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she had never sung before, while Aunty Nan lay and listened beatifically, and
downstairs even Mrs. William held her breath, entranced by the exquisite melody that
floated through the old farmhouse.
"O, little Joscelyn!" breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the song ended.
Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old days. One by one they
recalled the memories of that vanished summer. The past gave up its tears and its
laughter. Heart and fancy alike went roaming through the ways of the long ago. Aunty
Nan was perfectly happy. And then Joscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and
triumphs since they had parted.
When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window, Aunty Nan put out her
hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head.
"Little Joscelyn," she whispered, "if it ain't asking too much, I want you to sing just one
other piece. Do you remember when you were here how we sung hymns in the parlour
every Sunday night, and my favourite always was 'The Sands of Time are Sinking?' I
ain't never forgot how you used to sing that, and I want to hear it just once again, dearie.
Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."
Joscelyn rose and went to the window. Lifting back the curtain, she stood in the
splendour of the moonlight, and sang the grand old hymn. At first Aunty Nan beat time
to it feebly on the counterpane; but when Joscelyn came to the verse, "With mercy and
with judgment," she folded her hands over her breast and smiled.
When the hymn ended, Joscelyn came over to the bed.
"I am afraid I must say good-bye now, Aunty Nan," she said.
Then she saw that Aunty Nan had fallen asleep. She would not waken her, but she took
from her breast the cluster of crimson roses she wore and slipped them gently between
the toil-worn fingers.
"Good-bye, dear, sweet mother-heart," she murmured.
Down-stairs she met Mrs. William splendid in rustling black silk, her broad, rubicund
face smiling, overflowing with apologies and welcomes, which Joscelyn cut short coldly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, but I cannot possibly stay longer. No, thank you, I don't care
for any refreshments. Jordan is going to take me back to Kensington at once. I came
out to see Aunty Nan." "I'm certain she'd be delighted," said Mrs. William effusively.
"She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Yes, it has made her very happy," said Joscelyn gravely. "And it has made me happy,
too. I love Aunty Nan, Mrs. Morrison, and I owe her much. In all my life I have never met
a woman so purely, unselfishly good and noble and true."
"Fancy now," said Mrs. William, rather overcome at hearing this great singer pronounce
such an encomium on quiet, timid old Aunty Nan.
Jordan drove Joscelyn back to Kensington; and up-stairs in her room Aunty Nan slept,
with that rapt smile on her face and Joscelyn's red roses in her hands. Thus it was that
Mrs. William found her, going in the next morning with her breakfast. The sunlight crept
over the pillow, lighting up the sweet old face and silver hair, and stealing downward to
the faded red roses on her breast. Smiling and peaceful and happy lay Aunty Nan, for
she had fallen on the sleep that knows no earthy wakening, while little Joscelyn sang.
V. The Winning of Lucinda
The marriage of a Penhallow was always the signal for a gathering of the Penhallows.
From the uttermost parts of the earth they would come--Penhallows by birth, and
Penhallows by marriage and Penhallows by ancestry. East Grafton was the ancient
habitat of the race, and Penhallow Grange, where "old" John Penhallow lived, was a
Mecca to them.
As for the family itself, the exact kinship of all its various branches and ramifications was
a hard thing to define. Old Uncle Julius Penhallow was looked upon as a veritable
wonder because he carried it all in his head and could tell on sight just what relation any
one Penhallow was to any other Penhallow. The rest made a blind guess at it, for the
most part, and the younger Penhallows let it go at loose cousinship.
In this instance it was Alice Penhallow, daughter of "young" John Penhallow, who was
to be married. Alice was a nice girl, but she and her wedding only pertain to this story in
so far as they furnish a background for Lucinda; hence nothing more need be said of
her.
On the afternoon of her wedding day--the Penhallows held to the good, old-fashioned
custom of evening weddings with a rousing dance afterwards--Penhallow Grange was
filled to overflowing with guests who had come there to have tea and rest themselves
before going down to "young" John's. Many of them had driven fifty miles. In the big
autumnal orchard the younger fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs, in
"old" Mrs. John's bedroom, she and her married daughters held high conclave. "Old"
John had established himself with his sons and sons-in-law in the parlour, and the three
daughters-in-law were making themselves at home in the blue sitting-room, ear-deep in
harmless family gossip. Lucinda and Romney Penhallow were also there.
Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and toasted her toes at the grate,
for the brilliant autumn afternoon was slightly chilly and Lucinda, as usual, had the
window open. She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most of the talking. Mrs.
George Penhallow being rather out of it by reason of her newness. She was George
Penhallow's second wife, married only a year. Hence, her contributions to the
conversation were rather spasmodic, hurled in, as it were, by dead reckoning, being
sometimes appropriate and sometimes savouring of a point of view not strictly
Penhallowesque.
Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the chatter of the women, with
the inscrutable smile that always vexed Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within
herself what he did there among the women. She also wondered just where he
belonged on the family tree. He was not one of the uncles, yet he could not be much
younger than George.
"Forty, if he is a day," was Mrs. George's mental dictum, "but a very handsome and
fascinating man. I never saw such a splendid chin and dimple."
Lucinda, with bronze-colored hair and the whitest of skins, defiant of merciless sunlight
and revelling in the crisp air, sat on the sill of the open window behind the crimson vine
leaves, looking out into the garden, where dahlias flamed and asters broke into waves [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl wyciskamy.pev.pl
she had never sung before, while Aunty Nan lay and listened beatifically, and
downstairs even Mrs. William held her breath, entranced by the exquisite melody that
floated through the old farmhouse.
"O, little Joscelyn!" breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the song ended.
Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old days. One by one they
recalled the memories of that vanished summer. The past gave up its tears and its
laughter. Heart and fancy alike went roaming through the ways of the long ago. Aunty
Nan was perfectly happy. And then Joscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and
triumphs since they had parted.
When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window, Aunty Nan put out her
hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head.
"Little Joscelyn," she whispered, "if it ain't asking too much, I want you to sing just one
other piece. Do you remember when you were here how we sung hymns in the parlour
every Sunday night, and my favourite always was 'The Sands of Time are Sinking?' I
ain't never forgot how you used to sing that, and I want to hear it just once again, dearie.
Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."
Joscelyn rose and went to the window. Lifting back the curtain, she stood in the
splendour of the moonlight, and sang the grand old hymn. At first Aunty Nan beat time
to it feebly on the counterpane; but when Joscelyn came to the verse, "With mercy and
with judgment," she folded her hands over her breast and smiled.
When the hymn ended, Joscelyn came over to the bed.
"I am afraid I must say good-bye now, Aunty Nan," she said.
Then she saw that Aunty Nan had fallen asleep. She would not waken her, but she took
from her breast the cluster of crimson roses she wore and slipped them gently between
the toil-worn fingers.
"Good-bye, dear, sweet mother-heart," she murmured.
Down-stairs she met Mrs. William splendid in rustling black silk, her broad, rubicund
face smiling, overflowing with apologies and welcomes, which Joscelyn cut short coldly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, but I cannot possibly stay longer. No, thank you, I don't care
for any refreshments. Jordan is going to take me back to Kensington at once. I came
out to see Aunty Nan." "I'm certain she'd be delighted," said Mrs. William effusively.
"She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Yes, it has made her very happy," said Joscelyn gravely. "And it has made me happy,
too. I love Aunty Nan, Mrs. Morrison, and I owe her much. In all my life I have never met
a woman so purely, unselfishly good and noble and true."
"Fancy now," said Mrs. William, rather overcome at hearing this great singer pronounce
such an encomium on quiet, timid old Aunty Nan.
Jordan drove Joscelyn back to Kensington; and up-stairs in her room Aunty Nan slept,
with that rapt smile on her face and Joscelyn's red roses in her hands. Thus it was that
Mrs. William found her, going in the next morning with her breakfast. The sunlight crept
over the pillow, lighting up the sweet old face and silver hair, and stealing downward to
the faded red roses on her breast. Smiling and peaceful and happy lay Aunty Nan, for
she had fallen on the sleep that knows no earthy wakening, while little Joscelyn sang.
V. The Winning of Lucinda
The marriage of a Penhallow was always the signal for a gathering of the Penhallows.
From the uttermost parts of the earth they would come--Penhallows by birth, and
Penhallows by marriage and Penhallows by ancestry. East Grafton was the ancient
habitat of the race, and Penhallow Grange, where "old" John Penhallow lived, was a
Mecca to them.
As for the family itself, the exact kinship of all its various branches and ramifications was
a hard thing to define. Old Uncle Julius Penhallow was looked upon as a veritable
wonder because he carried it all in his head and could tell on sight just what relation any
one Penhallow was to any other Penhallow. The rest made a blind guess at it, for the
most part, and the younger Penhallows let it go at loose cousinship.
In this instance it was Alice Penhallow, daughter of "young" John Penhallow, who was
to be married. Alice was a nice girl, but she and her wedding only pertain to this story in
so far as they furnish a background for Lucinda; hence nothing more need be said of
her.
On the afternoon of her wedding day--the Penhallows held to the good, old-fashioned
custom of evening weddings with a rousing dance afterwards--Penhallow Grange was
filled to overflowing with guests who had come there to have tea and rest themselves
before going down to "young" John's. Many of them had driven fifty miles. In the big
autumnal orchard the younger fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs, in
"old" Mrs. John's bedroom, she and her married daughters held high conclave. "Old"
John had established himself with his sons and sons-in-law in the parlour, and the three
daughters-in-law were making themselves at home in the blue sitting-room, ear-deep in
harmless family gossip. Lucinda and Romney Penhallow were also there.
Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and toasted her toes at the grate,
for the brilliant autumn afternoon was slightly chilly and Lucinda, as usual, had the
window open. She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most of the talking. Mrs.
George Penhallow being rather out of it by reason of her newness. She was George
Penhallow's second wife, married only a year. Hence, her contributions to the
conversation were rather spasmodic, hurled in, as it were, by dead reckoning, being
sometimes appropriate and sometimes savouring of a point of view not strictly
Penhallowesque.
Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the chatter of the women, with
the inscrutable smile that always vexed Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within
herself what he did there among the women. She also wondered just where he
belonged on the family tree. He was not one of the uncles, yet he could not be much
younger than George.
"Forty, if he is a day," was Mrs. George's mental dictum, "but a very handsome and
fascinating man. I never saw such a splendid chin and dimple."
Lucinda, with bronze-colored hair and the whitest of skins, defiant of merciless sunlight
and revelling in the crisp air, sat on the sill of the open window behind the crimson vine
leaves, looking out into the garden, where dahlias flamed and asters broke into waves [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]