Part 9 (1/2)
How could she cope with such heartless cruelty as that of Sanderson?
All that she had asked for was an honest roof in return for honest toil. And there are so few such, thought the helpless girl, remembering with awful vividness her efforts to find work and the pitfalls and barriers that had been put in her way, often in the guise of friendly interest.
She could not go out and face it all over again. It was so bleak--so bleak. There seemed to be no place in the great world that she could fill, no one stood in need of her help, no one required her services.
They had no faith in her story that she was looking for work and had no home.
”What, a good-looking young girl like you! What, no home? No, no; we don't need you,” or the other frightful alternative.
And yet she must go. Sanderson was right. She could not stay where he was. She must go. But where?
She could hear his voice in the dining-room, entertaining them all with his inimitable gift of story-telling. And then, their laughter--peal on peal of it--and his voice cutting in, with its well-bred modulation: ”Yes, I thought it was a pretty good story myself, even if the joke was on me.” And again their laughter and applause. She had no weapons with which to fight such cold-blooded selfishness. To stay meant eternal torture. She saw herself forced to face his complacent sneer day after day and death on the roadside seemed preferable.
She tried to face the situation in all its pitiful reality, but the injustice of it cried out for vengeance and she could not think. She could only bury her throbbing temples in her hands and murmur over and over again: ”It is all wrong.”
David found her thus, as he made his way to the house from the barn, where he had been detained later than the others. When he saw her forlorn little figure huddled by the well-curb in an att.i.tude of absolute dejection, he could not go on without saying some word of comfort.
”Miss Anna,” he said very gently, ”I hope you are not going to be homesick with us.”
She lifted a pale, tear-stained face, on which the lines of suffering were written far in advance of her years.
”It does not matter, Mr. David,” she answered him, ”I am going away.”
”No, no, you are not going to do anything of the kind,” he said gently; ”the work seems hard today because it is new, but in a day or two you will become accustomed to it, and to us. We may seem a bit hard and unsympathetic; I can see you are not used to our ways of living, and looking at things, but we are sincere, and we want you to stay with us; indeed, we do.”
She gave him a wealth of grat.i.tude from her beautiful brown eyes. ”It is not that I find the place hard, Mr. David. Every one has been so kind to me that I would be glad to stay, but--but----”
He did not press her for her reason. ”You have been ill, I believe you said?”
”Yes, very ill indeed, and there are not many who would give work to a delicate girl. Oh, I am sorry to go----” She broke off wildly, and the tears filled her eyes.
”Miss Anna, when one is ill, it's hard to know what is best. Don't make up your mind just yet. Stay for a few days and give us a trial, and just call on me when you want a bucket of water or anything else that taxes your strength.”
She tried to answer him but could not. They were the first words of real kindness, after all these months of sorrow and loneliness, and they broke down the icy barrier that seemed to have enclosed her heart.
She bent her head and wept silently.
”There, there, little woman,” he said, patting her shoulder when he would have given anything to put his arm around her and offer her the devotion of his life. But Dave had a good bit of hard common sense under his hat, and he knew that such a declaration would only hasten her departure and the wise young man continued to be brotherly, to urge her to stay for his mother's sake, and because it was so hard for a young woman to find the proper kind of a home, and really she was not a good judge of what was best for her.
And Anna, whose storm-swept soul was so weary of beating against the rocks, listened and made up her mind to enjoy the wholesome companions.h.i.+p of these good people, for a little while at least.
CHAPTER XI.
RUSTIC HOSPITALITY.
”Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale.”--_Goldsmith_.
Sanderson's clothes, his manner, his slightly English accent, were all so many items in a good letter of credit to those simple people. The Squire was secretly proud at having a city man like young Sanderson for a neighbor. It would unquestionably add tone to Wakefield society.
Kate regarded him with the frank admiration of a young woman who appreciates a smart appearance, good manner, and the indefinable something that goes to make up the ensemble of the man of the world.
He could say nothing, cleverly; he had little subtleties of manner that put the other men she had met to poor advantage beside him. On the night in question the Squire was giving a supper in honor of the berry-pickers who had helped to gather in the crop the week before.