Chapter 10
CHARMS AND PICTURES
The task of adjusting herself to country life was an all-engrossing one to Rebecca. She realized the importance of trying, if not to please the aunts, at least to get along without angering them; but more important than anything else was to find out everything connected with the creatures on the farm. She soon knew all of the animals on the place, and, if one happened not to have a name, she immediately christened it. She made friends with the colored people, who adored her.
The little girl longed to follow Spottswood, as he went about his daily business, but his cold manner held her back. Her aunts were equally distant, albeit they made a ladylike show of politeness to the little waif. They spoke often of filial duty compelling them to respect the wishes of their father in regard to his "so-called grandchild." Evelyn remembered her in her prayers night and morning and Myra undertook to teach her to crochet, each lady thereby feeling that she was discharging her full and Christian duty to the child.
To be sure, they laid down certain rules of conduct for Rebecca which they endeavored to enforce. She must come to meals on time; she must wear a sunbonnet; she must learn the catechism; she must say "Yes, ma'm," and "No, ma'm," "Yes, sir" and "No, sir," when older persons questioned her; she must never loll in her chair, but sit bolt upright as became one who aspired to become a gentlewoman; she must master the difference in pronunciation between to and too if she wished to be considered a Virginian or even the descendant of one. Every Virginian worthy of consideration must know that t-o-o was pronounced two, and t-o was pronounced tow.
There were many other petty rules, and Rebecca found them all difficult to keep. To be on time at meals was the most difficult of all and the one rule about which the aunts were the most particular. Meals had always been uncertain affairs in the studio on West Tenth Street. There they ate when they were hungry. This thing of three meals, sitting down solemnly to a table; making a rite of breakfast, dinner and supper, was irksome as well as amusing to the little creature, strayed from Bohemia. In spite of the pleasure she took in the plentiful, wholesome food and Aunt Testy's wonderful cooking, Rebecca often longed for the one privilege of crackers and tea, curled up on the divan, while she read thrilling stories recommended by Daddy, and where the only formality was blowing the crumbs away.
Evelyn and Myra were not inclined to correct Rebecca in their father's presence, but they never forgot to point out the error of her ways when they were alone with her. For herself, the child made it a point to be left alone with them as seldom as possible. They highly disapproved of her intimacy with the colored persons on the farm, but Major Taylor vetoed their objections and openly declared that his granddaughter was to see as much of Aunt Pearly Gates as she desired, and he himself took her to the mill and put her in the especial care of old Si Johnson. There she spent many happy hours, listening to the splash of the mill wheel and the hum of the simple machinery, with Brer Johnson expounding the scriptures the while.
All of her frets and worries Rebecca took to Aunt Pearly Gates. And to every childish problem the old woman gave earnest attention, doing all in her power to help the little orphan over the rough places. A day never passed that Rebecca did not visit the cabin. She often met Jo Bolling there. Sometimes she found him waiting for her at the ford. She knew he was waiting for her, although the boy always pretended to be much astonished that she should be coming that way just when he happened to be sitting on the roof of Faithful Heart's house. He would cross the little river by means of a huge sycamore tree that had fallen across it not far from the mouth of the stream that worked the hydraulic ram. Sometimes he would climb a willow tree, hiding from her until she was in midstream, jumping from stone to stone, and then he would suddenly call out like a screech owl, and be highly delighted if Rebecca should start with fright and slip into the shallow water, wetting her little shoes.
Jo taught her many things besides how to bluff a cowardly ram; lore that is almost instinctive knowledge with children born in the country. She drank in the information greedily, taking in all Jo told her as shining truth. Sometimes his biology was a little sketchy, but always it was wonderful to the city-bred child.
"Does a springkeeper make the water pure and clear, Jo?" she asked wonderingly, as he showed her a strange-looking, crawfish-like creature.
"Yes, indeed, and we'd have all kinds of typhoid fever and things if it wasn't for these here—these springkeepers," declared the boy. Rebecca continued the policy adopted at their first meeting, that of correcting his uncouth English.
"It seems like a fairy to me—one that has been changed into a hideous form by some old witch and can only resume its beautiful form after having purified gallons and gallons of water," she said.
Jo laughed. "I reckon there ain't much fairy about this old bug."
"Ain't, Jo?"
"Well, isn't, then!"
"Jo, do you mind when I pick on you? I'll stop it if you do."
"No, I kinder like it. I don't 'low Betsy to do it. I reckon it's because she's got a right to."
"Maybe that's the reason I hate to have Aunt Evelyn and Aunt Myra correcting me so much. Perhaps they have a right to. They certainly do exercise their rights pretty freely. I wonder if they want me to be like them! Now I pick on you so you will get to be more like Mr. Philip."
"That's the reason I don't mind so much. I tell you my brother Philip is some humdinger! Things are sure different since he got back. I believe old Mam' Peachy is skairt of him. Betsy gave her some kind of dope about Philip's being a better conjerer than what she is, and she's got the old woman a guessing. Betsy told me to tell you she's making some gingerbread and if you come over she'll have it just about baked and we can mix up some lemonade. I've got your photograph done, too. It's the one I took the time the ol' ram got you going. Philip helped me develop it."
"Oh, goody! Of course I'll come. The aunts have gone calling, so I won't have to ask them. They'd say no if they were home, so, thank goodness, they are off."
They crossed the river on the coon bridge, Rebecca removing her shoes and stockings for the difficult feat of making a safe passage on the slippery sycamore tree.
"Grip the bark with your toe nails," warned Jo. "I let mine grow long a purpose."
"I'd love to go barefoot all the time," sighed Rebecca, "but the aunts were so shocked when I suggested it anyone would think I had already committed a great sin. They talked about birth and breeding until grandfather and I got bored stiff. He made them mad by saying he guessed they were born barefoot for that matter, and as for breeding, they must have been bred from Eve and she certainly is always pictured as barefooted. Anyhow, it hurts my feet terribly to walk on rough places without my shoes and stockings. I don't see how you do it."
"I just scrooch up my toes this way and the stubble and pebbles and things don't touch the tender part o' my soles. I hate shoes. I reckon I'll have to wear 'em all the time when I get to be a man."
Rebecca was not often allowed to visit at The Hedges. The aunts disapproved of her association with the Bollings even more than with the negroes, but when she appealed to her grandfather for the privilege of an occasional call on her friends he consented, not that he was desirous of an intimacy between the families, but he could not but acknowledge the kindness shown Rebecca by Philip Bolling, and also he took a certain pleasure in treading on the aristocratic toes of his lady daughters.
So Rebecca was allowed an occasional trip across the river. She took a few more than her aunts were aware of, but she always confessed to her grandfather when her desire for companionship became too strong for her, and he laughingly absolved her for sneaking off without the knowledge of her feminine mentors.
She was ever a welcome guest at The Hedges. Elizabeth liked the child for herself, and would have been kind to her because of Philip's interest in her and because she could not but see the good influence the little girl was having on Jo, who before the advent of Rebecca had become more and more difficult to manage, rough and coarse in his manner of speech and with a tendency to untidiness that Elizabeth dreaded more than anything else. Betsy, in spite of several years difference in their ages, found the little New York waif interesting and congenial. She liked to hear her talk about the wonders of the city, her life in the studio, visits to Coney Island and the Bronx Zoo; but also above all did Betsy like to listen to her little friend when she waxed enthusiastic concerning the manly beauty of her Uncle Spottswood.
Even Aunt Peachy was polite to Rebecca, but with a cringing and unctuous manner that her mistress and Betsy well understood meant she hated the child as she did all of the Taylors and those connected with Mill House.
Rebecca was fascinated by the strange ugliness of Aunt Peachy. She had no fear of her, but felt instinctively that she was evil.
"An' how is the pretty lil' missy ter-day?" whined the old woman. "I 'lowed we wa' gonter have callers when I seen that there Betsy a stirrin' up sumpen. Is all yo' folks well?"
"Grandfather was complaining of a little rheumatism," answered Rebecca.
"Too bad! Too bad!" said Aunt Peachy, but there was a malevolent gleam in her rat-like eyes. "He must be a gittin' ol'. I had a touch er rheumatiz myself goin' on thirty years ago, but I done outgrowed it. I mus' fix up a poultice fer the po' ol' man."
"Oh, thank you very much, but I doubt Grandfather's using it. He is so opposed to medicines and liniments."
"This here is a charm poultice I's gonter sen' him," insisted Aunt Peachy.
"Oh, you old crazy," broke in Jo. "Major Taylor ain't gonter touch your bad-smelling stuff with a ten-foot pole."
"But it is very kind of you," insisted Rebecca politely, looking at Jo reproachfully. "Where are the photographs you promised to show me, Jo?"
"Here they are, an' I printed off two for you, two of every kind. This is the way you looked when you peeped over the wall at me. The light wasn't so strong, but it is pretty good anyhow."
"Le' me see! Le' me see!" whimpered Aunt Peachy, who was never satisfied unless she was included in everything. "Is that there the pretty lil' missy? Laws-a-mussy, but I'd be proud ter own one er these here tintypes."
"Would you, really?" asked Rebecca. "If Jo gives me two I will give you one of them. That is, if he will print me another for Aunt Pearly Gates. There is nobody else who would care much for a picture of me, nobody in Virginia, at least."
"Thank yer! Thank yer!" muttered the old woman, clutching the little print eagerly and poring over it with half-closed eyes. "I'll keep good keer of it, never fear."
"Well, don't try any hoodoo monkey shines with it," commanded Jo.
"Me! Laws-a-mussy, lil' Jo, you done fergit I's a chu'ch mimber in good standin'. I ain't up ter no sich tricks."
"Well, how about that charm poultice, then?" parried Jo, with a grin.
"I wa' jes' a foolin' 'bout that. My poultices air jes' made er good fresh yarbs. I gonter git a frame fer this here tintype."
The old woman clasped the picture tightly and glided from the kitchen, leering at Rebecca as she went.
"Isn't she a funny old thing" Rebecca said to Betsy, who was taking the pans of gingerbread from the oven.
"Yes, she is funny, but I reckon she is too old to do any harm now," laughed Betsy. "She worries Mother and Philip to death, but I never bother my head about her. Philip has got the upper hand of her now and sometimes I almost feel sorry for the poor old rat."