Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin (fun books to read for adults TXT) đ
- Author: Kate Douglas Wiggin
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It was a fact that Rebeccaâs attitude towards the opposite sex was still somewhat indifferent and oblivious, even for fifteen and a half! No one could look at her and doubt that she had potentialities of attraction latent within her somewhere, but that side of her nature was happily biding its time. A human being is capable only of a certain amount of activity at a given moment, and it will inevitably satisfy first its most pressing needs, its most ardent desires, its chief ambitions. Rebecca was full of small anxieties and fears, for matters were not going well at the brick house and were anything but hopeful at the home farm. She was overbusy and overtaxed, and her thoughts were naturally drawn towards the difficult problems of daily living.
It had seemed to her during the autumn and winter of that year as if her aunt Miranda had never been, save at the very first, so censorious and so fault-finding. One Saturday Rebecca ran upstairs and, bursting into a flood of tears, exclaimed, âAunt Jane, it seems as if I never could stand her continual scoldings. Nothing I can do suits aunt Miranda; sheâs just said it will take me my whole life to get the Randall out of me, and Iâm not convinced that I want it all out, so there we are!â
Aunt Jane, never demonstrative, cried with Rebecca as she attempted to soothe her.
âYou must be patient,â she said, wiping first her own eyes and then Rebeccaâs. âI havenât told you, for it isnât fair you should be troubled when youâre studying so hard, but your aunt Miranda isnât well. One Monday morning about a month ago, she had a kind of faint spell; it wasnât bad, but the doctor is afraid it was a shock, and if so, itâs the beginning of the end. Seems to me sheâs failing right along, and thatâs what makes her so fretful and easy vexed. She has other troubles too, that you donât know anything about, and if youâre not kind to your aunt Miranda now, child, youâll be dreadful sorry some time.â
All the temper faded from Rebeccaâs face, and she stopped crying to say penitently, âOh! the poor dear thing! I wonât mind a bit what she says now. Sheâs just asked me for some milk toast and I was dreading to take it to her, but this will make everything different. Donât worry yet, aunt Jane, for perhaps it wonât be as bad as you think.â
So when she carried the toast to her aunt a little later, it was in the best gilt-edged china bowl, with a fringed napkin on the tray and a sprig of geranium lying across the salt cellar.
âNow, aunt Miranda,â she said cheerily, âI expect you to smack your lips and say this is good; itâs not Randall, but Sawyer milk toast.â
âYouâve tried all kinds on me, one time anâ another,â Miranda answered. âThis tastes real kind oâ good; but I wish you hadnât wasted that nice geranium.â
âYou canât tell whatâs wasted,â said Rebecca philosophically; âperhaps that geranium has been hoping this long time it could brighten somebodyâs supper, so donât disappoint it by making believe you donât like it. Iâve seen geraniums cry,âin the very early morning!â
The mysterious trouble to which Jane had alluded was a very real one, but it was held in profound secrecy. Twenty-five hundred dollars of the small Sawyer property had been invested in the business of a friend of their fatherâs, and had returned them a regular annual income of a hundred dollars. The family friend had been dead for some five years, but his son had succeeded to his interests and all went on as formerly. Suddenly there came a letter saying that the firm had gone into bankruptcy, that the business had been completely wrecked, and that the Sawyer money had been swept away with everything else.
The loss of one hundred dollars a year is a very trifling matter, but it made all the difference between comfort and self-denial to the two old spinsters Their manner of life had been so rigid and careful that it was difficult to economize any further, and the blow had fallen just when it was most inconvenient, for Rebeccaâs school and boarding expenses, small as they were, had to be paid promptly and in cash.
âCan we possibly go on doing it? Shanât we have to give up and tell her why?â asked Jane tearfully of the elder sister.
âWe have put our hand to the plough, and we canât turn back,â answered Miranda in her grimmest tone; âweâve taken her away from her mother and offered her an education, and weâve got to keep our word. Sheâs Aureliaâs only hope for years to come, to my way oâ thinkinâ. Hannahâs beau takes all her time ânâ thought, and when she gits a husband her motherâll be out oâ sight and out oâ mind. John, instead of farminâ, thinks he must be a doctor,â as if folks wasnât gettinâ unhealthy enough these days, without turninâ out more young doctors to help âem into their graves. No, Jane; weâll skimp ânâ do without, ânâ plan to git along on our interest money somehow, but we wonât break into our principal, whatever happens.â
âBreaking into the principalâ was, in the minds of most thrifty New England women, a sin only second to arson, theft, or murder; and, though the rule was occasionally carried too far for common sense,âas in this case, where two elderly women of sixty might reasonably have drawn something from their little hoard in time of special need,âit doubtless wrought more of good than evil in the community.
Rebecca, who knew nothing of their business affairs, merely saw her aunts grow more and more saving, pinching here and there, cutting off this and that relentlessly. Less meat and fish were bought; the woman who had lately been coming two days a week for washing, ironing, and scrubbing was dismissed; the old bonnets of the season before were brushed up and retrimmed; there were no drives to Moderation or trips to Portland. Economy was carried to its very extreme; but though Miranda was well-nigh as gloomy and uncompromising in her manner and conversation as a woman could well be, she at least never twitted her niece of being a burden; so Rebeccaâs share of the Sawyersâ misfortunes consisted only in wearing her old dresses, hats, and jackets, without any apparent hope of a change.
There was, however, no concealing the state of things at Sunnybrook, where chapters of accidents had unfolded themselves in a sort of serial story that had run through the year. The potato crop had failed; there were no apples to speak of; the hay had been poor; Aurelia had turns of dizziness in her head; Mark had broken his ankle. As this was his fourth offense, Miranda inquired how many bones there were in the human body, âso ât theyâd know when Mark got through breakinâ âem.â The time for paying the interest on the mortgage, that incubus that had crushed all the joy out of the Randall household, had come and gone, and there was no possibility, for the first time in fourteen years, of paying the required forty-eight dollars. The only bright spot in the horizon was Hannahâs engagement to Will Melville,âa young farmer whose land joined Sunnybrook, who had a good house, was alone in the world, and his own master. Hannah was so satisfied with her own unexpectedly radiant prospects that she hardly realized her motherâs anxieties; for there are natures which flourish, in adversity, and deteriorate when exposed to sudden prosperity. She had made a visit of a week at the brick house; and Mirandaâs impression, conveyed in privacy to Jane, was that Hannah was close as the bark of a tree, and considâable selfish too; that when sheâd climâ as fur as she could in the world, sheâd kick the ladder out from under her, everlastinâ quick; that, on being sounded as to her ability to be of use to the younger children in the future, she said she guessed sheâd done her share aâready, and she wanât goinâ to burden Will with her poor relations. âSheâs Susan Randall through and through!â ejaculated Miranda. âI was glad to see her face turned towards Temperance. If that mortgage is ever cleared from the farm, ât wonât be Hannah thatâll do it; itâll be Rebecca or me!â
XXIV ALADDIN RUBS HIS LAMPYour esteemed contribution entitled Wareham Wildflowers has been accepted for The Pilot, Miss Perkins,â said Rebecca, entering the room where Emma Jane was darning the firmâs stockings. âI stayed to tea with Miss Maxwell, but came home early to tell you.â
âYou are joking, Becky!â faltered Emma Jane, looking up from her work.
âNot a bit; the senior editor read it and thought it highly instructive; it appears in the next issue.â
âNot in the same number with your poem about the golden gates that close behind us when we leave school?ââand Emma Jane held her breath as she awaited the reply.
âEven so, Miss Perkins.â
âRebecca,â said Emma Jane, with the nearest approach to tragedy that her nature would permit, âI donât know as I shall be able to bear it, and if anything happens to me, I ask you solemnly to bury that number of The Pilot with me.â
Rebecca did not seem to think this the expression of an exaggerated state of feeling, inasmuch as she replied, âI know; thatâs just the way it seemed to me at first, and even now, whenever Iâm alone and take out the Pilot back numbers to read over my contributions, I almost burst with pleasure; and itâs not that they are good either, for they look worse to me every time I read them.â
âIf you would only live with me in some little house when we get older,â mused Emma Jane, as with her darning needle poised in air she regarded the opposite wall dreamily, âI would do the housework and cooking, and copy all your poems and stories, and take them to the post-office, and you neednât do anything but write. It would be perfectly elergant!â
âIâd like nothing better, if I hadnât promised to keep house for John,â replied Rebecca.
âHe wonât have a house for a good many years, will he?â
âNo,â sighed Rebecca ruefully, flinging herself down by the table and resting her head on her hand. âNot unless we can contrive to pay off that detestable mortgage. The day grows farther off instead of nearer now that we havenât paid the interest this year.â
She pulled a piece of paper towards her, and scribbling idly on it read aloud in a moment or two:â
âWill you pay a little faster?â said the mortgage to the farm; âI confess Iâm very tired of this place.â âThe weariness is mutual,â Rebecca Randall cried; âI would Iâd never gazed upon your face!â
âA note has a `face,ââ observed Emma Jane, who was gifted in arithmetic. âI didnât know that a mortgage had.â
âOur mortgage has,â said Rebecca revengefully. âI should know him if I met him in the dark. Wait and Iâll draw him for you. It will be good for you to know how he looks, and then when you have a husband and seven children, you wonât allow him to come anywhere within a mile of your farm.â
The sketch when completed was of a sort to be shunned by a timid person on the verge of slumber. There was a tiny house on the right, and a weeping
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