Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin (fun books to read for adults TXT) š
- Author: Kate Douglas Wiggin
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Then, when all was ready and Abijah Flagg at the door, came a telegram from Hannah: āCome at once. Mother has had bad accident.ā
In less than an hour Rebecca was started on her way to Sunnybrook, her heart palpitating with fear as to what might be awaiting her at her journeyās end.
Death, at all events, was not there to meet her; but something that looked at first only too much like it. Her mother had been standing on the haymow superintending some changes in the barn, had been seized with giddiness, they thought, and slipped. The right knee was fractured and the back strained and hurt, but she was conscious and in no immediate danger, so Rebecca wrote, when she had a moment to send aunt Jane the particulars.
āI donā know how ātis,ā grumbled Miranda, who was not able to sit up that day; ābut from a child I could never lay abed without Aureliaās gettinā sick too. I donā know ās she could help fallinā, though it aināt anyplace for a woman,āa haymow; but if it hadnāt been that, āt would āaā been somethinā else. Aurelia was born unfortunate. Now sheāll probably be a cripple, and Rebeccaāll have to nurse her instead of earning a good income somewheres else.ā
āHer first duty ās to her mother,ā said aunt Jane; āI hope sheāll always remember that.ā
āNobody remembers anything theyād ought to, āat seventeen,ā responded Miranda. āNow that Iām strong again, thereās things I want to consider with you, Jane, things that are on my mind night and day. Weāve talked āem over before; now weāll settle āem. When Iām laid away, do you want to take Aurelia and the children down here to the brick house? Thereās an awful passel of āem,āAurelia, Jenny, and Fanny; but I wonāt have Mark. Hannah can take him; I wonāt have a great boy stompinā out the carpets and ruininā the furniture, though I know when Iām dead I canāt hinder ye, if you make up your mind to do anything.ā
āI shouldnāt like to go against your feelings, especially in laying out your money, Miranda,ā said Jane.
āDonāt tell Rebecca Iāve willed her the brick house. She wonāt git it till Iām gone, and I want to take my time ābout dyinā and not be hurried off by them thatās goinā to profit by it; nor I donāt want to be thanked, neither. I sāpose sheāll use the front stairs as common as the back and like as not have water brought into the kitchen, but mebbe when Iāve been dead a few years I shanāt mind. She sets such store by you, sheāll want you to have your home here as longās you live, but anyway Iāve wrote it down that way; though Lawyer Burnsās wills donāt hold moreān half the time. Heās cheaper, but I guess it comes out jest the same in the end. I wanāt goinā to have the fust man Rebecca picks up for a husband turninā you ouādoors.ā
There was a long pause, during which Jane knit silently, wiping the tears from her eyes from time to time, as she looked at the pitiful figure lying weakly on the pillows. Suddenly Miranda said slowly and feebly:ā
āI donā know after all but you might as well take Mark; I sāpose thereās tame boys as well as wild ones. There aināt a mite oā sense in havinā so many children, but itās a turrible risk splittinā up families and farminā āem out here ānā there; theyād never come to no good, anā everybody would keep rememberinā their mother was a Sawyer. Now if youāll draw down the curtin, Iāll try to sleep.ā
XXIX MOTHER AND DAUGHTERTwo months had gone by,ātwo months of steady, fagging work; of cooking, washing, ironing; of mending and caring for the three children, although Jenny was fast becoming a notable little housewife, quick, ready, and capable. They were months in which there had been many a weary night of watching by Aureliaās bedside; of soothing and bandaging and rubbing; of reading and nursing, even of feeding and bathing. The ceaseless care was growing less now, and the family breathed more freely, for the motherās sigh of pain no longer came from the stifling bedroom, where, during a hot and humid August, Aurelia had lain, suffering with every breath she drew. There would be no question of walking for many a month to come, but blessings seemed to multiply when the blinds could be opened and the bed drawn near the window; when mother, with pillows behind her, could at least sit and watch the work going on, could smile at the past agony and forget the weary hours that had led to her present comparative ease and comfort.
No girl of seventeen can pass through such an ordeal and come out unchanged; no girl of Rebeccaās temperament could go through it without some inward repining and rebellion. She was doing tasks in which she could not be fully happy,āheavy and trying tasks, which perhaps she could never do with complete success or satisfaction; and like promise of nectar to thirsty lips was the vision of joys she had had to put aside for the performance of dull daily duty. How brief, how fleeting, had been those splendid visions when the universe seemed open for her young strength to battle and triumph in! How soon they had faded into the light of common day! At first, sympathy and grief were so keen she thought of nothing but her motherās pain. No consciousness of self interposed between her and her filial service; then, as the weeks passed, little blighted hopes began to stir and ache in her breast; defeated ambitions raised their heads as if to sting her; unattainable delights teased her by their very nearness; by the narrow line of separation that lay between her and their realization. It is easy, for the moment, to tread the narrow way, looking neither to the right nor left, upborne by the sense of right doing; but that first joy of self-denial, the joy that is like fire in the blood, dies away; the path seems drearier and the footsteps falter. Such a time came to Rebecca, and her bright spirit flagged when the letter was received saying that her position in Augusta had been filled. There was a mutinous leap of the heart then, a beating of wings against the door of the cage, a longing for the freedom of the big world outside. It was the stirring of the powers within her, though she called it by no such grand name. She felt as if the wind of destiny were blowing her flame hither and thither, burning, consuming her, but kindling nothing. All this meant one stormy night in her little room at Sunnybrook, but the clouds blew over, the sun shone again, a rainbow stretched across the sky, while āhope clad in April greenā smiled into her upturned face and beckoned her on, saying:ā
āGrow old along with me, The best is yet to be.ā
Threads of joy ran in and out of the gray tangled web of daily living. There was the attempt at odd moments to make the bare little house less bare by bringing in out-of-doors, taking a leaf from Natureās book and noting how she conceals ugliness wherever she finds it. Then there was the satisfaction of being mistress of the poor domain; of planning, governing, deciding; of bringing order out of chaos; of implanting gayety in the place of inert resignation to the inevitable. Another element of comfort was the childrenās love, for they turned to her as flowers to the sun, drawing confidently on her fund of stories, serene in the conviction that there was no limit to Rebeccaās power of make-believe. In this, and in yet greater things, little as she realized it, the law of compensation was working in her behalf, for in those anxious days mother and daughter found and knew each other as never before. A new sense was born in Rebecca as she hung over her motherās bed of pain and unrest,āa sense that comes only of ministering, a sense that grows only when the strong bend toward the weak. As for Aurelia, words could never have expressed her dumb happiness when the real revelation of motherhood was vouchsafed her. In all the earlier years when her babies were young, carking cares and anxieties darkened the fireside with their brooding wings. Then Rebecca had gone away, and in the long months of absence her mind and soul had grown out of her motherās knowledge, so that now, when Aurelia had time and strength to study her child, she was like some enchanting changeling. Aurelia and Hannah had gone on in the dull round and the common task, growing duller and duller; but now, on a certain stage of lifeās journey, who should appear but this bewildering being, who gave wings to thoughts that had only crept before; who brought color and grace and harmony into the dun brown texture of existence.
You might harness Rebecca to the heaviest plough, and while she had youth on her side, she would always remember the green earth under her feet and the blue sky over her head. Her physical eye saw the cake she was stirring and the loaf she was kneading; her physical ear heard the kitchen fire crackling and the teakettle singing, but ever and anon her fancy mounted on pinions, rested itself, renewed its strength in the upper air. The bare little farmhouse was a fixed fact, but she had many a palace into which she now and then withdrew; palaces peopled with stirring and gallant figures belonging to the world of romance; palaces not without their heavenly apparitions too, breathing celestial counsel. Every time she retired to her citadel of dreams she came forth radiant and refreshed, as one who has seen the evening star, or heard sweet music, or smelled the rose of joy.
Aurelia could have understood the feeling of a narrow-minded and conventional hen who has brought a strange, intrepid duckling into the world; but her situation was still more wonderful, for she could only compare her sensations to those of some quiet brown Dorking who has brooded an ordinary egg and hatched a bird of paradise. Such an idea had crossed her mind more than once during the past fortnight, and it flashed to and fro this mellow October morning when Rebecca came into the room with her arms full of goldenrod and flaming autumn leaves.
āJust a hint of the fall styles, mother,ā she said, slipping the stem of a gorgeous red and yellow sapling between the mattress and the foot of the bed. āThis was leaning over the pool, and I was afraid it would be vain if I left it there too long looking at its beautiful reflection, so I took it away from danger; isnāt it wonderful? How I wish I could carry one to poor aunt Miranda to-day! Thereās never a flower in the brick house when Iām away.ā
It was a marvelous morning. The sun had climbed into a world that held in remembrance only a succession of golden days and starlit nights. The air was fragrant with ripening fruit, and there was a mad little bird on a tree outside the door nearly bursting his throat with joy of living. He had forgotten that summer was over, that winter must ever
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