Jane Field Part 18

Lois took off her hat.

"That's better," said Francis, approvingly. "You're going to live right along here in Elliot with your aunt, aren't you?"

Lois looked up at him suddenly. She was very pale, and her eyes were full of terror.

"Why, what is the matter? What have I said?" he cried out, in bewilderment.

Lois bent over and hid her face; her back heaved with sobs.

Francis stared at her. "Why, what is the matter?" he cried again.

"Have I done anything?" He hesitated. Then he put his hand on her little moist curly head. Lois' hair was not thick, but it curled softly. "Why, you poor little girl," said he; "don't cry so;" and his voice was full of embarra.s.sed tenderness.

Lois sobbed harder.

"Now, see here," said Francis. "I haven't known you more than an hour, and I don't know what the matter is, and I don't know but you'll think I'm officious, but I'll do anything in the world to help you, if you'll only tell me."

Lois shook off his hand and sat up. "It isn't anything," said she, catching her breath, and setting her tear-stained face defiantly ahead.

"Don't you feel well?"

Lois nodded vaguely, keeping her quivering mouth firmly set. They were both silent for a moment, then Lois spoke without looking at him.

"Do you know if there's any school here that I could get?" said she.

"A school?"

"Yes. I want to get a chance to teach. I've been teaching, but I've lost my school."

"And you want to get one here?"

"Yes. Do you know of any?"

"Why, see here," said Francis. "It's none of my business, but I thought you hadn't been very well. Why don't you take a little vacation?"

"I can't," returned Lois, in a desperate tone. "I've got to do something."

"Why, won't your aunt--" He stopped short. The conviction that the stern old woman who had inherited the Maxwell property was too hard and close to support her little delicate orphan niece seized upon him. Lois' next words strengthened it.

"I lost my school," she went on, still keeping her face turned toward the meadow and speaking fast. "Ida Starr got it away from me. Her father is school-committee-man, and he said he didn't think I was able to teach, just because he brought me home in his buggy one day when I was a little faint. I had a note from him that morning mother--that morning she came down here. I was just going to school, and I was a good deal better, when Mr. Starr's boy brought it. He said he thought it was better for me to take a little vacation. I knew what that meant. I knew Ida had wanted the school right along. I told Amanda I was coming down here. She tried to stop me, but I had money enough. Mr. Starr sent me what was owing to me, and I came. I thought I might just as well. I thought mother--Amanda was dreadfully scared, but I told her I was going to come. I can't go back to Green River; I haven't got money enough." Lois's voice broke; she hid her face again.

"Oh, don't feel so," cried Francis. "You don't want to go back to Green River."

"Yes, I do. I want to get back. It's awful here, awful. I never knew anything so awful."

Francis stared at her pityingly. "Why, you poor little girl, are you as homesick as that?" he said.

Lois only sobbed in answer.

"Look here!" said Francis--he leaned over her, and his voice sank to a whisper--"it's none of my business, but I think you'd better tell me; it won't go any further--isn't your aunt good to you? Doesn't she treat you well?"

Lois shook her head vaguely. "I can't go back anyway," she moaned.

"Ida's got my school. I haven't got anything to do there. Don't you think I can get a school here?"

"I am afraid you can't," said Francis. "You see, the schools have all begun now. But you mustn't feel so bad. Don't." He touched her shoulder gently. "Poor little girl!" said he. "Perhaps I ought not to speak so to you, but you make me so sorry for you I can't help it.

Now you must cheer up; you'll get along all right. You won't be homesick a bit after a little while; you'll like it here. There are some nice girls about your age. My cousin Flora will come and see you. She's older than you, but she's a real nice girl. She's feeling rather upset over something now, too. Now come, let's get up and go and see some more of the monuments. You don't want a school. Your aunt can lookout for you. I should laugh if she couldn't. She's a rich woman, and you're all she's got in the world. Now come, let's cheer up, and go look at some more gravestones."

"I guess I'd rather go home," said Lois, faintly.

"Too tired? Well, let's sit here a little while longer, then. You mustn't go home with your eyes red, your aunt will think I've been scolding you."

Francis looked down at her with smiling gentleness. He was a handsome young man with a pale straight profile, his face was very steady and grave when he was not animated, and his smile occasioned a certain pleasant surprise. He was tall, and there was a boyish clumsiness about his shoulders in his gray coat. He reached out with a sudden impulse, and took Lois' little thin hand in his own with a warm clasp.

"Now cheer up," said he. "See how pleasant it looks down in the field."

They sat looking out over the field; the horizon sky stretched out infinitely in straight blue lines; one could imagine he saw it melt into the sea which lay beyond; the field itself, with its smooth level of young gra.s.s, was like a waveless green sea. A white road lay on the left, and a man was walking on it with a weary, halting gait; he carried a tin dinner-pail, which dipped and caught the western sunlight at every step. A cow lowed, and a pair of white horns tossed over some bars at the right of the field; a boy crossed it with long, loping strides and preliminary swishes of a birch stick. Then a whistle blew with a hoa.r.s.e musical note, and a bell struck six times.

Lois freed her hand and got up. "I guess I must go," said she. Her cheeks were blus.h.i.+ng softly as she put on her hat.

"Well, I should like to sit here an hour longer, but maybe your aunt will think it's growing damp for you to be out-of-doors," said Francis, standing up.

As they went between the graves, he caught her hand again, and led her softly along. When they reached the gate, he dropped it with a kindly pressure.

"Now remember, you are going to cheer up," he said, "and you're going to have real nice times here in Elliot." When they reached the Maxwell house, his aunt was coming down the walk.

"Oh, there you are!" she called out. "I was jest goin' home. Well, what did you think of the Mason monument, Lois?"

"It's real handsome."

"Ain't it handsome? An' wa'n't the flowers on Mis' Perry's grave elegant? Good-night. I'm goin' to have you an' your aunt come over an' take tea to-morrow, an' then you can get acquainted with Flora."

"Good-night," said Francis, smiling, and the aunt and nephew went on down the road. She carried something bulky under her shawl, and she walked with a curious side-wise motion, keeping the side next her nephew well forward.

"Don't you want me to carry your bundle, Aunt Jane?" Lois heard him say as they walked off.

"No," the old woman replied, hastily and peremptorily. "It ain't anything."

When Lois went into the house, her mother gave her a curious look of stern defiance and anxiety. She saw that her eyes were red, as if she had been crying, but she said nothing, and went about getting tea.

After tea the minister and his wife called. Green River was a conservative little New England village; it had always been the custom there when the minister called to invite him to offer a prayer. Mrs. Field felt it inc.u.mbent upon her now; if she had any reluctance, she did not yield to it. Just before the callers left she said, with the conventional solemn drop of the voice, "Mr. Wheeler, won't you offer a prayer before you go?"

The minister was an elderly man with a dull benignity of manner; he had not said much; his wife, who was portly and full of gracious volubility, had done most of the talking. Now she immediately sank down upon her knees with a wide flare of her skirts, and her husband then twisted himself out of his chair, clearing his throat impressively. Mrs. Field stood up, and got down on her stiff knees with an effort. Lois slid down from the sofa and went out of the room. She stole through her mother's into her own bedroom, and locked herself in as usual, then she lay down on her bed. She could hear the low rumble of the minister's voice for some time; then it ceased. She heard the chairs pushed back; then the minister's wife's voice in the gracious crescendo of parting; then the closing of the front door.

Shortly afterward she heard a door open, and another voice, which she recognized as Mrs. Maxwell's. The voice talked on and on; once in a while she heard her mother's in brief reply. It grew dark; presently she heard heavy shuffling steps on the stairs; something knocked violently against the wall; the side door, which was near her room, was opened. Lois got up and peered out of the window; her mother and Mrs. Maxwell went slowly and painfully down the driveway, carrying a bureau between them.

Chapter VI