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New Chronicles of Rebecca-Part30_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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She liked and respected Abijah Flagg, and loving Emma Jane was a



habit contracted early in life; but everything that they did or

said, or thought or wrote, or hoped or feared, seemed so



inadequate, so painfully short of what might be done or said, or

thought or written, or hoped or feared, under easily conceivable



circumstances, that she almost felt a disposition to smile gently

at the fancy of the ignorant young couple that they had caught a



glimpse of the great vision.

She was sitting under the sweet apple tree at twilight. Supper



was over; Mark's restless feet were quiet, Fanny and Jenny were

tucked safely in bed; her aunt and her mother were stemming



currants on the side porch.

A blue spot at one of the Perkins windows showed that in one



vestal bosom hope was not dead yet, although it was seven

o'clock.



Suddenly there was the sound of a horse's feet coming up the

quiet road; plainly a steed hired from some metropolis like



Milltown or Wareham, as Riverboro horses when through with their

day's work never disported themselves so gayly.



A little open vehicle came in sight, and in it sat Abijah Flagg.

The wagon was so freshly painted and so shiny that Rebecca



thought that he must have alighted at the bridge and given it a

last polish. The creases in his trousers, too, had an air of



having been pressed in only a few minutes before. The whip was

new and had a yellow ribbon on it; the gray suit of clothes was



new, and the coat flourished a flower in its button-hole. The hat

was the latest thing in hats, and the intrepid swain wore a



seal-ring on the little finger of his right hand. As Rebecca

remembered that she had guided it in making capital G's in his



copy-book, she felt positivelymaternal, although she was two

years younger than Abijah the Brave.



He drove up to the Perkins gate and was so long about hitching

the horse that Rebecca's heart beat tumultuously at the thought



of Emma Jane's heart waiting under the blue barege. Then he

brushed an imaginary speck off his sleeve, then he drew on a pair



of buff kid gloves, then he went up the path, rapped at the

knocker, and went in.



"Not all the heroes go to the wars," thought Rebecca. "Abijah has

laid the ghost of his father and redeemed the memory of his



mother, for no one will dare say again that Abbie Flagg's son

could never amount to anything!"



The minutes went by, and more minutes, and more. The tranquil

dusk settled down over the little village street and the young



moon came out just behind the top of the Perkins pine tree.

The Perkins front door opened and Abijah the Brave came out hand



in hand with his Fair Emma Jane.

They walked through the orchard, the eyes of the old couple



following them from the window, and just as they disappeared down

the green slope that led to the riverside the gray coat sleeve



encircled the blue barege waist.

Rebecca, quivering with instantsympathy and comprehension, hid



her face in her hands.

"Emmy has sailed away and I am all alone in the little harbor,"



she thought.

It was as if childhood, like a thing real and visible, were



slipping down the grassy river banks, after Abijah and Emma Jane,

and disappearing like them into the moon-lit shadows of the



summer night.

"I am all alone in the little harbor," she repeated; "and oh, I



wonder, I wonder, shall I be afraid to leave it, if anybody ever

comes to carry me out to sea!"



End



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