where the secret glittered in + the gra—was hidden in Rebecca Mary's troubled little soul. But this + is what Aunt Olivia said: + </p> + <p> + “It's your stomach. What you need is a good dose of camomile tea to tone + you up. I didn't give you any this spring, for a wonder. Now you go right + up to bed and I'll set some to steeping. Does it hurt you any?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes'm,” murmured Rebecca Mary, sadly, but she meant her soul and Aunt + Olivia meant her stomach. She mounted the steep stairs to her little + eavesdropping room and slipped her small spare body out of her clothes + into her scant little nightgown. It was rather a relief to go to bed. If + she could have been sure that Thomas Jefferson—but, no, Thomas + Jefferson was not in bed. As Rebecca Mary lay and waited for her camomile + tea she was certain she could hear him stepping about under the window. + Once he came directly under and “crew,” and then Rebecca Mary hid her head + in the pillow for he was letting it out. + </p> + <p> + “Cock-a-doodle-do—ooo, did-you-see-me-swoo-oo-OOP-it-up?” crowed + Thomas Jefferson, under the window. Rebecca Mary with her eyes pillow-deep + could see him stretching his neck and letting it out. It seemed to her + everybody could hear him—Aunt Olivia downstairs, steeping camomile + 'blows, and Mrs. Avery's boarder across the fields. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Olivia,” whispered Rebecca Mary, while she sipped her bitter tea a + little later, “how much—I suppose precious things cost a great deal, + don't they?” + </p> + <p> + “My grief!” Aunt Olivia set down the bowl and felt of Rebecca Mary's + temples, then of her wrists. The child was out of her head. + </p> + <p> + “Di'mond-stones like—like that boarder's—I suppose those cost + a great deal? As much as—how much as, Aunt Olivia?” + </p> + <p> + “My grief, don't you worry about any di'mond-stones! YOU haven't lost any. + What you'll lose will be your health, if you don't swallow down the rest + o' this tea and go right to sleep like a good girl! No, no, I'm not going + to answer any questions. Drink this; swallow it down.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary swallowed it down, but she did not go right to sleep like a + good girl. She lay on the hard little bed and thought of many things, or + of one thing many times. Over and over, wearily, drearily, until the sin + of Thomas Jefferson became her sin. She adopted it. + </p> + <p> + When at last she dropped to sleep it was to dream a Bible dream. Usually + Rebecca Mary liked to dream Bible dreams, but not this one. This one was + different. This one was of Abraham and Isaac. She thought she was right + there and saw Abraham build the little altar and offer up—no, it + wasn't Isaac! It was Thomas Jefferson. And the Abraham in her dream was + turning into HER. The flowing white robes were dwindling to a little scant + white nightgown. She stood a little way off and saw herself offering up + Thomas Jefferson. It was a dreadful dream. + </p> + <p> + The night was a perfectly black one, the kind that Rebecca Mary was afraid + of. It was the only thing in the world she had ever been afraid of—a + black night. But after the dream she got up stealthily and slipped through + the blackness, out to Thomas Jefferson. It was only out to the little + lean-to shed, but it seemed a very long way to Rebecca Mary. The blackness + pressed up against her, she put out her little, trembling hands and pushed + through it. + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Jefferson! Thomas Jefferson!” she called softly. But he was a + sound sleeper, she remembered; she would have to find him and wake him. In + the darkness she felt about on Thomas Jefferson's perch for Thomas + Jefferson. When the little groping hand came upon something very soft and + warm, the other hand went up to join it, and together they lifted Thomas + Jefferson down. He gave a protesting croak, and then, because he was + acquainted with the clasp of the two small hands, and night or day liked + it, he went back to his interrupted dreams and said not another word. + Thomas Jefferson had never dreamed a Bible dream—never heard of + Abraham or Isaac, had no soul to be disquieted. + </p> + <p> + With her burden against her breast Rebecca Mary pushed back through the + darkness, up to the black little room under the eaves. She felt about for + her little carpet-covered shoe box and gently crowded the great white bulk + into it. Then she crept back into bed and lay on the outer edge with her + loving, light little hand on Thomas Jefferson's feathers. The trouble in + her burdened soul poured itself out. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Thomas Jefferson,” she whispered down to the heap of soft feathers, + “I'm going to smooth you this way all night for tomorrow you die!” Her + voice even in a whisper had a solemn, inspired note. “There's no other + way; you'll have to make up your mind to be willing. It's going to break + my heart, and, oh, I'm afraid it will break yours! I'm afraid it will kill + us both!” + </p> + <p> + Thomas Jefferson uttered a mournful little croaky sound that might have + been “ET TU, BRUTE?” It pierced Rebecca Mary's breast. “There, hush, poor + dear, poor dear, and rest. You'll need all your sleep,” she crooned softly + and brokenly. “Tomorrow morning I'll give you some beautiful corn, and + then—and then I'm going to take you to Mrs. Avery's boarder and tell + her the worst. I'm going to give you up, Thomas Jefferson; and I'm the + best friend you've got in the world! But I've got to, I've got to—I've + got to! It's been revealed to me in a dream. There was a man once in the + Bible, named Abraham, and there was his dearly beloved little boy named + Isaac. And now here's me named Rebecca Mary, and dearly beloved you named + Thomas Jefferson. Oh, I don't suppose you can understand; I suppose you're + asleep. You'll never know how it feels to give up your dearly belovedest, + but oh, oh, dear, you'll know how it feels to be given up! You'll be one + o' the blessed martyrs, Thomas Jefferson—doesn't that comfort you a + little speck? Oh, why don't you wake up and be comforted? + </p> + <p> + “The Lord excused Abraham, after all. But this isn't the Lord, it's Mrs. + Avery's boarder. I'm afraid she isn't the Lord's kind—I'm afraid + not, Thomas Jefferson. I don't dare to let you hope; I've got to prepare + you for the worst.” + </p> + <p> + She caught up the big, white fellow with sudden, irresistible yearning and + sat up with him and rocked him back and forth in her arms. She began a + muffled, sad little tune like a wail. The words were terrible words. + </p> + <p> + “I'll hold you in my arms. I'll rock you—rock you—rock you. + For tomorrow, oh, to-MOR-row you—must—die! Aber-a-ham offered + Isaac, and <i>I</i>-MUST OFFER YOU.” + </p> + <p> + Over and over, then tenderly she lowered Thomas Jefferson to the shoe box + again. + </p> + <p> + When Aunt Olivia came up in the morning, vaguely alarmed because it was so + late and no Rebecca Mary stirring, she had news to tell. Someone going by + had told her something. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that woman's found her 'di'mond-stone,'—how are you feeling + this morning, child? It was in her pocket where she'd put her hand in and + felt round! So all that fuss for noth—” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Aunt Olivia stopped, for without warning, out of a box at the + bedside stalked a great white rooster and flew to the foot board and + “crew”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Cock-a-doodle-do-ooo! + It was glass that glittered in the grass, + And all the time I knew-oo-ooo!” + </pre> + <p> + “My grief?” Aunt Olivia gasped. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Cookbook Diary + </h2> + <p> + Rebecca Mary decided to keep a diary. It was not an inspiration, though it + was rather like one in its suddenness. Of course she had always known that + Aunt Olivia kept a diary. When she was very small she had stretched + a-tiptoe and with little pointing forefinger counted rows and rows of + little black books that Aunt Olivia had “kept.” Each little black book had + its year-label pasted neatly on the back. Rebecca Mary breathed deep + breaths of awe, there were so many of them. There must be so much weather + in those little black books—so many pleasant days, rainy days, + storms, and snows! + </p> + <p> + It was Rebecca Mary who remembered that it was Tuesday, and that it had + showered a little Wednesday—shone Thursday—showered again on + Friday. Rebecca Mary was the jog to Aunt Olivia's memory. It gave her now, + at the beginning of her own diary career, an experienced feeling, as if + she knew already how to keep a diary. It made it seem a much simpler + matter to begin. + </p> + <p> + And then, of course, the minister's littlest little boy—really it + was the minister's littlest little boy who had started Rebecca Mary. He + had volunteered a peep into his own diary, and made whispered explanations + and suggestions. He let Rebecca Mary read some of the entries: “MUNDY, + plesent and good. TUSDY, rany and bad. WENSDY, sum plesent and not good + enuf to hirt. THIRSDY” but he had hastily withdrawn the book at “Thirsdy,” + and a tidal-wave of warm red blood had flowed up over his little brown + ears and in around all the little brown islands of his freckles. So + Rebecca Mary had begun hastily to talk of other things. For the minister's + littlest little boy had explained that the first Statement in each entry + referred to the weather and the second to the deportment of the writer, + and Rebecca Mary had remarked a sympathetic resemblance between the two + statements. She had caught a fleeting glimpse of the weather part of + “Thirsdy”—she could guess the rest. Better let the curtain fall on + “Thirsdy.” On her way home Rebecca Mary decided to keep a diary herself. + Her first day's record had been a good deal like the “Mundy” of the + minister's littlest little boy, only there were more a's in the weather. + After that, little by little, she branched out into a certain originality—the + Rebecca Mary sort. If she had not been hampered by circumstances, it would + have been easier to be original. The most hampering circumstance was the + cookbook itself, which she was driven to use in her new undertaking. There + was room on the blank leaves and above and below the recipes for cake and + pudding and pie. The book was one Aunt Olivia had given her long ago to + draw impossible pictures in. + </p> + <p> + In the beginning Rebecca Mary tried pasting pieces of “empty” paper over + the pies and puddings and cakes, but the empty paper was too transparent. + In rather startling places things were liable to show through. + </p> + <p> + As: “SUNDAY.—It rained a level teaspoonful. Aunt Olivia and I went + to church. The text was thou shalt not steal 1 cups of sour milk—” + Rebecca Mary got no farther than that. She was a little appalled at the + result thus far, and hastily turned a page and began again in a blank + space where no intrusive pudding could break through and corrupt. + Thereafter she wrote above and below the recipes and pasted no more thin + veils over them. It seemed safer. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia, apparently oblivious to what was going on, yet saw and did + not disapprove. It was to be expected that the child should come into her + inheritance sometime, early or late. If early—well. + </p> + <p> + “It's the Plummer in her. All the Plummers have kept diaries,” Aunt Olivia + mused, knitting stolidly on while the child stooped painfully to her + self-imposed task. The quaint resemblance to herself at her own + diary-writing did not escape her, and she smiled a little in the Aunt + Olivia way that scarcely stirred her lips. Aunt Olivia smiled oftener now + when she looked at the child. She was “failing” a little, Plummerly. + Between the two of them, little Plummer and big, stretched of late a tie + woven of sheets and a gorgeous quilt of a thousand bits. It was not very + visible to the naked eye, but they were both rather shyly conscious that + it was there. They would never be quite so far apart again. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary took her diary out to the haunts of Thomas Jefferson and read + aloud selections to him, with an odd, conscious little air, as though she + were graduating. The great white fellow was a sympathetic auditor, if + silence and extreme gravity count. Only once did he ever make comments, + and Rebecca Mary could never quite make up her mind whether he laughed + then or applauded. When a great white rooster elongates his neck, crooks + it ridiculously, flaps his wings and crows, it's hard telling exactly what + feeling prompts him. But Rebecca reasoned from past experience and her + faith in him—he had never laughed at her before. It was applause. + The especial entry which evoked it was the one that first mentioned an + allowance. + </p> + <p> + “'THURSDAY.—I think I'm going to—'” read Rebecca Mary slowly; + and it was significant that on this Thursday there was no weather. “'I + havent desided—I don't KNOW, but I think I'm going to ask Aunt + Olivia to pay me 5 cents a weak. Rhoda says you call it an alowance, and I + supose she knows. She is the minnister's daughter. She has 10 cents a weak + unless shes bad and then she pays the minnister an alowance. He charges + her 1 cent a sin and he gives it to somebody who is indignant—I + think Rhoda said indignant. Then I should think he would give it back to + Rhoda. I shant only ask Aunt Olivia for 5 cents—I think she will be + more likely. I havent desided but I THINK I shall ask her tomorrow after + her knap. After knaps you are more rested and maybe things don't look just + as they do before knaps. + </p> + <p> + “'FRIDAY.—I think Ide better wait untill tomorrow. Her knap was + rather short. Ive desided to say you needent alow but 4 if 5 is too mutch. + If she alows Im going to buy me some crimpers. Rhodas curls natchurally + but she says you can crimp it if it doesent. I have begun to look at + myself in the glass and it fritens me—I guess there ought to be a gh + in that—to see how homebly I am. I wonder if it doesent kind of + scare Aunt Olivia. Prehaps if I was pretty like Rhoda she would call me + darling and dear instead of Rebecca Mary. I dont blame her mutch because I + LOOK like Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + “'SATURDAY.—I think Sunday will be the best time to ask her, just + after she gets home from meeting and has rolled her bonnet strings up, + espesialy if the minnister preaches on the Lord lovething a cheerful + giver. I am hopeing he will. If I dont get the crimpers Ime going to give + up looking in the glass. For I think Ime growing homeblyer right along. + Theres something the matter with my nose. Rhodas doesent run up hill. I + never thought about noses before. Aunt Olivias is a little quear too but I + like it became its Aunt Olivias nose. I wish I knew if Aunt Olivia liked + mine. I wish we were better akquainted. + </p> + <p> + “'SUNDAY.—I wish the Lord had created mine curly because I dont dass + to ask Aunt Olivia. I don't dass to, so there. It scares my throat. I + supose its because aunts arnt mothers—seems as if youd dass to ask + your MOTHER. I hate to be scart on acount of being a Plummer. Im afraid Im + the only Plummer that ever was—'” + </p> + <p> + The reading suddenly stopped here. This was Sunday, and the last entry was + fresh from Rebecca Mary's pencil. + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Jefferson!” stormed Rebecca Mary, in a little gust of passion, + “don't you ever TELL I was scared! As long as you live!—cross your + heart!—oh, I wish I hadn't read that part to you! You're a Plummer + too, and you never were scared, and you can't understand—” + </p> + <p> + The diary was clutched to Rebecca Mary's little flat breast, and with a + swirl of starched Sunday skirts the child was gone. She went straight to + Aunt Olivia. Red spots of shame flamed in both sallow little cheeks; + resolution sat astride her little uphill nose. She could not bear to go, + but it was easier than being ashamed. The pointing fingers of all the + Plummers pushed her on. Go she must, or be a coward. Long ago—it + seemed long to Rebecca Mary—she had stood up straight and stanch and + refused to make any more sheets. Was that little girl who had dared, THIS + little girl who was afraid? Should that little girl be ashamed of this + one? + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Olivia,” steadily, though Rebecca Mary's heart was pounding hard—“Aunt + Olivia, are—are you well off?” + </p> + <p> + She had not meant to begin like that, but afterwards she was glad that she + had. + </p> + <p> + “My grief!” Aunt Olivia ejaculated in her surprise. What would the child + ask next? “Am I well off? If you mean rich, no, I ain't.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Then you're—why, I didn't think about your being poor! I + shouldn't have thought of asking—that makes a great difference. I + never thought of THAT!” + </p> + <p> + She was off before Aunt Olivia had fully recovered her breath, and the + stumping of her heavy little shoes going upstairs was the only distinctly + audible sound. In her own room Rebecca Mary stopped, panting. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm glad I didn't get as far as ASKING!” she breathed aloud. “I never + thought about her being poor—of course then I wouldn't ask!” + </p> + <p> + But she squared her shoulders and stood up, straight and unashamed. For + she had vindicated herself. She had been ready to ask. She could look that + other little girl of the sheets in the face. The Other Little Girl was + there, coming to meet her as she advanced to the little looking glass + above the table. But Rebecca Mary waved her back peremptorily. + </p> + <p> + “Go right back!” she said. “I only came to tell you I wasn't a coward—that's + all. Good-bye. For I'm not coming any more. You're sorry I'm homely, and + I'm sorry you are, but it doesn't do any good for us to look at each other + and groan. It will make us unsatisfied. So I shall turn you back to the + wall—good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + But for a very [long] instant they looked sadly into each other's little + lean brown-yellow faces. It was a brief ceremony of farewell. “Good-bye,” + smiled Rebecca Mary, bravely. And the lips of The Other Little Girl moved + as though saying it too. The Other Little Girl smiled. And neither of them + knew that just then she was beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia was trying to meet her own courage test. She had been trying a + good many days. Duty—stern, unswerving duty—bade her inspect + Rebecca Mary's little cookbook diary. Should she not know—ought she + not to know the thoughts that were brewing in the child's mind? How else + could she bring her up properly? + </p> + <p> + “Read it,” Duty said, “find out. Are you afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm ashamed,” groaned Aunt Olivia. “Do you think Rebecca Mary would read + my diary?” + </p> + <p> + “Is Rebecca Mary bringing you up?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia sometimes thought so. The puzzle that she had begun to try to + solve when Rebecca Mary's white, death-struck mother had laid her baby in + Aunt Olivia's unaccustomed arms was getting a little more difficult every + day. Some days Aunt Olivia wondered if she ought to give it up. Oh, this + bringing up—this bringing up of little children! + </p> + <p> + “If I must,” groaned Aunt Olivia, and got as far as taking the little + diary in her hands. But she got no farther. She laid it gently down again. + </p> + <p> + “I can't,” she said, firmly, but she could not look Duty in the face as + she said it. She had always listened to Duty before. + </p> + <p> + “You know you ought to—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, but I can't! It seems a shameful thing to do. I'm sure I've + tried often enough—you know I've tried—” + </p> + <p> + “I know—that was good practice. Now stop trying and read it!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia flamed up. “I tell you I won't! It's a shameful thing. If I + found Rebecca Mary reading one of my diaries, I should send her to bed—” + </p> + <p> + “Read hers and go to bed yourself. It's your duty to read it. When you + bring up a child—” + </p> + <p> + “I never will again!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia read it, with the relentless grip of Duty holding her to the + task. But flame spots crept up through the sallow of her thin cheeks and + made what atonement they could. + </p> + <p> + It did not take long, though some of the pages she read twice. The + weatherless week, when Rebecca Mary had put off her “asking” from day to + day, Aunt Olivia went back to the third time. When she closed the little + book it was not a Plummer face she lifted it to and laid it against for + the space of a breath—a Plummer face would not have been wet. + </p> + <p> + Then she Whirled upon Duty. “Well, I've done it—I hope you're + satisfied!” + </p> + <p> + “It had to be done,” calm Duty responded. “If you think it will make you + feel any better, you can send yourself to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to,” sighed Aunt Olivia, slipping away to her room. A strange + little yearning was upon her to hunt up Rebecca Mary and call her darling + and dear. But in her heart she knew she should not have the courage to do + it. Here was another Plummer coward! + </p> + <p> + “Why are some people made like me?” she thought—“so it kills 'em to + say anything anyways tenderish. Seems to be too much for their vocal + organs—they'd rather do a week's washing!” + </p> + <p> + Other thoughts came to Aunt Olivia as she lay on her bed, doing her + whimsical penance for violating the sanctity of the little old cookbook. + She was not comfortable. It was a hard bed—nothing was soft of Aunt + Olivia's. She moved about on it uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “When they're dead, we're willing enough to say tenderish things to 'em,” + her musings ran. “We wish we HAD then. I suppose if Rebecca Mary was—” + </p> + <p> + She got no farther for the sudden horror that was upon her—that sent + her to her feet and to the door. But there she stopped in the blessed + relief that drifted in to her on a child's laugh. Somewhere out there + Rebecca Mary was laughing in her subdued, sweet way. A cracked, shrill + crow followed—Thomas Jefferson was laughing too. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary was not dead. There was time to say a “tenderish” thing to + her before she lay—before that. Aunt Olivia shut her eyes resolutely + to the vision that had intruded upon her musings. It was Rebecca Mary who + was laughing somewhere out there that she wanted to see. + </p> + <p> + The next day was Sunday, and in the quiet of the long afternoon Rebecca + Mary read aloud again to Thomas Jefferson. It was from the little cookbook + diary. Thomas Jefferson was pecking about the long grass of the orchard. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, listen!” cried Rebecca Mary, her eyes unwontedly shining. “Listen to + this, Thomas Jefferson! + </p> + <p> + “'SATURDAY.—Wind northwest by Mrs. Tupper's Weather vain. Something + happened yesterday. Aunt Olivia didn't say it, but she most did. She came + right out of her bedroom and I saw it in her face! “Dear”—“darling,”—they + were both there, and she was looking at me! Nobody EVER looked “dear” + “darling” at me before. I suppose my mother would have. If I hadent had + another mother I think I should like to have had Aunt Olivia. + </p> + <p> + “'You feel that way more after you get akquainted. When I get VERY + akquainted prehaps I shall tell Aunt Olivia. Its quear, I think, how it + isent as easy to say some things as it is to think them. You can wright + them easier too. I am glad Ime keeping a diary because I can wright about + yesterday and what happenned. I shall read it to my grand children—to + be continude. + </p> + <p> + “'SUNDAY'—that's today, Thomas Jefferson,—'SUNDAY.—This + is yesterday continude, because there was too mutch for one day. Something + else beutiful happenned. My Aunt Olivia said to me as folows, I have + desided to pay you a weakly alowance of 10 cents a weak Rebecca Mary. And + I never asked her to. And she never said anything about charging me for my + sins. I was going to ask her but I found out she was poor. That was a + mistake, she isent. She must be SOME well of I think for 10 cents seams a + great deal to have of your own every weak. But I shant buy crimpers. Ime + going to buy a present for Aunt Olivia byamby. Ime very happy. I wish I + knew how to spell hooray.'” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Rebecca Mary was on her feet, waving the cookbook jubilantly. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo-ray! Hoo-ray! Thomas Jefferson!” she shouted, surprising the gentle + Sunday calm. She surprised Thomas Jefferson, too, but he was equal to the + occasion—Thomas Jefferson was a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo-ra-a-a-ay!” he crowed, splendidly, with a fine effect of clapping his + hands. + </p> + <p> + This time there could be no doubt. This was applause. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Bereavement + </h2> + <p> + Thomas Jefferson was losing his appetite. Even Aunt Olivia noticed it, but + it did not worry her as it did Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + “He's always had as many appetites as a cat's got lives—he's got + eight good ones left,” she said, calmly. + </p> + <p> + But Rebecca Mary was not calm. It seemed to her that Thomas Jefferson was + getting thinner every day. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can feel your bones!” she cried, in distress. “Your bones are + coming through, you poor, dear Thomas Jefferson! Won't you eat just one + more kernel of corn—just this one for Rebecca Mary? I'd do it for + you. Shut your eyes and swallow it right down and you'll never know it.” + </p> + <p> + That day Thomas Jefferson listened to pleading, but not the next day—nor + the next. He went about dispiritedly, and the last few times that he + crowed it made Rebecca Mary cry. Even Aunt Olivia shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I could do it better than that myself,” she said, soberly. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary hunted bugs and angleworms and arranged them temptingly in + rows, but the big, white rooster passed them by with a feeble peck or two. + Bits of bread failed to tempt him, or even his favorite cooky crumbs. His + eighth appetite departed—his seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth. + </p> + <p> + “He lost his third one yesterday,” lamented Rebecca Mary, “and today he's + lost his second. It's pretty bad when he hasn't only one left, Aunt + Olivia.” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty bad,” nodded Aunt Olivia. She was stirring up a warm mush. When + Rebecca Mary had gone upstairs she took it to Thomas Jefferson and + commanded him to eat. He was beyond coaxing—perhaps he needed + commanding. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary thought Aunt Olivia did not care, and it added a new sting to + her pain. There was that time that Aunt Olivia said she wished the Lord + hadn't ever created roosters—Thomas Jefferson had just scratched up + her pansy seeds. And the time when she wished Thomas Jefferson was dead; + did she wish that now? Was she—was she glad he was going to be dead? + </p> + <p> + For Rebecca Mary had given up hope. She was not reconciled, but she was + sure. She spent all her spare time with the big, gaunt, pitiful fellow, + trying to make his last days easier. She knew he liked to have her with + him. + </p> + <p> + “You do, don't you, dear?” she said. She had never called him “dear” + before. She realized sadly that this was her last chance. “You do like to + have me here, don't you? You'd rather? Don't try to crow—just nod + your head a little if you do.” And the big, white fellow's head had nodded + a little, she was sure. She put out her loving little brown hand and + caressed it. “I knew you did, dear. Oh, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas + Jefferson, don't die! PLEASE don't—think of the good times we'll + have if you won't! Think of the—the grasshoppers—the bugs, + Thomas Jefferson—the cookies! Won't you think?—won't you try + to be a little bit hungry?” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary knew what it was to be hungry and not be able to eat, but to + be able to eat and not be hungry—this was away and beyond her + experience. The sad puzzle of it she could not solve. + </p> + <p> + One day the minister had a rather surprising summons to perform his + priestly functions. The summoner was Rebecca Mary. She appeared like a + sombre little shadow in his sunny sermon room. The minister's wife ushered + her in, and in the brief instant of opening the door and announcing her + name flashed him a warning glance. He had been acquainted so long with her + glances that he was able to interpret this one with considerable accuracy. + “All right,” he glanced back. No, he would not smile—yes, he would + remember that it was Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Do what she asks you,” flashed the minister's wife's glance. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” flashed the minister. Then the door closed. + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Jefferson is dying,” Rebecca Mary began, hurriedly. “I came to see + if you'd come.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of himself the minister gasped. Then, as the situation dawned + clearly upon him, his mouth corners began—in spite of themselves—to + curve upward. But in time he remembered the minister's wife, and drew them + back to their centres of gravity. He waited a little. It was safer. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Olivia isn't at home and I'm glad. She doesn't care. Perhaps she + would laugh. Oh, I know,” appealed Rebecca Mary, piteously, “I know he's a + rooster! It isn't because I don't know—but he's FOLKS to me! You + needn't do anything but just smooth his feathers a little and say the Lord + bless you. I thought perhaps you'd come and do that. <i>I</i> could, but I + wanted you to, because you're a minister. I thought—I thought + perhaps you'd try and forget he's a rooster.” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” the minister said, gently. Now his lips were quite grave. He + took Rebecca Mary's hand and went with her. + </p> + <p> + “He's a good man,” murmured the minister's wife, watching them go. She had + known he would go. + </p> + <p> + “He was one of my parishioners,” the minister was saying for the + comforting of Rebecca Mary. Unconsciously he used the past tense, as one + speaks of those close to death. It was well enough, for already big, + gaunt, white Thomas Jefferson was in the past tense. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary chronicled the sad event in her diary: + </p> + <p> + “Tomas Jefferson passed away at ten minutes of three this afternoon + blessed are them that die in the Lord. The minnister did not get here in + time. I wish I had asked him to run for he is a very good minnister and + would have. He helped me berry him in the cold cold ground and we sang a + him. I dident ask him to pray because he was only a rooster, but he was + folks to me. I loved him. It is very lonesome. I dred wakening up tomorrow + because he always crowed under my window. The Lord gaveth and the Lord has + taken away.” + </p> + <p> + This last Rebecca Mary erased once, but she wrote it again after a + moment's thought. For, she reasoned, it was the Lord part of Aunt Olivia + which had given Thomas Jefferson to her. In the primitive little creed of + Rebecca Mary every one had a Lord part, but some people's was very small. + Not Aunt Olivia's—she had never gauged Aunt Olivia's Lord part; it + would not have been consistent with her ideas of loyalty. + </p> + <p> + It was very lonely, as Rebecca Mary had known it would be. At best her + life had never been overfull of companionships, and the sudden taking-off—it + seemed sudden, as all deaths do—of Thomas Jefferson was hard to + bear. Strange how blank a space one great, white rooster can leave behind + him! + </p> + <p> + The yard and the orchard seemed full of blank spaces, though in a way + Thomas Jefferson's soul seemed to frequent his old beloved haunts. Rebecca + Mary could not see it pecking daintily about, but she felt it was there. + </p> + <p> + “His soul isn't dead,” she persisted, gently. She clung to the comfort of + that. And one morning she thought she heard again Thomas Jefferson's old, + cheery greeting to the sunrise. The sound she thought she heard woke her + instantly. Was it Thomas Jefferson's soul crowing? + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Olivia isent sorry,” chronicled the diary, sadly. “Prehaps shes + glad. Once she wished the Lord had forgot to create roosters. But she was + ever kind to Tomas Jefferson, considdering the seeds he scrached up. That + was his besittingest sin and I know he is sorry now. I wish Aunt Olivia + was sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing was ever said between the two about Rebecca Mary's loss, but Aunt + Olivia recognized the keenness of it to the child. She worried a little + about it; it reminded her of that other time of worry when Rebecca Mary + and she had nearly starved. Sheets and roosters—there were so many + worries in the world. + </p> + <p> + That other time she went to the minister, this time to the minister's + wife. One afternoon she went and carried her work. + </p> + <p> + “You know about children,” she began, without loss of time. “What happens + when they lose their appetite over a dead rooster?” + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Jefferson?” breathed the minister's wife, softly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—he's dead and buried, and she's mourning for him. I set three + tarts on for dinner today, and I set three tarts AWAY after dinner. + Rebecca Mary is fond of tarts. What should you do if it was Rhoda?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—-Rhoda—why, I think I should get her another rooster, or a + cat or something, to get her mind off. But Rhoda isn't Rebecca Mary—” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia folded up her work. She got up briskly. + </p> + <p> + “They've got a white rooster down to the Trumbullses',” she said. “I guess + I better go right down now; Tony Trumbull is liable to be at home just + before supper. I'm very much obliged to you for your advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I advise her?” murmured the minister's wife, watching the resolute + swing of Aunt Olivia's skirts as she strode away. “I was going to tell her + that what would cure my Rhoda might not cure Rebecca Mary. Well, I hope it + will work,” but she was sure it wouldn't. She had grown a little + acquainted with Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + It was the new, white rooster crowing, instead of the soul of Thomas + Jefferson. Rebecca Mary found out after she had dressed and gone + downstairs. Soon after that she appeared in the kitchen doorway with an + armful of snowy feathers. Aunt Olivia, over her muffin pans, eyed her with + secret delight. The cure was working sooner than she had dared to expect. + </p> + <p> + “This is the Tony Trumbullses' rooster; if I hurry I guess I can carry him + back before breakfast,” Rebecca Mary said from the doorway. “I'll run, + Aunt Olivia.” + </p> + <p> + “Carry him back!” Aunt Olivia's muffin spoon dropped into the bowl of + creamy batter. One look at Rebecca Mary convinced her that the cure had + not begun to work. Imperceptibly she stiffened. “He ain't anybody's but + mine. I've bought him,” she explained, briefly. “You set him down and feed + him with these crumbs—he ain't human if he don't like cloth-o'-gold + cake.” + </p> + <p> + But the child in the doorway, after gently releasing the great fellow, + drew away quietly. The second look at her face convinced Aunt Olivia that + the cure would never work. + </p> + <p> + “You feed him, please, Aunt Olivia,” Rebecca Mary said; “I—couldn't. + I'll stir the muffins up.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing further was ever said about keeping the Tony Trumbull rooster. He + pecked about the place in unrestrained freedom until the morning work was + done, and then Aunt Olivia carried him home in her apron. + </p> + <p> + “I concluded not to keep him—he'd likely be homesick,” she said, + with a qualm of conscience; for the big, white fellow had certainly shown + no signs of homesickness. But she could not explain and reveal the secret + places of Rebecca Mary's heart. Aunt Olivia, too, had her ideas of + loyalty. + </p> + <p> + In the diary there occurred brief mention of the episode: “The Tony + Trumbull rooster has been here. I could eat him—that's how I feel + about the Tony Trumbull rooster. + </p> + <p> + “I never could have eatten Tomas Jefferson but once and then it would have + broken my heart but I was starveing. Aunt Olivia took him back.” + </p> + <p> + Thomas Jefferson's grave was kept green. Rebecca Mary took her stents down + into the orchard and sat beside it, sadly stitching. She kept it heaped + with wild flowers and poppies from her own rows. Aunt Olivia's flowers she + never touched. The bitterness of Aunt Olivia's not being sorry—perhaps + being glad—rankled in her sore little soul. It would have helped—oh + yes, it would have helped. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia worried on. It seemed to her that all Rebecca Mary's meals in + one meal would not have kept a kitten alive—and that reminded her. + She would try a kitten. The minister's wife had said a rooster or a cat. A + white kitten, she decided, though she could scarcely have told why. + </p> + <p> + The kitten was better, but it was not a cure. Rebecca Mary took the little + creature to her breast and told it her grief for Thomas Jefferson and + cried her Thomas Jefferson tears into its soft, white fur. In that way, at + any rate, it was a success. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I shall love you some day,” she whispered, “but I can't yet, while + Thomas Jefferson is fresh. He's all I have room for. He was my intimate + friend—when your intimate friend is dead you can't love anybody else + right away.” But she apologized to the little cat gently—she felt + that an apology was due it. + </p> + <p> + “You see how it is, little, white cat,” she said. “I shall have to ask you + to wait. But if I ever have a second love, I promise it will be you. + You're a great DEAL comfortinger than that Tony Trumbull rooster! I could + love you this minute if I had never loved Thomas Jefferson. Do you feel + like waiting?” + </p> + <p> + The little, white cat waited. And Aunt Olivia waited. She made tempting + dishes for Rebecca Mary's meals, and put a ruffle into her nightgown neck + and sleeves—Rebecca Mary had always yearned for ruffles. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe she sees 'em. She don't know they're there,” groaned Aunt + Olivia, impotently. “She don't see anything but Thomas Jefferson, and I + don't know as she ever will!” + </p> + <p> + But Rebecca Mary saw the ruffles and fluted them between her brown little + fingers admiringly. She tried once or twice to go and thank Aunt Olivia, + and got as far as her bedroom door. But the bitterness in her heart stayed + her hand from turning the knob. If Aunt Olivia had only known that being + sorry was the right thing to do! Strangely enough, though Rebecca Mary's + view of the matter never occurred to Aunt Olivia, she came by and by to + being sorry on her own account. Perhaps she had been all along, underneath + her disquietude for Rebecca Mary's sorrow. Perhaps when she thought how + quiet it had grown mornings, and what a good chance there was now for a + supplementary nap, she was being sorry. When she remembered that she need + not buy wheat now and yellow corn, and that the cookies would last longer—perhaps + then she was sorry. But she did not know it. It seemed to come upon her + with the nature of a surprise on one especial day. She had been working + her un-“scrached,” untrampled flower-beds. + </p> + <p> + “My grief!” she ejaculated, suddenly, as if just aware of it. “I declare I + believe I miss him, too! I believe to my soul I'd like to hear him crow—I + wouldn't mind if he came strutting in here!” And “in here” was Aunt + Olivia's beloved garden of flowers. Surely she was being sorry now! + </p> + <p> + It was the next day that Rebecca Mary's bitterness was sweetened—that + she began to be cured. She and the little, white cat went down together to + Thomas Jefferson's resting place. When they went home—and they went + soon—Rebecca Mary got her diary and began to write in it with eager + haste. Her sombre little face had lighted up with some inner gladness, + like relief: + </p> + <p> + “Shes been there and put some lavvender on and pinks. I mean Aunt Olivia. + And shes the very fondest of her pinks and lavvender. So she must have + loved Tomas Jefferson. Shes sorry. Shes sorry. Shes sorry. And Ime so + glad.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary caught up the little, white cat and cried her first tear of + joy on its neck. Then she wrote again: + </p> + <p> + “Now there are two morners instead of one. Two morners seams so mutch + lovinger than only one. I know he must feal better. I think he must have + been hurt before and so was I. I wish I dass tell Aunt Olivia how glad I + am shes sorry.” + </p> + <p> + But she told only the little, white cat. The Plummer mantle of reticence + had fallen too heavily on her narrow little shoulders. What she longed to + do she did not “dass.” But that evening in her little ruffled nightgown + she went to Aunt Olivia's room and thanked her for the ruffles. + </p> + <p> + “They're beautiful,” she murmured, in a small agony of shyness. “I think + it was very kind of you to ruffle me—I've always wanted to be. Thank + you very much.” And then she had scurried away on her bare feet to the + safe retreat of her own room under the eaves. Aunt Olivia, left behind, + was unconsciously relieved at not having to respond. She was glad the + child had discovered the ruffles and was pleased. It was a good sign. + </p> + <p> + “I'll mix up some pancakes in the morning,” Aunt Olivia said, + complacently. “Pancakes may help along. Rebecca Mary is fond of 'em.” + </p> + <p> + The pinks and the fragrant lavender appeared to have established a certain + unspoken comradeship between the two “morners” of Thomas Jefferson. + Thereafter Rebecca Mary went about comforted, and Aunt Olivia relieved. + The little, white cat purred about the skirts of one and the stubbed-out + toes of the other in cheerful content. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” the minister's wife queried, in a moment of social intercourse + after church. She and Aunt Olivia walked down the aisle together. + </p> + <p> + “She's getting over it—or beginning to,” nodded Aunt Olivia. “That + other rooster didn't work, but I think the little cat is going to. She + hugs it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! But she still mourns Thomas Jef—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course!” Aunt Olivia interposed, rather crisply. “You couldn't expect + her to get over it all in a minute. He was a remarkable rooster.” + </p> + <p> + “She misses him, herself,” inwardly smiled the minister's little wife. + Whether by virtue of her relationship to the minister or by her own + virtue, she had learned to read human nature with a degree of accuracy. + </p> + <p> + “I looked at myself in the glass tonight,” confessed Rebecca Mary's diary, + “but it was on acount of the rufles. I think Ime not quite so homebly in + rufles. I think Aunt Olivia was kind to rufle me. I should like to ware + this night gown in the day time. I wish folks did.” + </p> + <p> + The pencil slipped out of Rebecca Mary's fingers and rolled on the floor, + to the undoing of the little, white cat, who had gone to bed in his + basket. Rebecca Mary caught him up as he darted after the pencil, and + hugged him in an odd little ecstasy. She felt oddly happy. + </p> + <p> + “You little, white cat!” she cried, muffledly, her face in his thick coat, + “you've waited and waited, but I think I'm going to love you now—you + needn't wait any more.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Feel Doll + </h2> + <p> + The minister uttered a suppressed note of warning as solid little steps + sounded in the hall. It was he who threw a hasty covering over the doll. + The minister's wife sewed on undisturbedly. She did worse than that. + </p> + <p> + “Come here, Rhoda,” she called, “and tell me which you like better, three + tucks or five in this petticoat?” + </p> + <p> + “Five,” promptly, upon inspection. Rhoda pulled away the concealing cover + and regarded the stolid doll with tilted head. “She's 'nough like my + Pharaoh's Daughter to be a blood relation,” she remarked. “She's got the + Pharaoh complexion.” + </p> + <p> + “Spoken like MY daughter!” laughed the minister. “But I thought new dolls + in this house were always surprises. And here's Mrs. Minister making doll + petticoats out in the open!” + </p> + <p> + “This is Rebecca Mary's—I'm dressing a doll for Rebecca Mary, + Robert. She's eleven years old and never had a doll! Rhoda's ten and has + had—How many dolls have you had, Rhoda?” + </p> + <p> + “Gracious! Why, Pharaoh's Daughter, an' Caiapha, an' Esther the Beautiful + Queen, an' the Children of Israel—five o' them—an' Mrs. Job, + an'—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the rest, dear. You hear, Robert? Do you think Rhoda would be + alive now if she'd never had a doll?” + </p> + <p> + The minister pondered the question. “Maybe not, maybe not,” he decided; + “but possibly the dolls would have been.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't make me smile, Robert. I'm trying to make you cry. If Rebecca Mary + were sixty instead of eleven I should dress her a doll.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not one for Miss Olivia?” + </p> + <p> + “I may dress her one,” undauntedly, “if I find out she never had one in + her life.” + </p> + <p> + “She never did.” The minister's voice was positive. “And for that reason, + dear, aren't you afraid she would not approve of Rebecca Mary's having + one? Isn't it rather a delicate mat—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't, Robert, don't discourage me. It's going to be such a beautiful + doll! And you needn't tell me that poor little eleven-year-old woman-child + won't hold out her empty arms for it. Robert, you're a minister; would it + be wrong to give it to her STRAIGHT?” + </p> + <p> + “Straight, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; without saying anything to her aunt Olivia. Tell me. Rhoda's gone. + Say it as—as liberally as you can.” + </p> + <p> + The minister for answer swept doll, petticoat, and minister's wife into + his arms, and kissed them all impartially. + </p> + <p> + “Think if it were Rhoda,” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “And you were 'Aunt Olivia'? You ask me to think such hard things, dear! + If I could stop being a minister long enough—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop?” she laughed; but she knew she meant keep on. With a sigh she + burrowed a little deeper in his neck. “Then I'll ask Aunt Olivia first,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + She went back to her tucking. Only once more did she mention Rebecca Mary. + The once was after she had come downstairs from tucking the children into + bed. She stood in the doorway with the look in her face that mothers have + after doing things like that. The minister loved that look. + </p> + <p> + “Robert, nights when I kiss the children—you knew when you married + me that I was foolish—I kiss little lone Rebecca Mary, too. I began + the day Thomas Jefferson died—I went to the Rebecca-Mary-est window + and threw her a kiss. I went tonight. Don't say a word; you knew when you + married me.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia received the resplendent doll in silence. Plummer honesty and + Plummer politeness were at variance. Plummer politeness said: “Thank her. + For goodness' sake, aren't you going to thank the minister's wife?” But + Plummer honesty, grim and yieldless, said, “You can't thank her, because + you're not thankful.” So Aunt Olivia sat silent, with her resplendent doll + across her knees. + </p> + <p> + “For Rebecca Mary,” the minister's wife was saying, in rather a halting + way. “I dressed it for her. I thought perhaps she never—” + </p> + <p> + “She never,” said Aunt Olivia, briefly. Strange that at that particular + instant she should remember a trifling incident in the child's far-off + childhood. The incident had to do with a little, white nightgown rolled + tightly and pinned together. She had found Rebecca Mary in her little + waist and petticoat cuddling it in bed. + </p> + <p> + “It's a dollie. Please 'sh, Aunt Olivia, or you'll wake her up!” the child + had whispered, in an agony. “Oh, you're not agoing to turn her back to a + nightgown? Don't unpin her, Aunt Olivia—it will kill her! I'll name + her after you if you'll let her stay.” + </p> + <p> + “Get up and take your clothes off.” Strange Aunt Olivia should remember at + this particular instant; should remember, too, that the pin had been a + little rusty and came out hard. Rebecca Mary had slid out of bed + obediently, but there had been a look on her little brown face as of one + bereaved. She had watched the pin come out, and the nightgown unroll, in + stricken silence. When it hung released and limp over Aunt Olivia's arm + she had given one little cry: + </p> + <p> + “She's dead!” + </p> + <p> + The minister's wife was talking hurriedly. Her voice seemed a good way + off; it had the effect of coming nearer and growing louder as Aunt Olivia + stepped back across the years. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you are to do as you think best about giving it to her,” the + minister's wife said, unwillingly. This came of being a minister's wife! + “But I think—I have always thought—that little girls ought—I + mean Rhoda ought—to have dolls to cuddle. It seems part of their—her—inheritance.” + This was hard work! If Miss Olivia would not sit there looking like that—. + </p> + <p> + “As if I'd done something unkind!” thought the gentle little mother, + indignantly. She got up presently and went away. But Aunt Olivia, with the + doll hanging unhealthily over her arm, followed her to the door. There was + something the Plummer honesty insisted upon Aunt Olivia's saying. She said + it reluctantly: + </p> + <p> + “I think I ought to tell you that I've never believed in dolls. I've + always thought they were a waste of time and kept children from learning + to do useful things. I've brought Rebecca Mary up according to my best + light.” + </p> + <p> + “Worst darkness!” thought the minister's wife, hotly. + </p> + <p> + “She's never had a doll. I never had one. I got along. I could make butter + when I was seven. So perhaps you'd better take the doll—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! Please keep it, Miss Olivia, and if you should ever change your + mind—I mean perhaps sometime—good-bye. It's a beautiful day, + isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia took it up into the guest chamber and laid it in an empty + bureau drawer. She closed the drawer hastily. She did not feel as + duty-proof as she had once felt, before things had happened—softening + things that had pulled at her heartstrings and weakened her. The quilt on + the guest chamber bed was one of the things; she would not look at it now. + And the sheets under the quilt—and the grave of Thomas Jefferson + that she could see from the guest chamber window. Aunt Olivia was terribly + beset with the temptation to take the doll out to Rebecca Mary in the + garden. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to do it?” demanded Duty, confronting her. “Are you going + to give up all your convictions now? Rebecca Mary's in her twelfth + year-pretty late to begin to humor her. I thought you didn't believe in + humoring.” + </p> + <p> + “I unpinned the nightgown,” parried Aunt Olivia, on the defensive. “I + never let her make another one.” + </p> + <p> + “But you're weakening now. You want to let her have THIS doll.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems like part of—of her inheritance.” + </p> + <p> + “Lock that drawer!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia turned the key unhappily. It was not that her “convictions” + had changed—it was her heart. + </p> + <p> + She went up at odd times and looked at the doll the minister's wife had + dressed. She had an unaccountable, uncomfortable feeling that it was lying + there in its coffin—that Rebecca Mary would have said, “She's dead.” + </p> + <p> + It was a handsome doll. Aunt Olivia was not acquainted with dolls, but she + acknowledged that. She admired it unwillingly. She liked its clothes—the + minister's wife had not spared any pains. She had not stinted in tucks nor + ruffles. + </p> + <p> + Once Aunt Olivia took it out and turned it over in her hands with critical + intent, but there was nothing to criticise. It was a beautiful doll. She + held it with a curious, shy tenderness. But that time she did not sit down + with it. It was the next time. + </p> + <p> + The rocker was so near the bureau, and Aunt Olivia was tired—and the + doll was already in her arms. She only sat down. For a minute she sat + quite straight and unrelaxed, then she settled back a little—a + little more. The doll lay heavily against her, its flaxen head touching + her breast. After the manner of high-bred dolls, its eyes drooped + sleepily. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia began to rock—a gentle sway back and forth. She was + sixty, but this was the first time she had ever rocked a chi—a doll. + So she rocked for a little, scarcely knowing it. When she found out, a + wave of soft pink dyed her face and flowed upward redly to her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” Duty jibed, mocking her. + </p> + <p> + “Don't say a word!” cried poor Aunt Olivia. “I'll put her right back.” + </p> + <p> + “What good will that do?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll lock her in.” + </p> + <p> + “You've locked her in before.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll—I'll hide the key.” + </p> + <p> + “Where you can find it! Think again.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia thrust the doll back into its coffin with unsteady hands. The + red in her face had faded to a faint, abiding pink. She locked the drawer + and drew out the key. She strode to the window and flung it out with a + wide sweep of her arm. + </p> + <p> + The minister's wife, ignorant of the results of her kind little + experiment, resolved to question Rebecca Mary the next time she came on an + errand. She would do it with extreme caution. + </p> + <p> + “I'll just feel round,” she said. “I want to know if her aunt's given it + to her. You think she must have, don't you, Robert? By this time? Why, it + was six weeks ago I carried it over! It was such a nice, friendly little + doll! By this time they would be such friends—if her aunt gave it to + her. Robert, you think—” + </p> + <p> + “I think it's going to rain,” the minister said. But he kissed her to make + it easier. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary came over to bring Aunt Olivia's rule for parson-cake that + the minister's wife had asked for. + </p> + <p> + “Come in, Rebecca Mary,” the minister's wife said, cordially. “Don't you + want to see the new dress Rhoda's doll is going to have? I suppose you + could make your doll's dress yourself?” It seemed a hard thing to say. + Feeling round was not pleasant. + </p> + <p> + “P'haps I could, but she doesn't wear dresses,” Rebecca Mary answered, + gravely. + </p> + <p> + “No?” This was puzzling. “Her clothes don't come off, I suppose?” Then it + could not be the nice, friendly doll. + </p> + <p> + “No'm. Nor they don't go on, either. She isn't a feel doll.” + </p> + <p> + “A—what kind did you say, dear?” The minister's wife paused in her + work interestedly. Distinctly, Miss Olivia had not given her THE doll; but + this doll—“I don't think I quite understood, Rebecca Mary.” + </p> + <p> + “No'm; it's a little hard. She isn't a FEEL doll, I said. I never had a + feel one. Mine hasn't any body, just a soul. But she's a great comfort.” + </p> + <p> + “Robert,” appealed the minister's wife, helplessly. This was a case for + the minister—a case of souls. + </p> + <p> + “Tell us some more about her, Rebecca Mary,” the minister urged, gently. + But there was helplessness, too, in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that's all!” returned Rebecca Mary, in surprise. “Of course I can't + dress her or undress her or take her out calling. But it's a great comfort + to rock her soul to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Call Rhoda,” murmured the wife to the minister; but Rhoda was already + there. She volunteered prompt explanation. There was no hesitation in + Rhoda's face. + </p> + <p> + “She means a make believe doll. Don't you, Rebecca Mary?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Rebecca Mary assented; “that's her other name, I suppose, but I + never called her by it.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you call her?” demanded practical Rhoda. “What's her name mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Rhoda!”—hastily, from the minister's wife. This seemed like + sacrilege. But Rhoda's clear, blue eyes were fixed upon Rebecca Mary; she + had not heard her mother's warning little word. + </p> + <p> + A shy color spread thinly over the lean little face of Rebecca Mary. For + the space of a breath or two she hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Her name's—Felicia,” then, softly. + </p> + <p> + “Robert”—the children had gone out together; the minister's wife's + eyes were unashamedly wet—“Robert, I wish you were a—a sheriff + instead of a minister. Because I think I would make a better sheriff's + wife. Do you know what I would make you do?” + </p> + <p> + The minister could guess. + </p> + <p> + “I'd make you ARREST that woman, Robert!” + </p> + <p> + “Felicia!” But she saw willingness to be a sheriff come into his own eyes + and stop there briefly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't call me 'Felicia' while I feel as wicked as this! Oh, Robert, to + think she named her little soul-doll after me!” + </p> + <p> + “It's a beautiful name.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the wickedness was over. She laughed unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't be a good name for a sheriff's wife, would it?” she said. “So + I'll stay by my own minister.” + </p> + <p> + One day close upon this time Aunt Olivia came abruptly upon Rebecca Mary + in the grape arbor. She was sitting in her little rocking chair, swaying + back and forth slowly. She did not see Aunt Olivia. What was she was + crooning half under her breath? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, hush, oh, hush, my dollie; + Don't worry any more, + For Rebecca Mary 'n' the angels + Are watching o'er, + —-O'er 'n' o'er 'n' o'er.” + </pre> + <p> + The same words over and over—growing perhaps a little softer and + tenderer. Rebecca Mary's arm was crooked as though a little flaxen head + lay in the bend of it. Rebecca Mary's brooding little face was gazing + downward intently at her empty arm. Quite suddenly it came upon Aunt + Olivia that she had seen the child rocking like this before—that she + must have seen her often. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Rebecca Mary 'n' the angels + Are watching o'er,” + </pre> + <p> + sang on the crooning little voice in Aunt Olivia's ears. + </p> + <p> + The doll in its coffin upstairs; down here Rebecca Mary rocking her empty + arms. The two thoughts flashed into Aunt Olivia's mind and welded into + one. All her vacillations and Duty's sharp reminders occurred to her + clearly. She had thought that at last she was proof against temptation, + but she had not thought of this. She was not prepared for Rebecca Mary, + here in her little rocking chair, rocking her little soul-doll to sleep. + </p> + <p> + The angels were used to watching o'er, but Aunt Olivia could not bear it. + She went away with a strange, unaccustomed ache in her throat. The + minister's wife would not have wanted her arrested then. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia tiptoed away as though Rebecca Mary had said, “'Sh!” She was + remembering, as she went, the brief, sweet moment when she had sat like + that and rocked, with the doll the minister's wife dressed, in her arms. + It seemed to establish a new link of kinship between her and Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + She ran plump into Duty. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she gasped. She was a little stunned. Aunt Olivia's Duty was solid. + </p> + <p> + “I know where you've been. I tried get there in time.” + </p> + <p> + “You're too late,” Aunt Olivia said, firmly, “Don't stop me; there's + something I must do before it gets too dark. It's six o'clock now.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” commanded Duty. “Are you crazy? You don't mean—” + </p> + <p> + “Go back there and look at that child—and hear what she's singing! + Stay long enough to take it all in—don't hurry.” + </p> + <p> + But Duty barred her way, grim and stern. + </p> + <p> + Palely she put up both her hands and thrust it aside. She did not once + look back at it. + </p> + <p> + Already it was dusky under the guest chamber window. She had to stoop and + peer and feel in the long tangle of grass. She kept on patiently with the + Plummer kind of patience that never gave up. She was eager and smiling, as + though something pleasant were at the end of the peering and stooping and + feeling. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia was hunting for a key. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Plummer Kind + </h2> + <p> + The doll's name was Olivicia. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary had evolved the name from her inner consciousness and her + intense gratitude to Aunt Olivia and the minister's wife. She had put Aunt + Olivia first with instinctive loyalty, though in the secret little closet + of her soul she had longed to call the beautiful being Felicia, intact and + sweet. She did not know the meaning of Felicia, but she knew that the + doll, as it lay in the loving cradle of her arms, gazing upward with + changeless placidity and graciousness, looked as one should look whose + name was Felicia. Greater compliment than this Rebecca Mary could not have + paid the minister's wife. + </p> + <p> + “Olivicia,” she had placed the being on the sill of the attic window, + stood confronting, addressing it: “Olivicia, it's coming—it is very + near to! Sit there and listen and smile—oh yes, smile, SMILE. I + don't wonder! I would too, only I'm too glad. When you're TOO glad you + can't smile. I've been waiting for it to come. Olivicia, seems as if I'd + been waiting a thousan' years. You're so young, you've only lived such + little while, of course I don't expect you understand the deep-downness + inside o' me when I think—” + </p> + <p> + The address fluttered and came to a standstill here. Rebecca Mary was + suddenly minded that Olivicia was in the dark; must be enlightened before + she could smile understandingly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you poor dear!—why, you don't know what it is that's coming + and that's near to! It's the—city, Olivicia,” enlightened Rebecca + Mary, gently, to insure against shock. “Aunt Olivia's going—to—the—city.” + </p> + <p> + In Rebecca Mary's dreamings it had always been THE city. It did not need + local habitation and a name; enough that it had streets upon streets, + houses upon houses upon houses, a dazzling swirl of men, women, and little + children—noise, glitter, glory. In her dreamings the city was + something so wondrous and grand that Heaven might have been its name. The + streets upon streets were not paved with gold, of course—of course + she knew they were not paved with gold! But in spite of herself she knew + that she would be disappointed if they did not shine. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia had said it that morning. At breakfast—quite + matter-of-factly. Think of saying it matter-of-factly! + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to the city soon, Rebecca Mary,” she had said, between sips of + her tea. “Perhaps by Friday week, but I haven't set the day, really. + There's a good deal to do.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary had been helping do it all day. Now it was nearly time for + the pageant of red and gold in the west that Rebecca Mary loved, and she + had come up here with the beautiful being to watch it through the tiny + panes of the attic window, but more to ease the aching rapture in her soul + by speech. She must say it out loud. The city—the city—to the + city of streets and houses and men and wonders upon wonders! + </p> + <p> + Olivicia had come in the capacity of calm listener; for nothing excited + Olivicia. + </p> + <p> + “I,” Aunt Olivia had said, but Aunt Olivia usually said “I.” There was no + discouragement in that to Rebecca Mary. It did not for a moment occur to + her that “I” did not mean “we.” + </p> + <p> + The valise they had got down from its cobwebby niche was roomy; it would + hold enough for two. Rebecca Mary knew that, because she had packed it so + many times in her dreamings. She wished Aunt Olivia would let her pack it + now. She knew just where she would put everything—her best dress and + Aunt Olivia's (for of course they would wear their second-bests), their + best hats and shoes and gloves. Their nightgowns she would roll tightly + and put in one end, for it doesn't hurt nightgowns to be rolled tightly. + Of course she would not put anything heavy, like hair brushes and shoes + and things, on top of anything—unless it was the nightgowns, for it + doesn't hurt— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Olivicia—oh, Olivicia, how I hope she'll say, 'Rebecca Mary, + you may pack the valise'! I could do it with my eyes shut, I've done it so + many, many times!” + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Olivia did not say it. One day and then another went by without + her saying it, and then one morning Rebecca Mary knew by the plump, + well-fed aspect of the valise that it was packed. Aunt Olivia had packed + it in the night. + </p> + <p> + There was no one else in the room when Rebecca Mary made her disappointing + little discovery. She went over to the plump valise and prodded it gently + with her finger. But it is so difficult to tell in that way whether your + own best dress, your own best hat, best shoes, best gloves, are in there. + Rebecca Mary hurried upstairs and looked in her closet and in her “best” + bureau drawer. + </p> + <p> + They were not there! In her relief she caught up the beautiful being and + strained her hard, lifeless little body to her own warm breast. If she had + not been Rebecca Mary, she would have danced about the room. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm so relieved, Olivicia!” she laughed, softly. “If they're not up + here, THEY'RE DOWN THERE. They've got to be somewhere. They're in that + valise—valise—vali-i-ise!” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary had never been to a city, and within her remembrance Aunt + Olivia had never been. Curiosity was not a Plummer trait, hence Rebecca + Mary had never asked many questions about the remote period before her own + advent into Aunt Olivia's life. The same Plummer restraint kept her now + from asking questions. There was nothing to do but wait, but the waiting + was illumined by her joyous anticipations. + </p> + <p> + Oddly enough, Aunt Olivia seemed to have no anticipations—at least + joyous ones. Her, thin, grave face may even have looked a little thinner + and graver, IF Rebecca Mary had thought to notice. + </p> + <p> + The night the lean old valise took on plumpness, Aunt Olivia went often + into Mary's little room. Many of the times she came out very shortly with + the child's “best” things trailing from her arms, but once or twice she + stayed rather long—long enough to stand beside a little white bed + and look down on a flushed little face. A pair of wide-open eyes watched + her smilingly from the pillows, but they were not Rebecca Mary's eyes, and + Olivicia was altogether trustworthy. + </p> + <p> + An odd thing happened—but Olivicia never told. Why should she + publish abroad that she had lain there and seen Aunt Olivia bend once—bend + twice—over Rebecca Mary and kiss her? + </p> + <p> + Softly, patiently, very wearily, Aunt Olivia went in and out. The things + she brought out in her arms she folded carefully and packed, but not in + the lank old valise. She put them all with tender painstaking into a + quaint little carpetbag. When the work was done she set the bag away out + of sight, and went about packing her own things in the old valise. + </p> + <p> + The day before, she had been to see the minister and the minister's wife. + She called for them both, and sat down gravely and made her proposition. + It was startling only because of the few words it took to make it. + Otherwise it was very pleasant, and the minister and the minister's wife + received it with nods and smiles. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, Miss Olivia—why, certainly!” smiled and nodded the + minister. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it will be delightful—and Rhoda will be so pleased!” nodded + and smiled the minister's wife. But after their caller had gone she faced + the minister with indignant eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you let her?” she demanded. “Why did you spoil it all by that?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she was Miss Olivia,” he answered, gently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes, I suppose so,” reluctantly; “but, anyway, you needn't have + let her do it in advance. Actually it made me blush, Robert!” + </p> + <p> + The minister rubbed his cheeks tentatively. “Made me, too,” he admitted, + “but I respect Miss Olivia so much—” + </p> + <p> + The minister's wife tacked abruptly to her other source of indignation. + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn't she TAKE Rebecca Mary? Robert, wait! You know it isn't + because—You know better!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't because, dear—I know better,” he hurried, assuringly. The + minister was used to her little indignations and loved them for being + hers. They were harmless, too, and wont to have a good excuse for being. + This one, now—the minister in his heart wondered that Miss Olivia + did not take Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + “It would be such a treat. Robert, you think what a treat it would be to + Rebecca Mary!” + </p> + <p> + “Still, dear—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to be still! I want Rebecca Mary to have that treat!” But + she kissed him in token of being willing to drop it there—it was her + usual token—and ran away to get a little room ready. There was not a + device known to the minister's wife that she did not use to make that room + pleasant. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I take your pincushion, Rhoda?” Rhoda had come up to help. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” eagerly, “and I'll write Welcome with the pins.” + </p> + <p> + “And the little fan to put on the wall—the pink one?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; let me spread it out, mamma!” + </p> + <p> + “That's grand. Now if we only had a pink quilt—” + </p> + <p> + “I 'only have' one!” laughed Rhoda, hurrying after it. + </p> + <p> + The whole little room when they left, like the pins in the pincushion, + spelled “WELCOME.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia got up earlier than usual one day and went about the house for + a survey. The valise and the little carpetbag she carried downstairs and + out on to the front steps. Her face was whitened as if by a long night's + vigil. When she called Rebecca Mary it was with a voice strained hoarse. + The beautiful being Olivicia watched her with intent, unwinking gaze. + Could it be Olivicia understood? + </p> + <p> + “Hurry and dress, Rebecca Mary; there's a good deal to do,” Aunt Olivia + said at the door. She did not go in. “Yes, in your second-best—don't + you see I've put it out. You can wear that every day now, till—for a + while.” Something in the voice startled Rebecca Mary out of her subdued + ecstasy and sent her down to breakfast with a nameless fear tugging at her + heart. + </p> + <p> + “You're going to stay at the minister's—I've paid your board in + advance,” Aunt Olivia said, monotonously, as if it were her lesson. She + did not look at Rebecca Mary. “I've put in your long-sleeve aprons so you + can help do up the dishes. There's plenty of handkerchiefs to last. You + mustn't forget your rubbers when it's wet, or to make up your bed + yourself. I don't want you to make the minister's wife any more trouble + than you can help.” + </p> + <p> + The lesson went monotonously on, but Rebecca Mary scarcely heard. She had + heard the first sentence—her sentence, poor child! “You're going to + stay at the minister's—stay at the minister's—stay at the + minister's.” It said itself over and over again in her ears. In her need + for somebody to lean on, her startled gaze sought the beautiful being + across the room in agonized appeal. + </p> + <p> + But Olivicia was staring smilingly at Aunt Olivia. ET TU, OLIVICIA! + </p> + <p> + If Rebecca Mary had noticed, there was an appealing, wistful look in Aunt + Olivia's eyes too, in odd contrast to the firm lips that moved steadily on + with their lesson: + </p> + <p> + “You can walk to school with Rhoda, you'll enjoy that. You've never had + folks to walk with. And you can stay with her, only you mustn't forget + your stents. I've put in some towels to hem. Maybe the minister's wife has + got something; if so, hem hers first. You'll be like one o' the family, + and they're nice folks, but I want you to keep right on being a Plummer.” + </p> + <p> + Years afterwards Rebecca Mary remembered the dizzy dance of the bottles in + the caster—they seemed to join hands and sway and swing about their + silver circlet and how Aunt Olivia's buttons marched and countermarched up + and down Aunt Olivia's alpaca dress. She did not look above the buttons—she + did not dare to. If she was to keep right on being a Plummer, she must not + cry. + </p> + <p> + “That's all,” she heard through the daze and dizziness, “except that I + can't tell when I'll be back. It—ain't decided. Likely I shan't be + able—there won't be much chance to write, and you needn't expect me + to. No need to write me either. That's all, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + The stage that came for Aunt Olivia dropped the little carpetbag and + Rebecca Mary at the minister's. In the brief interval between the start + and the dropping, Rebecca Mary sat, stiff and numb, on the edge of the + high seat and gazed out unfamiliarly at the familiar landmarks they + lurched past. At any other time the knowledge that she was going to the + minister's to stay—to live—would have filled her with staid + joy. At any other time—but THIS time only a dull ache filled her + little dreary world. Everything seemed to ache—the munching cows in + the Trumbull pasture, the cats on the doorsteps, the dog loping along + beside the stage, the stage driver's stooping old back. Aunt Olivia was + going to the city—Rebecca Mary wasn't going to the city. There was + no room in the world for anything but that and the ache. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary's indignation was not born till night. Then, lying in the + dainty bed under Rhoda's pink quilt, her mood changed. Until then she had + only been disappointed. But then she sat up suddenly and said bitter + things about Aunt Olivia. + </p> + <p> + “She's gone to have a good time all to herself—and she might have + taken me. She didn't, she didn't, and she might've. She wanted all the + good time herself! She didn't want me to have any!” + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca Mary!—did you speak, dear?” It was the gentle voice of the + minister's wife outside the door. Rebecca Mary's red little hands unwrung + and dropped on the pink quilt. + </p> + <p> + “No'm, I did—I mean yes'm, I didn't—I mean—” + </p> + <p> + “You don't feel sick? There isn't anything the matter, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “No'm—oh, yes'm, yes'm!” for there was something the matter. It was + Aunt Olivia. But she must not say it—must not cry—must keep + right on being a Plummer. + </p> + <p> + “Robert, I didn't go in—I couldn't,” the minister's wife said, back + in the cheery sitting room. “I suppose you think I'd have gone in and + comforted her, taken her right in my arms and comforted her the Rhoda way, + but I didn't.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” The minister's voice was a little vague on account of the sermon on + his knees. + </p> + <p> + “I seemed to know—something told me right through that door—that + she'd rather I wouldn't. Robert, if the child is homesick, it's a + different kind of homesickness.” + </p> + <p> + “The Plummer kind,” he suggested. The minister was coming to. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the Plummer kind, I suppose, Plummers are such—such PLUMMERY + persons, Robert!” + </p> + <p> + Upstairs under the pink quilt the rigid little figure relaxed just enough + to admit of getting out of bed and fumbling in the little carpetbag. With + her diary in her hand—for Aunt Olivia had remembered her diary—Rebecca + Mary went to the window and sat down. She had to hold the cookbook up at a + painful angle and peer at it sharply, for the moonlight that filtered into + the little room through the vines was dim and soft. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Olivia has gone to the city and I haven't,” painfully traced Rebecca + Mary. “She wanted the good time all to herself. I shall never forgive Aunt + Olivia the Lord have mercy on her.” Then Rebecca Mary went back to bed. + She dreamed that the cars ran off the track and they brought Aunt Olivia's + pieces home to her. In the dreadful dream she forgave Aunt Olivia. + </p> + <p> + It was very pleasant at the minister's and the minister's wife's. Rebecca + Mary felt the warmth and pleasantness of it in every fibre of her body and + soul. But she was not happy nor warm. She thought it was indignation + against Aunt Olivia—she did not know she was homesick. She did not + know why she went to the old home every day after school and wandered + through Aunt Olivia's flower garden, and sat with little brown chin + palm-deep on the doorsteps. Gradually the indignation melted out of + existence and only the homesickness was left. It sat on her small, lean + face like a little spectre. It troubled the minister's wife. + </p> + <p> + “What can we do, Robert?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he echoed; for the minister, too, was troubled. + </p> + <p> + “She wanders about like a little lost soul. When she plays with the + children it's only the outside of her that plays.” + </p> + <p> + “Only the outside,” he nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Last night I went in, Robert, and—and tried the Rhoda way. I think + she liked it, but it didn't comfort her. I am sure now that it is + homesickness, Robert.” They were both sure, but the grim little spectre + sat on, undaunted by all their kindnesses. + </p> + <p> + “When thy father and thy mother forsake the,” wrote Rebecca Mary in the + cookbook diary, “and thy Aunt Olivia for I know it means and thy Aunt + Olivia then the Lord will take the up, but I dont feal as if anyboddy had + taken me up. The ministers wife did once but of course she had to put me + down again rite away. She is a beutiful person and I love her but she is + differunt from thy father and thy mother and thy Aunt Olivia. Ide rather + have Aunt Olivia take me up than to have the Lord.” + </p> + <p> + It was when she shut the battered little book this time that Rebecca Mary + remembered one or two things that had happened the morning Aunt Olivia + went away. It was queer how she HADN'T remembered them before. + </p> + <p> + She remembered that Aunt Olivia had taken her sharp little face between + her own hands and looked down wistfully at it—wistfully, Rebecca + Mary remembered now, though she did not call it by that name. She + remembered Aunt Olivia had said, “You needn't hem anything unless it's for + the minister's wife—never mind the towels I put in.” That was almost + the last thing she had said. She had put her head out of the stage door to + say it. Rebecca Mary had hemmed a towel each day. There were but two left, + and she resolved to hem both of those tomorrow. A sudden little longing + was born within her for more towels to hem for Aunt Olivia. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly three weeks after Rebecca Mary's entrance into the + minister's family when the letter came. It was directed to Rebecca Mary, + and lay on her plate when she came home from school. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, look, you've got a letter, Rebecca Mary!” heralded Rhoda, joyfully. + Then her face fell, for maybe the letter would say Aunt Olivia was coming + home. + </p> + <p> + “Is it from your aunt Olivia?” she asked, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “No,” Rebecca Mary said, in slow surprise. “The writing isn't, anyway, and + the name is another one—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Oh! Maybe she's got mar—” + </p> + <p> + “Rhoda!” cautioned the minister. + </p> + <p> + This is the letter Rebecca Mary read: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Rebecca Mary,—You see I know your name from your aunt. She + talked about you all the time, but I am writing you of my own accord. She + does not know it. I think you will like to know that at last we are + feeling very hopeful about your aunt. We have been very anxious since the + operation, she had so little strength to rally with. But now if she keeps + on as well as this you will have her home again in a little while. The + doctors say three weeks. She is the patientest patient in the ward. Yours + very truly, Sara Ellen Nesbitt, Nurse” Ward A, Emmons Hospital + </p> + <p> + That was the letter. Rebecca Mary's face grew a little whiter at every + line of it. At every line understanding grew clearer, till at the end she + knew it all. She gave a little cry, and ran out of the room. Love and + remorse and sympathy fought for first place in her laboring little breast. + In the next few minutes she lived so long a time and thought so many + thoughts! But above everything else towered joy that Aunt Olivia was + coming home. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary's eyes blazed with pride at being a Plummer. This kind of + courage was the Plummer kind. The child's lank little figure seemed to + grow taller and straighter. She held up her head splendidly and exulted. + She felt like going up on the minister's housetop and proclaiming: “She's + my aunt Olivia! She's mine! She's mine—I'm a Plummer, too! All o' + you listen, she's my aunt Olivia, and she's coming home!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the child flung out her arms towards the south where Aunt Olivia + was. And though she stood quite still, something within her seemed to + spring away and go hurrying through the clear air. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't suppose Aunt Olivia would ever forgive me, but she's Aunt + Olivia and she will,” wrote Rebecca Mary that night, her small, dark face + full of a solemn peace—it seemed so long since she had been full of + peace before. She wrote on eagerly: + </p> + <p> + “When she gets home Ime going to hug her I can't help it if it wont be + keeping right on.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Article Seven + </h2> + <p> + Rebecca Mary measured them. Against the woodshed wall, with chalk—it + was not altogether an easy thing to do. The result startled her. With + rather unsteady little fingers she measured from chalk mark to floor + again, to make sure it was as bad as that. It was even a little worse. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” sighed Rebecca Mary, “to think they belong to me—to think + they're hitched on!” She gazed down at them with scorn and was ashamed of + them. She tried to conceal their length with her brief skirts; but when + she straightened up, there they were again, as long as ever. She sat down + suddenly on the shed floor and drew them up underneath her. That was + temporarily a relief. “If I sit here world without end nobody'll see 'em,” + grimly smiled Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + It was her legs Rebecca Mary measured against the woodshed wall. It was + her legs she was ashamed of. No wonder the minister's wife had said to the + minister going home from meeting, with Rebecca Mary behind them unawares,—no + wonder she had said, “Robert, HAVE you noticed Rebecca Mary's legs?” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary had not heard the reply of the minister, for of course she + had gone away then. If she had stayed she would have heard him say, with + exaggerated prudery, “Felicia! My dear! Were you alluding to Rebecca + Mary's limbs?” for the minister wickedly remembered inadvertent occasions + when he himself had called legs legs. + </p> + <p> + “LEGS,” the minister's wife repeated, calmly—“Rebecca Mary's are too + long for limbs. Robert, that child will grow up one of these days!” + </p> + <p> + “They all do,” sighed the minister. “It's human nature, dear. You'll be + telling me next that there's something the matter with Rhoda's—legs.” + </p> + <p> + The minister's wife gazed thoughtfully ahead at a little trio fast + approaching the vanishing point. Her eyes grew a little wistful. + </p> + <p> + “There is now, perhaps, but I haven't noticed—I won't look!” she + murmured. “And, anyway, Robert, Rhoda will give us a little time to get + used to it in. But Rebecca Mary isn't the Rhoda kind—I don't believe + Rebecca Mary will give us even three days of grace!” + </p> + <p> + “I always supposed Rebecca Mary was born that way—grown up,” the + minister remarked, tucking a gloved hand comfortably close under his arm. + “I wouldn't let it worry me, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't—not worry, really,” she said, smiling—“only her + legs startled me a little today. If she were mine, I should let her + dresses down.” + </p> + <p> + “If she were Rhod—” + </p> + <p> + “She isn't, she's Rebecca Mary. Probably if I were Miss Olivia I would let + Rhoda's down!” And she knew she would. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary on the woodshed floor sat and thought “deep-down” thoughts. + Her eyes were fixed dreamily on a big knothole before her, and the + thoughts seemed to come out of it and stand before her, demanding + imperiously to be thought. One after another—a relentless + procession. + </p> + <p> + “Think me,” the first one had commanded. “I'm the Thought of Growing Up. I + saw you measuring your legs, and I concluded it was time for me to + introduce myself. I had to come some time, didn't I?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” breathed Rebecca Mary, sadly. “I don't suppose I could expect + you to stay in there always; but—but I'm not very glad to see you. + You needn't have come so SUDDEN,” she added, with gentle resentment. + </p> + <p> + The Thought of Growing Up crept into her mind and nestled down there. As + thoughts go, it was not an unkind one. + </p> + <p> + “You'll get used to me sometime and like me,” it said, comfortingly. But + Rebecca Mary knew better. She drove it out. + </p> + <p> + Why must legs keep on growing and unwelcome Thoughts come out of + knotholes? Why could not little girls keep on sewing stents and learning + arithmetic and carrying beautiful doll-beings to bed? Why had the Lord + created little girls like this—this growing kind? + </p> + <p> + “If I had made the world,” began Rebecca Mary—but stopped in a + hurry. The irreverence of presuming to make a better world than the Lord + shamed her. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose He knew best, but if He'd ever been a little girl—” This + was worse than the other. Rebecca Mary hastily dismissed the world and its + Maker from her musings for fear of further irreverences. + </p> + <p> + One Thought came out of the knothole, illustrated. It was leading a tall + woman-girl by the hand—no, it was pushing it as though the + woman-girl were loath to come. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” urged the new Thought, laughingly. “Here she is—this + is Rebecca Mary. Rebecca Mary, this is YOU! You needn't be afraid of each + other, you two. Take a good long look and get acquainted.” + </p> + <p> + The woman-girl was tall and straight. She had Rebecca Mary's hair, Rebecca + Mary's eyes, mouth, little pointed chin. But not Rebecca Mary's legs—unless + the long skirts covered them. She was rather comely and pleasant to look + at. But Rebecca Mary tried not to look. + </p> + <p> + “She's got a lover—-some day she'll be getting married,” the new + Thought said more abruptly, startlingly, than grammatically. And then with + a little muffled cry Rebecca Mary put out her hands and pushed the + woman-girl away—back into the knothole whence she had come. The + Thought, too, for she had no room in her mind for thoughts like that. + </p> + <p> + “My aunt Olivia wouldn't allow me to think of you,” she explained in + dismissing them. “And,” with dignity she added, “neither would Rebecca + Mary.” + </p> + <p> + It was to be as the minister's wife had prophesied—there were to be + not even the three days of grace allowed by law when Rebecca Mary grew up. + Sitting there with her legs, her poor little unappreciated legs, the + innocent cause of the whole trouble, curled out of sight, Rebecca Mary + planned that there should be but one day of grace. She would allow one day + more to be a little girl in, and then she would grow up. But that one day—Rebecca + Mary got up hastily and went to find Aunt Olivia. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Olivia,” she began, without preamble—Rebecca Mary never + preambled—“Aunt Olivia, may I have a holiday tomorrow?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia was rocking in her easy chair on the porch. It had taken her + sixty-two years to learn to sit in an easy chair and rock. Even now, and + she had been home from the hospital many months, she felt a little as + though the friendly birds that perched on the porch railing were + twittering tauntingly, “Plummer! Plummer! Plummer!—rocking in an + easy chair!” + </p> + <p> + “May I, Aunt Olivia?” It was an unusual occurrence for Rebecca Mary to ask + again so soon. But this was an unusual occurrence. Aunt Olivia's thin face + turned affectionately towards the child. + </p> + <p> + “School doesn't begin again tomorrow, does it?” she said in surprise. + Weren't all Rebecca Mary's days now holidays? + </p> + <p> + “Oh no—-no'm. But I mean may I skip my stents? And—and may I + soak the kettles and pans? Just tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Just tomorrow,” repeated bewildered Aunt Olivia—“soak your—stents—” + </p> + <p> + “Because it's going to be a pretty busy day. It's going to be a—a + celebration,” Rebecca Mary said, softly. There was a strangely exalted + look on her face. Oddly enough she was not afraid that Aunt Olivia would + say no. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia said yes. She did not ask any questions about the celebration, + on account of the exalted look. She could wait. But the bewildered look + stayed for a while on her thin face. Rebecca Mary was a queer child, a + queer child—but she was a dear child. Dearness atoned for queerness + in Aunt Olivia's creed. + </p> + <p> + The celebration began early the next morning before Aunt Olivia was up. + She lay in bed and heard it begin. Rebecca Mary out in the dewy garden was + singing at the top of her voice. Aunt Olivia had never heard her sing like + that before—not at the top. Her sweet, shrill voice sounded rather + unacquainted with such free heights as that, and the woman in the bed + wondered with a staid little smile if it did not make Rebecca Mary feel as + she felt when she sat in the easy chair rocking. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary sang hymns mostly, but interspersed in her programme were + bits of Mother Goose set to original tunes—she had learned the + Mother Goose of the minister's Littlest Little Boy—and original bits + set to familiar tunes. It was a wild little orgy of song. + </p> + <p> + “My grief!” Aunt Olivia ejaculated under her breath; but she did not mean + her grief. Other people might think Rebecca Mary was crazy—not Aunt + Olivia. But yet she wondered a little and found it hard to wait. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary washed the breakfast cup and plates, but put the pans and + kettles to soak, and hurried away to her play. There was so much playing + to be done before the sun set on her opportunity. She had made a little + programme on a slip of paper, with approximate times allotted to each + item. As: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tree climbing... 1 hr. + (Do not tare anything) + Mud pies... 1 hr. and 1/2. + (Do not get anything muddy) + Tea party... 2 hrs. + (Do not break anything) + Skipping... 1/2 hr. +</pre> + <p> + Rebecca Mary had written 1 hr. at first opposite skipping, but it had + rather appalled her to think of skipping for so long a period of time, + and, with a sense of being already out of breath, she had hurriedly erased + the 1 and substituted 1/2. Underneath she had written, (“Do not tip over + anything”). All the items had cautionary parentheses underneath them, for + Rebecca Mary did not wish the celebration to injure “anything.” Not this + last day, when all the days of all the years before it, that had gone to + make up her little girlhood, nothing had been torn or muddied or tipped + over. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary had never climbed trees, had never made mud pies, never had + tea parties, nor skipped. It was with rather a hesitating step that she + went forward to meet them all. She was even a little awed. But she went. + No item on her programme was omitted. + </p> + <p> + From her rocker on the porch Aunt Olivia watched proceedings with quiet + patience. It was a good vantage point—she could see nearly all of + the celebration. The tree Rebecca Mary climbed was on the edge of the old + orchard next to Aunt Olivia, and there was a providential little rift + through the shrubbery and vines that intervened. This part of the + programme she could see almost too clearly, for it must be confessed that + this part startled Aunt Olivia out of her calm. It—it was so + unexpected. She stopped rocking and leaned forward in her chair to peer + more sharply. What was the child—“She's climbing a tree!” breathed + Aunt Olivia in undisguised astonishment. Even as she breathed it, there + came to her faintly the snapping of twigs and flutter of leaves. Then all + was quite still, but she could discern with her pair of trusty Plummer + eyes two long legs gently dangling. + </p> + <p> + If Aunt Olivia had known, Rebecca Mary, too, was startled. It—it was + so strange an experience. She was not in the least afraid—it was a + mental start rather than a physical one. When she had reached the limb set + down in her programme she sat on it in a little daze of bewildered + delight. She liked it! + </p> + <p> + “Why, why, it's nice!” Rebecca Mary breathed. Her turn had come for + undisguised astonishment. The leaves all about her nodded to her and + stroked her cheeks and hair and hands. They whispered things into her + ears. They were such friendly little leaves! + </p> + <p> + Nothing looked quite the same up there. It was a little as if she were in + a new world, and she felt odd thrills of pride, as probably people who had + discovered countries and rivers and north poles felt. Through a rift in + the leaves she could see with her good Plummer eyes a swaying spot of + brown and white that was Aunt Olivia rocking. Suddenly Rebecca Mary + experienced a pang of remorse that she had wasted so many opportunities + like this—that this was her only one. She wished she had put 2 hrs. + instead of 1 hr. over against “Tree climbing,” but it was too late now. + She had borrowed Aunt Olivia's open-faced gold watch to serve as + timekeeper, and promptly at the expiration of the 1 hr. she slid down + through the crackling twigs and friendly leaves to the old world below. + She did not allow herself to look back, but she could not help the sigh. + It was going to be harder to grow up than she had thought it would be. + </p> + <p> + The mud pies she made with conscientious care as Rhoda, the minister's + little girl, had said she used to make them. She made rows and rows of + them and set them in the sun to bake. There were raisin stones in them all + and crimped edges around them. It did not take nearly all the 1 hr. and + 1/2, so she made another and still another batch. When the time was up she + did not sigh, but she had had rather a good time. How many mud pies she + HADN'T made in all those years that were to end today! + </p> + <p> + Olivicia and the little white cat went to the tea party. Rebecca Mary + thought of inviting Aunt Olivia—she got as far as the porch steps, + but no farther. She caught a glimpse of her own legs and shrank back + sensitively. They seemed to have grown since she measured them against the + woodshed wall. Rebecca Mary felt the contrast between her legs and the tea + party. Aunt Olivia never knew how near she had come to being invited to + take part in the celebration, at Article III. on the programme. + </p> + <p> + Rhoda had had tea parties unnumbered, like the sands of the sea. She had + described them fluently, so Rebecca Mary was not as one in the dark. She + knew how to cut the bread and the cake into tiny dice, and the cookies + into tiny rounds. She knew how to make the cambric tea and to arrange the + jelly and flowers. But Rhoda had forgotten to tell her how to make a rose + pie—how to select two large rose leaves for upper and under crust, + and to fill in the pie between them with pink and white rose petals and + sugar in alternate layers. Press until “done.” Why had Rhoda forgotten? It + seemed a pity that there was no rose pie at Rebecca Mary's tea party—and + no time left to make one. + </p> + <p> + “Will you take sugar in your tea, Olivicia?” Rebecca Mary asked, shyly. + She sat on the ground with her legs drawn under her out of sight, but + there were little warm spots in her cheeks. She had not expected to be—ashamed. + If there had been a knothole anywhere, she thought to herself, the Thought + of Growing Up would have come out of it and confronted her and reminded + her of her legs. + </p> + <p> + “Will you help yourself to the bread? Won't you have another cookie?” She + left nothing out, and gradually the strangeness wore away. It got + gradually to be a good time. “How many tea parties,” thought Rebecca Mary, + “there might have been!” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary was skipping, when the minister's wife came to call on Aunt + Olivia. It was the minister's wife who discovered it. Aunt Olivia caught + the indrawing of her breath and saw her face. Then Aunt Olivia discovered + it, and a delicate color overspread her thin cheeks and rose to her + temples. Now what was the child— + </p> + <p> + “Rhoda is a great skipper,” the minister's wife said, hurriedly. But it + was the wrong thing—she knew it was the wrong thing. + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca Mary is having a—celebration,” hurried Aunt Olivia; but she + wished she had not, for it seemed like trying to excuse Rebecca Mary. She, + too, had said the wrong thing. + </p> + <p> + “How pleasant it is out here!” tried again the minister's wife. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's cool,” Aunt Olivia agreed, gratefully. After that the things + they said were right things. The fantastic little figure down there in the + orchard, skipping wildly, determinedly, was in none of them. Both of them + felt it to be safer. But the minister's wife's gaze dwelt on the skipping + figure and followed it through its amazing mazes, in spite of the + minister's wife. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't have helped it, Robert,” she said. “Not if you'd been there + preaching 'Thou shalt not' to me! You would have looked too, while you + were preaching. You can't imagine, sitting there at that desk, what the + temptation was—Robert, you don't suppose Rebecca Mary has gone + crazy?” + </p> + <p> + “Felicia! You frighten me!” + </p> + <p> + “No, <i>I</i> don't suppose either. But it was certainly very strange. It + was almost ALARMING, Robert. And she didn't know how at all. I wanted to + go down and show her!” + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me”—the minister spoke impressively “that it is not + Rebecca Mary who has gone crazy—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the idea! Haven't I made it plain?” laughed she. “I'll speak in A B + C's then. Rebecca Mary was SKIPPING, Robert—skipping skipping.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it's Rebecca Mary,” the minister murmured. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I'm afraid—didn't I say so? Or else it's her second + childhood—” + </p> + <p> + “First, you mean. If THAT'S it, don't let's say a word, dear—don't + breathe, Felicia, for fear we'll stop it.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear child!” the minister's wife said, tenderly. “I wish I'd gone down + there and shown her how. And I'd have told her—Robert, I'd have told + her how to climb a tree! Don't tell the parish.” + </p> + <p> + The day was to end at sunset, from sunrise to sunset, Rebecca Mary had + decreed. The last article on her crumpled little programme was, “Saying + Good-by to Olivicia(Don't cry).” It was going to be the most difficult + thing of all the articles. Olivicia had existed so short a time + comparatively—it might not have been as difficult if there had + always been an Olivicia. “Or it might have been harder,” Rebecca Mary + said. She went towards that article with reluctant feet. But it had to + come. + </p> + <p> + The bureau drawer was all ready. Rebecca Mary had lined it with something + white and soft and sweetened it with dried rose petals spiced in the + century-old Plummer way. It bore rather grewsome resemblance to Olivicia's + coffin, but it was not grewsome to Rebecca Mary. She laid the doll in it + with the tender little swinging motion mothers use in laying down their + tiny sleepers. + </p> + <p> + “There, there the-re!” crooned Rebecca Mary, softly, brooding over the + beautiful being. “You'll rest there sweetly after your mother is grown up. + And you'll try not to miss her, won't you? You'll understand, Olivicia?—oh, + Olivicia!” But she did not cry. Her eyes were very bright. For several + minutes she stood there stooped over painfully, gazing down into the cof—the + bureau drawer, wherein lay peaceful Olivicia. She was saying good-bye in + her heart—she never said it aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Dear,” very softly indeed, “you are sure you understand? Everybody has to + grow up, dear. It—it hurts, but you have to. I mean I'VE got to. I + wouldn't so soon if it wasn't for my legs. But they keep right on growing—they're + awful, dear!—I can't stop 'em. Olivicia, lie right there and be + thankful you're a doll! But I wish you could open your eyes and look at me + just once more.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary shut the drawer gently. It was over—no, she would say + one thing more to the beautiful being in there. She bent to the keyhole. + </p> + <p> + “Olivicia!” she called in a tender whisper, “I shall be right here nights. + We shan't be far away from each other.” + </p> + <p> + But it would not be like lying in each other's arms—oh, not at all + like that. Rebecca Mary caught her breath; it was perilously like a sob. + Then she girded up her loins and went away to meet her fate—the + common fate of all. + </p> + <p> + She was very tired. The day had been a strain upon her that was beginning + now to tell. To put all one's childhood into one day—that is not + easy. + </p> + <p> + Article VI. was the last. In a way, it was a rest to Rebecca Mary, for it + entailed merely a visit to the woodshed. She could sit quietly on the + floor opposite the knothole and wait for the Thoughts. If the Thought of + Growing Up came out tonight, she would say: “Oh, well, you may stay—you + needn't go back. I'm not any glad to see you, but I'm ready. I suppose I + shall get used to you.” + </p> + <p> + What Thoughts came out of the knothole to Rebecca Mary she never told to + any one. It was nearly dark when she went away, planting her feet firmly, + holding her head straight—Rebecca Mary Plummer. She went to find + Aunt Olivia and tell her. On the way, she stopped to get Aunt Olivia's + shawl, for it was getting chilly out on the porch. Significantly the first + thing Rebecca Mary did after she began to grow up was to get the shawl and + lay it over Aunt Olivia's spare shoulders. The second thing was to bend to + the scant gray hair and lightly rub it with her cheek. It was a Rebecca + Mary kiss. + </p> + <p> + Out in front of the rocking chair, still straight and firm, she told Aunt + Olivia. + </p> + <p> + “It's over—I think I put everything in,” she said. “I thought you + ought to know, so I came to tell you. I'm ready to grow up.” + </p> + <p> + After all, if Rebecca Mary had known, her “programme” had not ended with + Article VI. Here was another. Take the pencil in your steady little + fingers, Rebecca Mary, and write: + </p> + <p> + Article VII.—Growing up. (Do not break Aunt Olivia's heart.) + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Un-Plummered + </h2> + <p> + Aunt Olivia sighed. It was the third time since she had begun to let + Rebecca Mary down. The third sigh was the longest one. Oh, this letting + down of children who would grow up! + </p> + <p> + “I won't do it!” Aunt Olivia rebelled, fiercely, but she took up her + scissors again at Duty's nudge. + </p> + <p> + “You don't want people laughing at her, do you?” Duty said, sensibly. + “Well, then, rip out that hem and face up that skirt and stop sighing. + What can't be cured must be endur—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm ripping it out,” Aunt Olivia interrupted, crisply. But Duty was not + to be silenced. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to have done it before,” dictatorially. “You've known all along + that Rebecca Mary was growing up.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia, like the proverbial worm, turned. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know till Rebecca Mary told me,” she retorted; then the + rebellion died out of her thin face and tenderness came and took its + place. Aunt Olivia was thinking of the time when Rebecca Mary told her. + She gazed past Duty, past the skirt across her knees, out through the + porch vines, and saw Rebecca Mary coming to tell her. She saw the shawl + the child was bringing, felt it laid on her shoulders, and something else + laid on her hair, soft and smooth like a little, lean, brown cheek. The + memory was so pleasant that Aunt Olivia closed her eyes to make it stay. + When she opened them some one was coming along the path, but it was not + Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Good afternoon!” some one said. Aunt Olivia stiffened into a Plummer + again with hurried embarrassment. She did not recognize the voice nor the + pleasant young face that followed it through the vines. + </p> + <p> + “It's Rebecca Mary's aunt, isn't it?” The stranger smiled. “I should know + it by the family resemblance.” + </p> + <p> + “We're both Plummers,” Aunt Olivia answered, gravely. “Won't you come up + on the porch and take a seat?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'll sit down here on the steps—I'd rather. I think I'll sit on + the lowest step for I've come on a very humble errand! I'm Rebecca Mary's + teacher.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” It was all Aunt Olivia could manage, for a sudden horror had come + upon her. She had a distinct remembrance of being at the Tony Trumbullses + when the school teacher came to call. + </p> + <p> + “It's—it's rather hard to say it.” The young person on the lowest + step laughed nervously. “I'd a good deal rather not. But I think so much + of Rebecca Mary—” + </p> + <p> + The horror grew in Aunt Olivia's soul. It was something terribly like that + the Tony Trumbullses' teacher had said. And like this: + </p> + <p> + “It hurts—there! But I made up my mind it was my duty to come up + here and say it, and so I've come. I'm sorry to have to say—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't!” ejaculated Aunt Olivia, trembling on her Plummer pedestal. For + she was laboring with the impulse to refuse to listen to this intruder, to + drive her away—to say: “I won't believe a word you say! You may as + well go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Hoity-toity!” breathed Duty in her ear. It saved her. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said, gently. “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry to say I can't teach Rebecca Mary any more, Miss Plummer. + That's what I came to tell you—” + </p> + <p> + This was awful—awful! But hot rebellion rose in Aunt Olivia's heart. + There was some mistake—it was some other Rebecca Mary this person + meant. She would never believe it was HERS—the Plummer one! + </p> + <p> + “Because I've taught her all I know. There! Do you wonder I chose the + lowest step to sit on? But it's the truth, honest,” the little teacher + laughed girlishly, but there were shame spots on her cheeks—“Rebecca + Mary is the smartest scholar I've got, and I've taught her all I know.” In + her voice there was confession to having taught Rebecca Mary a little more + than that. The shame spots flickered in a halo of humble honesty. + </p> + <p> + “She's been from Percentage through the arithmetic four times—Rebecca + Mary's splendid in arithmetic. And she knows the geography and grammar by + heart.” + </p> + <p> + The look on Aunt Olivia's face! The transition from horror to pride was + overwhelming, transfiguring. + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca Mary's smart,” added the honest one on the doorstep. “<i>I</i> + think she ought to have a chance. There! That's all I came for, so I'll be + going. Only, I don't suppose—you don't think you'll have to tell + Rebecca Mary, do you? About—about me, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't,” Aunt Olivia assured her, warmly. Her thin, lined hand met + and held for a moment the small, plump one—long enough to say, + “You're a good girl—I like you,” in its own way. The little teacher + went away in some sort comforted for having taught Rebecca Mary all she + knew. She even hummed a relieved little tune on her way home, because of + the pleasant tingle in the hand that Rebecca Mary's aunt had squeezed. + After all, no matter how much you dreaded doing it, it was better to tell + the truth. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia hummed no relieved little tune. The pride in her heart battled + with the Dread there and went down. Aunt Olivia did not call the Dread by + any other name. It was Duty who dared. + </p> + <p> + Confronting Aunt Olivia: “I suppose you know what it means? I suppose you + know it means you've got to give Rebecca Mary a chance? When are you going + to send her away to school?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—don't!” pleaded Aunt Olivia. “You don't give me any time. + There's no need of hurry—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm still a Plummer, if you're not,” broke in Duty, with ironic + sharpness. “The Plummers were never afraid to look their duty in the + face.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm—I'm looking at you,” groaned Aunt Olivia, climbing painfully + back on to her pedestal. “Go ahead and say it. I'm ready—only I + guess you've forgot how long I've had Rebecca Mary. When you've brought a + child up—” + </p> + <p> + “I brought her up myself,” calmly. “I ought to know. She wouldn't have + been Rebecca Mary, would she, if I hadn't been right on hand? Who was it + taught her to sew patchwork before she was four years old? And make sheets—and + beds—and bread? Who was it kept her from being a little tomboy like + the minister's girl? Who taught her to walk instead of run, and eat with + her fork, and be a lady? Who was it—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you—you!” sighed Aunt Olivia, trembling for her balance. “You + did 'em all. I never could've alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Then”—Duty was justly complacent—“Then perhaps you'll be + willing to leave Rebecca Mary's going away to school to me. She must go at + once, as soon as you can get her read—” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia tumbled off. She did not wait to pick herself up before she + turned upon this Duty that delighted in torturing her. + </p> + <p> + “You better get her ready yourself! You better let her down and make her + some nightgowns and count her pocket-handkerchiefs! You think you can do + anything—no, I'M talking now! I guess it's my turn. I guess I've + waited long enough. Maybe you brought Rebecca Mary up, but I'm not going + to leave it to you whether she'd ought to go away to school. She's my + Rebecca Mary, isn't she? Well? It's me that loves her, isn't it—not + you? If I can't love her and stay a Plummer, then I'll—love her. I'm + going to leave it to the minister.” + </p> + <p> + The minister was a little embarrassed. The wistful look in Aunt Olivia's + eyes said, “Say no” so plainly. And he knew he must say yes—the + minister's Duty was imperative, too. + </p> + <p> + “If she can't get any more good out of the school here—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “She can't,” said Aunt Olivia's Duty for her. “The teacher says she can't. + Rebecca Mary's smart.” Then Duty, too, was proud of Rebecca Mary! + </p> + <p> + “I know she is,” said the minister, heartily. “My Rhoda—you ought to + hear my Rhoda set her up. She thinks Rebecca Mary knows more than the + teacher does.” + </p> + <p> + “Rhoda's smart, too,” breathed Duty in Aunt Olivia's ear. + </p> + <p> + “So you see, dear Miss Olivia, the child would make good use of any + advantage—” + </p> + <p> + “You mean I ought to send her away? Well, I'm ready to—I said I'd + leave it to you. Where shall I send her? If there was only—I don't + suppose there's some place near to? Children go home Friday nights + sometimes, don't they?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no school near enough for that, I'm afraid,” the minister said, + gently. He could not bear the look in Miss Olivia's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It hurt,” he told his wife afterwards. “I wish she hadn't asked me, + Felicia.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, dear, but it's the penalty of being a minister. Ministers' hearts + ought to be coated with—with asbestos or something, so the looks in + people's eyes wouldn't burn through. I'm glad she didn't ask ME!” + </p> + <p> + “It will nearly kill them both,” ran on the minister's thoughts, aloud. + “You know how it was when Miss Olivia was at the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + “Robert!”—the minister's wife's tone was reproachful—“you're + talking in the future tense! You said 'will.' Then you advised her to send + Rebecca Mary away!” + </p> + <p> + “Guilty,” pleaded the minister. “What else could I do?” + </p> + <p> + “You could have offered to teach her yourself”—with prompt + inspiration. “Oh, Robert, why didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Felicia!—my dear!”—for the minister was modest. + </p> + <p> + “You know plenty for two Rebecca Marys,” she triumphed. “Didn't you + appropriate all the honors at college, you selfish boy!” + </p> + <p> + “It's too late now, dear.” But the minister's eyes thanked her, and the + big clasp of his arms. A minister may be mortal. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe it is and maybe it isn't,” spoke the minister's wife, in riddles. + “We'll wait and see.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Felicia—but, dear, they're both them Plummers.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe they are and maybe they aren't,” laughed she. + </p> + <p> + That night Aunt Olivia told Rebecca Mary—after she went to bed, + quite calmly: + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca Mary, how would you like to go away to school? For I'm going to + send you, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “'Away—to school—my dear!'” echoed Rebecca Mary, sitting + upright in bed. Her slight figure stretched up rigid and preternaturally + tall in the dim light. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the minister advises it—I left it to him. He thinks you ought + to have advantages.” Aunt Olivia slipped down suddenly beside the little + rigid figure and touched it rather timidly. She felt a little in awe of + the Rebecca Mary who knew more than her teacher did. + </p> + <p> + “They all seem to think you're—smart, my dear,” Aunt Olivia said, + and she would scarcely have believed it could be so hard to say it. For + the life of her she could not keep the pride from pricking through her + tone. The wild temptation to sell her Plummer birthright for a kiss + assailed her. But she groped in the dimness for Duty's cool touch and + found it. In the Plummer code of laws it was writ, “Thou shalt not kiss.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going right to work to make you some new nightgowns,” Aunt Olivia + added, hastily. “I think I shall make them plain,” for it was in the + nature of a reinforcement to her courage to leave off the ruffles. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary's eyes shone like stars in the dark little room. The child + thought she was glad to be going away to school. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I study algebra and Latin?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so—that'll be what you go for.” + </p> + <p> + “And French—not FRENCH?” + </p> + <p> + “Likely.” + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary fell back on the pillows to grasp it. But she was presently + up again. + </p> + <p> + “And that thing that tells about the air and—and gassy things? And + the one that tells about your bones?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia did not recognize chemistry, but she knew bones. She sighed + gently. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; I suppose you'll find out just how you're put together, and + likely it'll scare you so you won't ever dare to breathe deep again. Maybe + learning like that is important—I suppose the minister knows.” + </p> + <p> + “The minister knows everything,” Rebecca Mary said, solemnly. “If you let + me go away to school, I'll try to learn to know as much as he does, Aunt + Olivia. You don't—you don't think he'd mind, do you?” + </p> + <p> + In the dark Aunt Olivia smiled. The small person there on the pillows was, + after all, a child. Rebecca Mary had not grown up, after all! + </p> + <p> + “He won't mind,” promised Aunt Olivia for the minister. She went away + presently and cut out Rebecca Mary's new nightgowns. She sat and stitched + them, far into the night, and stitched her sad little bodings in, one by + one. Already desolation gripped Aunt Olivia's heart. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca Mary's dreams that night were marvelous ones. She dreamed she saw + herself in a glass after she had learned all the things there were to + learn, and she looked like the minister! When she spoke, her voice sounded + deep and sweet like the minister's voice. Somewhere a voice like the + minister's wife's seemed to be calling “Robert! Robert!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” answered Rebecca Mary, and woke up. + </p> + <p> + There were many preparations to make. The days sped by busily, and to + Rebecca Mary full of joyous expectancy. Aunt Olivia made no moan. She + worked steadily over the plain little outfit and thrust her Dreads away + with resolute courage, to wait until Rebecca Mary was gone. Time enough + then. + </p> + <p> + “You're doing right—that ought to comfort you,” encouraged Duty, + kindly. + </p> + <p> + “Clear out!” was what Aunt Olivia cried out, sharply, in answer. “You've + done enough—this is all your work! Don't stand there hugging + yourself. YOU'RE not going to miss Rebecca Mary—” + </p> + <p> + “I shall miss her,” Duty murmured. “I was awake all night, too, dreading + it. You didn't know, but I was there.” + </p> + <p> + The last day, when it came, seemed a little—a good deal—like + that other day when Aunt Olivia went away, only it was the other way about + this time. Rebecca Mary was going away on this day. The things packed + snugly in the big valise were her things; it was she, Rebecca Mary, who + would unpack them in a wondrous, strange place. It was Rebecca Mary the + minister's wife and Rhoda came to bid good-bye. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia went to the station in the stage with the child. She did not + speak much on the way, but sat firmly straight and smiled. Duty had told + her the last thing to smile. But Duty had not trusted her; unseen and + uninvited, Duty had slipped into the jolting old vehicle between Aunt + Olivia and Rebecca Mary. + </p> + <p> + “She isn't the Plummer she was once,” sighed Duty. + </p> + <p> + But at the little station, in those few final moments, two Plummers, an + old one and a young one, waited quietly together. Neither of them broke + down nor made ado. Duty retired in palpable chagrin. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, my dear,” Aunt Olivia said, steadily, though her lips were + white. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Aunt Olivia,” Rebecca Mary Plummer said, steadily. “I'm very + MUCH obliged to you for sending me.” + </p> + <p> + “You're—welcome. Don't forget to wear your rubbers. I put in some + liniment in case you need it—don't get any in your eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Outside on the platform Aunt Olivia sought and found Rebecca Mary's window + and stood beside it till the train started. Through the dusty pane their + faces looked oddly unfamiliar to each other, and the two pairs of eyes + that gazed out and in had a startled wistfulness in them that no Plummer + eyes should have. If Duty had staid— + </p> + <p> + The train shook itself, gave a jerk or two, and plunged down the shining + rails. Aunt Olivia watched it out of sight, then turned patiently to meet + her loneliness. The Dreads came flocking back to her as if she had + beckoned to them. For now was the time. + </p> + <p> + The letters Rebecca Mary wrote were formally correct and brief. There was + no homesickness in them. It was pleasant at the school, that book about + bones was going to be very interesting. Aunt Olivia was not to worry about + the rubbers, and Rebecca Mary would never forget to air her clothes when + they came from the wash. Yes, she had aired the nightgown that Aunt Olivia + ironed the last thing. No, she hadn't needed any liniment yet, but she + wouldn't get any in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia's letters were to the point and calm, as though Duty stood + peering over her shoulder as she wrote. She was glad Rebecca Mary liked + the bones, but she was a little surprised. She was glad about the rubbers + and the wash; she was glad there had been no need yet for the liniment. It + was a good thing to rub on a sore throat. The minister's wife had been + over with her work she said Rhoda missed Rebecca Mary. Yes, the little, + white cat was well—no, she hadn't caught any mice. The calla lily + had two buds, the Northern Spy tree was not going to bear very well. + </p> + <p> + “Robert, I've been to see Miss Olivia,” the minister's wife said at tea. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” The minister waited. He knew it was coming. + </p> + <p> + “She was knitting stockings for Rebecca Mary. Robert, she sat there and + smiled till I had to come home to cry!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!—do you want me to cry, too?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm a-going to,” sniffed Rhoda. “I feel it coming.” + </p> + <p> + “She is so lonely, Robert! It would break your heart to see her smile. How + do I know she is? Oh no—no, she didn't say she was! But I saw her + eyes and she let the little, white cat get up in her lap!” + </p> + <p> + “Proof enough,” the minister said, gently. + </p> + <p> + Between the two of them—the child at school and Aunt Olivia at home—letters + came and went for six weeks. Aunt Olivia wrote six, Rebecca Mary six. All + the letters were terse and brief and unemotional. Weather, bones, little + white cats, liniment—everything in them but loneliness or love. + Rebecca Mary began all hers “Dear Aunt Olivia,” and ended them all + “Respectfully your niece, Rebecca Mary Plummer.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Rebecca Mary,” began Aunt Olivia's. “Your aff. aunt, Olivia + Plummer,” they closed. Yet both their hearts were breaking. Some hearts + break quicker than others; Plummer hearts hold out splendidly, but in the + end— + </p> + <p> + In the end Aunt Olivia went to see the minister and was closeted with him + for a little. The minister's wife could hear them talking—mostly the + minister—but she could not hear what they said. + </p> + <p> + “It's come,” she nodded, sagely. “I was sure it would. That's what the + little, white cat purred when she rubbed against my skirts, 'She can't + stand it much longer. She doesn't sleep nights nor eat days—she's + giving out.' Poor Miss Olivia!—but I can't understand Rebecca Mary.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the Plummer in her,” the little, white cat would have purred. “You + wait!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia turned back at the minister's study door. “Then you will?” she + said, eagerly. “You're perfectly willing to? I don't want to feel—” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't feel,” the minister smiled. “I'm more than willing. I'm + delighted. But in the matter of—er—remuneration, I cannot let + you—” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't let me,” smiled Miss Olivia; “I'll do it without.” She was + gently radiant. Her pitifully thin face, so transfigured, touched the big + heart of the minister. He went to his window and watched the slight figure + hurry away. He would scarcely have been surprised to see it turn down the + road that led towards the railway station. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Robert!” It was the minister's wife at his elbow. “You dear boy, I + know you've promised! You needn't tell me a thing—didn't I suggest + it in the first place? Dear Miss Olivia—I'm so glad, Robert! So are + you glad, you minister!” But they were neither of them thinking of little, + stubbed-out shoes that would be easier to buy. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Olivia turned down the station road the next morning, in the swaying + old stage. Her eager gaze never left the plodding horses, as if by looking + at them she could make them go faster. + </p> + <p> + “They're pretty slow, aren't they?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Slow—THEM? Well, I guess you weren't never a stage horse!” chuckled + the old man at the reins. + </p> + <p> + “No,” admitted Aunt Olivia, “I never was, but I know I'd go faster today.” + </p> + <p> + At the Junction, halfway to Rebecca Mary, she descended alertly from the + train and crossed the platform. She must wait here, they told her, an hour + and twenty minutes. On the other side of the station a train was just + slowing up, and she stood a moment to scan idly the thin stream of people + that trickled from the cars. There were old women—did any of them, + she wondered, feel as happy as she did? There were tall children, too. + There was one—Aunt Olivia started a little and fumbled in her soft + hair, under the roses in her bonnet brim, for her glasses. There was one + tall child—she was coming this way—she was coming fast—she + was running! Her arms were out— + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Olivia! Aunt Olivia!” the Tall Child was crying out, joyously, “Oh, + Aunt Olivia!” + </p> + <p> + “Rebecca Mary!—my dear, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + They were in each other's arms. The roses on Aunt Olivia's bonnet brim + slipped to one side—the two of them, not Plummers any more, but a + common, glad old woman and a common, glad, tall child, were kissing each + other as though they would never stop. The stream of people reached them + and flowed by on either side. Trains came and went, and still they stood + like that. + </p> + <p> + “Hoity-toity!” muttered Aunt Olivia's Duty, and slipped past with the + stream. A Plummer to the end, what use to stay any longer there? + </p> + <p> + “I was coming home,” cried Rebecca Mary. “I couldn't bear it another + minute!” + </p> + <p> + “I was coming after you—my dear, my DEAR, <i>I</i> couldn't bear it + another minute!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebecca Mary, by Annie Hamilton Donnell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBECCA MARY *** + +***** This file should be named 3419-h.htm or 3419-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/1/3419/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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