HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1885-07-24, Page 2The Village Oracle.
Beneath the weather-beaten porch,
That shades the village store,
He sits at ease, an aged man
Ot three snore years or more,
That amply seat for him is placed
Beside the open door.
His face is very keen and shrewd.
And piercing aro hie e> es.
As with an air of prophecy
He scans the cloudy skies,
And children look with awe on him,
For he is weather wise.
And jolly farmers, riding by
Un loads of fragrant fray,
Call out, " Good morning. Uncle Dan,"
And, " Will it rain today I"
While boys who would a fishing go
Await what he will say.
" Wal, of the wind should change about"
(They listen eagerly,
But he is very Blow and calm.
For thus should prophets be),
"Mebbe them clouds will bring us rain,
But I dunno," says he.
And ever as the seasons come,
And as the seasons go,
The Oracle is asked the signs
Ot wind, or rain, or snow,
But still be never hesitates
To answer; "1dunno."
STORM AND SUNSHINE.
CHAPTER I.
"'Twill be lonely for you, missie, living
below with the ladies—a young thing like
you 1"
" It is rather lonely," I answer, Iooking
over the old woman's head at the green elm
whose branches sweep the thatched roof of
her cottage and throw a cool shadow across
the lane ; " but I suppose I shall get used
to it."
" That's the worst thing I could wish
you, my dearie. You won't get used to it
while you've a young head on your shoulders
and a young heart in your body, and I hope
you'll have that for many a long day yet.
You 'mind me of your mother, Miss Lisle ;
she was just as young and blithe as you are
now when first I saw her, with her yellow
Bair curling all over her ,pretty head."
"She died before she was as old as I am
mow, Mollie."
" I know that, dearie. I remember the
day she died, and the funeral, and how the
village children lined the grave with snow-
drops early in the morning—every bit of it
they lined with snowdrops—whole baakets-
ful of them they used, and covered the sof.
fin with snowdrops, after it was let down,
a foot deep before the clay was thrown in.
Even the village children loved her, Miss
Lisle ; she was so young and pretty—a great
deal prettier than yon are, though your face
3s bonnie enough."
" I know that," I answer, smiling a little,
"Everybody who sees me tells me that my
mother was prettier than I am."
"She was so sweet -looking; I think that
was what made us all admire her so much.
Your poor father never held up his head
afterwards, I heard people say the day of
the funeral that he wouldn't be long after
her, and they were right. He was a good
man, Miss Lisle, and I think she loved him,
though he was old enough to be her father.
He was a little bit absent, and over -fond of
hie musty books, but he was a very saintly -
minded man. He couldn't see the hen
hatching under the dresser but he'd draw
down Jerusalem on you. And it was the
name with everything ; he alwaya had a text
ready, and a sermon too, for that matter.
But I'd rather have listened to him any day
than to Mr. Irving, for all they say about
his cleverness. He's too clever for poor
country folk like us, and that's the truth."
I have never cared to hear much about
my father, or had much sympathy with my
another's love for him, though I believe it
was sincere. Somehow I can never fanny
she loved him as she would have loved a
younger man. I am sure she felt great re-
spect and gratitude towards him, and 1
:.re [say she was quite satisfied with him,
and quite content with her life in the ivy-
covered Vicarage—while it lasted ; but I
cannot think a girl of seventeen could really
care for a husband of ifxty-two. I know
my grandfather Was very poor, and that my
another had a great many brothers and sla-
ters, though they are all dead and gone
now. And I think she sacrificed herself for
them ; it was something to get one married,
wheal there were three in the schoolroom
and four in the nursery.
And so the minister's wooing had prosper-
ed, and so the sweet Dorothy Inoledon had
exchanged the company of all her merry
young sisters and brothers for that of a
mem older than her father, and had never
regretted it so far as I ever could learn,
" If ye had even a sweetheart in the
place 1" old Mollie says, looking hard at me
with her dim bleared eyes, as she leans one
knotted sinewy hand on her stick. "But
maybe you've ono somewhere else, my bon-
nie bird ; and letters me better than nothing,
and he'll run down to see you now and
again."
"I have no sweetheart, Mollie—here or
anywhere else."
"Do you tell me so, with such a pair of
blue eyes in your head ? Well, I had a
sweetheart when I was going to school in
pinafores, and might have been married
three times over before I was sixteen. But,
after all, sweethearts is a snare and a de•
lueion, and a body is as well without them,
if they could only believe it."
As old Mollie is a widow for the third
time, this expression of wisdom does not
carry much weight with it. I look at the
withered cheeks, the shaking chin, the
wrinkled throat, which reminds me of the
neck of a turkey, and wonder if she could
ever have been young and pretty, and if I
shall one day be as gruesome and ugly, if I
should live so long.
"Had my aunts ever any lovers?" It is
on the tip of my tongue to ask. But I do
not Dare to encourage old Mollie's gossiping
tongue, though I have asked myself the
question a hundred times since I came to
Osierbrook, and there seems no probability
of my being able to gratify my ouriosity by
any more legitimate means,
"'Tia a pity there isn't some young thing
like yourself to keep company with you,"
Mollie mumbles on, looking up at me ;
while I wonder it she was always as small
as she is now—the Drown of her white cap
soarcely reaches as high as my elbow as we
stand together in the doorway, facing the
shadowy lane. "But there's nobody in the
place at all since Miss May Rutherford got
married. That was a great wedding entire-
ly, though the bridegroom was as mean.
looking a gentleman as ever I laid my two
eyes upon ; and he a lord and all l There's
• nobody at Velfry now but the old lady and
poor Mr. Ralph, though I did hear some-
body say that Mr. Erroll had wrote to tell
them he was coming back from China, and
, that as poor as he went out."
I know nothing about Volfry, nor
the people whose names are household
words to old Mollie. I have never been
here, since I was a baby of a week old, till I
came to Osierbrook three days ago, and I
cannot say I feel much interest in either of
the gentlemen whose names she has men-
tioned.
" You have got your garden in beautiful
order, Mollie," I remark, looking over the
low wooden pailing whioh divides it from
the narrow walk, paved with pebbles, lead-
ing into the lane.
"Yes," the old woman answers, with an
air of pride, "I was eightythree last
November, Miss Lisle ; but I planted that
row of kidney beans myself yesterday. Do
you mind the old rhyme—
"' When elm leaves are as big as a shilling,
Plant kidney beans, it to plant 'em you're willing ;
When elm leaves are as big as a penny,
You must plant kidney beans it you mean to have
any.'
"I never heard it before," I laugh, look-
ing up at the elm leaves. " Well, Mollie, I
must go now ; but I'll soon come to see you
again. Oh, what a pretty cat 1"
A large cat of curious unrroim silver-gray
color has squeezed herself slowly through
the garden pailing, yawning and stretching
herself in the sun.
" She was a pretty cat till she lost her
tail —poor thing 1 -in a trap or aummat. I
never knew how she did it ; but she walked
in one morning with only a stump, just as
you see. I cried a bu9ketful over her ; but
Miss Judith, she told me not to mind—that
it made her look very tidy like, and sure I
had to laugh then at the idea of a cat look-
ing more tidier without her tail 1"
It is a novel idea ; but even tidiness may
be bought at too dear a price.
" Who is Miss Judith ?" I ask, stroking
the cat's fur.
" Miss Judith Irving, up at the Glebe ?
Don't you know her ?"
" I never even heard her name before. Is
she an old lady 2"
"No, indeed, she's a very young lady 1"
Mollie answers, shaking her head. At the
same time she looks at me a little sharply,
as if to see how far my ignorance is real or
feigned.
" Oh, then, there is another young person
in the parish, besides myself, Mollie?"
"I doubt if you'll see much of Miss
Judith, Miss Lisle."
" Why not ? The Vicarage isnot a quar-
ter of a mile from Osierbrook."
" Oh, it's near enough—too near, maybe 1"
Mollie observes, with a smile which adds a
thousand wrinkles to her face. "I don't
think the ladies care much for Miss Judith,
or will care mach to have you keep com-
pany with her."
"Why not 2"
" Oh, she's very smart and fond of new-
fangled notions, and she says just what
comes into her mind about anything ; and
she laughs at the old clerk In the church
when he says ' Ahmin,' and your aunts don't
like that 1 Not that there is any harm in
her," the old woman adds cunningly; "only
she's too flighty -like and uncertain, • and
people have taken up ideas about her. And
it's a pity, for she's real kind and charitable
—leas her gave me the knitted petticoat I
have on, and brought me broth every day
last winter while I was laid up with a bad
foot, carrying the jug in her hand all through
the snow."
I cannot help thinking that Mollie is an
ungrateful old wretch even to hint at any
shortcomings in a person who has taken the
trouble to prolong her mumbling existence.
But I do not say so, lest I should be con-
signed to the same category as Miss Judith
Irving, who says everything that comes in.
to her head.
To escape the temptation, I ret out on my
homeward journey up the lane, swinging
the empty basket in my hand which had
contained the weekly dole of tea and sugar
aunt Theodosia has sent to old Mollie time
out of mind, and which she consigned to me
today because the old woman had express-
ed a wish to see me, having heel rile honor
and glory of presiding at my entry into the
world.
It is a glorious May morning, with the
aun, as old Mollie expresses it, splitting the
trees. The lane is cool and green in the
shadow of the elm boughs, the grass is dewy
wet still under the hawthorne edge, milky
white with blossoms, and great iridescent
clouds lie motionless against the deep blue
of the sky.
Half -way down the lane a little wicket -
gate opens into the -pleasure -ground at Osier -
brook ;
sier-brook; this is a short out to Mollie's cot-
tage, but not to the village, which lies
farther down the road on which the front
gate of Osierbrook opena—a long low wooden
gate, painted white.
I open the wicket, letting it swing to be-
hind me, and find myself in a long straight
walk shut in by laurel hedges, with arches
out in it here and there, one leading round
by a gravel path to the yard buildings, an.
other to the kitchen -garden and so on. I
have not had time to explore any but the
laurel walk yet, and aunt Theodosia's gar-
den close to the house ; but, as I pass one
of the green arches now, the perfume of
narcissus greets my nostrils, and, if I have
a passion for anything, it is for a double
white narcissus. Aunt Theodosia had none
in her garden; I had looked while she took
me round it yesterday, because I know they
ought to be in blossom in May.
I peer in through the green archway
through whioh the pleasant odor seems to
come. A border of box as high as my knee
grows right across it—the space beyond is
choked with overgrown lines and circles of
the same plant, which look as if they had
once been borders to flower -beds. In the
large oval inclosure in the middle of a lovely
clump of narcissi stand nodding their heads
on their long straight stalks. To scramble
in and /gather them is the work of a mo-
ment.
Five minutes later I am sauntering up to
the front door at Osierbrook with my nose
buried in the delicious waxen -white blos-
soms, and with no more idea in my head
that I have committed an unwarrantable
theft than Beauty, had when she gathered
the rose in the Beast's garden.
Osierbrook is a small white house two
stories in height, with a japonica growing
about the hall -door. The door itself stands
open into the small square hall, with pol-
ished floor and mahogany hatstand, where-
on there are no hats, however—I doubt if
any man ever hung up his hat there since
Osierbrook was built, except perhaps my
father ; I suppose he came to see his sisters
sometimes, when he lived in the ivy-covered
Vicarage on the other aide of the hill.
Aunt Anna is writing letters in the win-
dow of the dining -room when I walk in, the
old parrot is swinging in his hoop, the old
dog is asleep on the rug, the old canary s
chirping away in his cage in the sun-
shine.
"How did you find old Mollie, Lisle 2"
"Oh, very well !"
"I hope you enjoyed your walk 2"
"Oh, yes ; it was very pleasant 1"
"Your aunt Emily is getting luncheon
ready. We never eat luncheon, but I think
young girls are always hungry, Where did
you get the narcissi? Those are the first I
have seen this year."
"I got them here, at Osierbrrook," I an-
swer, touching the white blossoms ten-
derly.
"I did not know we had any at Osier -
brook."
"They were growing in the old garden
down by the laurel walk."
Aunt Anna's faoe changes all at onee.
"Oh 1" she says, and says no more.
"Why did you let that garden grow so ne-
glected, Aunt Anne.? It seems to me the
prettiest and sunniest spot in the whole of
Osierbrook,"
"We did not wish to have it disturbed.
Take off your hat, Lisle. Luncheon will be
up in a few minutes."
Aunt Anna's manner puzzles me. It is
not exactly angry, but as I go up -stairs to
my room I fancy she is displeased with
me. On the landing I meet aunt Emily
coming down, with a pot of preserved apri-
cots In her hand,
"Oh, you have Dome in, Lisle ? What
pretty flowers 1 Where did you get
them 2"
I tell her, and the smile dies out of her
gentle withered face.
"Put them away," she exolaime hurried-
ly. "Don't let your aunt Anchoretta see
them—keep them in your own room, dear ;
but don't bring any of them down -stairs,"
"Why not 2" I ask, in unqualified amaze-
ment. "Does the perfume make her ill ? I
know some people who think it a little too
powerful in the house."
"Oh, no ; it's not that ! But put them
away, dear, and don't gather any more
flowers in that place. You can get as many
as you like in your aunt Theodosia's gar-
den."
There are no narcissi in sunt Theodoeia'a
garden ! I arrange my treasure-trove in a
tumbler on my dressing -table, wondering
what the mystery can be, and thinking it
rather hard that I cannot fasten two or
three of the lovely white flowers in my
brooch to make myself pretty for luncheon.
I must ask aunt Theodosia all about it.
Aunt Theodosia is the youngest of my
,8
aunts, and she seems to me to have more
common sense than all the others put to.
gether. I think aunt Anna fancies her
rather frivolous, though she excuses her for
it on tho score of her youth ; but she is the
most anergetio of the four, and does not tsp.
pear to have the same horror of anything
"notional" or new,
My room at Osierbrook is over the din-
ing-room—a square room, very low, with a
wide low window close under the eaves of
the roof. The outains of the old-fashioned
four -post bedstead are of white dimity, the
dressing table and funny little oval glass
are draped with white muelin on whioh are
quaint bows of powder -blue ribbon. The
great mahogany wardrobe must be at least
two hundred years old. Everything at
Osierbrook is old—the servants, the furni-
ture, the parrot-- As I look out upon
the mossy lawn I see an old pony nibbling
the grass, an octogenarian man -servant
going down the avenue with letters, follow-
ed by a sheep dog whose limbs are stiff and
muzzle gray with age. Only 1, Lisle War-
burton, am of the nineteenth century
among all these ancient things.
How ahall I contrive to live here, day
after day and week after week, with no
company but the company of four old wo-
men, the youngest of whom is sixtyfive?
I have scarcely had time to realize what my
life here will be yet, but as , I brush my
curly yellow looks before the dim old glass
now I begin to think it will be very dread-
ful if some companion of my own age does
not soon put in an appearance. I shall
very soon grow tired of the still dreamy
quiet of the old house, with its musty -
smelling room and passages, its lawn green
with moss, its sunny old-world garden, its
ancient ivied elms and oaks and chestnuts,
shutting it in from the dusty -white high
road.
I lunch by :myself on bread and jam and
a tumbler of milk, while Aunt Anna writes
away in one of the windows, and Aunt Em-
ily busies herself with some plants growing
in pots in the other. Aunt Theodosia is
working in her garden—I had left her there,
in her brown linen apron and gardening -
gloves, when I set out to pay my visit to
old Mollie—I believe aunt Anohoretta is in
her own room. She spends a great deal of
her time there, putting her wardrobe and
drawers in order, though it puzzles me to
think what ever disarranges them.
Shall. I grow into an old woman like aunt
Anna ? I wonder, as I look at her across
the table—an old woman in a mob cap and
black shawl, with spectacles on her nose,
and black mittens on her hands, and a
plain little foxy face. It is not a pleasant
idea, and either it or the cold milk I am
drinking makes me shiver a little. .And yet
Aunt Anna is a good woman—I may be
thankful if my latter end is like hers—
even if she has a wizened little foxy face.
"Mrs. Rutherford drove up to see you
just now, Lisle, on her way to Longhurat,"
aunt Emily says, while she picks dead
leaves from her geraniums.
"Mrs. Rutherford ?"
"Mrs. Rutherford of Velry."
"But I don't know anything about Mrs.
Rutherford."•
"My dear Lisle, Mrs. Rutherford is your
godmother," aunt Anna says severely ;
"Never say again that you don't know any-
ting
nyting about her,"
"I am sure I did not know that, aunt
Anna."
"You ought to have known it, my dear."
"I never heard that I had any godmoth-
er."
Aunt Anna takes off her spectacles to
stare at me.
"Never knew you had any godmother,
Lisle 2" she repeat, in a shocked voice.
"How should I know ? Madame Poirotte
did not know, or I suppose she would have
told me, Not that I didn't get on just as
well without them. I never oonld see what
good it did people to have godmothers.
There was one girl at the school whose god-
mother always sent her a great box of
drageea and chocolate on her birthday, but
she was an exception."
"The child is a perfect heathen 1" aunt
Anna ejaculates, looking over at aunt
Emily.
"I never approved of sending her to that
French school," aunt Emily says, shaking
her head. "Well, Lisle, you are so fortun-
ate as to pees eon two godmothers—Mrs.
Rutherford of Volfry and myself, Mrs.
Rutherford was very fond of your poor
dear mother, and asked to be allowed to
stand for you when she heard you were a
girl
"What is she like 1" I ask, more interest-
ed in the fact that she was fond of my
mother than that nhe had asked to be al-
lowed to stand for nle,
"She is a most charming person. I think
her second son is very like her in appear-
ance. But both her eldest son and her
daughter are very plain."
"Why does Mollie call Mr. Rutherford
'poor Mr. Ralph' ?"
"Beeauee he lost his wife and his little
baby, poor fellow, within a week of each
other."
"But isn't he quite young 2"
"Oh, yes ; not more than two or three
and thirty."
"Then he can very easily get another
wife 1" I remark cynically, helping myself
to some more aprioot preserve.
(TO BE CONTINUED,
Death of the Old Wife.
She had lain all day in a stupor, breathing
with heavily laden breath ; but as the sun
sank to rest in the far -oft western sky, and
the glow on the wall of the room faded into
dense shadows, she awoke and called feebly
to her aged partner who sat motionless by
the bedside ; he bent over his dying wife
and took her wan wrinkled hand in his.
" Is it night?" she asked in tremulous tones,
looking at him with eyes that saw not.
" Yes," he answered softly, " it is growing
dark." " Whore are the children ?" she
queried; "are they all in ?"
Poor, old man 1 how could he answer her;
the children who had alept for long years
in the old church-yard—who had out -lived
ohildhood and borne the heat and burden of
the day, . and, growing old, had laid down
the cross and gone to wear the crown before
the old father and mother had finished their
sojourn.
"The children are safe," 'answered thew.%)
old man ; " don't think of them, Janet ;
think of yourself ; does the way seem dark?"
"' My trust is in Thee ; let me never be
confounded.' What does It matter if the
way is dark ? 'I'd rather walk with
God in the dark than walk alone in the
light. I'd rather walk with Him by faith
than walk alone by sight.' John, where's
little Charlie ?", she asked. Her mind was
again in the past. The grave dust of twenty
yeards had lain on Charlie's golden hair,
but the mother had never forgotten hire.
The old man patted her cold hands—hands
that had labored so hard that they were
seamed and wrinkled and calloused with
years of toil, and the wedding ring was
worn to a mere thread of gold—and then he
pressed his thin lips to them and Dried. She
had encouraged and strengthened him in
every toil of life. Why what a woman she
had been 1 What a worker 1 What a leader
in Israel ! Always with the gift of prayer
or service. They had stood at many a
death -bed together—closed the eyes of loved
ones, and then sat down with the Bible be-
tween them to read the promises. Now she
was about to cross the dark river alone.
And it was strange and sad to the old man,
and the yellow -haired grand -daughter left
them, to her babble of walks in the woods
and gathering May fl .veers, and strolling
with John ; of petty household cares that
she had always put down with a strong reso-
lute hand ; of wedding festivals and death-
bed triumphs ; and when at midnight she
heard the bridegroom's voice, and the old
man bending over her, cried pitifully, and
the young grand -daughter kissed her pale
brow, there was a solemn joy in her voice
as she spake the names of her children, one
by one, as if she saw them with immortal
eyes, and with one glad smile put on immor-
tality.
They led the old man sobbing away, and
when he saw her again the sun was shining,
the air was jubliant with the songs of birds,
and she lay asleep on the couch under the
north window where he had seen her so
often lie down to rest, while waiting for the
Sabbath bell. And she wore the same best
black silk, and the string of gold beads
about her neck, and the folds of white tulle,
only now the brooch with his miniature
was wanting, and in its place was a white
rose, and a spray of cedar ; she had loved
cedar—she had loved to sing over her
work :—
" Ob, may, I in HIs courts be seen
Like a young cedar, fresh and green."
But what a strange transformation was
there 1 The wrinkles were gone. The traces
of age, and pain, and weariness were al
smoothed out ; the face had grown strangely
young, and a placid smile was laid on the
pale lips. The old man was awed by the
likeness to the bride of hie youth. He kiss-
ed the unresponsive lips, and said softly :—
" You've found heaven first, Janet ; but
you'll come for me soon. It's our first part-
ing in over seventy years; but it won't be
for long—it won't be for long." And it
was not, The winter snows have not fallen,
and to -day would have been their diamond
wedding. We had planned much for it,
and I wonder—I wonder—but no 1 Where
they are there is neither marriage, nor giv-
ing in marriage.
Some Original Proverbs. isii,
A white lie often makes a blaok eto ry
It's a poor musician who can't blow his own
trumpet. He who would eat the egg must
first break the shell. Every back has its
pack. Pens and ink out of roach avoid
many a breach. Look after your wife ;
never mind yearaelf, she'll look after you.
The present is the child of the past an d the
parent of the future, The want of money
is the root of much evil, Egotism is an al-
phabet with one letter. If you'd know a•
man's character, follow him home. Better
a line of sense than a page of nonsense. The
surest road to honor is to deserve it. Only
whisper scandal and its eoho is heard by
all, It's not the olook with tho loudest
tick that goes the beat. Sighs are poor
things to fly with, Home is tho rainbow of
life. Don't complain of the baker until you
have tasted his bread. They who live in a
worry invite death by hurry,