CHAPTER XXIIQUIET DAYS
You may have seen a little leaf that has fallen into a stream and been whirled along by the unresting current, torn and bruised and helpless, then suddenly drift into a still and quiet pool and lie tranquil, unvexed, while the stream, unable longer to clutch it, goes hurrying by. So to Rose, after her troubled, changeful childhood, Farmdale was the quiet pool, where she was to find a quiet, uneventful period.
Not that Rose ever thought of it as uneventful. To her school life she brought an enthusiasm that never flagged; the school tests, the class competitions, the school entertainments, the school games, and even the school differences, she entered into them all heart and soul. She studied hard, she took eager advantage of every opportunity, and was none the less ready for every enjoyment with the keen zest of her intense nature.Then outside the school was the village with all its people and all their happenings, a little world of itself. “Some of the girls call Farmdale dull and poky,†she repeated wonderingly to Miss Silence. “I’m sure it isn’t dull to me—I don’t see how they can think it is.â€
The Blossom household quickly became home, and home folks to Rose. But when Mrs. Blossom promised for her the same care she would have given her own little Rachel, she included also, what she would have expected of little Rachel had she lived, as she had of her other daughters, the yielding of a ready, cheerful obedience. Mrs. Blossom’s law was one Rose had known little of, the law of love, but none the less was it law. Never in their girlhood, and hardly in their maturer years, had Silence or Patience Blossom dreamed of acting in opposition to their mother’s will—that reasonable, mild, but inflexible will. And though Rose had not hesitated to face Mrs. Hagood’s fury, yet when those clear, steadfast eyes looked into hers, and that kindly but firm voice said, with its accent of decision, “Rose, you cannot!†sheinstinctively realized that here was a force, the force of moral strength, that impetuous willfulness would beat powerless against. Nor was her affection for Mrs. Blossom any the less sincere because of the obedient respect on which it was founded.
Great-Uncle Samuel had been rightly informed that the Farmdale high school was a good one, and the lessons Rose learned within its walls were to her of value; but no less so was the unconscious teaching of the pure and unselfish lives that were open before her every day. Over an ardent young life, full of dreams and plans and ambitions, all centered in self, a happier influence could not well have fallen than that of these gentle, kindly women, whose spirit of helpfulness and sympathy was always as ready and unfailing as the flow of the fountain itself.
Was any one in distress, in perplexity, in trouble; there was no counselor so wise, discreet, trustworthy, as Mrs. Blossom, who held half the village secrets, and had served as a peacemaker times without number. Was there a bride to be dressed; no one could do it so well as Miss Silence or Mrs. Patience.Was any one sick; no nurses were as tender and skillful and tireless as they. Did the shadow of death rest over a home; no voices could speak words of sweeter comfort to the dying, no other’s presence was so unobtrusive, so helpful in the house of bereavement. Indeed, few were the families in that little community to whom they were not bound by the cords of a common sympathy in some hour of joy or grief. And Rose was not the only one who often wondered how with all the calls upon them they still managed to accomplish so much, and with a manner so unhurried.
“I don’t see how you ever do it,†Rose exclaimed one day.
“It’s the busy people who find not only the most time but the most happiness,†was Silence Blossom’s cheery answer.
And realizing, as she well did, how much more of real happiness there was in the modest Blossom home than in the big Fifield house, where no one ever thought of going to ask a service, and every life was wholly self-centered, Rose could not but admit that this was true.
“I don’t see what happiness you could findin sitting up all night with Aunt Polly Brown,†she protested. “I’m sure I never want to go where there’s sick people. I hope I’ll never be asked to.â€
Already in that home where thoughtfulness for others was part of the daily life, and interest in any who were suffering a matter of course, it had come about naturally that Rose should be sent with a handful of flowers, or some dainty for a sick neighbor, or was asked to call at the door with a message of inquiry. So the next day she took it as a matter of course when Miss Silence asked her to take a bowl of chicken broth to Aunt Polly Brown.
“Take it right in to Aunt Polly,†said the young woman who opened the door. “She’s in the bedroom right off the sitting-room.â€
Rose hesitated. She would have refused if she had known exactly how to do so. As it was, the bowl trembled a little as she walked through into the bedroom, where on a high four-post bedstead, under a “blazing star†quilt, Aunt Polly lay, a ruffled night cap surrounding her shrunken face.
“Well, now,†as Rose told her errand, “it was reel kind of Silence Blossom to send thebroth. I was just thinkin’ that a taste o’ chicken broth would relish. Sit down, won’t ye,†with a wistful accent, “and tell me what’s goin’ on? Mary Jane never knows nothin’. Mebby I ain’t goin’ to get well, but ’tany rate I like to know what folks is doin’.â€
“I was standing on one foot wondering how quick I could get out,†Rose said, relating it all to Miss Silence, on her return. “But when she spoke that way I just thought that if I were old and sick I’d be glad to have somebody come in; and I sat down and racked my brain to tell everything I could think of. She seemed real cheered up when I came away, and I promised her I’d come again.â€
“I thought you never wanted to go where there were sick people,†and Silence Blossom’s eyes twinkled.
“Well, it wasn’t so bad as I thought it was going to be, though her hands are kind of skinny. And I don’t think I feel quite as I did about sick folks now. Besides, it must be dreadful to lie in bed day after day, and if I can make a little of the time pass, why I’m glad to.â€
“There is where the gladness comes in,â€said Mrs. Patience. “It is making the hours of suffering a little brighter, a little easier. And now you have learned this I think you will never forget it.â€
“And I also remember that I promised to come down to Helen Green’s to get out my Latin with her,†and gathering an armful of books Rose hurried away.
“I am glad that Rose went in to see Aunt Polly; she is such a bit of sunshine that she could not help but do her good. Besides, she has always had such a morbid dread of a sick room,†Silence remarked as she watched her away.
“I am glad, too,†agreed Mrs. Blossom, “for Rose can gain as well as give. Of course I would not want her to go where there was any danger, but her exuberant young nature will be made the deeper and richer for being stirred and lifted out of itself.â€
So among the threads of interest running from the Blossom home Rose knit her threads. The people of Farmdale became her friends, and because they were her friends she loved them, and so it was not strange that she won love in return. With the Fifields her relationsthrough the years continued of the friendliest. On her part the painfulness of being falsely accused had faded away; and on their part the fact that it had been an unjust charge had not only made them one and all feel that they owed her something in return, but had awakened an interest in her that otherwise they might never have felt. Miss Eudora regarded her in the light of a romance; Miss Jane Fifield commended the fact that she was neither vain, nor, as she was pleased to put it, “sillyâ€; while Mr. Nathan, in his pride at Rose’s persistence, and the quality he called her “grit,†went so far as to freshen up the languages of his college days, that he might the more help her.
At their time of life it was not to be expected that the Fifield nature would greatly change; still their friendship for Rose, inexperienced young girl though she was, brought a new and wholesome atmosphere into the old house. Her flitting in and out, bright, breezy, vivacious, was a welcome break in their old formality. A part of Rose’s nature was her overflowing enthusiasm on the subject then in mind; her studies, her schoolpleasures, whatever part was hers in the life of the village, was all shared with her friends. So when she came in beaming with excitement over the prettiness of the newest Banby baby, Miss Fifield and Miss Eudora became conscious that Mrs. Banby was a neighbor. Or if it were anxiety how little Mrs. Mather, whose husband had just died and left her with five children, was ever going to get through the winter; or rejoicing that Fanny Barber, who had been so low with inflammatory rheumatism was really improving, almost before they were aware, they would find themselves becoming interested, an interest that could easily take the form of a bundle of warm clothing for the widow, or a glass of Miss Fifield’s famous quince jelly for the invalid. And so by the slight touches of Rose’s hands they found themselves drawn gradually from their cold isolation, and nearer to those about them.