第 十 章 · RAINBOW BRIDGES

. RAINBOW BRIDGES

RAINBOW BRIDGES

Uncle Jerry coughed and stirred in his chair a good deal during

Rebecca's recital, but he carefully concealed any undue feeling of

sympathy, just muttering, "Poor little soul! We'll see what we can do

for her!"

"You will take me to Maplewood, won't you, Mr. Cobb?" begged Rebecca

piteously.

"Don't you fret a mite," he answered, with a crafty little notion at

the back of his mind; "I'll see the lady passenger through somehow. Now

take a bite o' somethin' to eat, child. Spread some o' that tomato

preserve on your bread; draw up to the table. How'd you like to set in

mother's place an' pour me out another cup o' hot tea?"

Mr. Jeremiah Cobb's mental machinery was simple, and did not move very

smoothly save when propelled by his affection or sympathy. In the

present case these were both employed to his advantage, and mourning

his stupidity and praying for some flash of inspiration to light his

path, he blundered along, trusting to Providence.

Rebecca, comforted by the old man's tone, and timidly enjoying the

dignity of sitting in Mrs. Cobb's seat and lifting the blue china

teapot, smiled faintly, smoothed her hair, and dried her eyes.

"I suppose your mother'll be turrible glad to see you back again?"

queried Mr. Cobb.

A tiny fear--just a baby thing--in the bottom of Rebecca's heart

stirred and grew larger the moment it was touched with a question.

"She won't like it that I ran away, I s'pose, and she'll be sorry that

I couldn't please aunt Mirandy; but I'll make her understand, just as I

did you."

"I s'pose she was thinkin' o' your schoolin', lettin' you come down

here; but land! you can go to school in Temperance, I s'pose?"

"There's only two months' school now in Temperance, and the farm 's too

far from all the other schools."

"Oh well! there's other things in the world beside edjercation,"

responded uncle Jerry, attacking a piece of apple pie.

"Ye--es; though mother thought that was going to be the making of me,"

returned Rebecca sadly, giving a dry little sob as she tried to drink

her tea.

"It'll be nice for you to be all together again at the farm--such a

house full o' children!" remarked the dear old deceiver, who longed for

nothing so much as to cuddle and comfort the poor little creature.

"It's too full--that's the trouble. But I'll make Hannah come to

Riverboro in my place."

"S'pose Mirandy 'n' Jane'll have her? I should be 'most afraid they

wouldn't. They'll be kind o' mad at your goin' home, you know, and you

can't hardly blame 'em."

This was quite a new thought,--that the brick house might be closed to

Hannah, since she, Rebecca, had turned her back upon its cold

hospitality.

"How is this school down here in Riverboro--pretty good?" inquired

uncle Jerry, whose brain was working with an altogether unaccustomed

rapidity,--so much so that it almost terrified him.

"Oh, it's a splendid school! And Miss Dearborn is a splendid teacher!"

"You like her, do you? Well, you'd better believe she returns the

compliment. Mother was down to the store this afternoon buyin' liniment

for Seth Strout, an' she met Miss Dearborn on the bridge. They got to

talkin' 'bout school, for mother has summer-boarded a lot o' the

schoolmarms, an' likes 'em. 'How does the little Temperance girl git

along?' asks mother. 'Oh, she's the best scholar I have!' says Miss

Dearborn. 'I could teach school from sun-up to sun-down if scholars was

all like Rebecca Randall,' says she."

"Oh, Mr. Cobb, DID she say that?" glowed Rebecca, her face sparkling

and dimpling in an instant. "I've tried hard all the time, but I'll

study the covers right off of the books now."

"You mean you would if you'd ben goin' to stay here," interposed uncle

Jerry. "Now ain't it too bad you've jest got to give it all up on

account o' your aunt Mirandy? Well, I can't hardly blame ye. She's

cranky an' she's sour; I should think she'd ben nussed on bonny-clabber

an' green apples. She needs bearin' with; an' I guess you ain't much on

patience, be ye?"

"Not very much," replied Rebecca dolefully.

"If I'd had this talk with ye yesterday," pursued Mr. Cobb, "I believe

I'd have advised ye different. It's too late now, an' I don't feel to

say you've ben all in the wrong; but if 't was to do over again, I'd

say, well, your aunt Mirandy gives you clothes and board and schoolin'

and is goin' to send you to Wareham at a big expense. She's turrible

hard to get along with, an' kind o' heaves benefits at your head, same

's she would bricks; but they're benefits jest the same, an' mebbe it's

your job to kind o' pay for 'em in good behavior. Jane's a leetle bit

more easy goin' than Mirandy, ain't she, or is she jest as hard to

please?"

"Oh, aunt Jane and I get along splendidly," exclaimed Rebecca; "she's

just as good and kind as she can be, and I like her better all the

time. I think she kind of likes me, too; she smoothed my hair once. I'd

let her scold me all day long, for she understands; but she can't stand

up for me against aunt Mirandy; she's about as afraid of her as I am."

"Jane'll be real sorry to-morrow to find you've gone away, I guess; but

never mind, it can't be helped. If she has a kind of a dull time with

Mirandy, on account o' her bein' so sharp, why of course she'd set

great store by your comp'ny. Mother was talkin' with her after prayer

meetin' the other night. 'You wouldn't know the brick house, Sarah,'

says Jane. 'I'm keepin' a sewin' school, an' my scholar has made three

dresses. What do you think o' that,' says she, 'for an old maid's

child? I've taken a class in Sunday-school,' says Jane, 'an' think o'

renewin' my youth an' goin' to the picnic with Rebecca,' says she; an'

mother declares she never see her look so young 'n' happy."

There was a silence that could be felt in the little kitchen; a silence

only broken by the ticking of the tall clock and the beating of

Rebecca's heart, which, it seemed to her, almost drowned the voice of

the clock. The rain ceased, a sudden rosy light filled the room, and

through the window a rainbow arch could be seen spanning the heavens

like a radiant bridge. Bridges took one across difficult places,

thought Rebecca, and uncle Jerry seemed to have built one over her

troubles and given her strength to walk.

"The shower 's over," said the old man, filling his pipe; "it's cleared

the air, washed the face o' the airth nice an' clean, an' everything

to-morrer will shine like a new pin--when you an' I are drivin' up

river."

Rebecca pushed her cup away, rose from the table, and put on her hat

and jacket quietly. "I'm not going to drive up river, Mr. Cobb," she

said. "I'm going to stay here and--catch bricks; catch 'em without

throwing 'em back, too. I don't know as aunt Mirandy will take me in

after I've run away, but I'm going back now while I have the courage.

You wouldn't be so good as to go with me, would you, Mr. Cobb?"

"You'd better b'lieve your uncle Jerry don't propose to leave till he

gits this thing fixed up," cried the old man delightedly. "Now you've

had all you can stan' to-night, poor little soul, without gettin' a fit

o' sickness; an' Mirandy'll be sore an' cross an' in no condition for

argyment; so my plan is jest this: to drive you over to the brick house

in my top buggy; to have you set back in the corner, an' I git out an'

go to the side door; an' when I git your aunt Mirandy 'n' aunt Jane out

int' the shed to plan for a load o' wood I'm goin' to have hauled there

this week, you'll slip out o' the buggy and go upstairs to bed. The

front door won't be locked, will it?"

"Not this time of night," Rebecca answered; "not till aunt Mirandy goes

to bed; but oh! what if it should be?"

"Well, it won't; an' if 't is, why we'll have to face it out; though in

my opinion there's things that won't bear facin' out an' had better be

settled comfortable an' quiet. You see you ain't run away yet; you've

only come over here to consult me 'bout runnin' away, an' we've

concluded it ain't wuth the trouble. The only real sin you've

committed, as I figger it out, was in comin' here by the winder when

you'd ben sent to bed. That ain't so very black, an' you can tell your

aunt Jane 'bout it come Sunday, when she's chock full o' religion, an'

she can advise you when you'd better tell your aunt Mirandy. I don't

believe in deceivin' folks, but if you've hed hard thoughts you ain't

obleeged to own 'em up; take 'em to the Lord in prayer, as the hymn

says, and then don't go on hevin' 'em. Now come on; I'm all hitched up

to go over to the post-office; don't forget your bundle; 'it's always a

journey, mother, when you carry a nightgown;' them 's the first words

your uncle Jerry ever heard you say! He didn't think you'd be bringin'

your nightgown over to his house. Step in an' curl up in the corner; we

ain't goin' to let folks see little runaway gals, 'cause they're goin'

back to begin all over ag'in!"

When Rebecca crept upstairs, and undressing in the dark finally found

herself in her bed that night, though she was aching and throbbing in

every nerve, she felt a kind of peace stealing over her. She had been

saved from foolishness and error; kept from troubling her poor mother;

prevented from angering and mortifying her aunts.

Her heart was melted now, and she determined to win aunt Miranda's

approval by some desperate means, and to try and forget the one thing

that rankled worst, the scornful mention of her father, of whom she

thought with the greatest admiration, and whom she had not yet heard

criticised; for such sorrows and disappointments as Aurelia Randall had

suffered had never been communicated to her children.

It would have been some comfort to the bruised, unhappy little spirit

to know that Miranda Sawyer was passing an uncomfortable night, and

that she tacitly regretted her harshness, partly because Jane had taken

such a lofty and virtuous position in the matter. She could not endure

Jane's disapproval, although she would never have confessed to such a

weakness.

As uncle Jerry drove homeward under the stars, well content with his

attempts at keeping the peace, he thought wistfully of the touch of

Rebecca's head on his knee, and the rain of her tears on his hand; of

the sweet reasonableness of her mind when she had the matter put

rightly before her; of her quick decision when she had once seen the

path of duty; of the touching hunger for love and understanding that

were so characteristic in her. "Lord A'mighty!" he ejaculated under his

breath, "Lord A'mighty! to hector and abuse a child like that one! 'T

ain't ABUSE exactly, I know, or 't wouldn't be to some o' your

elephant-hided young ones; but to that little tender will-o'-the-wisp a

hard word 's like a lash. Mirandy Sawyer would be a heap better woman

if she had a little gravestun to remember, same's mother 'n' I have."

"I never see a child improve in her work as Rebecca has to-day,"

remarked Miranda Sawyer to Jane on Saturday evening. "That settin' down

I gave her was probably just what she needed, and I daresay it'll last

for a month."

"I'm glad you're pleased," returned Jane. "A cringing worm is what you

want, not a bright, smiling child. Rebecca looks to me as if she'd been

through the Seven Years' War. When she came downstairs this morning it

seemed to me she'd grown old in the night. If you follow my advice,

which you seldom do, you'll let me take her and Emma Jane down beside

the river to-morrow afternoon and bring Emma Jane home to a good Sunday

supper. Then if you'll let her go to Milltown with the Cobbs on

Wednesday, that'll hearten her up a little and coax back her appetite.

Wednesday 's a holiday on account of Miss Dearborn's going home to her

sister's wedding, and the Cobbs and Perkinses want to go down to the

Agricultural Fair."