The Shorn Lamb/Chapter 8
Chapter 8
REBECCA GETS ACQUAINTED
Her first night in the country! The first night for little Rebecca Taylor spent anywhere but in the beloved studio, except for that one night on the sleeper. Dr. Price had recommended sleep and perfect quiet. Rebecca had been moved to the room that had been her father's, and there she lay, dozing and dreaming through the long June day. Every now and then Aunt Testy would come, bearing a tray of delicious food. Rebecca would keep her eyes open long enough to eat and then would drop back into fitful slumber.
"Where is my grandfather, Aunt Testy?" she asked when the dinner tray arrived, laden with food the like of which the little studio waif had seldom seen.
"He done been helt up down yonder to the hub fact'ry. He jes' phomed up to enquire arfter you. I answered it myself an' I could repo't you wa' a worryin' down right smart nourishment."
"I should say I am," laughed Rebecca. "I am sleeping and eating all the time. I love this room too. To think of my father having slept in this self -same spot! What kind of a tree is that outside my window, Aunt Testy?"
"That there am a holly tree."
"You mean Christmas holly—the kind with red berries that costs fifty cents for just a little branch to make things kind of cheerful for Christmas? Oh, I'm so happy!"
Aunt Testy smiled a comfortable, fat smile, but at the same time wiped a little tear away with the corner of her apron.
"Now res' yo'se'f some mo', honey baby," she said, as she removed the tray.
Again the heavy lids drooped and Rebecca slept soundly. The next time Aunt Testy came in with more food she still slept and the old woman crept out.
"Sleep an' fergittin' is better'n eatin' an' rememberin'," she sagely remarked.
When Major Taylor at last returned from the hub factory he quickly mounted to his granddaughter's room. It was a chamber he had not entered for many years not since his boy had occupied it. It reminded him too poignantly of Tom. Even now he must steel himself to be able to cross the threshold. He tapped lightly on the door. There was no response. He waited a moment and then opened the door and softly entered. The room was so quiet he had a sudden fear that the child might have left. But no! There she lay on his Tom's bed. She looked quite different from the girl who had stood before him not so many hours ago and defied him. The strained, excited look had left the little face. In its place was one of perfect peace.
"Almost as though she had died," flashed through Major Taylor's mind. "Thank God, though, for the color on cheeks and lips and that sweetly taken breath."
Long he stood and gazed at her, his stern features working strangely and an occasional tear finding its way unheeded down his wrinkled cheeks. He longed for her to open her eyes and once more smile into his as she had in the morning after inspecting the persons gathered around her bed, but Nature had taken matters into her own hands and was working her perfect cure on the tired child. The old man finally crept out. He felt happier than he had since Tom left home.
Rebecca slept on and on. Daylight faded into twilight, twilight melted into moonlight, and still she slept. The Misses Taylor were sulking because of this interloper that had come into their well-ordered lives, and when those ladies sulked, they sulked in silence. Spottswood was singularly reticent. He resented the arrival of this child, whom he considered a fraud, and he wondered at his astute father's accepting the little waif as his grandchild.
Major Taylor, in his endeavor to keep the house quiet so that Rebecca might sleep, made more noise than all the rest of the family put together.
"Heavens, Spot!" he exploded at the supper table, "do you have to make so much noise eating toast? You will disturb the child."
Spot turned red and gulped some water. The sound he made in swallowing called forth another remark from his father.
"I believe you are trying to wake her up. I never saw such a noisy lot of people."
The sisters looked at each other with raised eyebrows as much as to say their father was evidently slightly demented. Spot hurriedly finished his supper and left the table. Aunt Testy moved in and out of the dining room with guarded steps, directing Mandy, her assistant, with hoarse whispers.
"Don't rattle them knives an' forks! Prop open that there pantry do' less'n you kin open it 'thout fallin' 'ginst it ev'ry time. Looks like Marse Bob an' me's the onlies' ones in this house what air tryin' ter keep quiet."
Even the noisy endeavors of her two friends to keep quiet did not awaken Rebecca. The Misses Taylor retired to their bedchambers without looking in on the stranger occupying the room that had been their brother's. Father and son sat in silence on the vine-covered porch. It was a night of nights. The moon was up and the rolling, grassy lawn with its great fringed elm, ash and oak trees was flooded with a radiance almost unearthly in its beauty. The wonder of it was touching the hearts of both men, but a certain lack of sympathetic understanding kept them apart. The katydids and tree frogs took up their song of summer and 'way off by the river a whippoorwill called persistently.
Once more before he went to rest Major Taylor tiptoed upstairs into Rebecca's room. She was sleeping like an infant. The moonlight lay in patches on the floor and bed. One slender little hand was in its path and for a moment the old man fancied he could detect a likeness between that hand and Tom's.
"Something about the thumb and curve of the wrist," he said to himself. "But I wish she did not have such black hair. It is fine, though, as fine as blond hair," he decided, bending over her cautiously.
The moon was high when Rebecca at last opened her eyes. She thought she was back in the studio on West Tenth Street. There the moon used to shine through the skylight and make bars on the floor. She closed her eyes again and snuggled down comfortably on her pillow. She remembered the happenings of the last days as in a dream. It was all a dream surely, her stepfather's illness, her leaving the studio and everything. At any rate, now she was back in the studio, she was sure.
But what was that strange noise? Not the roar of New York, not a late party breaking up, not like any noise she had ever heard before! It seemed to the child like the deeply taken breath of some huge creature, a breath coming in waves and at intervals prolonged into a long drawn sigh. But more regular than this breathing was a steady beat, beat. It must be the creature's heart!
Rebecca was terrified. She sat up in bed and suddenly realized she was not in the studio. Before she could collect her scattered wits the night was cut by a shrill, blood-curdling screech.
"The giant has caught somebody," was her thought. "Now he is going to catch me!" She lost all control of herself and screamed aloud: "Daddy! Daddy! Save me!"
The sound of her own voice brought her to her senses. She realized that she was not in New York, that her stepfather was in truth dead and she was in a strange house belonging to hitherto unknown relations. She began to sob.
Somebody was coming and it was not the monster, because he was out of doors and the person who was coming was on the stairs. She tried vainly to hold back the sobs.
Then Major Taylor appeared, bearing a lighted candle. He had been reading when he had heard the shrill cry, "Daddy! Daddy! Save me!"
"What is it, my darling?" The old man's voice was strangely gentle.
What would his daughters and son have thought had they heard his tone of endearment and seen his tender expression as he gathered the trembling child to his hungry heart?
"What has frightened you?"
"Oh! That giant! Listen, can't you hear him breathe? And his heart beats so loud. A minute ago he caught something I think it was a child—its cry was so pitiful! I didn't mean to scream out so loud, but, sir, I thought I was back in the studio and Daddy was alive and would come to me."
"You mean my son, Tom?" hoarsely.
"No, no! He was Father. Daddy was the last stepfather I had. But listen a minute and you can hear the noise that scared me so."
Rebecca was still trembling, but her sobs had ceased.
"Why, my dear, that is nothing but katydids and tree frogs and all the night creatures. Did you never hear them before?"
"No, sir! They dont do that way in New York. It sounds like a giant's deep breathing to me. And listen, only listen to his heart beats!"
"And that is the hydraulic ram that pumps the water up from the branch to the tank out there behind the house. That is the kind of waterworks we have at Mill House. You can go to see it to-morrow. It is nothing but a simple little machine that the water makes go and it works the pump."
"Oh! I guess you think I'm more of a nuisance than ever. I'm so sorry, but I did not know. If the little child had not screamed out I would not have let go."
"Little child?" Major Taylor could not help laughing, although he held Rebecca closer to his breast. "You poor little thing, no wonder you were scared. That was just a screech owl. I heard it too just a moment before I heard you. I wonder if you scared the little owl as badly as it scared you. Listen! There it goes again."
Rebecca shuddered as the screech owl gave forth another of its weird calls.
"Is it a great big thing?"
"No, just a tiny little owl not as big as a new-born kitten and looking a little like one. But listen! That is a mockingbird." A sudden burst of music drowned all the other noises of the night.
"Oh, Grandfather! I could almost die of joy," Rebecca cried, as the song died out. "I never heard a mockingbird before in all my life. I didn't know they sang at night. And now that I know what the night sounds are I'll never be afraid again. It is really Mother Nature breathing, after all. I don't see how I am ever to sleep again at night anyhow—not when the moon is shining. There are so many things to see and hear. It is much more interesting than daytime."
"Tom, your father, loved the night, and he and I used to sit together on the porch and listen to the katydids and tree frogs. He loved to hear the first bullfrogs in spring. You can hear them now, down in the marshes. Listen! This is what I used to tell Tom: The little baby bullfrogs say, 'Can't go to sleep! Can't go to sleep!' and the mother bullfrog says, 'Hush, my dears! Hush, my dears!' and the big father bullfrog says, 'Spank 'em! Spank 'em!"
"Oh! Did you? How lovely! Tell me some more."
"The tree frogs say, 'Who cracked the kettle?' and the katydids call back, 'Katy did! Katy did!' and they get to fussing among themselves and some of them say, 'Katy didn't! Katy didn't!' and then way down in the edge of the wood someone calls out 'Whip poor Will! Whip poor Will!'"
The old man imitated the night noises with surprising skill. It had been many years since he had attempted it, but he seemed to enjoy it as much as Rebecca.
"And now you must go back to sleep because you will not wake up in time to hear the birds' chorus in the early morning if you don't. They have advertised their performance to take place at sun-up."
The wonders of the night had entranced Rebecca, but the delight of the dawn affected her, as she told her grandfather afterwards, like the cello notes of an orchestra: "Creepy all up and down my backbone and my throat all choky with joy!"
The birds outdid themselves for her benefit on that first awakening in the country. She sprang from her bed and leaned so far out of her window she almost fell into the holly tree. A father robin and a father thrush were offering up their morning hymn of praise while the wives of their bosoms were busily engaged in trying to find enough breakfast for the gaping mouths of their respective families. A song sparrow had perched himself on the open blind of the parlor and was pouring forth a volume of melody.
To Rebecca it was all so new and wonderful that she forgot all about a possible breakfast and the necessary bath and clothes until Mandy knocked on her door, sent by Aunt Testy to remind her. Then a grand scramble ensued. The ugly black waist, so many sizes too large, was reluctantly donned.
"Mourning seems so out of place in such a world as this," she sighed, "but maybe Mrs. O'Shea knows best."
The dark curls would not come untangled, no matter how much she brushed and combed, and as a warning gong informed her that breakfast was ready, she caught her hair back with a hair-pin and ran downstairs.
The aunts and Spottswood had that minute seated themselves at the table as Rebecca came running in the room.
"Good morning, everybody!" she cried gaily. "I was so afraid I'd be late to breakfast I almost broke my neck hurrying. Where is my grandfather?"
"My father has gone early to the hub factory." said Aunt Evelyn with a manner so chilly that Rebecca looked at her in amazement. There was a slight accent on "my father" that conveyed a subtle suggestion that Rebecca's grandfather and Evelyn's father were not one and the same person.
Rebecca had thought, of course, that when her grandfather accepted her as his own flesh and blood the others would do the same. If she belonged to them they would naturally love her. and she would try to love them. Surely, her Aunt Evelyn was not feeling well. A pain somewhere would account for that vinegary expression. The morning was too lovely and she was too hungry to bother much about moods.
"Oh, I had the most heavenly rest! Such a bed! Such delicious eats, whenever I could wake up to know about it! Such—"
Her effusions were stopped short by a cold and disapproving "Hush!" from Aunt Myra. It was as though someone had shot a skylark in its upward flight. Rebecca was silenced. She bowed her head in mortification, not knowing that the others at the table also were bowing theirs, until she heard Aunt Evelyn in devout tones asking that the Creator might bless the food to their use and them to His service.
"I—I beg your pardon," she faltered when Aunt Evelyn finished and the business of eating was begun. "I have never said my prayers at the table and—and did not know."
"Do not be sacrilegious," commanded Aunt Evelyn.
"I did not mean—" But what she did not mean was of no importance to her relatives and Rebecca's remarks trailed off into empty space.
Breakfast progressed in solemn silence. The child was big-eyed over the quantity and variety of food. Accustomed to a breakfast of chocolate and rolls and in affluent days maybe an orange or half of a grapefruit, this old Virginia breakfast seemed to her like a feast. There were strawberries and cream, roe-herring, ham and eggs, fried potatoes, fried apples, batter-bread, and then when all was over seemingly, stacks of waffles made their appearance.
Forgetting that talking was evidently not in favor with her relatives at meal time, Rebecca suddenly burst out with: "It reminds me of the ads in the subway. I used to sit and look at the ham and eggs and waffles and things until I'd get so hungry I didn't know what to do. I know it isn't high art to paint fried eggs so you can almost smell them, but it is very clever of the artist. Don't you think so, Uncle Spot?"
The young man looked up in astonishment, but not at her. What business did this little person have calling him Uncle Spot? She did not wait for a reply.
"Now, I don't think much of the way they do the waffles. They seem so stiff and uncompromising, with no feeling in them. I am sure they would never melt the butter as Aunt Testy's do, but maybe the poor artist did not have a good model. Perhaps he never had an Aunt Testy in his life."
"I want the phaeton and Dolly this morning, Spottswood," Miss Evelyn said, paying not the least attention to Rebecca's gay little attempt at conversation. "I have an appointment with Miss Wood to try on my blue taffeta."
"I will go with you," said Miss Myra. "I am anxious to match some wool over at the Court House."
"I thought a court house was a place where they tried criminals and kept deeds and things," broke in Rebecca. Nobody explained to her that in Virginia the county seat was always called the Court House.
Breakfast being over, the family arose and left the table without saying a word to the forlorn little girl.
"Gee! But they are dumb!" said Rebecca to herself. "I wonder if they are silent because they have nothing to say or just because they don't want to talk before me. I'll burst if I don't let out some of the talk that is in me. Not one member of the family addressed a remark to me except Aunt Myra, and all she said was 'Hush!' and 'Don't be sacrilegious.' I hope it'll be different when Grandfather is at home."
"Aunt Testy," she asked, as the fat cook waddled in to superintend Mandy in the clearing of the breakfast table, "where does Aunt Pearly Gates live? I thought I'd go see her this morning and make her acquaintance."
'You-all's right, honey chil', but fer the land's sake don't go clost ter that there ram down in the meadow. It ain't no trus'worthy animule."
Rebecca smiled. She had often heard of the superstition of the darkeys, but this was too ridiculous, for Aunt Testy to be afraid of an innocent piece of machinery that faithfully pumped water day and night for use at Mill House.
"All right," she answered gaily, "I'll take a stick after it if it offers me any insult."
"Ain't it the truf? Well, honey baby, you jes' keep right on down the lane yonder an' when you git pretty nigh the river you'll see a kinder gap in the wire fence wif tater sacks wropped 'round two wires so folks kin scratch through 'thout leaving a piece er meat on none er the barbs. They's a clay path there goin' through the meadow that will take you spang onto Aunt Pearly Gates' cabin. The path goes right on through Rocky Ford and right smart chancet er water air in the stream, but I 'low your legs are long an' light enough fer you to step acrost from rock ter rock. You'd bes' put on yo' hat, case the sun am tolable hot."