“You mustn’t have ideas after nine P.M., Nancy!” chided her mother.
“Wrap the blue blanket around you and sit down with me near the fire.”
“You’re not to say I’m romantic or unpractical,” insisted Nancy, leaning against her mother’s knees and looking up into her face,—“indeed, you’re not to say anything of any importance till I’m all finished. I’m going to tell it in a long story, too, so as to work on your feelings and make you say yes.”
“Very well, I’m all ears!”
“Now put on your thinking cap! Do you remember once, years and years ago, before Peter it was, that father took us on a driving trip through some dear little villages in Maine?”
(The Careys never dated their happenings eighteen hundred and anything.
It was always: Just before Peter, Immediately after Peter, or A Long
Time after Peter, which answered all purposes.)
“I remember.”
“It was one of Gilbert’s thirsty days, and we stopped at nearly every convenient pump to give him drinks of water, and at noon we came to the loveliest wayside well with a real moss-covered bucket; do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“And we all clambered out, and father said it was time for luncheon, and we unpacked the baskets on the greensward near a beautiful tree, and father said, ‘Don’t spread the table too near the house, dears, or they’ll cry when they see our doughnuts!’ and Kitty, who had been running about, came up and cried, ‘It’s an empty house; come and look!’”
“I remember.”
“And we all went in the gate and loved every bit of it: the stone steps, the hollyhocks growing under the windows, the yellow paint and the green blinds; and father looked in the windows, and the rooms were large and sunny, and we wanted to drive the horse into the barn and stay there forever!”
“I remember.”
“And Gilbert tore his trousers climbing on the gate, and father laid him upside down on your lap and I ran and got your work-bag and you mended the seat of his little trousers. And father looked and looked at the house and said, ‘Bless its heart!’ and said if he were rich he would buy the dear thing that afternoon and sleep in it that night; and asked you if you didn’t wish you’d married the other man, and you said there never was another man, and you asked father if he thought on the whole that he was the poorest man in the world, and father said no, the very richest, and he kissed us all round, do you remember?”
“Do I remember? O Nancy, Nancy! What do you think I am made of that I could ever forget?”
“Don’t cry, Muddy darling, don’t! It was so beautiful, and we have so many things like that to remember.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Carey, “I know it. Part of my tears are grateful ones that none of you can ever recall an unloving word between your father and mother!”
“The idea,” said Nancy suddenly and briefly, “is to go and live in that darling house!”
“Nancy! What for?”
“We’ve got to leave this place, and where could we live on less than in that tiny village? It had a beautiful white-painted academy, don’t you remember, so we could go to school there,—Kathleen and I anyway, if you could get enough money to keep Gilly at Eastover.”
“Of course I’ve thought of the country, but that far-away spot never occurred to me. What was its quaint little name,—Mizpah or Shiloh or Deborah or something like that?”
“It was Beulah,” said Nancy; “and father thought it exactly matched the place!”
“We even named the house,” recalled Mother Carey with a tearful smile. “There were vegetables growing behind it, and flowers in front, and your father suggested Garden Fore-and-Aft and I chose Happy Half-Acre, but father thought the fields that stretched back of the vegetable garden might belong to the place, and if so there would be far more than a half-acre of land.”
“And do you remember father said he wished we could do something to thank the house for our happy hour, and I thought of the little box of plants we had bought at a wayside nursery?”
“Oh! I do indeed! I hadn’t thought of it for years! Father and you planted a tiny crimson rambler at the corner of the piazza at the side.”
“Do you suppose it ever ‘rambled,’ Muddy? Because it would be ever so high now, and full of roses in summer.”
“I wonder!” mused Mother Carey. “Oh! it was a sweet, tranquil, restful place! I wonder how we could find out about it? It seems impossible that it should not have been rented or sold before this. Let me see, that was five years ago.”
“There was a nice old gentleman farther down the street, quite in the village, somebody who had known father when he was a boy.”
“So there was; he had a quaint little law office not much larger than Peter’s playhouse. Perhaps we could find him. He was very, very old. He may not be alive, and I cannot remember his name.”
“Father called him ‘Colonel,’ I know that. Oh, how I wish dear Addy was here to help us!”
“If he were he would want to help us too much! We must learn to bear our own burdens. They won’t seem so strange and heavy when we are more used to them. Now go to bed, dear. We’ll think of Beulah, you and I; and perhaps, as we have been all adrift, waiting for a wind to stir our sails, ‘Nancy’s idea’ will be the thing to start us on our new voyage. Beulah means land of promise;—that’s a good omen!”
“And father found Beulah; and father found the house, and father blessed it and loved it and named it; that makes ever so many more good omens, more than enough to start housekeeping on,” Nancy answered, kissing her mother goodnight.
Chapter VII.
“Old Beasts Into New”
Mother Carey went to sleep that night in greater peace than she had felt for months. It had seemed to her, all these last sad weeks, as though she and her brood had been breasting stormy waters with no harbor in sight. There were friends in plenty here and there, but no kith and kin, and the problems to be settled were graver and more complex than ordinary friendship could untangle, vexed as it always was by its own problems. She had but one keen desire: to go to some quiet place where temptations for spending money would be as few as possible, and there live for three or four years, putting her heart and mind and soul on fitting the children for life. If she could keep strength enough to guide and guard, train and develop them into happy, useful, agreeable human beings,—masters of their own powers; wise and discreet enough, when years of discretion were reached, to choose right paths,—that, she conceived, was her chief task in life, and no easy one. “Happy I must contrive that they shall be,” she thought, “for unhappiness and discontent are among the foxes that spoil the vines. Stupid they shall not be, while I can think of any force to stir their brains; they have ordinary intelligence, all of them, and they shall learn to use it; dull and sleepy children I can’t abide. Fairly good they will be, if they are busy and happy, and clever enough to see the folly of being anything but good! And so, month after month, for many years to come, I must be helping Nancy and Kathleen to be the right sort of women, and wives,