"If we must go to the dogs, for heaven's sake, let's go remembering that we are Blakes--or Corbins, if you like.""Bless your heart, child, I'd just as lief remember I was a Blake or even a Weatherby, for that matter.Why, Jacob Weatherby's grandfather was an honest, self-respecting tiller of the soil when mine used to fish his necktie out of the punch bowl every Saturday night, people said."She lifted her black skirt above her knees, and pinned it tightly at her back with a large safety pin she had taken from her bosom.
Then kneeling on the hearth, she laid the knots of resinous pine on a crumpled newspaper in the great stone fireplace.
"I don't mind your picking flaws in me," she said dryly, "but Ido wish you would let my great grandfather rest in his grave.
He's about all I've got."
"Well, I beg his pardon for speaking the truth about him,"returned Tucker penitently; "and now my swallows are so noisy Imust stop their mouths."
He went out humming a tune, while Cynthia hung the boiler from the crane and mixed the corn-meal dough in a wooden tray.
When breakfast was on the table Lila appeared with a reproachful face, hurriedly knotting her kerchief as she entered.
"Oh, Cynthia, you promised to let me get breakfast," she said.
"Mother was very restless all night--she dreamed that she was being married over again--so I slept too late.""It didn't matter, dear; I was awake, and I didn't mind getting up.Are you ready to go?""All except my hat." Yawning slightly, she raised her hands and pushed up her clustering hair that was but a shade darker than Christopher's.Trivial as the likeness was, it began and ended with her heavy curls, for her hazel eyes held a peculiar liquid beam, and her face, heart-shaped in outline, had none of the heaviness of jaw which marred the symmetry of his.A little brown mole beside the dimple in her cheek gave the finishing touch of coquetry to the old-world quaintness of her appearance.
As she passed the window on her way to the table she threw a drowsy glance out into the yard.
"Why, there's Uncle Tucker sitting on the ground," she said; "he must be crazy."Cynthia was pouring the hastily made coffee from the steaming boiler, and she did not look up as she answered.
"You'd better go out and help him up.He's digging worms for some swallows that fell down his chimney.""Well, of all the ideas!" exclaimed Lila, laughing, but she went out with cheerful sweetness and assisted him to his crutches.
A half-hour later, when the meal was over and Christopher had gone out to the stable, the two women tied on their bonnets and went softly through the hall.As they passed Mrs.Blake's door she awoke and called out sharply."Cynthia, is that you? What are you doing up so early?" Cynthia paused at strained attention on the threshold."I'm going to the Morrisons', mother, to spend the day.You know I told you Miss Martha had promised to teach me that new fancy stitch." "But, my dear, surely it is bad manners to arrive before eleven o'clock.I remember once when I was a girl that we went over to Meadow Hall before ten in the morning, and found old Mrs.Dudley just putting on her company cap." "But they begged me to come to breakfast, dear." "Well, customs change, of course; but be sure to take Mrs.Morrison a jar of the green tomato catchup.You know she always fancied it." "Yes, yes;good-by till evening." She moved on hurriedly, her clumsy shoes creaking on the bare planks, and a moment afterward as the door closed behind them they passed out into the first sunbeams.
Beyond the whitewashed fence the old field was silvered by the heavy dew, and above it the great pine towered like a burnished cross upon the western sky.To the eastward a solitary thrush was singing--a golden voice straight from out the sunrise."This is worth getting up for!" said Lila, with a long, joyful breath; and she broke into a tender carolling as spontaneous as the bird's.
The bloom of the summer was in her face, and as she moved with her buoyant step along the red clay road she was like a rare flower blown lightly by the wind.To Cynthia's narrowed eyes she seemed, indeed, a heroine descended from old romance--a maiden to whom, even in these degenerate modern days, there must at last arrive a noble destiny.That Lila at the end of her twenty-six years should have wearied of her long waiting and grown content to compromise with fate would have appeared to her impossible--as impossible as the transformation of young Jim Weatherby into the fairy prince.
"Hush!" she said suddenly, shifting her bundle of sewing from one arm to the other; "there's a wagon turning from the branch road."They had reached the first bend beyond the gate, and as they rounded the long curve, hidden by honey-locusts, a light spring wagon came rapidly toward them, with Jim Weatherby, in his Sunday clothes, on the driver's seat."Father's rheumatism is so bad he couldn't get out to-day," he explained, as he brought the horses to a stand; "so as long as I had to take the butter over, Ithought I might save you the five miles." He spoke to Cynthia, and she drew back stiffly."It is a pleasant day for a walk," she returned dryly."But it's going to be hot," he urged; "I can tell by the way the sun licks up the dew." A feathery branch of the honey-locust was in his face, and he pushed it impatiently aside as he looked at Lila."I waited late just to take you," he added wistfully, jumping from his seat and going to the horses' heads.
"Won't you get in?" "You will be so tired, Cynthia," Lila persuaded."Think of the walking you have to do in town." As Jim Weatherby glanced up brightly from the strap he was fastening, the smile in his blue eyes was like a song of love; and when the girl met it she heard again the solitary thrush singing in the sunrise."You will come?" he pleaded, and this time he looked straight at her.
