Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (24 page)

 
          
           
Ruth sat silent, looking about her as if she saw a new heaven and earth, and
had no words in which to tell the feeling that made her eyes so soft, sent the
fresh color back into her cheeks, and touched her lips with something sweeter
than a smile.

 
          
           
Captain John rowed very slowly, watching her with a new expression in his face;
and when she drew a long breath, a happy sort of sigh, he leaned forward to
ask, as if he knew what brought it,—

 
          
           
"You are glad to be alive, Ruth?"

 
          
           
"Oh, so glad!
I didn't want to die; life's very
pleasant now," she answered, with her frank eyes meeting his so
gratefully.

 
          
           
"Even though it's hard?"

 
          
           
"It's easier lately; you and dear Miss Mary have helped so much, I see my
way clear, and mean to go right on, real brave and cheerful, sure I'll get my
wish at last."

 
          
           
"So do I!" and Captain John laughed a queer, happy laugh, as he bent
to his oars again, with the look of a man who knew where he was going and
longed to get there as soon as possible.

 
          
           
"I hope you will. I wish I could help anyway to pay for all you've done
for me. I know you don't want to be thanked for fishing me up, but I mean to do
it all the same, if I can, some time;" and Ruth's voice was full of tender
energy as she looked down into the deep green water where her life would have
ended but for him.

 
          
           
"What did you think of when you went down so quietly? Those women said you
never called for help once."

 
          
           
"I had no breath to call. I knew you were near, I hoped you'd come, and I
thought of poor Grandpa and Sammy as I gave up and seemed to go to sleep."

 
          
           
A very simple answer, but it made Captain John beam with delight; and the
morning red seemed to glow all over his brown face as he rowed across the quiet
bay, looking at Ruth sitting opposite, so changed by the soft becoming colors
of her dress, the late danger, and the dreams that still lingered in her mind,
making it hard to feel that she was the same girl who went that way only a day
ago.

 
          
           
Presently the Captain spoke again in a tone that was both eager and anxious,—

 
          
           
"I'm glad my idle summer hasn't been quite wasted. It's over now, and I'm
off in a few days for a year's cruise, you know."

 
          
           
"Yes, Miss Mary told me you were going soon. I'll miss you both, but maybe
you'll come next year?"

 
          
           
"I will, please God!"

 
          
           
"So will
I
; for even if I get away this fall, I'd
love to come again in summer and rest a little while, no matter what I find to
do."

 
          
           
"Come and stay with Aunt Mary if this home is gone. I shall want
 
 Sammy next time. I've settled that
with the Skipper, you know, and
 
 I'll take good care of the little
chap. He's not much younger than I
 
 was when I shipped for my first
voyage. You'll let him go?"
 
 

 
          
           
"Anywhere with you.
He's set his heart on being a
sailor, and Grandpa likes it. All our men are, and I'd be one if I were a boy.
I love the sea
so,
I couldn't be happy long away from
it."

 
          
           
"Even though it nearly drowned you?"

 
          
           
"Yes, I'd rather die that way than any other. But it was my fault; I
shouldn't have failed if I hadn't been so tired. I've often swum farther; but
I'd been three hours in the marsh getting those things for the girls, and it
was washing-day, and I'd been up nearly all night with Grandpa; so don't blame
the sea, please, Captain John."

 
          
           
"You should have called me; I was waiting for you, Ruth."

 
          
           
"I didn't know it. I'm used to doing things myself. It might have been too
late for Milly if I'd waited."

 
          
           
"Thank God, I wasn't too late for you."

 
          
           
The boat was at the shore now; and as he spoke Captain John held out his hands
to help Ruth down, for, encumbered with her long dress, and still weak from
past suffering, she could not spring to land as she used to do in her short
gown. For the first time the color deepened in her cheek as she looked into the
face before her and read the meaning of the eyes that found her beautiful and
dear, and the lips that thanked God for her salvation so fervently.

 
          
           
She did not speak, but let him lift her down, draw her hand through his arm,
and lead her up the rocky slope to the little pool that lay waiting for the
sun's first rays to wake from its sleep. He paused there, and with his hand on
hers said quietly,—

 
          
           
"Ruth, before I go I want to tell you something, and this is a good time
and place. While Aunt Mary watched the flowers, I've watched you, and found the
girl I've always wanted for my wife. Modest and brave, dutiful and true, that's
what I love; could you give me
all this,
dear, for the
little I can offer, and next year sail with Sammy and a very happy man if you
say yes?"

 
          
           
"I'm not half good and wise enough for that! Remember what I am,"
began Ruth, bending her head as if the thought were more than she could bear.

 
          
           
"I do remember, and I'm proud of it! Why, dear heart, I've worked my way
up from a common sailor, and am the better for it. Now I've got my ship, and I
want a mate to make a home for me aboard and ashore. Look up and tell me that I
didn't read those true eyes wrong."

 
          
           
Then Ruth lifted up her face, and the sunshine showed him all he asked to know,
as she answered with her heart in her voice and the "true eyes" fixed
on his,—

 
          
           
"I tried not to love you, knowing what a poor ignorant girl I am; but you
were so kind to me, how could I help it, John?"

 
          
           
That satisfied him, and he sealed his happy thanks on the innocent lips none
had kissed but the little brother, the old man, and the fresh winds of the sea.

 
          
           
One can imagine the welcome they met at the small brown house, and what went on
inside as Grandpa blessed the lovers, and Sammy so overflowed with joy at his
enchanting prospects, that he was obliged to vent his feelings in ecstatic jigs
upon the beach, to the great amazement of the gulls and sandpipers at breakfast
there.

 
          
           
No one at the Point, except a certain dear old lady, knew the pleasant secret,
though many curious or friendly visitors went to the
Island
that day to see the heroine and express their wonder, thanks, and admiration.
All agreed that partial drowning seemed to suit the girl, for a new Ruth had
risen like Venus from the sea. A softer beauty was in her fresh face now, a
gentler sort of pride possessed her, and a still more modest shrinking from
praise and publicity became her well. No one guessed the cause, and she was
soon forgotten; for the season was over, the summer guests departed, and the
Point was left to the few cottagers who loved to linger into golden September.

 
          
           
Miss Mary was one of these, and Captain John another; for he remained as long
as he dared, to make things comfortable for the old man, and to sit among the
rocks with Ruth when her day's work was done, listening while his
"Mermaid," as he called her, sang as she had never sung before, and
let him read the heart he had made his own, for the lily was wide open now, and
its gold all his.

 
          
           
With the first frosts Grandpa died, and was carried to his grave by his old
comrades, owing no man a cent, thanks to his dutiful granddaughter and the new
son she had given him. Then the little house was deserted, and all winter Ruth
was happy with Aunt Mary, while Sammy studied bravely, and lived on dreams of
the joys in store for him when the Captain came sailing home again.

 
          
           
Another summer brought the happy day when the little brown house was set in
order for a sailor's honeymoon, when the flag floated gayly over Miss Mary's
cottage, and Ruth in a white gown with her chosen flowers in her hair and
bosom, shipped with her dear Captain for the long cruise which had its storms
and calms, but never any shipwreck of the love that grew and blossomed with the
water-lilies by the sea.

MY BOYS.

 
          
           
Feeling that I have been unusually fortunate in my knowledge of a choice and
pleasing variety of this least appreciated portion of the human race, I have a
fancy to record some of my experiences, hoping that it may awaken an interest
in other minds, and cause other people to cultivate the delightful, but too
often neglected boys, who now run to waste, so to speak.

 
          
           
I have often wondered what they thought of the peculiar treatment they receive,
even at the hands of their nearest friends. While they are rosy, roly-poly
little fellows they are petted and praised, adorned and adored, till it is a
miracle that they are not utterly ruined. But the moment they outgrow their
babyhood their trials begin, and they are regarded as nuisances till they are
twenty-one, when they are again received into favor.

 
          
           
Yet that very time of neglect is the period when they most need all manner of
helps, and ought to have them. I like boys and oysters raw; so, though good
manners are always pleasing, I don't mind the rough outside burr which repels
most people, and perhaps that is the reason why the burrs open and let me see
the soft lining and taste the sweet nut hidden inside.

 
          
           
My first well-beloved boy was a certain Frank, to whom I clung at the age of
seven with a devotion which I fear he did not appreciate. There were six girls
in the house, but I would have nothing to say to them, preferring to tag after
Frank, and perfectly happy when he allowed me to play with him. I regret to say
that the small youth was something of a tyrant, and one of his favorite amusements
was trying to make me cry by slapping my hands with books, hoop-sticks, shoes,
anything that came along capable of giving a good stinging blow. I believe I
endured these marks of friendship with the fortitude of a young Indian, and
felt fully repaid for a blistered palm by hearing Frank tell the other boys,
'She's a brave little thing, and you can't make her cry.'

 
          
           
My chief joy was in romping with him in the long galleries of a piano
manufactory behind our house. What bliss it was to mount one of the cars on
which the workmen rolled heavy loads from room to room, and to go thundering
down the inclined plains, regardless of the crash that usually awaited us at
the bottom! If I could have played foot-ball on the Common with my Frank and Billy
Babcock, life could have offered me no greater joy at that period. As the
prejudices of society forbid this sport, I revenged myself by driving hoop all
around the mall without stopping, which the boys could
not
do.

 
          
           
I can remember certain happy evenings, when we snuggled in sofa corners and
planned tricks and ate stolen goodies, and sometimes Frank would put his curly
head in my lap and let me stroke it when he was tired. What the girls did I
don't recollect; their domestic plays were not to my taste, and the only figure
that stands out from the dimness of the past is that jolly boy with a twinkling
eye. This memory would be quite radiant but for one sad thing—a deed that cut
me to the soul then, and which I have never quite forgiven in all these years.

 
          
           
On one occasion I did something very naughty, and when called up for judgment
fled to the dining-room, locked the door, and from my stronghold defied the
whole world. I could have made my own terms, for it was near dinner time and
the family must eat; but, alas for the treachery of the human heart! Frank
betrayed me. He climbed in at the window, unlocked the door, and delivered me
up to the foe. Nay, he even defended the base act, and helped bear the
struggling culprit to imprisonment. That nearly broke my heart, for I believed
he
would stand by me as staunchly as I
always stood by him. It was a sad blow, and I couldn't love or trust him any
more. Peanuts and candy, ginger-snaps and car-rides were unavailing; even
foot-ball could not reunite the broken friendship, and to this day I recollect
the pang that entered my little heart when I lost my faith in the loyalty of my
first boy.

 
          
           
The second attachment was of quite a different sort, and had a happier ending.
At the mature age of ten, I left home for my first visit to a family of gay and
kindly people in—well why not say right out?—Providence. There were no
children, and at first I did not mind this, as every one petted me, especially
one of the young men named Christopher. So kind and patient, yet so merry was
this good Christy that I took him for my private and particular boy, and loved
him dearly; for he got me out of innumerable scrapes, and never was tired of
amusing the restless little girl who kept the family in a fever of anxiety by
her pranks.
He
never laughed at her
mishaps and mistakes, never played tricks upon her like a certain William, who
composed the most trying nicknames, and wickedly goaded the wild visitor into
all manner of naughtiness. Christy stood up for her through everything; let her
ride the cows, feed the pigs, bang on the piano, and race all over the spice
mill, feasting on cinnamon and cloves; brought her down from housetops and
fished her out of brooks; never scolded, and never seemed tired of the
troublesome friendship of little Torment.

 
          
           
In a week I had exhausted every amusement and was desperately homesick. It has
always been my opinion that I should have been speedily restored to the bosom
of my family but for Christy, and but for him I should assuredly have run away
before the second week was out. He kept me, and in the hour of my disgrace
stood by me like a man and a brother.

 
          
           
One afternoon, inspired by a spirit of benevolence, enthusiastic but
short-sighted, I collected several poor children in the barn, and regaled them
on cake and figs, helping myself freely to the treasures of the pantry without
asking leave, meaning to explain afterward. Being discovered before the
supplies were entirely exhausted, the patience of the long-suffering matron
gave out, and I was ordered up to the garret to reflect upon my sins, and the
pleasing prospect of being sent home with the character of the worst child ever
known.

 
          
           
My sufferings were deep as I sat upon a fuzzy little trunk all alone in the
dull garret, thinking how hard it was to do right, and wondering why I was
scolded for feeding the poor when we were expressly bidden to do so. I felt
myself an outcast, and bewailed the disgrace I had brought upon my family.
Nobody could possibly love such a bad child; and if the mice were to come and
eat me then and there—à la Bishop Hatto—it would only be a relief to my
friends. At this dark moment I heard Christy say below, 'She meant it kindly,
so I wouldn't mind, Fanny;' and then up came my boy full of sympathy and
comfort. Seeing the tragic expression of my face, he said not a word, but,
sitting down in an old chair, took me on his knee and held me close and
quietly, letting the action speak for itself. It did most eloquently; for the
kind arm seemed to take me back from that dreadful exile, and the friendly face
to assure me without words that I had not sinned beyond forgiveness.

 
          
           
I had not shed a tear before, but now I cried tempestuously, and clung to him
like a shipwrecked little mariner in a storm. Neither spoke, but he held me
fast and let me cry myself to sleep; for, when the shower was over, a pensive
peace fell upon me, and the dim old garret seemed not a prison, but a haven of
refuge, since my boy came to share it with me. How long I slept I don't know,
but it must have been an hour, at least; yet my good Christy never stirred,
only waited patiently till I woke up in the twilight, and was not afraid
because he was there. He took me down as meek as a mouse, and kept me by him
all that trying evening, screening me from jokes, rebukes, and sober looks; and
when I went to bed he came up to kiss me, and to assure me that this awful
circumstance should not be reported at home. This took a load off my heart, and
I remember fervently thanking him, and telling him I never would forget it.

 
          
           
I never have, though he died long ago, and others have probably forgotten all
about the naughty prank. I often longed to ask him how he knew the surest way
to win a child's heart by the patience, sympathy, and tender little acts that
have kept his memory green for nearly thirty years.

 
          
           
Cy
was a comrade after my own heart, and for a summer
or two we kept the neighbourhood in a ferment by our adventures and
hair-breadth escapes. I think I never knew a boy so full of mischief, and my
opportunities of judging have been manifold. He did not get into scrapes
himself, but possessed a splendid talent for deluding others into them, and
then morally remarking, 'There, I told you so!' His way of saying '
You
dars'nt do this or that' was like fire to powder; and
why I still live in the possession of all my limbs and senses is a miracle to
those who know my youthful friendship with Cy. It was he who incited me to jump
off of the highest beam in the barn, to be borne home on a board with a pair of
sprained ankles. It was he who dared me to rub my eyes with red peppers, and
then sympathisingly led me home blind and roaring with pain. It was he who
solemnly assured me that all the little pigs would die in agony if their tails
were not cut off, and won me to hold thirteen little squealers while the
operation was performed. Those thirteen innocent pink tails haunt me yet, and
the memory of that deed has given me a truly Jewish aversion to pork.

 
          
           
I did not know him long, but he was a kindred soul, and must have a place in my
list of boys. He is a big, brown man now, and, having done his part in the war,
is at work on his farm. We meet sometimes, and though we try to be dignified
and proper, it is quite impossible; there is a sly twinkle in
Cy's
eye that upsets my gravity, and we always burst out
laughing at the memory of our early frolics.

 
          
           
My Augustus!
oh
, my Augustus!
my
first little lover, and the most romantic of my boys. At fifteen I met this
charming youth, and thought I had found my fate. It was at a spelling school in
a little country town where I, as a stranger and visitor from the city, was an
object of interest. Painfully conscious of this fact, I sat in a corner trying
to look easy and elegant, with a large red bow under my chin, and a carnelian
ring in full view. Among the boys and girls who frolicked about me, I saw one
lad of seventeen with 'large blue eyes, a noble brow, and a beautiful straight
nose,' as I described him in a letter to my sister. This attractive youth had a
certain air of refinement and ease of manner that the others lacked; and when I
found he was the minister's son, I felt that I might admire him without loss of
dignity. 'Imagine my sensations,' as Miss Burney's Evelina
says,
when this boy came and talked to me, a little bashfully at first, but soon
quite freely, and invited me to a huckleberry party next day. I had observed
that he was one of the best spellers. I also observed that his language was
quite elegant; he even quoted Byron, and rolled his eyes in a most engaging
manner, not to mention that he asked who gave me my ring, and said he depended
on escorting me to the berry pasture.

 
          
           
'Dear me, how interesting it was! and when I found myself, next day, sitting
under a tree in the sunny field (full of boys and girls, all more or less
lovering), with the amiable Augustus at my feet, gallantly supplying me with
bushes to strip while we talked about books and poetry, I really felt as if I
had got into a novel, and enjoyed it immensely. I believe a dim idea that Gus
was sentimental hovered in my mind, but I would not encourage it, though I
laughed in my sleeve when he was spouting Latin for my benefit, and was uncertain
whether to box his ears or simper later in the day, when he languished over the
gate, and said he thought chestnut hair the loveliest in the world.

 
          
           
Poor, dear boy! how innocent and soft-hearted and full of splendid dreams he
was, and what deliciously romantic times we had floating on the pond, while the
frogs sung to his accordion, as he tried to say unutterable things with his
honest blue eyes. It makes me shiver now to think of the mosquitoes and the
damp; but it was Pauline and Claude Melnotte then, and when I went home we
promised to be true to one another, and write every week during the year he was
away at school.

 
          
           
We parted—not in tears by any means; that sort of nonsense comes later, when
the romance is less childish—but quite jolly and comfortable, and I hastened to
pour forth the thrilling tale to my faithful sister, who approved of the match,
being a perfect 'mush of sentiment' herself.

 
          
           
I fear it was not a very ardent flame, however, for Gus did not write every
week, and I did not care a bit; nevertheless, I kept his picture and gave it a
sentimental sigh when I happened to think of it, while he sent messages now and
then, and devoted himself to his studies like an ambitious boy as he was. I
hardly expected to see him again, but soon after the year was out, to my great
surprise, he called. I was so fluttered by the appearance of his card that I
rather lost my head, and did such a silly thing that it makes me laugh even
now. He liked chestnut hair, and, pulling out my combs, I rushed down,
theatrically dishevelled, hoping to impress my lover with my ardour and my
charms.