The best stories of Sarah Orne Jewett, Volume 1 (of 2)Jewett, Sarah Orne
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The best stories of Sarah Orne Jewett, Volume 1 (of 2)
Jewett, Sarah Orne
American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, American
At that moment I heard the unusual sound of wheels, and I looked past
the high-growing thicket of wild roses and straggling sumach to see the
white nose and meagre shape of the Caplin horse; then I saw William
sitting in the open wagon, with a small expectant smile upon his face.
“I’ve got two lines,” he said. “I was quite a piece up the road. I
thought perhaps ’twas so you’d feel like going.”
There was enough excitement for most occasions in hearing William speak
three sentences at once. Words seemed but vain to me at that bright
moment. I stepped back from the schoolhouse window with a beating heart.
The spruce-beer bottle was not yet in the well, and with that and my
luncheon, and Pleasure at the helm, I went out into the happy world. The
land breeze was blowing, and, as we turned away, I saw a flatter of
white go past the window as I left the schoolhouse and my morning’s work
to their neglected fate.
II.
One seldom gave way to a cruel impulse to look at an ancient seafaring
William, but one felt as if he were a growing boy; I only hope that he
felt much the same about me. He did not wear the fishing clothes that
belonged to his sea-going life, but a strangely shaped old suit of
tea-colored linen garments that might have been brought home years ago
from Canton or Bombay. William had a peculiar way of giving silent
assent when one spoke, but of answering your unspoken thoughts as if
they reached him better than words. “I find them very easy,” he said,
frankly referring to the clothes. “Father had them in his old
sea-chest.”
The antique fashion, a quaint touch of foreign grace and even
imagination about the cut were very pleasing; if ever Mr. William
Blackett had faintly resembled an old beau, it was upon that day. He now
appeared to feel as if everything had been explained between us, as if
everything were quite understood; and we drove for some distance without
finding it necessary to speak again about anything. At last, when it
must have been a little past nine o’clock, he stopped the horse beside a
small farmhouse, and nodded when I asked if I should get down from the
wagon. “You can steer about northeast right across the pasture,” he
said, looking from under the eaves of his hat with an expectant smile.
“I always leave the team here.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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