Oolie/II
II.
Now that I am fairly installed in my new home I intend to write a journal. I tried that once, and at the end of the month I found that, instead of writing my thoughts, I had only kept an account of the weather. Then I went to the other extreme and wrote myself into the belief that I had some deep trouble—I didn't know exactly what—and I was dying of heart-disease. Now I am just going to write whatever I see or hear or do or feel.
I have a charming old chintz chair in the corner by the window, where I can look straight into a robin's nest and catch glimpses now and then of the distant hills. By the window at the back of the room is my writing and study table, for I entered to study German in earnest. This window looks out on the stretched meadow back of the house, the lane, the granary, and close by the back-door, where shining pans and turned-up pails are ranged for drying. I haven't found who Oolie is yet. Some Dutch maid of all work, I suppose.
June 10.
I was wondering what I should put in my journal, after I had indulged in a long reverie by the apple-tree window, and concluded to write about the interesting bird family I had adopted, and sat down by the window for that purpose. And then I saw her, and I didn't care to write about the birds. Two days had passed very nicely. Mrs. Austin was a pale, wan-faced woman, with great eyes and a quantity of black hair, hardly tinged with gray, coiled at the back of a well-shaped head. A strange-looking woman, wild yet touchingly sad. She spoke very little, and then in a hurried, nervous way, while her hand shook the cup which she handed me until it rattled. She had a glancing, fearful look, and seemed ill at ease. Nervous, I suppose, as that is the solution of all puzzling matters in regard to women.
"I haven't seen your little girl yet," I remarked, at breakfast-time.
"No, Sir; she was quite busy this morning."
"Ah, does she go to school?"
"Oh no, Sir. She went last year to the boarding-school, but she is to stay home this summer. Education is very expensive."
And he sighed as he ran from the table. I came to my room and indulged in that long two hours' reverie I mentioned, ere I adjourned to the window overlooking the yard at the back of the house. Under the cherry-trees was an ironing-table, a basket with clothes, and a charcoal-furnace for heating the irons. Leaning back against the tree stood a young girl about sixteen fanning her heated face with her sun-bonnet. She was slender, and wore a clean but faded calico that yet looked comely fitted to such a rounded shape. Her hair was thrown back from her face and held by a net over its rebellious waves. Her lips and cheeks were crimson, and the low brow was just wrinkled by a contraction of pain or annoyance that deepened as Mrs. Austin's voice called shrilly and in excited tones,
"Oolie, Oolie!"
"Yes, mother."
And the little hand dashed off a tear as she answered the summons. Then I heard querulous complaining and entreaty until the girl came out again and resumed her work. This, then, was "Oolie"—this beautiful girl so poorly clad, so overtasked was the little daughter John Austin spoke of. It was clear now; they had no servant, and this poor child was struggling with hard work, with poverty, and, worse than all, with pride. She bent over her task, and as she took up a hot iron in her slender hand and held it near her cheek to test its warmth, a great tear rolled hissing over it.
Presently John Austin came toiling up the lane, and it was beautiful to see the look of tenderness steal over her face as she looked at his weary gait and bowed head. I did not hear what she said to him, but he looked proud and happy, and was just turning away when Oolie called, softly,
"Father!"
I judged she asked for something to buy a new dress as she pointed to the miserable one she wore, saying, "Only a plain calico, father"; and pushed her hair back with a timid gesture. The old, tattered pocket-book that John Austin took out I shall never forget, nor the small store from which he took a bill, putting it in the girl's hand, saying all the while,
"Yes, yes, little girl, you must have a new frock—you have waited a long while for it; a good girl, my little Oolie. I wish father could hire help and dress you like a lady. Poor Oolie!"
And he laid his hand a moment on her head. Neither noticed that there fell a slip of printed paper from the pocket-book just where they had been standing.
Unwilling that they should know that I had heard their conversation, yet fearful that the paper might be of consequence, I was yet undecided whether to call their attention to it or no, when Mrs. Austin came out with a pan in her hand, and turning toward the row of currant bushes at the top of the garden, passed the spot where the paper lay. She stooped to pick it up, and then rose such a wild scream as I had never heard before. Oolie rushed to her side and tried to soothe her with gentle words and caresses, clenching the paper in her hand. And now while I write I hear the faint sounds of her voice muttering and incoherent, can even hear a word or two of entreaty and of denial in Oolie's clear sweet tones.
"You are cruel, Oolie, when you can give me peace and rest. You don't know what sorrow is."
"Oh, mother dear, I can not, I must not, for your dear sake I must not;" and then the tones are too low to distinguish any thing further until I hear Oolie say, "This once, mother; I'll go to-morrow." And after that the house is still; I hear John Austin's heavy step go to and fro on the gravel-walk for two long hours, and then the girl's light step is falling there, too.
What is the sorrow of this household? What shadow is in the depth of Oolie's great solemn, beautiful eyes? What trouble bows this strong man so? Will I ever know?
June 11.
I have been to the village to-day to make arrangements with the lumber merchant for timber and hands to lay the bridge. Farmer Austin has a sober old horse and a box-wagon which are at my service. Breakfast passed without any allusion to the scene of the last evening, but Mrs. Austin was absent. Oolie was very, very pale, and John Austin ate but sparely of the breakfast before him. After breakfast he asked me if I would object to allowing Oolie to ride to town with me, as it was rather warm to walk to and fro.
Of course I was glad to have the girl's company, and we jogged on as though we had been friends all our life. She was very shy and very much afraid of me, and sat with her head half turned away, so I could not help seeing the pretty outline from the low fair forehead and sweeping lashes of the dimpled chin, nor fail to note how the brown gold of her hair shone through the meshes of her net. I don't think she looked at me three times in all the three mile journey, but she told me of her school and her studies; what books she liked; where the great ferns grew wildest on Greyrock, and the fringed gentian in the meadow lot. And then she said she could drive, and I left the rein in the little hands for a long mile.
It was a pleasant journey, but I don't quite know why she should be talking so earnestly to that tall druggist clerk when I stopped for her in the village. Her face was flushed, and she was speaking low but rapidly as I came up. She only said good-by to him as we came away; but I glanced over my shoulder to see him leaning his head on his hand looking after her with a strangely pitying gaze.
She looked up at me and said, "I am ready, Sir," and so we passed out. I had expected to find her with the new dress purchased which she had asked for, but saw no bundle, nor did she seem to think of any. Mrs. Austin stood in the doorway at our return, with a large shawl wrapped about her as though she had been waiting a long time. I heard her whisper eagerly, "Did you see him!" and I heard Oolie answer, with an accent of utter weariness, "Yes, mother," and then pass in the house.
And so the tea-hour passed and the stars came out and all the house was still, leaving me seated at the window full of pity for this young girl so shy and yet so frank, with this strange burden of sorrow and care that makes her old and grave. I almost wonder if she can be gay, or sing little songs, or laugh merrily as other girls do. She is very beautiful too; a genuine wild flower in this spot.
I who have seen so much of the world, am so much older and wiser in its ways, must try to help and cheer this little girl, and perhaps can do her good. I hope I should do the same if she were ugly and passé; I don't know.
Pshaw! she is only a child, and I intend to treat her in a kind, fatherly way, and so win her confidence. Her fine mind should not be allowed to run riot or to rust out. I'll—
June 30.
I feel somewhat happier than I did two weeks ago, for I have carried out my plan; and, unlike men in general, I do dearly love to have my own way. I made a lame pretense of being very anxious to aid the daughter of an old colored servant once in our family—a widow with one child. Then I made another pretense of being very anxious to have my washing done in the house, and by this woman. So after some little difficulty I was allowed to engage black Nancy ostensibly as my servant, to receive wages from me, but in reality to do the work of the household. How happy I felt when I saw those strong tawny arms lifting the heavy burdens that Oolie shall bear no more if I can help it! Not that I feel any special interest in her, except for her youth so clouded by circumstances . . .
I am going to give her German lessons—indeed have made a good commencement. Light labor with such a pupil. I called her Miss Oolie at first, but she gravely told me her name was Olive—that an aunt of her father's from England gave her the title. She pronounced her words strangely, and seeing my big eyes, "When I was a baby," she said, "I looked like a little owlet, and brother Launt thought it was very funny to call me 'owlet,' and so it came to 'Oolie,' and now every one knows my name, Launt always called me so."
My scholar was sitting on the porch when she told me this, flushing up crimson all the while.
"And your brother, Miss Oolie—have you lost him?"
A shadow came over her face, and she did not answer at first, then spoke a little huskily.
"Yes, we lost him," and hurried to ask a question in the lesson then in progress.
I am trying to make this girl's life a little brighter, to chase away whatever gloom there is in her lot. Sometimes I think I have succeeded, but again I find myself quite baffled. She makes no complaint and gives no confidence, but now and then a grateful word lets me know that she sees my wish and object. I fancy her mother must be a source of great sorrow in some way to me unknown. I have never learned anything of the incident of the paper which seemed to hold such sorrowful tidings for Mrs. Austin; but I fancy that it might have been a notice of her son's death, and this acting on a morbid nature probably produced the result I had seen.