Part 2 (2/2)
It was no secret that all the girls had been berrying in the forenoon.
Henry seemed to have had a hand in making the ice-cream, judging by the compliments he received. So that was the way they lived, thought the new guest! It was, however, a surprisingly good supper. Elliott was astonished at herself for eating so much salad, so many berries and m.u.f.fins, and for pa.s.sing her plate twice for ice-cream.
After supper every one seemed to feel it the natural thing to set to work and ”do” the dishes, or something else equally pressing; at least every one for a short time grew amazingly busy. Even Elliott asked for an ap.r.o.n--it was Elliott's code when in Rome to do as the Romans do--though she was relieved when her uncle tucked her arm in his and said she must come and talk to him on the porch. As they left the kitchen, the boy Bruce was skilfully whirling a string mop in a pan full of hot suds.
Under cover of animated chatter with her uncle Elliott viewed the prospect dolefully. Dish-was.h.i.+ng came three times a day, didn't it?
The thing was evidently a family rite in this household. The girl understood her respite could be only temporary; self-respect would see to that. But didn't she catch a glimpse of Stannard nonchalantly sauntering around a corner of the house with the air of one who hopes his back will not be noticed?
Presently she discovered another household custom--to go up to the top of the hill to watch the sunset. Up between flowering borders and through a gra.s.sy orchard the path climbed, thence to wind through thickets of sweet fern and scramble around boulders over a wild, fragrant pasture slope. It was beautiful up there on the hilltop, with its few big sheltering trees, its welter of green crests on every side, and its line of far blue peaks behind which the sun went down--beautiful but depressing. Depressing because every one, except Stannard, seemed to enjoy it so. Elliott couldn't help seeing that they were having a thoroughly good time. There was something engaging about these cousins that Elliott had never seen among her cousins at home, a good-fellows.h.i.+p that gave one in their presence a sense of being closely knit together; of something solid, dependable and secure, for all its lightness and variety. But, oh, dear! she knew that she wasn't going to care for the things that they cared for, or enjoy doing the things that they did! And there must be at least six weeks of this--dish-was.h.i.+ng and climbing hills, with good frocks on.
Six weeks, not a day longer. But she exclaimed in pretty enthusiasm over Laura's disclosure of a bed of maidenhair fern, tasted approvingly Tom's spring water, recited perfectly, after only one hearing, Henry's tale of the peaks in view, and let Bruce Fearing give her a geography lesson from the southernmost point of the hilltop.
It was only when at last she was in bed in the slant-ceilinged room, with her candle blown out and a big moon looking in at the window, that Elliott quite realized how forlorn she felt and how very, very far three thousand miles from Father was actually going to seem.
The world up here in Vermont was so very still. There were no lights except the stars, and for a person accustomed to an electrically illuminated street only a few rods from her window, stars and a moon merely added to the strangeness. Soft noises came from the other rooms, sounds of people moving about, but not a sound from outside, nothing except at intervals the cry of a mournful bird. After a while the noises inside ceased. Elliott lay quiet, staring at the moonlit room, and feeling more utterly miserable than she had ever felt before in her life. Homesick? It must be that this was homesickness. And she had been wont to laugh, actually laugh, at girls who said they were homesick! She hadn't known that it felt like this! She hadn't known that anything in all the world could feel as hideous as this. She knew that in a minute she was going to cry--she couldn't help herself; actually, Elliott Cameron was going to cry.
A gentle tap came at the door. ”Are you asleep?” whispered a voice.
”May I come in?”
Laura entered, a tall white shape that looked even taller in the moonlight.
”_Are_ you sleepy?” she whispered.
”Not in the least,” said Elliott.
Laura settled softly on the foot of the bed. ”I hoped you weren't.
Let's talk. Doesn't it seem a shame to waste time sleeping on a night like this?”
Elliott tossed her a pillow. It was comforting to have Laura there, to hear a voice saying something, no matter what it was talking about.
And Laura's voice was very pleasant and what she said was pleasant, too.
Soon another shape appeared at the door Laura had left half-open. ”It is too fine a night to sleep, isn't it, girls?” Aunt Jessica crossed the strip of moonlight and dropped down beside Laura.
”Are you all in here?” presently inquired a third voice. ”I could hear you talking and, anyway, I couldn't sleep.”
”Come in,” said Elliott.
Gertrude burrowed comfortably down on the other side of her mother.
Elliott, watching the three on the foot of her bed, thought they looked very happy. Her aunt's hair hung in two thick braids, like a girl's, over her shoulders, and her face, seen in the moonlight, made Elliott feel things that she couldn't fit words to. She didn't know what it was she felt, exactly, but the forlornness inside her began to grow less and less, until at last, when her aunt bent down and kissed her and a braid touched the pillow on each side of Elliott's face, it was quite gone.
”Good night, little girl,” said Aunt Jessica, ”and happy dreams.”
CHAPTER III
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