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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
In his captivating novel "Holly," Ralph Henry Barbour weaves a tale rich with themes of youthful exuberance and the trials of coming-of-age. Set against the backdrop of a charming New England town, the narrative unfolds through a series of heartwarming and sometimes tumultuous events that shape the titular character, Holly, into her own. Barbour's writing style is characterized by its engaging dialogue and vivid descriptions, which give readers a sense of place and time while also capturing the essence of early 20th-century American culture. The novel reflects the conventions of the young adult genre of its time, emphasizing moral development and personal growth amidst the challenges faced by adolescents. Ralph Henry Barbour, a prominent author of juvenile literature, was known for his keen insights into the lives of youth and their inherent struggles. Born in 1870, Barbour grew up influenced by the ideals of the American early 20th century and an appreciation for outdoor adventure and sports, elements that frequently feature in his work. His background in education and his experiences with young people likely inspired him to portray relatable characters who navigate the complex landscape of self-discovery and friendship. "Holly" is a must-read for anyone interested in themes of identity and resilience. Barbour's ability to craft relatable characters and engaging narratives renders this book a timeless exploration of youth. Whether you are a young adult or simply young at heart, the lessons within "Holly" continue to resonate, making it an enriching addition to any literary collection.
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Holly
Table of Contents
I.
Holly’s eighteenth birthday was but a fortnight distant when the quiet stream of her life, which since her father’s death six years before had flowed placidly, with but few events to ripple its tranquil surface, was suddenly disturbed....
To the child of twelve years death, because of its unfamiliarity and mystery, is peculiarly terrible. At that age one has become too wise to find comfort in the vague and beautiful explanations of tearfully-smiling relatives—explanations in which Heaven is pictured as a material region just out of sight beyond the zenith; too selfishly engrossed with one’s own loneliness and terror to be pacified by the contemplation of the radiant peace and beatitude attained by the departed one in that ethereal and invisible suburb. And at twelve one is as yet too lacking in wisdom to realize the beneficence of death.
Thus it was that when Captain Lamar Wayne died at Waynewood, in his fiftieth year, Holly, left quite alone in a suddenly empty world save for her father’s sister, Miss India Wayne, grieved passionately and rebelliously, giving way so abjectly to her sorrow that Aunt India, fearing gravely for her health, summoned the family physician.
“There is nothing physically wrong with her,” pronounced the Old Doctor, “nothing that I can remedy with my poisons. You must get her mind away from her sorrow, my dear Miss India. I would suggest that you take her away for a time; give her new scenes; interest her in new affairs. Meanwhile ... there is no harm....” The Old Doctor wrote a prescription with his trembling hand ... “a simple tonic ... nothing more.”
So Aunt India and Holly went away. At first the thought of deserting the new grave in the little burying-ground within sight of the house moved Holly to a renewed madness of grief. But by the time Uncle Randall had put their trunk and bags into the old carriage interest in the journey had begun to assuage Holly’s sorrow. It was her first journey into the world. Save for visits to neighboring plantations and one memorable trip to Tallahassee while her father had served in the State Legislature, she had never been away from Corunna. And now she was actually going into another State! And not merely to Georgia, which would have been a comparatively small event since the Georgia line ran east and west only a bare half-dozen miles up the Valdosta road, but away up to Kentucky, of which, since the Waynes had come from there in the first part of the century, Holly had heard much all her life.
As the carriage moved down the circling road Holly watched with trembling lips the little brick-walled enclosure on the knoll. Then came a sudden gush of tears and convulsive sobs, and when these had passed they were under the live-oaks at the depot, and the train of two cars and a rickety, asthmatic engine, which ran over the six-mile branch to the main line, was posing importantly in front of the weather-beaten station.
Holly’s pulses stirred with excitement, and when, a quarter of an hour later,—for Aunt India believed in being on time,—she kissed Uncle Ran good-bye, her eyes were quite dry.
That visit had lasted nearly three months, and for awhile Holly had been surfeited with new sights and new experiences against which no grief, no matter how poignant, could have been wholly proof. When, on her return to Waynewood, she paid her first visit to her father’s grave, the former ecstasy of grief was absent. In its place was a tender, dim-eyed melancholy, something exaltedly sacred and almost sweet, a sentiment to be treasured and nourished in reverent devotion. And yet I think it was not so much the journey that accomplished this end as it was a realization which came to her during the first month of the visit.
In her first attempts at comforting the child, and many times since, Aunt India had reminded Holly that now that her father had reached Heaven he and her mother were together once more, and that since they had loved each other very dearly on earth they were beyond doubt very happy in Paradise. Aunt India assured her that it was a beautiful thought. But it had never impressed Holly as Miss India thought it should. Possibly she was too self-absorbed in her sorrow to consider it judicially. But one night she had a dream from which she awoke murmuring happily in the darkness. She could not remember very clearly what she had dreamed, although she strove hard to do so. But she knew that it was a beautiful dream, a dream in which her father and her mother,—the wonderful mother of whom she had no recollection,—had appeared to her hand in hand and had spoken loving, comforting words. For the first time she realized Aunt India’s meaning; realized how very, very happy her father and mother must be together in Heaven, and how silly and selfish she had been to wish him back. All in the instant there, in the dim silence, the dull ache of loneliness which had oppressed her for months disappeared. She no longer seemed alone; somewhere,—near at hand,—was sympathy and love and heart-filling comradeship. Holly lay for awhile very quiet and happy in the great four-poster bed, and stared into the darkness with wide eyes that swam in grateful tears. Then she fell into a sound, calm sleep.
She did not tell Aunt India of her dream; not because there was any lack of sympathy between them, but because to have shared it would have robbed it of half its dearness. For a long, long time it was the most precious of her possessions, and she hugged it to her and smiled over it as a mother over her child. And so I think it was the dream that accomplished what the Old Doctor could not,—the dream that brought, as dreams so often do, Heaven very close to earth. Dreams are blessed things, be they day-dreams or dreams of the night; and even the ugly ones are beneficent, since at waking they make by contrast reality more endurable.
If Aunt India never learned the cause she was at least quick to note the result. Holly’s thin little cheeks borrowed tints from the Duchess roses in the garden, and Aunt India graciously gave the credit to Kentucky air, even as she drew her white silk shawl more closely about her slender shoulders and shivered in the unaccustomed chill of a Kentucky autumn.
Then followed six tranquil years in which Holly grew from a small, long-legged, angular child to a very charming maiden of eighteen, dainty with the fragrant daintiness of a southern rosebud; small of stature, as her mother had been before her, yet possessed of a gracious dignity that added mythical inches to her height; no longer angular but gracefully symmetrical with the soft curves of womanhood; with a fair skin like the inner petal of a La France rose; with eyes warmly, deeply brown, darkened by large irises; a low, broad forehead under a wealth of hair just failing of being black; a small, mobile mouth, with lips as freshly red as the blossoms of the pomegranate tree in the corner of the yard, and little firm hands and little arched feet as true to beauty as the needle to the pole. God sometimes fashions a perfect body, and when He does can any praise be too extravagant?
For the rest, Holly Wayne at eighteen—or, to be exact, a fortnight before—was perhaps as contradictory as most girls of her age. Warm-hearted and tender, she could be tyrannical if she chose; dignified at times, there were moments when she became a breath-taking madcap of a girl,—moments of which Aunt India strongly but patiently disapproved; affectionate and generous, she was capable of showing a very pretty temper which, like mingled flash of lightning and roar of thunder, was severe but brief; tractable, she was not pliant, and from her father she had inherited settled convictions on certain subjects, such for instance as Secession and Emancipation, and an accompanying dash of contumacy for the protection of them.
She was fond of books, and had read every sombre-covered volume of the British Poets from fly-leaf to fly-leaf. She preferred poetry to prose, but when the first was wanting she put up cheerfully with the latter. The contents of her father’s modest library had been devoured with a fine catholicity before she was sixteen. Recent books were few at Corunna, and had Holly been asked to name her favorite volume of fiction she would have been forced to divide the honor between certain volumes of The Spectator, St. Elmo, and The Wide, Wide World. She was intensely fond of being out of doors; even in her crawling days her negro mammy had found it a difficult task to keep her within walls; and so her reading had ever been al fresco. Her favorite place was under the gnarled old fig-tree at the end of the porch, where, perched in a comfortable crotch of trunk and branch, or asway in a hammock, she spent many of her waking hours. When the weather kept her indoors, she never thought of books at all. Those stood with her for filtered sunlight, green-leaf shadows, and the perfume-laden breezes.
Her education, begun lovingly and sternly by her father, had ended with a four-years’ course at a neighboring Academy, supplying her with as much knowledge as Captain Wayne would have considered proper for her. He had held to old-fashioned ideas in such matters, and had considered the ability to quote aptly from Pope or Dryden of more appropriate value to a young woman than a knowledge of Herbert Spencer’s absurdities or a bowing acquaintance with Differential Calculus. So Holly graduated very proudly from the Academy, looking her sweetest in white muslin and lavender ribbons, and was quite, quite satisfied with her erudition and contentedly ignorant of many of the things that fit into that puzzle which we are pleased to call Life.
And now, in the first week of November in the year 1898, the tranquil stream of her existence was about to be disturbed. Although she could have no knowledge of it, as yet, Fate was already poising the stone which, once dropped into that stream, was destined to cause disquieting ripples, perplexing eddies, distracting swirls and, in the end, the formation of a new channel. And even now the messenger of Fate was limping along with the aid of his stout cane, coming nearer and nearer down the road from the village under the shade of the water-oaks, a limp and a tap for every beat of Holly’s unsuspecting heart.
II.
Holly sat on the back porch, her slippered feet on the topmost step of the flight leading to the “bridge” and from thence to the yard. She wore a simple white dress and dangled a blue-and-white-checked sun-bonnet from the fingers of her right hand. Her left hand was very pleasantly occupied, since its pink palm cradled Holly’s chin. Above the chin Holly’s lips were softly parted, disclosing the tips of three tiny white teeth; above the mouth, Holly’s eyes gazed abstractedly away over the roofs of the buildings in the yard and the cabins behind them, over the tops of the Le Conte pear-trees in the back lot, over the fringe of pines beyond, to where, like a black speck, a buzzard circled and dropped and circled again above a distant hill. I doubt if Holly saw the buzzard. I doubt if she saw anything that you or I could have seen from where she sat. I really don’t know what she did see, for Holly was day-dreaming, an occupation to which she had become somewhat addicted during the last few months.
The mid-morning sunlight shone warmly on the back of the house. Across the bridge, in the kitchen, Aunt Venus was moving slowly about in the preparation of dinner, singing a revival hymn in a clear, sweet falsetto:
To the right, in front of the disused office, a half-naked morsel of light brown humanity was seated in the dirt at the foot of the big sycamore, crooning a funny little accompaniment to his mother’s song, the while he munched happily at a baked sweet potato and played a wonderful game with two spools and a chicken leg. Otherwise the yard was empty of life save for the chickens and guineas and a white cat asleep on the roof of the well-house. Save for Aunt Venus’s chant and Young Tom’s crooning (Young Tom to distinguish him from his father), the morning world was quite silent. The gulf breeze whispered in the trees and scattered the petals of the late roses. A red-bird sang a note from the edge of the grove and was still. Aunt Venus, fat and forty, waddled to the kitchen door, cast a stern glance at Young Tom and a softer one at Holly, and disappeared again, still singing:
Back of Holly the door stood wide open, and at the other end of the broad, cool hall the front portal was no less hospitably placed. And so it was that when the messenger of Fate limped and thumped his way up the steps, crossed the front porch and paused in the hall, Holly heard and leaped to her feet.
“Is anyone at home in this house?” called the messenger.
Holly sped to meet him.
“Good-morning, Uncle Major!”
Major Lucius Quintus Cass changed his cane to his left hand and shook hands with Holly, drawing her to him and placing a resounding kiss on one soft cheek.
“The privilege of old age, my dear,” he said; “one of the few things which reconcile me to gray hairs and rheumatism.” Still holding her hand, he drew back, his head on one side and his mouth pursed into a grimace of astonishment. “Dearie me,” he said ruefully, with a shake of his head, “where’s it going to stop, Holly? Every time I see you I find you’ve grown more radiant and lovely than before! ’Pears to me, my dear, you ought to have some pity for us poor men. Gad, if I was twenty years younger I’d be down on my knees this instant!”
Holly laughed softly and then drew her face into an expression of dejection.
“That’s always the way,” she sighed. “All the real nice men are either married or think they’re too old to marry. I reckon I’ll just die an old maid, Uncle Major.”
“Rather than allow it,” the Major replied, gallantly, “I’ll dye my hair and marry you myself! But don’t you talk that way to me, young lady; I know what’s going on in the world. They tell me the Marysville road’s all worn out from the travel over it.”
Holly tossed her head.
“That’s only Cousin Julian,” she said.
“Humph! ‘Only Cousin Julian,’ eh? Well, Cousin Julian’s a fine-looking beau, my dear, and Doctor Thompson told me only last week that he’s doing splendidly, learning to poison folks off real natural and saw off their legs and arms so’s it’s a genuine pleasure to them. I reckon that in about a year or so Cousin Julian will be thinking of getting married. Eh? What say?”
“He may for all of me,” laughed Holly. But her cheeks wore a little deeper tint, and the Major chuckled. Then he became suddenly grave.
“Is your Aunt at home?” he asked, in a low voice.
“She’s up-stairs,” answered Holly. “I’ll tell her you’re here, sir.”
“Just a moment,” said the Major, hurriedly. “I—oh, Lord!” He rubbed his chin slowly, and looked at Holly in comical despair. “Holly, pity the sorrows of a poor old man.”
“What have you been doing, Uncle Major?” asked Holly, sternly.
“Nothing, ’pon my word, my dear! That is—well, almost nothing. I thought it was all for the best, but now——” He stopped and shook his head. Then he threw back his shoulders, surrendered his hat and stick to the girl, and marched resolutely into the parlor. There he turned, pointed upward and nodded his head silently. Holly, smiling but perplexed, ran up-stairs.
Left alone in the big, square, white-walled room, dim and still, the Major unbuttoned his long frock coat and threw the lapels aside with a gesture of bravado. But in another instant he was listening anxiously to the confused murmur of voices from the floor above and plucking nervously at the knees of his trousers. Presently a long-drawn sigh floated onto the silence, and—
“Godamighty!” whispered the Major; “I wish I’d never done it!”
The Major was short in stature and generous of build. Since the war, when a Northern bullet had almost terminated the usefulness of his right leg, he had been a partial cripple and the enforced quiescence had resulted in a portliness quite out of proportion to his height. He had a large round head, still well covered with silky iron-gray hair, a jovial face lit by restless, kindly eyes of pale blue, a large, flexible mouth, and an even more generous nose. The cheeks had become somewhat pendulous of late years and reminded one of the convenient sacks in which squirrels place nuts in temporary storage. The Major shaved very closely over the whole expanse of face each morning and by noon was tinged an unpleasant ghastly blue by the undiscouraged bristles.
Although Holly called him “Uncle” he was in reality no relation. He had ever been, however, her father’s closest friend and on terms of greater intimacy than many near relations. Excepting only Holly, none had mourned more truly at Lamar Wayne’s death. The Captain had been the Major’s senior by only one year, but seeing them together one would have supposed the discrepancy in age much greater. The Major always treated the Captain like an older brother, accepting his decisions with unquestioning loyalty, and accorded him precedence in all things. It was David and Jonathan over again. Even after the war, in which the younger man had won higher promotion, the Major still considered the Captain his superior officer.
The Major pursued an uncertain law practice and had served for some time as Circuit Judge. Among the negroes he was always “Major Jedge.” That he had never been able to secure more than the simplest comforts of life in the pursuit of his profession was largely due to an unpractical habit of summoning the opposing parties in litigation to his office and settling the case out of court. Add to this that fully three-fourths of his clients were negroes, and that “Major Jedge” was too soft-hearted to insist on payment for his services when the client was poorer than he, and you can readily understand that Major Lucius Quintus Cass’s fashion of wearing large patches on his immaculately-shining boots was not altogether a matter of choice.
The Major had not long to wait for an audience. As he adjusted his trouser-legs for the third time the sound of soft footfalls on the bare staircase reached him. He glanced apprehensively at the open door, puffed his cheeks out in a mighty exhalation of breath, and arose from his chair just as Miss India Wayne swept into the room. I say swept advisedly, for in spite of the lady’s diminutive stature she was incapable of entering a room in any other manner. Where other women walked, Miss India swept; where others bowed, Miss India curtseyed; where others sat down, Miss India subsided. Hers were the manners and graces of a half-century ago. She was fifty-four years old, but many of those years had passed over her very lightly. Small, perfectly proportioned, with a delicate oval face surmounted by light brown hair, untouched as yet by frost and worn in a braided coronet, attired in a pale lavender gown of many ruffles, she was for all the world like a little Chelsea figurine. She smiled upon the Major a trifle anxiously as she shook hands and bowed graciously to his compliments. Then seating herself erectly on the sofa—for Miss India never lolled—she folded her hands in her lap and looked calmly expectant at the visitor. As the visitor exhibited no present intention of broaching the subject of his visit she took command of the situation, just as she was capable of and accustomed to taking command of most situations.
“Holly has begged me not to be hard on you, Major,” she said, in her sweet, still youthful voice. “Pray what have you been doing now? You are not here, I trust, to plead guilty to another case of reprehensible philanthropy?”
“No, Miss Indy, I assure you that you have absolutely reformed me, ma’am.”
Miss India smiled in polite incredulity, tapping one slender hand upon the other as she might in the old days at the White Sulphur have tapped him playfully, yet quite decorously, with her folded fan. The Major chose not to observe the incredulity and continued:
“The fact is, my dear Miss Indy, that I have come on a matter of more—ah—importance. You will recollect—pardon me, pray, if I recall unpleasant memories to mind—you will recollect that when your brother died it was found that he had unfortunately left very little behind him in the way of worldly wealth. He passed onward, madam, rich in the love and respect of the community, but poor in earthly possessions.”
The Major paused and rubbed his bristly chin agitatedly. Miss India bowed silently.
“As his executor,” continued the Major, “it was my unpleasant duty to offer this magnificent estate for sale. It was purchased, as you will recollect, by Judge Linderman, of Georgia, a friend of your brother’s——”
“Pardon me, Major; an acquaintance.”
“Madam, all those so fortunate as to become acquainted with Captain Lamar Wayne were his friends.”
Miss India bowed again and waived the point.
“Judge Linderman, as he informed me at the time of the purchase, bought the property as a speculation. He was the owner of much real estate throughout the South. At his most urgent request you consented to continue your residence at Waynewood, paying him rent for the property.”
“But nevertheless,” observed Miss India, a trifle bitterly, “being to a large extent an object of his charity. The sum paid as rent is absurd.”
“Nominal, madam, I grant you,” returned the Major. “Had our means allowed we should have insisted on paying more. But you are unjust to yourself when you speak of charity. As I pointed out—or, rather, as Judge Linderman pointed out to me, had you moved from Waynewood he would have been required to install a care-taker, which would have cost him several dollars a month, whereas under the arrangement made he drew a small but steady interest from the investment. I now come, my dear Miss Indy, to certain facts which are—with which you are, I think, unacquainted. That that is so is my fault, if fault there is. Believe me, I accept all responsibility in the matter and am prepared to bear your reproaches without a murmur, knowing that I have acted for what I have believed to be the best.”
Miss India’s calm face showed a trace of agitation and her crossed hands trembled a little.
The Major paused as though deliberating.
“Pray continue, Major,” she said. “Whatever you have done has been done, I am certain, from motives of true friendship.”
The Major bowed gratefully.
“I thank you, madam. To resume, about four years ago Judge Linderman became bankrupt through speculation in cotton. That, I believe, you already knew. What you did not know was that in meeting his responsibilities he was obliged to part with all his real estate holdings, Waynewood amongst them.”
The Major paused, expectantly, but the only comment from his audience, if comment it might be called, was a quivering sigh of apprehension which sent the Major quickly on with his story.
“Waynewood fell into the hands of a Mr. Gerald Potter, of New York, a broker, who——”
“A Northerner!” cried Miss India.
