Barbour A Maid In Arcady

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-232-5
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 102 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

A Maid in Arcady is a novel written by Ralph Henry Barbour set in the early 1900s. The story follows a young woman named Joan Newton, who travels to Arcady, a wealthy vacation community in Maine, to work as a maid for a summer. Joan is determined to save money to attend college, and sees this job as her opportunity. Once in Arcady, Joan befriends a group of young people from wealthy families who are spending the summer there. She becomes particularly close with a young man named Jerry, who is instantly drawn to her intelligence and independence. However, Joan is acutely aware of the class difference between herself and the other residents of Arcady, and struggles to fit in and be accepted. As the summer progresses, Joan becomes more comfortable with her new surroundings and gains the respect of the people she works for. She also develops a close relationship with Jerry, which is complicated by his family's disapproval of their social differences. Through Joan's experiences, Barbour explores themes of social class, independence, and the pursuit of education. The novel also provides a vivid portrait of life in a wealthy vacation community during the early 1900s, including descriptions of lavish parties, horseback riding, and other recreational activities. Overall, A Maid in Arcady is a charming and insightful novel that offers a window into a bygone era. Joan's journey towards self-discovery and independence will resonate with readers who are interested in stories of social mobility and the pursuit of personal goals.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Barbour, Ralph Henry

Leseproben

IV.
The grass grew tall and lush under the gnarled old apple-trees back of the Inn, and the straggling footpath which led to the landing was a path only in name. By the time he had gained the river Ethan’s immaculate white shoes were slate-colored with dew. The canoe rested on two poles laid from crotches of the apple trees, which overhung the stream. Ethan lifted it down and dropped it into the water. With paddle in hand he stepped in and pushed off down-stream. On his left the orchard and garden of the Inn marched with him for a way, giving place at length to a neck of woodland. On his right, seen between the twisted willows, stretched a pleasant view of meadows and tilled fields in the foreground, and, beyond, the gently rising hills, wooded save where along the base the encroaching grasslands rose and dipped. A couple of sleepy-looking farmhouses were nestled in the middle-distance and the faint whir-r-r of a mowing machine floated across the meadows. In the high grass daisies were sprinkled as thickly as stars in the Milky Way, and buttercups thrust their tiny golden bowls above the pendulous plumes of the timothy, foxtail, and fescue. The blue-eyed grass, too, was all abloom, like miniatures of the blue flags which congregated wherever the spring floods had inundated the meadows. The sand-bar came in sight and the little river began to fuss and fret as it gathered itself for what it doubtless believed to be an awe-inspiring rush. The canoe bobbed gracefully through the rapids and swung about in the pool below. Ethan winked soberly at the sign on the willow tree and dipped his paddle again. The canoe breasted the lazy current of the brook. It was just such a day as yesterday. The little breeze stirred the rushes along the banks and brought odors of honeysuckle. Fleecy white clouds seemed to float on the unshadowed stretches of the stream. On one side a sudden blur of deep pink marked where a wild azalea was ablossom. Again, a glimpse of white showed a viburnum sprinkling the ground with its tiny blooms. Cinnamon ferns were pushing their pale bronze “fiddle-heads” into the air. Now and then a wood lily displayed a tardy blossom. Near the stone bridge a kingfisher darted downward to the brook, broke its surface into silver spray and arose on heavy wing. Once past the bridge and with only a single winding of the brook between him and the lotus pool, Ethan trailed his paddle for a moment while he asked himself whether he really expected to find the girl waiting for him. Of course he didn’t, only—well, there was just a chance——! Nonsense; there was not the ghost of a chance! Oh, very well; at least there was no harm in his paddling to the lotus pool—barring that he was trespassing! He smiled at that. He smiled at it several times, for some reason or other. Then he dipped his paddle again and sent the “Good Fortune” gliding swiftly over the sunlit water of the pond. And when he looked there she was, seated on the bank, just as—and he realized it now—he had expected all along that she would be! But it was not Clytie he saw; not unless the fashions have changed considerably and water-nymphs may wear with perfect propriety white shirtwaist suits and tan shoes. It was not impossible, he reasoned; for all he knew to the contrary, the July number of the Goddesses’ Home Journal—doubtless edited by Minerva—might prescribe just such garments for informal morning wear. At all events, being less bizarre than the flowing peplum of yesterday, Ethan—whose tastes in attire were quite orthodox—liked it far better. The effect was quite different, too. Yesterday she might have been Clytie; to-day reason cried out against any such possibility; she was a very modern-appearing and extremely charming young lady of, apparently, twenty or twenty-one years of age, with a face, at present seen in profile, piquant rather than beautiful. The nose was small and delicate, the mouth, under a short lip, had the least bit of a pout and the chin was softly round and sensitive. This morning she wore her hair in a pompadour, while at the back the thick braids started low on her neck and coiled around and around in a perfectly delightful and absolutely puzzling fashion. Ethan liked her hair immensely. It was light brown, with coppery tones where the sunlight became entangled. She was seated on the sloping bank, her hands clasped about her knees and her gaze turned dreamily toward the cascade which sparkled and tinkled at the upper curve of the pool. As the canoe had made almost no sound in its approach, she was, of course, ignorant of Ethan’s presence. And yet it may be mentioned as an interesting if unimportant fact that as he gazed at her for the space of half a minute a rosy tinge, all unobserved of him, crept into her cheeks. He laid his paddle softly across the canoe, and,—— “Greetings, O Clytie!” he said. She turned to him startledly. A little smile quivered about her lips. “Good morning, Vertumnus,” she answered. Perhaps his gaze showed a trifle too much interest, for after a brief instant hers stole away. He picked up the paddle and moved the canoe closer to the shore. “I’m very glad to find you have not yet taken root,” he said gravely. “Taken root?” she echoed vaguely. “Yes, for that was your fate at the last, wasn’t it? If I am not mistaken you sat for days on the ground, subsisting on your tears and watching the sun cross the heavens, until at last your limbs became rooted to the ground and you just naturally turned into a sunflower. At least, that’s the way I recollect it.” “Oh, but you shouldn’t tell me what my fate is to be,” she answered smilingly. “Forearmed is forewarned; no, I mean the other way around!” he replied. “Maybe if you just keep your feet moving you’ll escape that fate. It would be awfully uncomfortable, I should say! Besides, pardon me if it sounds rude, sunflowers are such unattractive things, don’t you think so?” “Yes, I’m afraid they are. The fate of Daphne or Lotis or Syrinx would be much nicer.” “What happened to them, please?” “Why, Daphne was changed to a laurel; have you forgotten?” “No, but how about the other ladies?” “Lotis became a lotus and Syrinx a clump of reeds. Pan gathered some and made himself pipes to play on.



“Shelley, for a dollar,” he said questioningly. She shook her head smilingly. “Keats,” she corrected. “Oh, I have a way of getting them mixed, those two chaps.” He paused. “Do you know, it sounds odd nowadays to hear anyone quote poetry?” “I suppose it does; I dare say it sounds very silly.” “Not a bit of it! I like it! I wish I could do it myself. All I know, though, is



and so on. I used to recite that at school when I was a youngster; knew it all through; and I think there were five or six pages of it. I was quite proud of that, and used to stand on the platform Saturday mornings and just gallop it off. I think the humor appealed to me.” “It must have been delightful!” she laughed. “But you haven’t got even that quite right!” “Haven’t I? I dare say.” “No, Sir Thomas was her lord, not my lord, and it was his cough that was short instead of his breath.” “Shows that my memory is failing at last,” he answered. “But, tell me, do you know every piece of poetry ever written?” “No, not so many. I happen to remember that, though. Besides, we dwellers on Olympus hold poetry in rather more respect than you mortals.” “You forget that I am Vertumnus,” he answered haughtily. “Of course! And you puzzled me with that yesterday, too. I had to go home and hunt up a dictionary of mythology to see who Vertumnus was.” “I—I trust you found him fairly respectable?” he asked. “To tell the truth, I don’t recollect very much about him myself; and some of those old chaps were—well, a bit rapid.” “Vertumnus was quite respectable,” she replied. “In fact, he was quite a dear, the way he slaved to win Pomona. I never cared very much about Pomona,” she added frankly. “I—I never knew her very well,” he answered carelessly. “I think she was a stick.” “You forget,” he said gently, “that you are speaking of the lady of my affections.” “Oh, I am so sorry!” she cried contritely. “Please forgive me!” “If you will let me smoke a cigarette.” “Why not? Considering that I am on shore and you on the water it hardly seems necessary——” “Well, of course it’s your own private pool,” he said. “I thought perhaps nymphs objected to the odor of cigarette-smoke around their habitations.” “This nymph doesn’t mind it,” she answered. He selected a cigarette from his case very leisurely. He had had several opportunities to see her eyes and was wondering whether they were really the color they seemed to be. He had thought yesterday that they were blue, like the sky, or a Yale flag or—or the ocean in October; in short just blue. But to-day, seen from a distance of some fifteen feet, and examined carefully, they appeared quite a different...