Chapter Five.
A Day’s Fishing.
An early start to Smellie’s Brook was accomplished, and in circumstances even more favourable than had been anticipated. Dr Everett had risen early and breakfasted with the fishing party, and he volunteered to drive as many as could “pile in” to the double buggy to the nearest point on Smellie’s Hill that could be reached on wheels. The elder boys were inclined to refuse the offer; but the doctor said,—
“The fields are wet with dew, and the lunch-basket is heavy; and you must consider that you have a lady with you.”
“Well, I guess we’d better go in the buggy a part of the way,” said Amos, the leader, after awhile.
The dewy fields would not have been agreeable to walk in, but they were beautiful to see, and so were the woods, into which after awhile the narrow road took them. The boys’ eyes were quick to see and their ears to hear, and the sights and sounds of the early morning were not lost upon them. Fidelia was silent, but her spirits rose as she listened to the talk between the doctor and the boys; and she laughed as merrily as any of them before they reached Smellie’s Hill.
“If you don’t feel as if you were going to have a good time, Fidelia, you can drive back again with me, and let the boys go on alone,” said Dr Everett, as he stopped at the steepest part of the hill to let the boys alight.
“Go back with you! No, indeed! I am going to have a good time. I feel better already.”
“You look better. I am glad you came. And look here, little girl, don’t you worry about Eunice. Don’t you know that nothing in the world can hurt Eunice? If there is any room for anxiety between you, it is Eunice who might worry about you. But she doesn’t, and need not, I hope. At any rate all is well with Eunice.”
A shadow fell on Fidelia’s face, and her eyes drooped beneath the doctor’s glance.
“Yes; she tells me she is pretty well now, but—”
The colour which the morning air had brought to her cheeks deepened as she looked up and met the doctor’s eye, but she said no more, nor did he. They had by this time reached Smellie’s Hill, and the doctor was going no further.
“If I had had time to think about things, I believe I should have taken the day and gone with you to the brook,” said he, as the boys were taking basket and rods from the buggy.
“Oh, couldn’t you possibly come?” said Fidelia eagerly; and the boys joined their entreaties to hers. It was not to be thought of, however, for he “was due elsewhere.” They watched him as he drove down the hill, and he would have smiled if he had heard all that was said of him before they took up their baskets and rods again.
Then they turned and took the path through Smellie’s pasture that leads to the woods and the rocky ledge beyond; and when they came within sound of the murmur of the brook, they hastened their steps.
“Fall and spring it is like a river, though it doesn’t look much now,” said Amos, as they came in sight of it.
It did not “look much” truly. A brooklet winding its way among rocks and stones, over which one might leap or even step at most places, but with here and there a pool which looked dark and deep enough to be the hiding-place of many a speckled beauty. And they had good proof of this before the day was done.
It was a good day for Fidelia; in the success and in the enjoyment she had a full share, though she acknowledged to herself that she did not deserve either. As the time went on she became more and more ashamed of the morbid feelings which had made her so eager to get away from the house and from all who were in it.
What was the matter with her? Was she envious of those other girls, who led such easy lives and had so many advantages? Could it be that she was so utterly ungrateful as to forget how full of good things her life had been made by the sister who had had so little in her own life but labour and care for others, yet who had accepted her lot, not with submission merely, but with sweet content and cheerfulness? Was it for Eunice she was jealous? Remembering the sudden indignation which had seized her at the first glimpse she had got of Dr Justin, smiling down on the pretty upturned face of Miss Avery, she could not deny it. Even now she grew angry as she thought about it.
Would Eunice have been angry if she had seen them? Had she suffered very much in giving up her happy prospects long ago? And afterwards, when she knew that another had taken the place in Justin Everett’s home which ought to have been hers, had she suffered? Had she forgiven him, or had she forgotten him? They seemed to be friends now—she knew that from her sister’s letters: would they ever be more than friends? That would be the right ending, Fidelia thought, but the thought did not give her unmixed pleasure.
“I should lose Eunice,” she said to herself; “and I am not sure that I like her Dr Justin very well.” And then she laughed—“I am getting on pretty fast, I think. Well, I can wait. Eunice will tell me at the right time if there be anything to tell. I won’t worry about her. Dr Everett is right. Nothing in the world can hurt Eunice much. I only wish that I were like her.”
Did she really wish it? She was not sure, and she was not ready to consider the question at that moment.
All these thoughts had been passing through her mind as she followed Amos along the margin of the brook; and when they stopped at Big Rock to arrange where each one was to go, not one was more eager and pleased with the prospects of the day than she.
The sky became overcast, which was a matter of rejoicing; the same could not be said of the threatening rain. But not enough fell to do any harm, and for fishing the day was pronounced perfect. When there are four rods, and only one basket for the fish, even moderate success tells quickly; and before Franky “guessed it was most time for lunch,” there was a good show of trout.
It was decided that, to save time, they should not make a fire and feed upon the fish, but content themselves with what was to be found in cousin Abby’s basket, which they might very well do. But they forgot about saving time, for they fell into a real boys’ talk,—about hunting and fishing and adventures of all kinds, which made them forget how time was passing, and then they found that Franky had fallen asleep with his head on Fidelia’s lap.
“I think we must let him have his sleep out,” said Fidelia; “you remember, cousin Abby said we must be careful not to let him get too tired. You two go away to your fishing, and when Franky wakes we will follow you up the brook.”
“But it is too bad you should lose your sport,” said Ned.
“He won’t sleep long. And, see, I have a book.”
So the boys set off, and Fidelia had a quiet two hours with her book,—which ought to have been Butler’s “Analogy,” considering her next year’s work at the seminary, but which was “Astoria”—much more appropriate for the time and place. Franky woke rested and much the better for his nap, but indignant at being allowed to lose so much time. But he forgot his vexation in the pleasure of listening to a story Fidelia told, and which lasted till they came in sight of Amos, happy and successful as ever, but a little tired also. So they sat down to rest and enjoy another lunch, and to talk about things in general.
Fidelia knew how to talk to boys. She knew every tree in the woods, and the note of every bird which chirped among the branches. She knew something about most plants that grew in field or wood, so there was no danger of falling out of talk. The boys were interested in what they heard, and each had something to tell. By-and-by Franky said—
“How many brothers have you, Miss Faithful?”
“Not one! I never had a brother.”
“Well, they would have had good times, if you had.”
Fidelia laughed—“I am not so sure. I have one sister.”
“Yes, I know—Miss Eunice,” said Amos.
“Yes, my Eunice. She is all I have got, and she is better to me than two or three brothers.”
“Yes, I know,” said Amos, nodding his head; “I heard Dr Everett talking about her with father. Oh, no, it wasn’t doctor’s talk; only how good she is, and how much she thinks of you!”
“Why do they call you Faithful?” asked Ned.
“No one calls me that but Nellie, and you must ask her why.”
“I suppose it is because you never shirk,” said Amos.
Fidelia looked grave.
“I don’t deserve it for that reason,” said she.
“You know Jabez Ainsworth, don’t you?” said Amos.
“Oh, yes; I have always known him! We are good friends.”
“He is a smart boy, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is smart, and good, though he gets into trouble now and then. He is seventeen.”
She told them an amusing story or two about Jabez—about adventures which he had had and trouble into which he had fallen when he was a little fellow, because of a determination to get his own way. She ended with an account of his last venture in taking Eunice’s garden for the summer, so as to make some money, because he “was bound to put himself through college, and be somebody.”
Amos listened in silence.
“Do you suppose he’ll do it?” said Ned.
“I think so. Oh, yes, he is sure to succeed! His grandfather will help him, perhaps, when he sees that he is determined to be educated. But, whether he helps him or not, Jabez is bound to succeed.”
“I wonder if the hardest things aren’t the easiest after all!” said Amos. “I mean, that we don’t always care much about what we can get without much trouble.”
“He means, he don’t care about going to college,” said Ned; “but father means he shall.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose I shall go! But I’d a good deal rather go West to Uncle John’s great farm.”
“You can do both,” said Fidelia.
“It takes five years to get through Amherst College.”
“Well, you can spare them. You are young. How old are you?”
“I was fifteen in May.”
“Only fifteen! I thought you were older than that.”
Amos looked pleased.
“How nearly are you ready for college?”
“I might go this fall; but father thinks I had better wait a year. I don’t care.”
“I think so too—if you don’t care. Next year Jabez may go too. I only wish he had your chance—and yet I am not sure. He may do all the better for having to work his way through. But for one to have your chance, and not to care for it, that I cannot understand!” added Fidelia gravely.
“My father is not a rich man,” said Amos.
“No—not as Mr Kent is rich. But an education such as he is able and willing to give his boys will be worth more—if they take the good of it—than all Mr Kent’s money would be. You don’t realise, your privileges, young man.”
She said a good deal more than that. Amos had heard much of it before, but somehow it sounded differently repeated by this girl with laughing lips and shining eyes, and with now and then a touch of only half-conscious scorn for the eyes that would not see and the hands that did not care to seize the chances for which others were eager to strive. Amos had not much to say as they rose and turned homewards.
By-and-by they stopped to rest, leaning for a little on the crooked fence on the brow of the hill, from which more than one tree-shaded town could be seen, and many cultivated fields and rough pastures, and broken stretches of woodland, with the light of a wonderful sunset lying on them all. It was a fair scene, suggestive of peace and plenty and contentment; and, looking on it, Fidelia lifted up her voice and sang—
“My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty—Of thee I sing!” and so on to the end. Amos looked up amazed, and at the second verse struck in a true boy’s second. So did Ned; and even Franky, climbing up to the top rail of the fence, tuned his shrill pipe with the rest.
Of course they sang “My Country” to the tune which belongs to it—a tune which with these words, and with other words, has stirred and thrilled patriotic breasts on both sides of the sea for many a year and day. Fidelia and the Austin boys called it “America,” but on the other side of the sea it is called “God save the Queen.” They sang it there on the hill-top, with all their hearts. Then they sang “The Star-spangled Banner” and “Hail! Columbia!” as they took their way through field and wood; and more besides, till tired old ladies, rocking themselves in their chairs and taking their rest at open doors caught the sound and smiled; and boys and girls, milking their cows in pasture corners, paused in their work to listen.
Tired? That was the very last thing they were thinking of as they passed the south porch, on their way to the kitchen with their fish. Fidelia nodded and smiled to the party sitting there, waiting to be called to tea, but passed on to the kitchen with the boys, where the fish was displayed to the admiring eyes of cousin Abby and the doctor.
“And so Miss Fidelia did not scare away the fishes, as girls generally do?” said cousin Abby.
“I guess she didn’t. I tell you, she knows how!” said Ned.
“She’s first-rate,” said Frank.
Fidelia laughed—“I have had a good time. I should like to go again some day.”
“And why should you not? And Nellie shall go next time. I don’t believe she has had so good a time at home,” said the doctor, as his daughter came in.
“Oh, yes, I have had a pretty good time! But I should like to go fishing with the boys and Fidelia next time. You feel better, don’t you, Fie?” said Nellie, as they went upstairs together; and her friend assured her that the day’s tramp with the boys had done her good.
On the bed, as smooth as cousin Abby’s skill in ironing could make it, and adorned with here and there a knot of ribbon which Fidelia had not put on, lay the white dress which was “to be kept for Sunday.”
“I thought I had better have it all ready,” said Nellie hurriedly, “as I thought you might be late. We are going to have company this evening—just the Newtons, and Conways, and a few others. Mother thought she would like Mrs Kent and the girls to see some of our friends, and this was the best night for them to come. I am sorry it happened so, for you must be tired—though you don’t look tired.”
“I am not a bit tired. And don’t look so troubled, child. Oh, yes, I’ll wear the white gown—red ribbons and all! I’ll do my best to do you credit.”
“How you talk, Fidelia! But I do want you to look nice. Father says—”
But what her father said Fidelia was not to hear. A knock came to the door, and cousin Abby entered with a tray.
“Doctor said Miss Fidelia had better have her tea up here, and rest a spell till the company come. She mustn’t get too tired, you know,” said the old lady, smiling.
“Well, there! I might have had the sense to think of that myself, and saved you the trouble,” said the delighted Nellie.
Fidelia said nothing, but she cleared a place on the table for the tray, and thanked the old lady with a kiss.
“If you should drop asleep for half an hour it wouldn’t hurt you any,” said Cousin Abby as she closed the door.
And, in the midst of her questioning as to why these people should be so kind to her, Fidelia did fall asleep, and woke only when, an hour later, Nellie returned ready dressed and eager to help her—
“You look quite nice!” was all Nellie allowed herself to say to her friend as they went downstairs together. “Now they’ll see for themselves whether she is beautiful or not,” she was saying to herself; but she knew it would not be wise to say it to Fidelia.
Of course Miss Austin had to be ready to receive their friends; and Fidelia fortunately found Amos entertaining the minister with an account of the day’s sport and the pleasures of a day among the hills.
“Here is Miss Fidelia. She knows all about it,” said the boy; and they had a pleasant half-hour together.
Nellie’s triumph began when Judge Newton asked her whether the tall girl standing talking to the minister was the beautiful Miss Avery they had heard so much about. More than one asked the same question.
“Oh, no,” said Nellie demurely, “that is only my room-mate, Fidelia Marsh! Wait till you see Miss Avery.”
And she had another little triumph when, drawn towards the piano by the exquisite touch of Miss Kent, Fidelia almost unconsciously put out her hand to turn the page of the difficult music she was playing, and kept on turning it to the end. It was the look of surprise which passed between Miss Kent and her cousin that delighted Fidelia’s friend.
“You play, do you not?” said Miss Kent, rising.
“Not as you play. Oh, please don’t go yet!” said Fidelia earnestly.
“Sing something, Ella,” said her cousin. “Sing this”—laying a song open before her. “No, Miss Marsh. I will turn the music. You must only enjoy it.”
And Fidelia did enjoy it, as she had seldom enjoyed music before; growing pale and red by turns, as the thrilling voice rose and fell. For the moment the enjoyment was perfect. When it ceased, Fidelia would have slipped quietly out of the room. Miss Kent rose.
“You sing, I am sure, Miss Marsh?”
“No,” said Fidelia gravely; “I do not sing.”
“Fidelia!” exclaimed Nellie.
“No,” repeated Fidelia; “I don’t sing. I have only just found it out.”
“And what is this Amos has been telling us about your starting the echoes among the hills on your way home to-night?” said Dr Everett, who had drawn near.
“I think you can sing,” said Amos. “Oh, yes, I can sing to please Amos!” said Fidelia, trying to speak lightly, but troubled under the eyes of those who had gathered round the piano, and more troubled still by the rush of her own vexed thoughts.
“Is it envy?” she was saying to herself. “Is it pride and jealousy and discontent? Am I going to disappoint Eunice, after all? Oh, I am not good!”
She did not know who proposed it, or how it happened, but in a little Miss Kent seated herself at the piano again, and the young people gathered round her, “to sing something they all could sing,”—a much more enjoyable affair to most uneducated singers than just to sit and listen to fine music. Of course they began with “The Star-spangled Banner;” and if Fidelia’s voice did not ring out quite as it had rung out to please the boys among the hills, it still caused the Boston cousins to exchange surprised glances, thus giving the watchful Nellie another moment of delight. They did not sing long, however; and when Miss Kent rose again, Fidelia moved away to the other end of the room, believing that the pleasure of the evening was over for her.
But it was not. She found herself in a little listening with much interest to the minister and the judge as they discussed a question which had come up before the last ministerial association of the county, and thinking it would be something to tell Eunice about when she went home. In the midst of it a voice said,—
“Miss Fidelia, I have a message for you from your sister.”
“From Eunice?”—and she turned to see Dr Justin Everett standing beside her.
“Yes. I went to Halsey with my brother this morning, and have only just returned. We called to see your sister on our way.”
“She is well?”
“That is part of the message she sent to you. She says you are not to hurry home, as my brother seemed to think you meant to do. You are to stay and have a good time. She does not need you in the least. No; that is not part of her message. But she is going with Mrs Stone to pay a visit of a week over in Northwood, and you are to stay here till that is over. She will write fully to-morrow.”
“I am glad she is strong enough even to think of a visit to Northwood.”
“Yes; and Mrs Stone will take excellent care of her. The change will do her good. And your change will do you good also.”
“It has done me good already.”
Then he gave her another message from his niece, Susie Everett, and told her several items of Halsey news; and then some one came to interrupt their talk; and then the evening went on as all such evenings do, until the guests rose to go away. And Fidelia was saying to herself, while she listened to Nellie’s remarks on things in general, that Eunice and Dr Justin were good friends again, and she was not sure whether she was glad or sorry that it should be so.