Part 4 (1/2)

Miss Hepsy took out a very ugly piece of knitting from the dresser-drawer, and sat down opposite Lucy. ”It's a pity boys ain't learned to sew and knit,” she said grimly. ”It would save a deal of women's time doin' it for 'em. I think I'll teach you, Tom.”

”No, thank you, Aunt Hepsy.”

”You're much too smart with your tongue, young 'un,” said Miss Hepsy severely, and then relapsed into stolid silence. The click of her knitting needles, the ticking of the clock, and the rain beating on the panes, were the only sounds to be heard in the house. Tom drew a half-sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket, laid it on the table, and kept his attention there for a few minutes. Lucy ventured to cast her eyes in his direction, and he held up the paper to her. A smile ran all over her face and finally ended in a laugh. Aunt Hepsy looked round suspiciously to see Tom stuffing something into his pocket.

”What were you laughing at, Lucy?” Lucy looked distressed and answered nothing.

”What's that you're stuffing into your pocket, Tom?” she said, turning her eagle eyes again on Tom.

”A bit paper, aunt, that's all.”

”People don't laugh at common bits o' paper, nor go stuffin' em into pockets like that. Hand it over.”

”I'd rather not, Aunt Hepsy,” said the boy.

”I rather you would,” was her dry retort. ”Out with it.”

”It's mine, Aunt Hepsy, and you wouldn't care to see it.”

”How many more times am I to say out with it?” she said angrily.

”I'll let you feel the weight of my hand if you don't look sharp.”

”It's mine, Aunt Hepsy. I won't let you see it,” he said doggedly.

Miss Hepsy's face grew very red, and she flung her knitting on the rug and strode up to him. ”Give me that paper.”

”Well, there 'tis; I hope you like it. I wish I'd made it uglier,”

cried he angrily, and flung the paper on the table.

Aunt Hepsy smoothed it out very deliberately, and held it up to the light. It was a picture of herself, cleverly done, but highly exaggerated, and the word _Scold_ printed beneath it. Slowly the red faded from her face and was replaced by a kind of purple hue. She lifted her hand and brought it with full force on Tom's cheek. He sprang to his feet quivering with rage, and pain, and humiliation.

His fierce temper was up, and Lucy trembled for what was to follow.

”Next time you make a fool o' me, boy,” said Aunt Hepsy with a slow smile, ”perhaps ye'll get summat ye'll like even less than that.”

Then the boy's anger found vent in words. ”If you weren't a woman I'd knock you down. I hate you, and I wish I'd died before I came to this horrid place. It's worse than being a beggar living with such people.

You touch me again, and I'll give it you though you are a woman.”

Aunt Hepsy took him by the shoulders and pushed him before her out to the yard. ”Ye'll be cool, I guess, afore I let ye in again,” she said briefly, and then came back to Lucy.

She was weeping with her face hidden and her work lying on the settle beside her.

”Nice brother that of your'n,” said Aunt Hepsy. ”If he ain't growin'

up to be hanged, my name ain't Hepsy Strong. Here, go on with your seam, an' don't be foolin' there.”

Lucy silently obeyed, but Aunt Hepsy could not control her thoughts, and they went pitifully out into the rain after Tom. He stood a minute or two in a dazed way, and then hurried from the yard, through the garden and the orchard to the meadow. In one little moment the victory over temper he had won and kept for weeks was gone; and in the shame and sorrow which followed, only one person could help him, and that was Mr. Goldthwaite. There had been many quiet talks with him since the first Sunday evening, and his lessons had sunk deep into the boy's heart, and he had indeed been earnestly trying to make the best of the life and work which had no interest nor sweetness for him. As he sped through the long, wet gra.s.s, heedless of the rain pelting on his uncovered head, he felt more wretched than he had ever done in his life before. He had to wade ankle-deep to the bridge, but fortunately did not encounter a living soul all the way to the parsonage. Miss Goldthwaite was sewing in the parlour window, and looked up in amazement to see a drenched, bareheaded boy coming up the garden path.

”Why, Tom, it can't be you, is it?” she exclaimed when she opened the door. ”What is it? n.o.body ill at Thankful Rest, I hope.”

”No,” said Tom. ”It's only me; I want to see Mr. Goldthwaite.”