BE TRUTHFUL. BE KIND. BE HAPPY.
“If I had told the truth to Mr. Weatherby I would never have gone away,” was my remark.
“The more truth the less trouble,” said my mother. “It keeps you in the right road. If you're going to tell the truth you've got to make it worth telling, or, at least, good enough so that you will not be ashamed of it.”
While we had learned those three commandments, not until now had I begun to feel the power in them.
I looked about me at all the familiar things: the pictures—especially a crayon portrait of my father—the mottos, wrought in colored yam. Wisdom was more available than art those days in the north country, and the walls of many a simple home were decorated with the sayings of bard or prophet, each neatly framed. My mother's mottos were all her own, however. She was a daughter of the pioneers who had learned much in a hard school of experience. The best of it all had come down to her, and was a bit refined by her own thought. There was a kind of history in those mottos that hung on the walls of the Mill House—the heart history of men who had had to think for themselves. I read them anew and thoughtfully:
The kindly will never want a friend;
The mean will never lack an enemy.
One good word deserves another,
But receives more than it deserves.
To-day is the best of all days,
But to-morrow will be better.
Let heaven begin here.
After all my regretful thinking on that journey, which had now come to its end, these words began to fill with meaning. That last injunction, printed in golden threads, sank deeply into my heart and led to this conviction: that the Mill House was one of the outlying provinces of heaven; far removed, maybe, but still as much a part of it as those isles ten thousand miles from London are a part of the British Empire.
Breakfast being ready, I went down after my good friends. The Pearl would not come in.
“Just hand me a little snack,” said he; “I ain't fit to go in.”
He would not yield to urging, and so I brought his breakfast to him, and he sat down and ate at the foot of the stairway.
My mother and sister sat at the table with Mr. McCarthy and me. The manners of the handmade gentleman became exceedingly formal. He spoke only when spoken to, save when he said:
“May I be so bold as to ask for a glass of water?”
When I suggested the subject of Sal, he began to relax, and went to his grip and gravely presented my mother with a dozen balls of it.
The breakfast over, my mother went below-stairs with me to thank Mr. Pearl for his kindness, but he was gone. I found her looking up the river, where he was going out of sight, far up the shaded avenue of water, in his canoe. She looked very sad as I walked to the garden with her.
“Come, let us look at the flowers,” she said, as she put her arm-about me. “These roses have just opened this morning; they have been waiting for you, and so has this letter.”
My heart quickened, for I had seen the postmark and the girlish penmanship on the envelope, and had caught its odor of violets. Eagerly I broke the seal, and read as follows:
Dear Friend,—I have just been picking flowers and they reminded me of your letter. I have not forgotten you; everything that is beautiful makes me think of those days when you were here—we had such a good time; at least, I did. I should like to hear from you often, but I don't want you to think that I care so very, very much. I wouldn't want to have you try to remember me. I still have my troubles, but they are not quite so dreadful. Last night my father brought home another young man. I do not like him; he has such a queer way of staring into my eyes, and can talk of nothing but dogs and horses. Fannie has come back, and Sam is with her. He is going to take care of the garden and the grounds until they can find a farm. Fannie says that he has got over being afraid and is very affectionate. I think of you often, and of those pleasant evenings that we had together, and of all that you went through. I wonder if you would dare come again! Well, I am sure that I shall never get another letter from you, even, but I wish you good luck, anyway.
Yours truly, Jo.
P. S.—I have made this letter short for fear it would bore you.
It was my first letter from a fair maid, and what a state of mind it put me in! My mother read it with a smile.
“It's a pretty letter,” said she.
“Not so pretty as Jo,” I answered. Then I told about my visit in Summerville.
“And the girl is alone with that old drunkard?” said my mother.
“Yes.”
“Too bad! I wish I could see her.”
“I love her,” I said, soberly.
“Child!” she exclaimed, “you're not yet sixteen.”
“A boy has feelings,” I protested.
“If I'm not in love, I'd like to know what it is that makes me feel as I do. I would die for her.”
“Yes—yes, I know,” she answered, holding my hand in hers. “I was like you when I was a young miss—thought I was in love two or three times when I was not. Write to her if you wish, but you must be fair to her. Don't say a word about it until you see if it lasts. She may not care for you, anyway.”
This letter made me sure that she did care for me, however, and that and others like it were, indeed, the treasures of my youth. The notion of being fair to her grew in me, for, after all, my heart had had its change, and was it now to be wholly trusted?
Mr. McCarthy met us at the stairs.
“I've been reading your three commandments,” said he to my mother. “Are they in the Bible?”
“Yes; but I got them out of the Book of Nature,” said she. “You learn to be truthful by the study of men, for what is a man unless he is himself—the thing he pretends to be? Kindness—I learned that from the earth, where we all reap as we sow, and everything that lives teaches us to be happy. These birds and flowers—see how happy they are! And this boy of mine just returned from the path of error—who could be happier than he is?”
“That's sound,” said the hand-made gentleman. “I'm going to write it down in my book.” He sat down and wrote while she helped him a little in the phrasing of his notes.
“I must devote myself to business,” said Mr. McCarthy, when he had closed the book. “I will visit the leading villages in the county, and return as expeditiously as possible.”
He glanced at me as if to note the effect of this impressive declaration.
“Good luck; and remember here is always a good welcome,” my mother said to him, as he took the road to Heartsdale.