The Old Stone House by Constance Fenimore Woolson (sites to read books for free .txt) 📕

“If there is anything down-trodden here except the grass, I shall like to know it,” said Hugh. “For my part I feel quite sorry for the tender little blades under the ruthless tread of fourteen French heels.”

Here there was a general laugh, and all the pretty little boots peeping in and out, disappeared as if by magic, all save the sturdy Balmorals of Gem and her friend Annie Chase, darting hither and thither in search of sticks.

The ladies were very busy. They were going to make a fire, and such a fire! They were going to make coffee, and such coffee. The supper was to be altogether unparalleled in picnic annals, and it was to be prepared by feminine hands alone.

“See how glorious it burns!” exclaimed Rose, as the first flame shot up from the pile of sticks.

“See how gloriously it smokes!” said Hugh, as the fickle blaze vanished, and Rose inhaled a puff of the stinging smoke.

“I can make it burn!” said Bessie, coming to the rescue with fresh newspapers. A match,—another blaze,—another cry of exultation,—another failure, and a red burn on Bessie’s hand to mark it.

“Let me try,” said Edith Chase, kneeling gracefully beside the obstinate pile. More newspapers, more flames, more smoke, ending in another failure, and a grimy mark on Miss Chase’s delicate dress.

“Oh ye strong-minded!” said Hugh, jumping up, and lifting the pile of sticks; “don’t you know that you cannot start a fire in the sunshine? Down under this stump, now, it will burn like a furnace.” So saying, Hugh rearranged the fuel, while Rose coughed, Edith furtively rubbed her dress, and Bessie bound up her burned hand in her handkerchief. At this moment Sibyl came into view, carrying a pail of water. Mr. Leslie got up and took the pail out of her hand in spite of her objections. “It is too heavy for you,” he said decidedly; “don’t attempt anything of the kind again, I beg.”

“The kettle must be hung up,” said Lida Powers, coming forward with a tea-kettle in her hand. Will Mount and Walter Hart understood this duty, while Gideon Fish and Mr. Gay laid the cloth, the former eyeing the cake with pleasant anticipation.

“It seems to me, young ladies, that the gentlemen are doing the work after all,” said Aunt Faith.

“Of course, aunt,” said Hugh, blowing his fire with a scarlet face: “did I not predict we should have to work like slaves.”

“The meat! The meat! Turk has got the meat!” cried Gem from a neighboring rock, where she and Annie where making wreaths of wild flowers. There was a general exclamation of dismay as the curly back of the old depredator was seen through the trees making off with the booty. “How did Turk get here?” asked Aunt Faith; “Tom, I suspect you are the culprit!”

“Well, aunt, I just thought I’d let him come out with Jones and the cart; they might be of use, you know, in case of tramps or gipsies.”

“They! You do not mean to say all the dogs are here?”

But doubt was soon dispelled by the appearance of Pete Trone in person, attracted by the provisions spread out upon the ground. Too well-bred to snatch,—for, as Tom said, “Pete was a truly gentlemanly dog,”—Pete sat upon his hind legs with fore paws drooping on his breast, eying the company gravely as if to call attention to his polite demeanor. “He certainly is a funny little fellow,” said Rose Saxon, as Hugh gave the terrier a fragment of cake.

“He is the wisest dog I ever saw,” said Hugh.

“There is no end to his knowledge. I was fishing one day last summer down over the dam at Broad River, and caught a large cat-fish. My line was too slender to haul him up, and I was considering what to do when, much to my astonishment, Pete jumped over, ran out on the stones, and caught the struggling fish in his mouth. That was the first time I ever heard of a dog going fishing.”

“The rascal seems to reason, too. Once I belonged to the choir, you remember, and of course I could not allow Pete to go to rehearsals, although he was in the habit of following me almost everywhere else. So, after many futile attempts to send him back, and consequent annoyance at the church, one Saturday before starting, I shut him up in the carriage-house and fastened the door. I looked back several times but saw nothing of Pete, and was congratulating myself upon the success of my plan, when, just before I reached the church, at the corner of Huron and South Streets, there he was waiting for me. He had escaped, gone down town another way, and did not show himself until I was so far from home that he knew I would not take him back. Then, what did he do, as soon as he saw me coming, but up on his hind legs with the most deprecating air, sitting there, a ridiculous little black image on the pavement, so that everybody laughed to see him.”

The meal was a merry one although the meat was gone and the cream sour; there was an abundance of cake, the coffee was strong, and the good spirits of the company supplied the rest.

“There is no more sugar for your coffee, Mr. Warrington,” said Edith Chase, as she poured out Hugh’s second cup.

“Smile on it, please,” said Hugh, gayly.

“Now, Miss Chase, if you neglect my cup any longer,” said Walter Hart, “I shall grow desperate; I shall be obliged to give you—”

“Fitz,” interrupted Hugh.

“Bad puns are excluded from this picnic,” said Rose Saxon; “and, by the way, Mr. Warrington, why do you drop the first syllable of your name?”

“Because it is never pronounced rightly,” said Hugh; “it is either called ‘Fitz-He-yew,’ or ‘Fitchew.’”

“Pronunciation is a matter of taste,” said Mr. Leslie, laughing. “A lady once asked me if I did not think Walter Scott’s Rock-a-by was a ‘sweet thing.’ At first I supposed she was alluding to some cradle-song with which I was not familiar, and it was sometime before I discovered that she meant Rokeby.”

“I have often been puzzled myself with the names of books,” said Aunt Faith. “Years ago there was a book published called Ivar or the Skujts-boy? I liked it but I never dared to venture on the name.”

“And since then,” said Mr. Gay, “the names of the heroes and heroines in magazine-stories are really astonishing. The favorite letter, now is ‘Y.’ They have ‘y’s’ in the most unexpected places. Such names as ‘Vivian’ and ‘Willis,’ for instance. They spell them ‘Vyvyan’ and ‘Wyllys’”

The meal over, the company dispersed through the woods. Graham Marr took a book from his pocket. “Miss Warrington,” he said, in his slow way, “I have brought out a new poem; if you care to hear it, there is a mossy rock which will make an admirable sofa.”

Sibyl smiled and accepted this proposal, seating herself on a heap of shawls, and looking at languid Graham as he read, with much apparent interest.

Mr. Leslie was sitting by Aunt Faith’s side under the trees at some distance. “Mrs. Sheldon, I have a plan for yourself and Miss Warrington,” he said, after a pause. “You have been kind enough to take an interest in Margaret Brown, and I know you will like to help her through the summer. The warm weather is telling on her strength; she has not been able to sew as steadily as usual, and she needs an entire rest. Do you think you could, between you, advance her a small sum of money? She will repay you with her work in the fall.”

“I shall be glad to help her,” said Aunt Faith; “I consider it a precious opportunity to help a truly deserving woman.”

“And Miss Warrington will aid her also,” said Mr. Leslie. Aunt Faith looked towards the rock and caught the smile with which Sibyl received some remark of the reader’s.

“I cannot answer for Sibyl,” she said gravely; “she is going soon to Saratoga, and she is much occupied with her preparations.”

“To Saratoga?” repeated Mr. Leslie; “I was not aware of that. Will she be long away?”

“It is uncertain how long; she may return home for a short visit before she goes to Washington for the winter,” replied Aunt Faith. “I shall miss her, but I must make up my mind to losing her before long. Sibyl is very fond of fashionable life and gayety.” Aunt Faith spoke with a purpose; she wished to open the young clergyman’s eyes to her niece’s faults.

Mr. Leslie did not reply immediately; after a while he rose and stood leaning against a tree. “Mrs. Sheldon,” he said, looking down at her with a smile, “you will not lose Sibyl.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Leslie?”

“Only this; she will not go to Saratoga,” replied the clergyman, walking away towards the ravine.

“Well!” thought Aunt Faith, as she recovered from her astonishment, “if I did not know Sibyl so well, I should be inclined to think Mr. Leslie was right. If any one can break through her worldliness, he can; but I fear it is too strong even for him.”

In the meanwhile the rest of the party were loitering in the glen by the brook. Gideon Fish after gorging himself with jelly-cake, was inclined to be sportive.

“Oh!” he cried, throwing himself back upon the moss, “I feel like a child let loose from school! Let us indulge our lighter natures; let us for once give up deep thought! Mr. Leslie, it will do you good also. I remember once when some of my college-mates happened to meet at our house last summer, we were sitting on the piazza talking together, and all unwittingly we got so deep down among the ponderous mysteries of psychology; so wrought with the mighty thoughts evolved from our own brains; so uplifted in grappling with gigantic reasonings, that, fearful for our very sanity, we rushed out upon the lawn like children; we rolled upon the grass; we found a ball and tossed to each other; anything,—anything to keep ourselves down to earth.”

“But, Gideon,” said Mr. Leslie, smiling, “my reason is in no danger of any such overthrow. I never climbed to such heights as you describe.”

“Probably not; very few, if any, mortal minds have ever ascended as high as ours did that afternoon,” replied Gideon. “Miss Darrell, I see a delicate little tendril on the other side of the brook. Shall we go over and pluck it?”

“No,” said Bessie, shortly; “I don’t care for tendrils.”

“I will go with you, Mr. Fish,” said Rose Saxon rising, and of course Gideon was obliged to accompany her, although she was not the companion he preferred. As Rose turned away, she looked meaningly at Bessie, who started, and then smiled to herself. After five or ten minutes when the tendril-hunters had disappeared on the other side of the glen, Bessie suddenly proposed that they should all cross over, and, after some persuasion, she succeeded in getting the whole party across the brook. Then she lured them on slowly, turning here and there, until she caught the sound of voices. “Hush!” she said, “what is that?” They all stopped, and distinctly heard Rose Saxon’s voice, somewhat louder than usual, coming from behind some high bushes. “No, Mr. Fish!” she said, emphatically, “it can never be. I must request you to say no more; this subject must be set at rest forever.” Then they heard Gideon; “Excuse me Miss Saxon, but—” “Not another word, Mr. Fish!” interrupted Rose, cutting short his sentence.