Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/572

 . 16, 1861.] “Good evening, Mrs. Wendell; I’ll expect Miss Lennox’s answer to-morrow.”

“He seems to bother himself considerable about Miss Lennox,” said Mrs. Wendell to herself as she walked home, “and he‘s not the sort that ever does anything from pure kindness. Well, I guess it ain’t no matter. She’s not for him, at any rate, whoever she’s for.”

gladly accepted Mr. Hubbs’s offer about her watch, on condition that he agreed to make it altogether a business transaction, and kept for himself such a profit for his share in the matter, as he would have claimed from a perfect stranger. Finding that she would not entrust him with the watch on any other terms, Mr. Hubbs consented to do as she wished, though rather disappointed that she would not permit him to prove his disinterested desire to serve her; and then was somewhat consoled by learning from Mrs. Wendell that she was willing to undertake the District School if the people thought she would suit them. It was not without some timidity and hesitation that she had determined to do so, for she dreaded being obliged in that situation to come constantly in contact with people, whose rough and boisterous manners she could not help feeling repulsive and disagreeable; but it was some comfort to her to find that Mrs. Prior and her daughter, with whom Mr. Hubbs proposed she should board, were two quiet, elderly people, who held very little communication with their neighbours; and who, if not refined exactly according to the highest standard, shrank from anything morally coarse, or degrading, as much as she could do. Accordingly she sent her watch and chain to Mr. Hubbs, and begged Mrs. Wendell to lay part out of the ten pounds she was to receive from him, in such articles as she required, at his store.

After this, two or three days passed without her hearing anything more either of the school, or of Mr. Hubbs; but at the end of the week, she received a note from that gentleman, evidently written with very great care, informing her that she had been appointed school teacher, and begging to know if she would be ready to open school on the following Monday.

Towards sunset that evening, Helen took her knitting to the orchard, and sat down on a pretty rustic seat, made by Keefe from the roots of an old cherry tree, unrooted by the storm. He had trained a wild vine round it, which had grown luxuriantly, and now shed a most delicious fragrance from its thick blossoms.

Helen sat in the shadow of the vine leaves, and the sun‘s slanting rays fell softly at her feet, dancing round them as the leaves stirred in the light breeze. As the sun dropped nearer the horizon’s edge, a few light vapours floating in the purple heaven were tinted by his radiance with the most gorgeous hues; and they, in turn, shared their borrowed splendour with the earth beneath.

Crimson and golden lights were mixed with soft purple shadows, blending in one another, and the subtle influence of the sweet evening dew, though scarcely to be seen or felt, woke in every flower, and aromatic herb, those delicious perfumes which lie folded in their beds during the scorching hours of day. Just opposite to her seat, the bees were returning to their homes from their daily work. Their low, monotonous humming had:1 pleasant soothing sound to the car, like the quiet rippling of waters, the falling of sun showers on the thick leaves, or the cooing of doves among the trees, lulling the senses into a blissful dreamy reverie.

As she sat, Helen let her knitting drop idly on her lap, and her thoughts wander at will. So unconscious was she of anything but the scenes in which her fancy was roaming, that Keefe stood close at her side before she knew that he was near. He brought her a bunch of sweet wood-lilies, and Goldsmith’s poems, which they had been talking about the preceding day. She praised the sweetness of the flowers, and fastened them in her dress; then opening the book, she looked for her favourite “Deserted Village,” while Keefe threw himself on the grass at her feet, and they talked again of the poet so rich in fancy, and feeling, and poetic grace; so poor in all the prudent and practical faculties which make up what is called common sense, and who was a painful example that no genius, or goodness of heart, can prevent the laws which rule our physical well-being on earth from revenging themselves on those who slight them.

“Read me something,” said Helen, putting the book into Keefe’s hand.

“Edwin and Angelina” Keefe chose, for its sweet, natural simplicity, earnestness, and truth, found their way at once to his manly heart; for when the most elaborate and highly-wrought picture of fictitious, artificial emotions and sentiments will only move genuine, unsophisticated natures to ridicule and contempt; the simplest touch of real feeling never fails of finding from them a ready response. And never was there a more artless, honest, open son of nature than Goldsmith; therefore while there remain on earth hearts true to humanity, with all its virtues, its follies, and its weaknesses among them, will his writings be admired and loved. Helen sat watching the shadows flitting over the grass while Keefe read. He did not think of himself while he was reading, but of the tale he was telling, and he told it well; in such a manner as showed that he understood and felt its beauty. Helen was silent for a little while after he had finished then she said:

“Has Mrs. Wendell told you that I am going to teach the District School?”

Keefe started.

“You! “he exclaimed; “she told me nothing. What do you mean?”

Helen told him all about it, and he listened while she was speaking, with strong though suppressed emotion.

“But do you know what the children you are going to teach are?” he asked when she paused. “Dirty, rude, untractable; how will you endure them? Consider, too, the confinement, the weary, monotonous toil; you have no idea what it would be; it would be death to you.”