THE CHRISTMAS BRIDE (9 page)

“Oh, Father, don’t! Please! You know Sam said he’d be sure to be here, even if he was late. It’s terribly raw tonight, and you’ll just get all that pain back in your leg again.”

“No Mother, I won’t. I think it will do me good,” declared Father. “Besides, I’m not going outdoors. I’ll just go through the woodshed into the barn and open the door for Sukey from the inside. Now, Mother, you mustn’t interfere. I’ve been docile as long as I thought it was necessary. But now I really feel I must get back to work again. It doesn’t do to baby oneself too much. I’m not an invalid yet, you know.”

“No, but you’re trying hard to be. I wish you would wait. Perhaps Sam is coming up the hill now.”

Mother got up and trotted anxiously to the window.

“Father, it’s snowing! It really is!” she said in alarm.

“Well, that’s all the more reason Sukey should get in out of it, and the snow isn’t going to reach me inside the barn. For pity’s sake, be reasonable, Rebecca!”

Father went to the closet and took down his old coat and cap from the peg. He wound a woolen scarf twice around his neck with elaborate care to show Mother how well protected he was.

“Put your galoshes on, Father! Yes, you know the ground is damp, and it will strike in all the more because you’ve been sitting by the fire all these days and are tender. You don’t want that pain back in your leg, you know, after all the liniment I’ve rubbed into it.”

“All right, I’ll put them on,” consented the old man, “but I’m not going out on the ground.”

“The barn floor is like ice, John. You know it is.”

“All right, Mother. I’ve got them on. Better get that hot mash ready for the hens, and I can feed them after I bring the milk in. You’re not fit to go out yourself tonight, Mother. I heard you sneezing in the bedroom just now. I’m afraid this business of having a fire only in the kitchen isn’t going to be very economical after all.”

“Now, Father, you hush. I was just sneezing because I spilled some pepper when I was tidying up the cupboard shelf. Hurry up and get done, if you will go out, for it’s getting dark and growing colder every minute. I’m glad we’ve got plenty of wood in the woodshed. And look around for Emily. She ought to be coming in pretty soon. She’s probably out in the barn hunting mice. She didn’t have a very big dinner today—no meat in the house.”

Grandmother hurried around and set the table for two, trying to make it look cheery for when Grandfather came in. She put the kettle on, cut two slices of bread for toast, and got out the teapot. On second thought, she got out two eggs from the bowl in the pantry. Father needed to be nourished. He was sort of run down. She cut two pieces of gingerbread and fixed two china dishes of applesauce. Then she went and stood at the window looking down the hill toward the road to watch for Sam Fletcher. How late he was! Perhaps the mail was late and he had waited for it. Oh, she hoped he had! There ought to be a letter tonight. It was almost a week since Margaret had written. She was always so faithful. Could the child be sick?

Emily was meowing at the door now. She was licking her lips as if she had had a feast of some kind. She came in as soon as the door was open and went over and sat down near the stove, licking her white mitts carefully, scrupulously. There was no light in the room except what came through the front grate of the old cookstove, and the dusk was coming down fast now, but the brightness from the stove made a rosy spot on Emily’s white vest and the white star in her forehead. Emily had been out foraging, browsing around the barn for the last two hours. She had found her prey and was well filled. Presently she curled down with her two clean paws tucked neatly under her chin and began to purr contentedly, turning an occasional furtive eye toward her uneasy mistress at the window.

There was no sign of Sam Fletcher yet, so the old lady turned away and got out the pan for the mash, pouring hot water on the bran and mixing it with bits of food she had saved up and a few grains of corn for a relish. Then she put an old woolen shawl over her head, crossed it on her breast, tied it behind at her waist, and went out through the back kitchen to the woodshed, and so to the door of the chicken house, taking the warm mash with her.

She passed the stall where the old horse used to be hitched, with her eyes down. The old horse had been sold two months ago, but the old lady still felt a pang when she passed his stall. It had hurt to sell Old Gray. And the cow would likely have to go next! Father couldn’t keep on milking all winter, and Sam Fletcher might not be able to come up every night when winter set in. But how they were going to get along without the milk was a puzzle. Of course there was canned milk, but they had never had to use it. Well, they would have to get used to it.

She sighed deeply as she opened the rickety little gate that separated the hens’ end of the barn from the rest. It was hard to see things going slowly downhill little by little and Father’s strength failing. Father, who had always s been such a tower of strength, such a rock of defense.

The hens clucked around her feet as she came within their separating palings and held out her pan, dropping little portions at their feet. The greedy red rooster came sputtering to get more than his share, and there was a great flutter of feathers and clucking and contending. She put the pan down at last and let them peck it clean. They played a little tune with their hard bills against the metal pan, a pleasant little domestic sound that almost seemed like old times when the yard was full of fowls and there was plenty of corn with which to feed them.

The old lady closed the gate carefully behind her and went over to where the cow stood beside him till he finished and rose with his brimming pail.

“You’re tired, Father. Let me carry it in.”

“No, I’m not tired. You run on in. You’ll get more cold. That thin shawl! It’s nothing to carry in a little milk. Run quick. I’ll feed Sukey now, and then we’ll have supper.”

The old lady hurried in and lit the lamp. It was quite dark in the house now save for the glow from the kitchen stove. Emily was rumbling away contentedly, sound asleep by the hearth.

The old lady made the tea then put the bread on a long fork, holding it to the blaze of the front grate. She put the eggs into the boiling water. It was a nice supper, but why didn’t Sam Fletcher come and bring a letter from Margaret?

The old man washed his hands; put away his galoshes, coat, and cap; and washed his hands carefully by the kitchen sink. The old lady slipped to the window again and cast a glance down the hill.

“Now don’t you worry about Sam Fletcher, Mother. Like as not he stayed in town to see his cousin awhile. And anyhow, it isn’t likely there was a letter so soon again.”

“Now, Father, you know we should have had one last night,” chided Mother, coming back to the stove and bringing the brown earthenware teapot to the table. The toast sent forth a cheerful fragrance, and Emily stirred in her sleep and untucked her white feet, crossing them over in the opposite way, dreaming doubtless of her pleasant mice and others she would catch tomorrow.

They sat down to the table and bowed their heads.

“Our Father, we thank Thee that Thou hast given us abundance for our needs, and we thank Thee for the things Thou didst not send, because we know there must have been some good reason for withholding. Make us truly thankful for all that we have, and bless and keep our dear child, Margaret.”

The amen was scarcely spoken before there came a knock at the door and a sound of feet being wiped on the old piece of burlap on the doorstep.

Sam Fletcher’s face was round and rosy, and he let in a cold draft of air as he responded to the bid to come in. Emily twitched her ears unpleasantly one at a time as the air blew upon her, and opened one eye uneasily.

“Brought you the evening paper. Sorry I didn’t find any letters. I reckon there’ll be one tamorra,” he said in his loud cheerful voice. “Gonta be a storm tonight, I guess. See ya milked the cow. Now that’s too bad. You shouldn’t ha done it—” Sam’s eye was on the pail of milk that stood on a table by the sink. “I tried to get here sooner, but I had ta wait ta get my harness mended. Had a bad break. I reckoned Sukey’d wait all right!”

The old man smiled with a twinkle in his eye.

“Well, you see, Sam, I stole a march on you. I’ve just been waiting my chance to get back on the job again, and this was a good excuse. I thought you wouldn’t mind for once, and I really think it did me good.”

“Yep!” said Sam looking at him with admiring eyes. “I’ll bet it did. You certainly are a game one, sick as you’ve been, milkin’ a cow at your age! Well, got plenty of wood? It’s gonta be a cold night. The wind’s turned.”

“Yes, plenty of wood, thanks to your kindness,” said the old man with a courtly bow of his white head and a kindly smile. “Won’t you sit down and enjoy our frugal meal with us?”

“No, I guess I better be gettin’ on. Hetty’ll be watchin’ for me, an’ she’ll be keepin’ supper hot. Well, if there’s nothing else I can do for ya, I’ll beat it. But don’tcha ferget, ef ya want anything in the night, just ya ring the big old dinner bell. I’ll hear it. I’m a light sleeper. Well, s’long. I’ll be goin’.” And Sam Fletcher slammed the door shut behind him with another gust of wind that stirred Emily’s whiskers and caused her to twitch her ears again.

Mother poured out the tea into two cups and made a little stir putting more toast before the coals with her back turned toward the table. Once she sniffed, just a tiny sniff, and the old man looked up suspiciously.

“Now, Mother, you have been catching more cold!” he charged.

The old lady turned quickly, brushing a tear away from her eye.

“No!” she said sharply, “it was just the draft from the door made me feel like sneezing!”

Her husband eyed her intently.

“Now, Mother, you’re not crying! You’re not feeling bad about Margaret not writing again, so soon after sending us that long letter?”

“No,” said the old lady quickly, turning her face away to watch the toast and blinking back the tears. “No, of course I’m not crying. But it does seem strange we didn’t get a letter. It’s almost a week, Father!”

“Well, that’s nothing, Rebecca. She’s probably got some extra work the way she did the last time she didn’t write for three days. Don’t you remember? She’ll write in a few days and tell us all about it.”

“A
few days
!” said the old lady’s dismayed voice. “Now, Father, you don’t think we won’t get any letter
tomorrow
!”

“Well, it might be possible, you know. We mustn’t despair when things happen like that. Our Father is watching over her down there in the city just as much as over us here.”

There was a silence while the two took small bites of toast, put salt on the soft-boiled eggs, and dipped the tips of the two thin old silver spoons in the tea. Then the old lady spoke again.

“Sometimes, Father, I think we shouldn’t have mortgaged the farm to send her to college.”

“Why, I don’t see that college did her any harm,” said the old man with persistent cheerfulness. “It was a Christian college, which is much to be thankful for in this age of the world, and she came home loving us just as much as when she went away. She didn’t get her head turned. She loved the old farm, too. If I mistake not, she’s going to feel it some when she knows we had to part with Old Gray.”

“She will, of course!” said the old lady. “Sometimes, Father, I wish we’d just kept her here. Why did she need college? She had schooling enough, and she was happy here, and so safe. Sometimes I think how she used to dance in and out and sing all day long. I look down to the lake sparkling through the trees on bright days and think I see her coming up the hill in her red sweater and cap, her skates over her shoulder. Don’t you remember how she used to flash over the silver of the ice just like a red bird? And how she would whistle and call to us as she was coming up the hill?”

“Yes, but, Mother, remember how worried you used to be when she went swimming in the lake, and how you’d turn away from the window and catch your breath when you saw her dive, and watch for the flash of the sun on her white arms and face? What a little fish she was, to be sure, and what antics she cut up in the water. And remember, too, Mother, how you worried when she first got her canoe. You thought she was going to drown every day. God took care of her then, and don’t you think He will care for her in the city?”

“Oh, but, Father, the city is so full of sin and wickedness! There are bad men in the city, and Margaret is beautiful, Father!”

“Yes, I know! But our heavenly Father knows that, too.”

“But He gave her to us to take care of, and we shouldn’t have let her go off alone that way.”

“There wasn’t anything else we could do, was there? I was sick, and we had no money, and Elias Horner was set on foreclosing the mortgage if we couldn’t pay the interest. If we had to give up the old farm, where would we go? Since the bank failed and took everything, what else could we do but let her go when she got a good chance to earn a salary? It really was a godsend, we thought, when Mr. Pearly wrote he could give her a job.”

“Yes, but Mr. Pearly died, and this other man—Father, I’m awfully worried about that man. He’s trying to be familiar with her. I know from what she said he must be. It isn’t like her to feel that way about any
good
man. You know she said she wouldn’t ask him any favors, and she was trying to find a better place.”

“Now look here, Mother. It isn’t like you to fret and worry. For years you’ve always trusted our Lord, and He’s always protected us all. Margaret is a good girl, and she is the Lord’s own. She will be protected.”

“Oh, I know,” said the old lady, wiping away her tears and trying to put on a cheerful expression, “I know, and I do trust. But sometimes I get to thinking, what if Elias Horner does do as he threatens, and forecloses the mortgage, what would become of us all? And Margaret? Suppose she got sick with no home to come to and no money to buy food?”

“Now, Mother! Mother!” cheered the old man. “Have you forgotten that verse, ‘I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread’?”