this was boy and girl love, calf love, perhaps, though even that may develop into something larger, truer, and finer; but not so far away were other and very different hearts growing and budding, each in its own way. there was little miss dearborn, the pretty school teacher, drifting into a foolish alliance because she did not agree with her stepmother at home; there was herbert dunn, valedictorian of his class, dazzled by huldah meserve, who like a glowworm “shone afar off bright, but looked at near, had neither heat nor light.”
there was sweet emily maxwell, less than thirty still, with most of her heart bestowed in the wrong quarter. she was toiling on at the wareham school, living as unselfish a life as a nun in a convent; lavishing the mind and soul of her, the heart and body of her, on her chosen work. how many women give themselves thus, consciously and unconsciously; and, though they themselves miss the joys and compensations of mothering their own little twos and threes, god must be grateful to them for their mothering of the hundreds which make them so precious in his regenerating purposes.
then there was adam ladd, waiting at thirty-five for a girl to grow a little older, simply because he could not find one already grown who suited his somewhat fastidious and exacting tastes.
“i'll not call rebecca perfection,” he quoted once, in a letter to emily maxwell,—“i'll not call her perfection, for that's a post, afraid to move. but she's a dancing sprig of the tree next it.”
when first she appeared on his aunt's piazza in north riverboro and insisted on selling him a large quantity of very inferior soap in order that her friends, the simpsons, might possess a premium in the shape of a greatly needed banquet lamp, she had riveted his attention. he thought all the time that he enjoyed talking with her more than with any woman alive, and he had never changed his opinion. she always caught what he said as if it were a ball tossed to her, and sometimes her mind, as through it his thoughts came back to him, seemed like a prism which had dyed them with deeper colors.
adam ladd always called rebecca in his heart his little spring. his boyhood had been lonely and unhappy. that was the part of life he had missed, and although it was the full summer of success and prosperity with him now, he found his lost youth only in her.
she was to him—how shall i describe it?
do you remember an early day in may with budding leaf, warm earth, tremulous air, and changing, willful sky—how new it seemed? how fresh and joyous beyond all explaining?
have you lain with half-closed eyes where the flickering of sunlight through young leaves, the song of birds and brook and the fragrance of wild flowers combined to charm your senses, and you felt the sweetness and grace of nature as never before?
rebecca was springtide to adam's thirsty heart. she was blithe youth incarnate; she was music—an aeolian harp that every passing breeze woke to some whispering little tune; she was a changing, iridescent joy-bubble; she was the shadow of a leaf dancing across a dusty floor. no bough of his thought could be so bare but she somehow built a nest in it and evoked life where none was before.
and rebecca herself?
she had been quite unconscious of all this until very lately, and even now she was but half awakened; searching among her childish instincts and her girlish dreams for some ariadne thread that should guide her safely through the labyrinth of her new sensations.
for the moment she was absorbed, or thought she was, in the little love story of abijah and emma jane, but in reality, had she realized it, that love story served chiefly as a basis of comparison for a possible one of her own, later on.
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 positively maternal, 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 instant sympathy 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!”
