Chapter XXIV: The Fruit Festival

Back of that old farm-house was a peach orchard now in full fruit, under which the grass grew thicker and greener than it could be found in less shady places. This turf was always rolled or trimmed so closely that you could see a fine underlaying of moss which is sure to creep through sward so perfectly cultivated.

This peach orchard was the old Quaker’s especial pride. Not a dead knot could be found in the thrifty trees, nor a dry twig upon the velvet turf. If a peach fell, over-mellow and ripe, it found an emerald bed so soft that not a bruise harmed its ruddy bloom. Then the surroundings were very beautiful. The back door, with its honeysuckle porch, was in full view. The well, with its old-fashioned curb and moss-covered bucket, gave rustic token of the crystal water beneath, and at dusk you could watch the swallows go twittering in and out of their nests under the porch, from any point of the little orchard.

When the peaches in this orchard were red-ripe for eating, the old Quaker lady had each year been in the habit of inviting the children of her near neighbors to a little festival under the trees. It was to decide about the arrangement that Bertha was called down from her mother’s chamber on the day she returned from a brief visit to Clara Anderson.

The next afternoon everything was in readiness for these riotous little guests, who were expected to enjoy without stint or limit to any childish fun that might suggest itself.

The table was spread under one of the most umbrageous peach trees in the orchard, which, with a delicious burden of fruit bending the branches earthward, formed one of the loveliest and most leafy tents that ever sheltered a demure knot of children.

Indeed it was all very beautiful, and, if a little romantic, that should be forgiven, in an age when the ideal is so rudely handed out of good society.

For a while the children huddled together hesitating and uncertain; but Bertha soon had them in a ring, with their little feet dancing on the turf, and their merry shouts resounding through the air. She was the very life of the occasion—now standing in the centre of a gleeful circle, teaching the young ones how “the farmer sows his seed,” now leading a toddling little girl through the grass, or tying her handkerchief over some larger fellow’s eyes for a game of “blind-man’s buff.”

Before the sun went down, the little rioters were called in from their play, and found the old lady at the head of a long tea-table, quiet as a brooding dove.

A merry, merry tea-table that was where the nice old Quakeress presided, to the delight of every child present, smiling blandly amid the riot of young voices, as the crowd came trooping up for their annual supply of biscuits, seed-cake, and “turnovers.”

These tiny guests had seen the old-fashioned little silver tea-pot in that withered hand every year since they could remember, but it never seemed to lose its grandeur or novelty to them. Indeed this annual fruit-feast was the great gala day of their lives, and everything connected with it became a pleasant memory for the year to come.

After tea there was a great gathering of peaches. Then the good old Friend would settle a ladder against some especial tree where the sunshine had lavished itself most broadly, and with a vigorous shake send the mellow fruit rustling down to the grass, where the children darted upon it like bees; the boys filling their pockets, the girls loading down their aprons, while each baby came tumbling out of the scramble with a peach in its tiny fist.

Of course the old Quaker in the branches could not attend to an equal division of the spoils; but Bertha had mounted on a chair at another tree, and was dropping fruit into the aprons of a half-dozen timid little girls that had fared badly among their stronger playfellows, when two gentlemen came round a corner of the house, and stood silently regarding the picture she made.

Unconscious of criticism or admiration, the girl stood balancing herself on the chair, bearing down a heavy branch with one hand, while the other wandered through the thick foliage in search of the ripest fruit. Her sleeve had broken loose, and fallen back to the elbow, exposing the rounded whiteness of her arm as she thrust it among the green branches, pressing her fingers now into a golden and then into the crimson side of a peach, in her eagerness to secure the best.

The old lady saw the strangers standing there, and instantly warned her granddaughter of the fact.

“Bertha, dear! I think thee has friends coming.”

Bertha looked around, saw the strangers, and, all in a glow of burning red, sprang to the ground, leaving the branch to rustle back to its place.

“I trust, I hope we have not intruded,” said young Lane, advancing toward the old Quakeress, whom he had known as a boy.

“We found the house empty so far as we dared explore it, and hearing voices in this direction ventured to come round.”

“Thee is very welcome, Edward; thee and thy friend. Bertha, this is Edward Lane.”

Bertha came forward, blushing more than seemed needful, and after one swift glance at the young man’s companion, held out her hand.

“You are welcome, Mr. Lane. Very welcome,” she said.

“May I be permitted to ask as much for my friend? Miss Canfield; Mr. Waldon.”

Bertha was seized with an unaccountable fit of shyness. She could not for her life have given her hand to this acquaintance of an hour, and her head seemed to droop of itself rather than offer a salutation.

Waldon was not discouraged by this reception, but turned smilingly to the old lady, whom he soon won into a conversation that seemed almost confidential; for the charm of this man’s voice and manners had its effect even upon her.

Still his eyes followed Bertha in all her movements, and amid the gentle commonplaces of the old Friend he managed to catch the drift of that young lady’s conversation with Lane, who was talking earnestly.

“The fellow pleads his case well,” he thought; “and just now he shall have the chance; to look at her as she talks ought to be enough for any man.”

The old Quaker came down from his ladder, gave the strangers a quiet salutation, and went off with half a dozen of the youngest children hanging around him, while the rest trooped off, loaded with cakes and fruit, for their homes.

Still those two men lingered under the peach trees, though the old lady grew a little restless and became almost silent. The others would not understand this. Lane was pleading his case with an earnestness that rendered him blind to everything else; and Waldon would have been content to sit there till daylight, with that bright, lovely face for a study.

With both these men it was agreeable enough, to sit there under the laden boughs, with the last rich breath of summer fanning their cheeks; the sun went down gloriously, turning a bed of white clouds into banks of roses and caves of golden fire. The scene was more than beautiful when the last sunbeams lighted up those dusky branches and kissed the peaches into a richer red, just before the dew fell upon them.

When this little party at last retired from the orchard the late summer flowers had folded themselves to repose, stars came out in the heavens, the leaves stirred heavily under their weight of dew, and the black shadows of the hill lay like drapery along the valley.

As Bertha parted with Lane in the front-door yard Waldon heard her say:

“I will do my best, my very best; only I do not quite understand Clara, she is so changed.”