[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
would have been "real handsome if she'd had any sense about doin' her hair;" which was brought down loosely over her ears, in the
fashion of her Aunt Phoebe's miniature. Miss Dorcas beside her looked like one of autumn's brown, quiescent stems left standing by
the way. She was firmly built, yet all her lines subdued themselves to that meagreness which ever dwells afar from beauty. The deep
marks of hard experience had been graven on her forehead, and her dark eyes burned inwardly; the tense, concentrated spark of pain
and the glowing of happy fervor seemed as foreign to them as she herself to all the lighter joys and hopes. Her only possibility of
beauty lay in an abundance of soft dark hair; but even that had been restricted and coiled into a compact, utilitarian compass. She had
laid one nervous hand on Phoebe's arm, and she grasped the arm absently, from time to time, in talking, with unconscious joy in its
rounded warmth. She spoke cautiously, so that her voice might not be heard within.
"Then you come over to-morrow, after the close of service, if it's convenient. You can slip right into the kitchen, just as usual. Any
news?"
Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality thrilled out.
"Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to see her things. She's real pleased."
"You don't suppose they'll ask father to marry 'em?" Miss Dorcas spoke quite eagerly.
"Oh, no, they can't! It's a real wedding, you know. It's got to be at the house."
"Yes, of course it's got to! I knew that myself, but I couldn't help hoping. Well, goodnight. You come Sunday."
Phoebe lifted her pink skirts about her, and stepped, rustling and stately, down the garden walk. Miss Dorcas drew one deep breath of
the outer fragrance, and turned back into the house. A thin voice, enfeebled and husky from old age, rose in the front room, as she
entered:
"Dorcas! Dorcas! you had a caller?"
Her father, old Parson True, lay in the great bed opposite the window. A thin little twig of a man, he was still animated, at times, by
the power of a strenuous and dauntless spirit. His hair, brushed straight back from the overtopping forehead, had grown snowy white,
and the eager, delicate face beneath wore a strange pathos from the very fineness of its nervously netted lines. Not many years after his
wife's death, the parson had shown some wandering of the wits; yet his disability, like his loss, had been mercifully veiled from him.
He took calmly to his bed, perhaps through sheer lack of interest in life, and it became his happy invention that he was "not feeling
well," from one day to another, but that, on the next Sunday, he should rise and preach. He seemed like an unfortunate and
Meadow Grass 65/90
Meadow Grass
uncomplaining child, and the village folk took pride in him as something all their own; a pride enhanced by his habit, in this weak
estate, of falling back into the homely ways of speech he had used long ago when he was a boy "on the farm." In his wife's day, he had
stood in the pulpit above them, and expounded scriptural lore in academic English; now he lapsed into their own rude phrasing, and
seemed to rest content in a tranquil certainty that nothing could be better than Tiverton ways and Tiverton's homely speech.
"Dorcas," he repeated, with all a child's delight in his own cleverness, "you've had somebody here. I heard ye!"
Dorcas folded the sheet back over the quilt, and laid her hand on his hair, with all the tenderness of the strong when they let
themselves brood over the weak.
"Only Phoebe, on her way home," she answered, gently. "The doctor visited her school to-day. She thinks he may drop in to see you
to-night. I guess he give her to understand so."
The minister chuckled.
"Ain't he a smart one?" he rejoined. "Smart as a trap! Dorcas, I 'ain't finished my sermon. I guess I shall have to preach an old one.
You lay me out the one on the salt losin' its savor, an' I'll look it over."
"Yes, father."
The same demand and the same answer, varied but slightly, had been exchanged between them every Saturday night for years. Dorcas
replied now without thinking. Her mind had spread its wings and flown out into the sweet stillness of the garden and the world
beyond; it even hastened on into the unknown ways of guesswork, seeking for one who should be coming. She strained her ears to
hear the beating of hoofs and the rattle of wheels across the little, bridge. The dusk sifted in about the house, faster and faster; a
whippoorwill cried from the woods. So she sat until the twilight had vanished, and another of the invisible genii was at hand, saying, "I
am Night."
"Dorcas!" called the parson again. He had been asleep, and seemed now to be holding himself back from a broken dream. "Dorcas, has
your mother come in yet?"
"No, father."
"Well, you wake me up when you see her down the road; and then you go an' carry her a shawl. I dunno what to make o' that cough!"
His voice trailed sleepily off, and Dorcas rose and tiptoed out of the room. She felt the blood in her face; her ears thrilled noisily. The
doctor's, wagon, had crossed the bridge; now it was whirling swiftly up the road. She stationed herself in the entry, to lose no step in
his familiar progress. The horse came lightly along, beating out a pleasant tune of easy haste. He was drawn up at the gate, and the
doctor threw out his weight, and jumped buoyantly to the ground. There was the brief pause of reaching for his medicine-case, and
then, with that firm step whose rhythm she knew so well, he was walking up the path. Involuntarily, as Dorcas awaited him, she put [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szkicerysunki.xlx.pl
would have been "real handsome if she'd had any sense about doin' her hair;" which was brought down loosely over her ears, in the
fashion of her Aunt Phoebe's miniature. Miss Dorcas beside her looked like one of autumn's brown, quiescent stems left standing by
the way. She was firmly built, yet all her lines subdued themselves to that meagreness which ever dwells afar from beauty. The deep
marks of hard experience had been graven on her forehead, and her dark eyes burned inwardly; the tense, concentrated spark of pain
and the glowing of happy fervor seemed as foreign to them as she herself to all the lighter joys and hopes. Her only possibility of
beauty lay in an abundance of soft dark hair; but even that had been restricted and coiled into a compact, utilitarian compass. She had
laid one nervous hand on Phoebe's arm, and she grasped the arm absently, from time to time, in talking, with unconscious joy in its
rounded warmth. She spoke cautiously, so that her voice might not be heard within.
"Then you come over to-morrow, after the close of service, if it's convenient. You can slip right into the kitchen, just as usual. Any
news?"
Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality thrilled out.
"Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to see her things. She's real pleased."
"You don't suppose they'll ask father to marry 'em?" Miss Dorcas spoke quite eagerly.
"Oh, no, they can't! It's a real wedding, you know. It's got to be at the house."
"Yes, of course it's got to! I knew that myself, but I couldn't help hoping. Well, goodnight. You come Sunday."
Phoebe lifted her pink skirts about her, and stepped, rustling and stately, down the garden walk. Miss Dorcas drew one deep breath of
the outer fragrance, and turned back into the house. A thin voice, enfeebled and husky from old age, rose in the front room, as she
entered:
"Dorcas! Dorcas! you had a caller?"
Her father, old Parson True, lay in the great bed opposite the window. A thin little twig of a man, he was still animated, at times, by
the power of a strenuous and dauntless spirit. His hair, brushed straight back from the overtopping forehead, had grown snowy white,
and the eager, delicate face beneath wore a strange pathos from the very fineness of its nervously netted lines. Not many years after his
wife's death, the parson had shown some wandering of the wits; yet his disability, like his loss, had been mercifully veiled from him.
He took calmly to his bed, perhaps through sheer lack of interest in life, and it became his happy invention that he was "not feeling
well," from one day to another, but that, on the next Sunday, he should rise and preach. He seemed like an unfortunate and
Meadow Grass 65/90
Meadow Grass
uncomplaining child, and the village folk took pride in him as something all their own; a pride enhanced by his habit, in this weak
estate, of falling back into the homely ways of speech he had used long ago when he was a boy "on the farm." In his wife's day, he had
stood in the pulpit above them, and expounded scriptural lore in academic English; now he lapsed into their own rude phrasing, and
seemed to rest content in a tranquil certainty that nothing could be better than Tiverton ways and Tiverton's homely speech.
"Dorcas," he repeated, with all a child's delight in his own cleverness, "you've had somebody here. I heard ye!"
Dorcas folded the sheet back over the quilt, and laid her hand on his hair, with all the tenderness of the strong when they let
themselves brood over the weak.
"Only Phoebe, on her way home," she answered, gently. "The doctor visited her school to-day. She thinks he may drop in to see you
to-night. I guess he give her to understand so."
The minister chuckled.
"Ain't he a smart one?" he rejoined. "Smart as a trap! Dorcas, I 'ain't finished my sermon. I guess I shall have to preach an old one.
You lay me out the one on the salt losin' its savor, an' I'll look it over."
"Yes, father."
The same demand and the same answer, varied but slightly, had been exchanged between them every Saturday night for years. Dorcas
replied now without thinking. Her mind had spread its wings and flown out into the sweet stillness of the garden and the world
beyond; it even hastened on into the unknown ways of guesswork, seeking for one who should be coming. She strained her ears to
hear the beating of hoofs and the rattle of wheels across the little, bridge. The dusk sifted in about the house, faster and faster; a
whippoorwill cried from the woods. So she sat until the twilight had vanished, and another of the invisible genii was at hand, saying, "I
am Night."
"Dorcas!" called the parson again. He had been asleep, and seemed now to be holding himself back from a broken dream. "Dorcas, has
your mother come in yet?"
"No, father."
"Well, you wake me up when you see her down the road; and then you go an' carry her a shawl. I dunno what to make o' that cough!"
His voice trailed sleepily off, and Dorcas rose and tiptoed out of the room. She felt the blood in her face; her ears thrilled noisily. The
doctor's, wagon, had crossed the bridge; now it was whirling swiftly up the road. She stationed herself in the entry, to lose no step in
his familiar progress. The horse came lightly along, beating out a pleasant tune of easy haste. He was drawn up at the gate, and the
doctor threw out his weight, and jumped buoyantly to the ground. There was the brief pause of reaching for his medicine-case, and
then, with that firm step whose rhythm she knew so well, he was walking up the path. Involuntarily, as Dorcas awaited him, she put [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]