IN the morning the panorama presented was one of unusual beauty. All nature was enveloped in snow of the purest white. The flats below were a dazzling sea in the bright sunlight. The two gaunt pines, through which the wind had sighed so dismally the night before, now appeared like white-robed sentinels on guard at the gate. The air was balmy and the drip, drip, drip of water from the eaves and window-ledges proclaimed that this vision of fairyland would be a transient one.
A happy group gathered around the breakfast table. Granny had instructed Margaret in the art of preparing buckwheat cakes and a smoking pile of them soon appeared. Her skill in the culinary art was proverbial. No one could make anything taste quite as Margaret could, and she was duly proud of her proficiency in this accomplishment.
“Well,” said Mr. De Vere, “how many of us are going to church to-day?”
“From the looks of things outside, I infer the congregation will be a slim one,” said Jack, helping himself to another pancake.
Just then the soft, sweet warble of a bluebird was heard through the open window, and looking out, they saw on the limb of an apple tree this welcome harbinger of spring, singing his plaintively sweet song. While they listened, his mate flew over his head and alighted near on a twig with an audacious flirt, but he kept on singing for fully three minutes, then with a dash of snow they flew away.
“Truly spring is not far off,” observed Mr. De Vere, “but appearances indicate that Reuben will need help in shovelling paths.”
Many hands make light work, and Jack, Hernando and Elisha, armed with shovels, soon cleared walks to the street, and then turned toward the barn. Suddenly Jack called out, “Father, there is a flock of your old friends.” Twenty or thirty little black-capped birds were fluttering near the back door, calling “chick-a-dee-dee.” Mr. De Vere laughed heartily, for they brought to mind a picture of his boyhood days; the old school-house in the woods where every known mode of punishment, from “toeing the crack” to flogging, was resorted to, making the woods resound with yells. Then on a Friday afternoon after “spelling down,” the grim old schoolmaster produced a well-preserved accordion, tilted his chair against the wall and held his unwilling audience by “chick-a-dee-dee,” his only tune.
Reaching the barn, they found Reuben busily engaged skinning a half-dozen rabbits which had been caught in his traps the night before, and his mouth watered as he thought of rabbit pot-pie with the white puffy balls “all afloat in brown gravy.” The rabbits had barked several young fruit trees and committed depredations which made Reuben vow he would exterminate the vandals. As the others came up, he exhibited his trophies and exultantly exclaimed, “Dar now, I reckon I’ve settled dem tieves.”
“Are they fat?” inquired Mr. De Vere admiringly.
“Only jes’ tolabl’, Massa John.”
In the village, the male element of the population seemed intent on the one occupation of shovelling his own individual sidewalk. By noon, a heavy body of snow had sunk under the warm rays of the sun and the street was running with slush. Nature was preparing to cast off her winter garments, but in this rugged climate she does so reluctantly. A raw wind still blew from the snowy north, but the sun was too high to expect much more cold weather.
“By the way, Reuben,” called Mr. De Vere, “when have you been at the maple bush?”
“Early dis mawnin’, Massa, an’ de sap buckets was jes’ runnin’ plumb full.”
Mr. De Vere owned an orchard of about one hundred acres on the side of the mountain. His mother had bought the land for a mere song after the timber had all been burned off by forest fires, and had set it out in sugar maples. This was about twenty-five years ago. They had been nourished and protected until now they were an object of much admiration. Mr. De Vere insisted that there was something human in maples, and it was his rule never to bore them until the proper season and then in only one place at a time. The good old days of “sugaring off” were past and his sugar-house was furnished with the most modern appliances.
Sunday passed off very quietly. In the evening, Celeste sang and played for them, and as if by common consent, she and Elisha were left in undisputed possession of the parlor but not, however, until Jack had given his sister a knowing look which sent the blood bounding to her very temples, and she was preparing to follow him when Elisha advanced quickly to her side, encircling her waist with his great strong arm as he drew her down beside him on the settee.
Celeste felt a trifle awed by this great big fellow who idolized the very ground she trod. Other men had confessed their love for her but this one was different, and when he said, “Celeste, I love you. Will you be my wife?” she knew that in that simple declaration was the fidelity of a lifetime.
“Celeste,” said Elisha, “I told Hernando of our engagement, and he wishes us every happiness.”
“I wonder if he will ever marry.”
“Probably not,” returned Elisha, “he is one of the few men capable of purely platonic affection. In his eyes all women are little lower than angels,” and Elisha smiled.
“If he ever does marry, his wife will be very happy,” she said, with a coquettish toss of her head.
“And will mine be unhappy?” he asked, pressing his lips to the curly head on his shoulder.
“That depends,” she said saucily, “entirely on your dutifulness.”
“Oh, Celeste, I have loved you ever since you were a little miss down in Missouri,” he said earnestly. “My prospects are good and I see no reason for deferring our marriage until some remote day in the future. I feel all the time as if something would snatch you from me. Let our wedding day be fixed and at an early date.”
Celeste counted on her fingers but came to no conclusion.
“Jack goes to Texas in April, why not let part of our wedding journey be spent in company with him?” said Elisha.
Jack’s health had failed during the past year. An annoying cough had caused Doctor Brinton to suggest a trip to the plains of Texas, and he intended to start during the last week in April.
Celeste hesitated. To visit Vicksburg and the land of her birth was one of the dreams of her life, and now to go with dear brother Jack! Her eyes sparkled, the sweet lips parted and Elisha had won.
Taking the curly brown head in both his great brown hands, Elisha looked earnestly into her eyes. His heart was too full for words; and with a sigh of perfect content she threw her arms around his neck feeling that under the protection of such love, her way through life would be guarded from every care. Her own unworthiness, her distorted views of the real duties of life, overwhelmed her, and her tone was almost pathetic as she said:
“Elisha, you have chosen a helpless partner. I see it all now, my blind selfishness and aimless existence. The grand possibilities of life have heretofore applied to others, but with your help, I intend to take my place in the arena and together we will fight our battles.”
“And win them, my darling,” he said, kissing again and again the warm red lips so temptingly near his own.
The thoughtless, pleasure-seeking girl now stood before Elisha transformed into a glorious woman with an earnest purpose. The scales had fallen from her eyes now flashing with new brilliancy. Granny’s words, “No De Vere is a coward,” proved her not an exception.
If a tiny cloud crossed their horizon just then, it passed unobserved. In their own radiant happiness, they forgot that there might be misery for others.
Infinite Wisdom has so formed man that through the rift in to-morrow’s cloud, he may catch the brightness of to-day, that strength may be given him to guide his frail bark along the ever-changing current of life’s river. He may know that trials come to him with beneficent purpose, and that no one is given more than he can bear.
On the grave of perverted aims and impulsive desires, Celeste’s “barren fig tree is given another season.”