Hills of the Shatemuc Part 157

"Very glad of them indeed, -- or fresh meat."

"Ha'n't got any of that just to-day," said the old farmer shaking his head. "I'll see. The boat won't stir -- tide's makin' yet. You'll have a pull home, I expect."

He went back to the house, and Elizabeth stood waiting, alone with her boat.

There was refreshment and strength to be had from nature's pure and calm face; so very pure and calm the mountains looked down upon her and the river smiled up. The opposite hill-tops shone in the warm clear light of the October setting sun, the more warm and bright for the occasional red and yellow leaves that chequered their green, and many tawny and half turned trees that mellowed the whole mountain side. Such clear light as shone upon them! such unearthly blue as rose above them!

such a soft and fair water face that gave back the blue! What could eyes do but look; what could the mind do but wonder, and be thankful; and wonder again, at the beauty, and grow bright in the sunlight, and grow pure in that shadowless atmosphere.

The sharp cedar tops on Shahweetah were so many illuminated points, and further down the river the sunlight caught just the deep bend of the water in the bay; the rest was under shadow of the western hills. All was under a still and hush, -- nothing sounded or moved but here and there a cricket; the tide was near flood and crept up noiselessly; the wind blew somewhere else, but not in October. Softly the sun went down and the shadows stole up.

Elizabeth stood with her hands pressed upon her breast, drinking in all the sights and sounds, and many of their soft whisperings that only the spirit catches; when her ear was caught by very dissimilar and discordant notes behind her, -- the screaming of discomposed chickens and the grating of Mr.

Underhill's boots on the gravel.

"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same depending and screaming in company, -- "and here's three dozen of fresh eggs -- if you want more you can send for 'em. Will you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"

"If you please -- there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait -- let me get in first, Mr. Underhill -- Are they tied so they can't get loose?"

"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the boat, -- "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! -- it's pretty nigh slack water, I guess -- you'll go home easy. Come again! -- and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" --

Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more distant -- as she went all the way over the river home.

Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.

Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.

"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, -- "where _have_ you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."

"Has Anderese come home?"

"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! --"

"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"

"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"In mine -- down at the rocks."

"Who fetched 'em?"

"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the house."

Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.

"Rose --"

"What?" said Rose without moving.

"Rose -- look up at me --"

The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen, and the response was a sullen "Well --"

"I am very sorry I spoke to you so -- I was very wrong. I am very sorry. Forgive me and forget it -- will you?"

"It was very unkind!" -- said Rose, her head going down again in fresh tears.

"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"

"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, -- "I don't want to remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish --"

"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea -- I'm very hungry."

CHAPTER XVI.

And Phant'sie, I tell you, has dreams that have wings, And dreams that have honey, and dreams that have stings, Dreams of the maker, and dreams of the teller, Dreams of the kitchen, and dreams of the cellar.

BEN JONSON.

A few days more pa.s.sed; days of sameness in the house, while Autumn's beautiful work was going on without, and the woods were changing from day to day with added glories. It seemed as if the sun had broken one or two of his beams across the hills, and left fragments of coloured splendour all over. The elm trees reared heads of straw-colour among their forest brethren; the maples shewed yellow and red and flame-colour; the birches were in bright orange. Sad purple ashes stood the moderators of the a.s.sembly; and hickories of gold made sunny slopes down the mountain sides. All softened together in the distance to a mellow, ruddy, glowing hue over the whole wood country.

The two cousins sat by the two windows watching the fading light, in what used once to be the 'keeping-room' -- Mrs.

Haye's now. Elizabeth had been long looking out of the window, with a fixed, thoughtful, sorrowful, gaze. Rose's look was never fixed long upon anything and never betrayed her thoughts to be so. It wavered now uneasily between her cousin and the broad and bright hills and river -- which probably Mrs. Haye did not see.

"How long are you going to stay here, Lizzie?"

"I don't know."

"How is that old woman?"

"I don't know. There don't seem to be much difference from one day to another."

"What ails her?"

"I don't know. I suppose it is as the doctor says, -- that there is a general breaking up of nature."

"Is she going to live long?"

"I don't know. He said probably not."

"Well, who's going to take care of her?"

"She is taken care of. There is a woman here from Mountain Spring, to do all that is necessary."

"Why must we stay here, Lizzie? -- it's so dismal."

"_We_ mustn't -- _I_ must."

"Why?"

"I would rather -- and I think it is right."