Glengarry Schooldays [49]
with a vague fear. But it was not the pain of the wound that had wrought that sweet, pathetic look into the little woman's face, but the deeper pain she carried in her heart for those she loved better than herself.
The mother's sickness brought many changes into the household, but the most striking of all the changes was that wrought in the slow and stolid Thomas. The father and Billy Jack were busy with the farm matters outside, upon little Jessac, now a girl of twelve years, fell the care of the house, but it was Thomas that, with the assistance of a neighbor at first, but afterwards alone, waited on his mother, dressing the wound and nursing her. These weeks of watching and nursing had wrought in him the subtle change that stirred Mrs. Murray's heart as she looked at him that day, and that made even Hughie wonder. For one thing his tongue was loosed, and Thomas talked to his mother of all that he had seen and heard on the way to the Cameron's and back, making much of his little visit to the manse, and of Mrs. Murray's kindness, and enlarging upon her promised visit, and all with such brightness and picturesqueness of speech that Hughie listened amazed. For all the years he had known Thomas he had never heard from his lips so many words as in the last few minutes of talk with his mother. Then, too, Thomas seemed to have found his fingers, for no woman could have arranged more deftly and with gentler touch the cushions at his mother's back, and no nurse could have measured out the medicine and prepared her egg-nog with greater skill. Hughie could hardly believe his eyes and ears. Was this Thomas the stolid, the clumsy, the heavy- handed, this big fellow with the quick tongue and the clever, gentle hand?
Meantime Jessac had set upon the table a large pitcher of rich milk, with oat cakes and butter, and honey in the comb.
"Now, Hughie, lad, draw in and help yourself. You and Thomas will be too hungry to wait for supper," said the mother. And Hughie, protesting politely that he was not very hungry, proceeded to establish the contrary, to the great satisfaction of himself and the others.
"Now, Thomas," said the mother, "we had better cut the seed."
"Indeed, and not a seed will you cut, mother," said Thomas, emphatically. "You may boss the job, though. I'll bring the potatoes to the back door." And this he did, thinking it no trouble to hitch up the team to draw the wagon into the back yard so that his mother might have a part in the cutting of the seed potatoes, as she had had every year of her life on the farm.
Very carefully, and in spite of her protests that she could walk quite well, Thomas carried his mother out to her chair in the shade of the house, arranging with tender solicitude the pillows at her back and the rug at her feet. Then they set to work at the potatoes.
"Mind you have two eyes in every seed, Hughie," said Jessac, severely.
"Huh! I know. I've cut them often enough," replied Hughie, scornfully.
"Well, look at that one, now," said Jessac, picking up a seed that Hughie had let fall; "that's only got one eye."
"There's two," said Hughie, triumphantly.
"That's not an eye," said Jessac, pointing to a mark on the potato; "that's where the top grew out of, isn't it, mother?"
"It is, isn't it?" appealed Hughie.
Mrs. Finch took the seed and looked at it.
"Well, there's one very good eye, and that will do."
"But isn't that the mark of the top, mother?" insisted Jessac. But the mother only shook her head at her.
"That's right, Jessac," said Thomas, driving off with his team; "you look after Hughie, and mother will look after you both till I get back, and there'll be a grand crop this year."
It was a happy hour for them all. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun filled the air with a genial warmth. A little breeze bore from the orchard near by a fragrance of apple-blossoms. A matronly hen, tethered by the leg to her coop, raised indignant protest against the outrage on her personal liberty, or clucked and crooned her invitations, counsels, warnings,
The mother's sickness brought many changes into the household, but the most striking of all the changes was that wrought in the slow and stolid Thomas. The father and Billy Jack were busy with the farm matters outside, upon little Jessac, now a girl of twelve years, fell the care of the house, but it was Thomas that, with the assistance of a neighbor at first, but afterwards alone, waited on his mother, dressing the wound and nursing her. These weeks of watching and nursing had wrought in him the subtle change that stirred Mrs. Murray's heart as she looked at him that day, and that made even Hughie wonder. For one thing his tongue was loosed, and Thomas talked to his mother of all that he had seen and heard on the way to the Cameron's and back, making much of his little visit to the manse, and of Mrs. Murray's kindness, and enlarging upon her promised visit, and all with such brightness and picturesqueness of speech that Hughie listened amazed. For all the years he had known Thomas he had never heard from his lips so many words as in the last few minutes of talk with his mother. Then, too, Thomas seemed to have found his fingers, for no woman could have arranged more deftly and with gentler touch the cushions at his mother's back, and no nurse could have measured out the medicine and prepared her egg-nog with greater skill. Hughie could hardly believe his eyes and ears. Was this Thomas the stolid, the clumsy, the heavy- handed, this big fellow with the quick tongue and the clever, gentle hand?
Meantime Jessac had set upon the table a large pitcher of rich milk, with oat cakes and butter, and honey in the comb.
"Now, Hughie, lad, draw in and help yourself. You and Thomas will be too hungry to wait for supper," said the mother. And Hughie, protesting politely that he was not very hungry, proceeded to establish the contrary, to the great satisfaction of himself and the others.
"Now, Thomas," said the mother, "we had better cut the seed."
"Indeed, and not a seed will you cut, mother," said Thomas, emphatically. "You may boss the job, though. I'll bring the potatoes to the back door." And this he did, thinking it no trouble to hitch up the team to draw the wagon into the back yard so that his mother might have a part in the cutting of the seed potatoes, as she had had every year of her life on the farm.
Very carefully, and in spite of her protests that she could walk quite well, Thomas carried his mother out to her chair in the shade of the house, arranging with tender solicitude the pillows at her back and the rug at her feet. Then they set to work at the potatoes.
"Mind you have two eyes in every seed, Hughie," said Jessac, severely.
"Huh! I know. I've cut them often enough," replied Hughie, scornfully.
"Well, look at that one, now," said Jessac, picking up a seed that Hughie had let fall; "that's only got one eye."
"There's two," said Hughie, triumphantly.
"That's not an eye," said Jessac, pointing to a mark on the potato; "that's where the top grew out of, isn't it, mother?"
"It is, isn't it?" appealed Hughie.
Mrs. Finch took the seed and looked at it.
"Well, there's one very good eye, and that will do."
"But isn't that the mark of the top, mother?" insisted Jessac. But the mother only shook her head at her.
"That's right, Jessac," said Thomas, driving off with his team; "you look after Hughie, and mother will look after you both till I get back, and there'll be a grand crop this year."
It was a happy hour for them all. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun filled the air with a genial warmth. A little breeze bore from the orchard near by a fragrance of apple-blossoms. A matronly hen, tethered by the leg to her coop, raised indignant protest against the outrage on her personal liberty, or clucked and crooned her invitations, counsels, warnings,