Mrs. Beasley departed next morning, taking with her the extra month's wages, in spite of fervid avowals that she wouldn't touch a cent of it. On the way to the depot she favored Mr. Lumley with sundry hints concerning the reasons for her departure. She “couldn't stand it no longer”; if folks only knew what she'd had to put up with she cal'lated they'd be some surprised; she could “tell a few things” if she wanted to, and so on. Incidentally she was kind of glad she didn't like the place, because now she cal'lated she should go West and visit her niece; they'd been wanting her to come for so long.
Gabe was much interested and repeated the monologue, with imaginative additions, to the depot master, who, in turn, repeated it to his wife when he went home to dinner. That lady attended sewing circle in the afternoon. Next day a large share of Bayport's conversation dealt with the housekeeper's leaving and her reasons therefor. The reasons differed widely, according to the portion of the town in which they were discussed, but it was the general opinion that the whole affair was not creditable to Captain Whittaker.
Only at the perfect boarding house was the captain upheld. Miss Phinney declared that she knew he had made a mistake as soon as she heard the Beasley woman talk; nobody else, so Angeline declared, could “get a word in edgeways.” Mrs. Tripp sighed and affirmed that going out of town for a woman to do housework was ridiculous on the face of it; there were plenty of Bayport ladies, women of capability and sound in their religious views, who might be hired if they were approached in the right way. Keturah gave, as her opinion, that if the captain knew when he was well off, he would “take his meals out.” Asaph snorted and intimated that that Debby Beasley wasn't fit to “keep house in a pigsty, and anybody but a born gump would have known it.” Bailey, the “born gump,” said nothing, but looked appealingly at his chum.
As for Captain Cy, he did not take the trouble to affirm or deny the rumors. Peace and quiet dominated the Whittaker house for the first time in three weeks and its owner was happier. He cooked his own food and washed his own dishes. The runaway cat ventured to return, found other viands than beans in its saucer, and decided to remain, purring thankful contentment. The captain made his own bed, after a fashion, when he was ready to occupy it, but he was conscious that it might be better made. He refused, however, to spend his time in sweeping and dusting, and the dust continued to accumulate on the carpets and furniture. This condition of affairs troubled him, but he kept his own counsel. Asaph and Bailey called often, but they offered no more suggestions as to hiring a housekeeper. Mr. Tidditt might have done so, but the captain gave him no encouragement. Mr. Bangs, recent humiliation fresh in his mind, would as soon have suggested setting the house on fire.
One evening Asaph happened in, on his way to Simmons's. He desired the captain to accompany him to that gathering place of the wise and talkative. Captain Cy was in the sitting room, a sheet of note paper in his hand. The town clerk entered without ceremony and tossed his hat on the sofa.
“Evenin', Ase,” observed the captain, folding the sheet of paper and putting it into his pocket. “Glad you come. Sit down. I wanted to ask you somethin'.”
“All right! Here I be. Heave ahead and ask.”
Captain Cy puffed at his pipe. He seemed about to speak and then to think better of it, for he crossed his legs and smoked on in silence, gazing at the nickel work of the “base-burner” stove. It was badly in need of polishing.
“Well?” inquired Asaph, with impatient sarcasm. “Thinkin' of askin' me to build a fire for you, was you? Nobody else but you would have set up a stove in summer time, anyhow.”
“Hey? No, you needn't start a fire yet awhile. That necktie of yours 'll keep us warm till fall, I shouldn't wonder. New one, ain't it? Where'd you get it?”
Mr. Tidditt was wearing a crocheted scarf of a brilliant crimson hue, particularly becoming to his complexion. The complexion now brightened until it was almost a match for the tie.
“Oh!” he said, with elaborate indifference. “That? Yes, it's new. Yesterday was my birthday, and Matildy Tripp she knew I needed a necktie, so she give me this one.”
“Oh! One she knit purpose for you, then? Dear me! Look out, Ase. Widow women are dangerous, they say; presents are one of the first baits they heave out.”
“Don't be foolish, now! I couldn't chuck it back at her, could I? That would be pretty manners. You needn't talk about widders—not after Debby! Ho! ho!”
Captain Cy chuckled. Then he suddenly became serious.
“Ase,” he said, “you remember the time when the Howes folks had this house? Course you do. Yes; well, was there any of their relations here with 'em? A—a cousin, or somethin'?”
“No, not as I recollect. Yes, there was, too, come to think. A third cousin, Mary Thayer her name was. I THINK she was a third cousin of Betsy Howes, Seth Howes's second wife. Betsy's name was Ginn afore she married, and the Ginns was related on their ma's side to a Richards—Emily Richards, I think 'twas—and Emily married a Thayer. Would that make this Mary a third cousin? Now let's see; Sarah Jane Ginn, she had an aunt who kept a boardin' house in Harniss. I remember that, 'count of her sellin' my Uncle Bije a pig. Seems to me 'twas a pig, but I ain't sure that it mightn't have been a settin' of Plymouth Rock hens' eggs. Anyhow, Uncle Bije KEPT hens, because I remember one time—”
“There! there! we'll be out of sight of land in a minute. This Mary Thayer—old, was she?”
“No, no! Just a young girl, eighteen or twenty or so. Pretty and nice and quiet as ever I see. By Godfrey, she WAS pretty! I wan't as old as I be now, and—”
“Ase, don't tell your heart secrets, even to me. I might get absent-minded and mention 'em to Matildy. And then—whew!”
“If you don't stop tryin' to play smarty I'll go home. What's Matildy Tripp to me, I'd like to know? And even when Mary Thayer was here I was old enough to be her dad. But I remember what a nice girl she was and how the boarders liked her. They used to say she done more than all the Howes tribe put together to make the Sea Sight House a good hotel. Young as she was she done most of the housekeepin' and done it well. If the rest of 'em had been like her you mightn't have had the place yet, Whit. But what set you to thinkin' about her?”
“Oh, I don't know! Nothin' much; that is—well, I'll tell you some other time. What became of her?”
“She went up to New Hampshire along with the Howes folks and I ain't seen her since. Seems to me I did hear she was married. See here, Whit, what is it about her? Tell a feller; come!”
But Captain Cy refused to gratify his chum's lively curiosity. Also he refused to go to Simmons's that evening, saying that he was tired and guessed he'd stay at home and “turn in early.” Mr. Tidditt departed grumbling. After he had gone the captain drew his chair nearer the center table, took from his pocket a sheet of notepaper, and proceeded to read what was written on its pages. It was a letter which he had received nearly a month before and had not yet answered. During the past week he had read it many times. The writing was cramped and blotted and the paper cheap and dingy. The envelope bore the postmark of a small town in Indiana, and the inclosure was worded as follows:
CAPTAIN CYRUS WHITTAKER.
DEAR SIR: I suppose you will be a good deal surprised to hear from me, especially from way out West here. When you bought the old house of Seth, he and I was living in Concord, N. H. He couldn't make a go of his business there, so we came West and he has been sick most of the time since. We ain't well off like you, and times are hard with us. What I wanted to write you about was this. My cousin Mary Thomas, Mary Thayer that was, is still living in Concord and she is poor and needs help, though I don't suppose she would ask for it, being too proud. False pride I call it. Me and Seth would like to do something for her, but we have a hard enough job to keep going ourselves. Mary married a man by the name of Henry Thomas, and he turned out to be a miserable good-for-nothing, as I always said he would. She wouldn't listen to me though. He run off and left her seven year ago last April, and I understand was killed or drowned somewheres up in Montana. Mary and [several words scratched out here] got along somehow since, but I don't know how. While we lived in Concord Seth sort of kept an eye on her, but now he can't of course. She's a good girl, or woman rather, being most forty, and would make a good housekeeper if you should need one as I suppose likely you will. If you could help her it would be an act of charity and you will be rewarded Above. Seth says why not write to her and tell her to come and see you? He feels bad about her, because he is so sick I suppose. And he knows you are rich and could do good if you felt like it. Her father's name was John Thayer. I wouldn't wonder if you used to know her mother. She was Emily Richards afore she married and they used to live in Orham.
Yours truly,
ELIZABETH HOWES.
P.S.—Mary's address is Mrs. Mary Thomas, care Mrs. Oliver, 128 Blank Street, Concord, N. H.
N.B.—Seth won't say so, but I will: we are very hard up ourselves and if you could help him and me with the loan of a little money it would be thankfully received.
Captain Cy read the letter, folded it, and replaced it in his pocket. He knew the Howes family by reputation, and the reputation was that of general sharpness in trade and stinginess in money matters. Betsy's personal appeal did not, therefore, touch his heart to any great extent. He surmised also that for Seth Howes and his wife to ask help for some person other than themselves premised a darky in the woodpile somewhere. But for the daughter of Emily Richards to be suggested as a possible housekeeper at the Cy Whittaker place—that was interesting, certainly.
When the captain was not a captain—when he was merely “young Cy,” a boy, living with his parents, a dancing school was organized in Bayport. It was an innovation for our village, and frowned upon by many of the older and stricter inhabitants. However, most of the captain's boy friends were permitted to attend; young Cy was not. His father considered dancing a waste of time and, if not wicked, certainly frivolous and nonsensical. So the boy remained at home, but, in spite of the parental order, he practiced some of the figures of the quadrilles and the contra dances in his comrades' barns, learning them at second hand, so to speak.
One winter there was to be a party in Orham, given by the Nickersons, wealthy people with a fifteen-year-old daughter. It was to be a grand affair, and most of the boys and girls in the neighboring towns were invited. Cy received an invitation, and, for a wonder, was permitted to attend. The Bayport contingent went over in a big hayrick on runners and the moonlight ride was jolly enough. The Nickerson mansion was crowded and there were music and dancing.
Young Cy was miserable during the dancing. He didn't dare attempt it, in spite of his lessons in the barn. So, while the rest of his boy friends sought partners for the “Portland Fancy” and “Hull's Victory” he sat forlorn in a corner.
As he sat there he was approached by a young lady, radiant in muslin and ribbons. She was three or four years older than he was, and he had worshipped her from afar as she whirled up and down the line in the Virginia Reel. She never lacked partners and seemed to be a great favorite with the young men, especially one good-looking chap with a sunburned face, who looked like a sailor.
They were forming sets for “Money Musk”; it was “ladies' choice,” and there was a demand for more couples. The young lady came ever to Cy's corner and laughingly dropped him a courtesy.
“If you please,” she said, “I want a partner. Will you do me the honor?”
Cy blushingly avowed that he couldn't dance any to speak of.
“Oh, yes, you can! I'm sure you can. You're the Whittaker boy, aren't you? I've heard about your barn lessons. And I want you to try this with me. Please do. No, John,” she added, turning to the sunburned young fellow who had followed her across the room; “this is my choice and here is my partner. Susie Taylor is after you and you mustn't run away. Come, Mr. Whittaker.”
So Cy took her arm and they danced “Money Musk” together. He made but a few mistakes, and these she helped him to correct so easily that none noticed. His success gave him courage and he essayed other dances; in fact, he had a very good time at the party after all.
On the way home he thought a great deal about the pretty young lady, whose name he discovered was Emily Richards. He decided that if she would only wait for him, he might like to marry her when he grew up. But he was thirteen and she was seventeen, and the very next year she married John Thayer, the sailor in the blue suit. And two years after that young Cy ran away to be a sailor himself.
In spite of his age and his lifetime of battering about the world, Captain Cy had a sentimental streak in his makeup; his rejuvenation of the old home proved that. Betsy's letter interested him. He had made guarded inquiries concerning Mary Thayer, now Mary Thomas, of others besides Asaph, and the answers had been satisfactory so far as they went; those who remembered her had liked her very much. The captain had even begun a letter to Mrs. Thomas, but laid it aside unfinished, having, since Bailey's unfortunate experience with the widow Beasley, a prejudice against experiments.
But this evening, before Mr. Tidditt called, he had been thinking that something would have to be done and done soon. The generally shiftless condition of his domestic surroundings was getting to be unbearable. Dust and dirt did not fit into his mental picture of the old home as it used to be and as he had tried to restore it. There had been neither dust nor dirt in his mother's day.
He meditated and smoked for another hour. Then, his mind being made up, he pulled down the desk lid of the old-fashioned secretary, resurrected from a pile of papers the note he had begun to Mrs. Thomas, dipped a sputtering pen into the ink bottle and proceeded to write.
His letter was a short one and rather noncommittal. As Mrs. Thomas no doubt knew he had come back to live in his father's house at Bayport. He might possibly need some one to keep house for him. He understood that she, Mary Thayer that was, was a good housekeeper and that she was open to an engagement if everything was mutually satisfactory. He had known her mother slightly when the latter lived in Orham. He thought an interview might be pleasant, for they could talk over old times if nothing more. Perhaps, on the whole, she might care to risk a trip to Bayport, therefore he inclosed money for her railroad fare. “You understand, of course,” so he wrote in conclusion, “that nothing may come of our meeting at all. So please don't say a word to anybody when you strike town. You've lived here yourself, and you know that three words hove overboard in Bayport will dredge up gab enough to sink a dictionary. So just keep mum till the business is settled one way or the other.”
He put on his hat and went down to the post office, where he dropped his letter in the slot of the box fastened to the front door. Then he returned home and retired at exactly eleven o'clock. In spite of his remarks to Asaph, he had not “turned in” so early after all.
If the captain expected a prompt reply to his note he was disappointed. A week passed and he heard nothing. Then three more days and still no word from the New Hampshire widow. Meanwhile fresh layers of dust spread themselves over the Whittaker furniture, and the gaudy patterns of the carpets blushed dimly beneath a grimy fog. The situation was desperate; even Matilda Tripp, Come-Outer sermons and all, began to be thinkable as a possibility.
The eleventh day began with a pouring rain that changed, later on, to a dismal drizzle. The silver-leaf tree in the front yard dripped, and the overflowing gutters gurgled and splashed. The bay was gray and lonely, and the fish weirs along the outer bar were lost in the mist. The flowers in the Atkins urns were draggled and beaten down. Only the iron dogs glistened undaunted as the wet ran off their newly painted backs. The air was heavy, and the salty flavor of the flats might almost be tasted in it.
Captain Cy was in the sitting room, as usual. His spirits were as gray as the weather. He was actually lonesome for the first time since his return home. He had kindled a wood fire in the stove, just for the sociability of it, and the crackle and glow behind the isinglass panes only served to remind him of other days and other fires. The sitting room had not been lonesome then.
He heard the depot wagon rattle by and, peering from the window, saw that, except for Mr. Lumley, it was empty. Not even a summer boarder had come to brighten our ways and lawns with reckless raiment and the newest slang. Summer boarding season was almost over now. Bayport would soon be as dull as dish water. And the captain admitted to himself that it WAS dull. He had half a mind to take a flying trip to Boston, make the round of the wharves, and see if any of the old shipowners and ship captains whom he had once known were still alive and in harness.
“JINGLE! Jingle! JINGLE! Jingle! Jingle! Jing! Jing! Jing!”
Captain Cy bounced in his chair. That was the front-door bell. The FRONT-door bell! Who on earth, or, rather, who in Bayport, would come to the FRONT door?
He hurried through the dim grandeur of the best parlor and entered the little dark front hall. The bell was still swinging at the end of its coil of wire. The dust shaken from it still hung in the air. The captain unbolted and unlocked the big front door.
A girl was standing on the steps between the lines of box hedge—a little girl under a big “grown-up” umbrella. The wet dripped from the umbrella top and from the hem of the little girl's dress.
Captain Cy stared hard at his visitor; he knew most of the children in Bayport, but he didn't know this one. Obviously she was a stranger. Portuguese children from “up Harniss way” sometimes called to peddle huckleberries, but this child was no “Portugee.”
“Hello!” exclaimed the captain wonderingly.
“Did you ring the bell?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the girl.
“Humph! Did, hey? Why?”
“Why? Why, I thought—Isn't it a truly bell? Didn't it ought to ring? Is anybody sick or dead? There isn't any crape.”
“Dead? Crape?” Captain Cy gasped. “What in the world put that in your head?”
“Well, I didn't know but maybe that was why you thought I hadn't ought to have rung it. When mamma was sick they didn't let people ring our bell. And when she died they tied it up with crape.”
“Did, hey? Hum!” The captain scratched his chin and gazed at the small figure before him. It was a self-poised, matter-of-fact figure for such a little one, and, out there in the rain under the tent roof of the umbrella, it was rather pitiful.
“Please, sir,” said the child, “are you Captain Cyrus Whittaker?”
“Yup! That's me. You've guessed it the first time.”
“Yes, sir. I've got a letter for you. It's pinned inside my dress. If you could hold this umbrella maybe I could get it out.”
She extended the big umbrella at arm's length, holding it with both hands. Captain Cy woke up.
“Good land!” he exclaimed, “what am I thinkin' of? You're soakin' wet through, ain't you?”
“I guess I'm pretty wet. It's a long ways from the depot, and I tried to come across the fields, because a boy said it was nearer, and the bushes were—”
“Across the FIELDS? Have you walked all the way from the depot?”
“Yes, sir. The man said it was a quarter to ride, and auntie said I must be careful of my money because—”
“By the big dipper! Come in! Come in out of that this minute!”
He sprang down the steps, furled the umbrella, seized her by the arm and led her into the house, through the parlor and into the sitting room, where the fire crackled invitingly. He could feel that the dress sleeve under his hand was wet through, and the worn boots and darned stockings he could see were soaked likewise.
“There!” he cried. “Set down in that chair. Put your feet up on that h'ath. Sakes alive! Your folks ought to know better than to let you stir out this weather, let alone walkin' a mile—and no rubbers! Them shoes ought to come off this minute, I s'pose. Take 'em off. You can dry your stockings better that way. Off with 'em!”
“Yes, sir,” said the child, stooping to unbutton the shoes. Her wet fingers were blue. It can be cold in our village, even in early September, when there is an easterly storm. Unbuttoning the shoes was slow work.
“Here, let me help you!” commanded the captain, getting down on one knee and taking a foot in his lap. “Tut! tut! tut! you're wet! Been some time sence I fussed with button boots; lace or long-legged cowhides come handier. Never wore cowhides, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“I s'pose not. I used to when I was little. Remember the first pair I had. Copper toes on 'em—whew! The copper was blacked over when they come out of the store and that wouldn't do, so we used to kick a stone wall till they brightened up. There! there she comes. Humph! stockin's soaked, too. Wish I had some dry ones to lend you. Might give you a pair of mine, but they'd be too scant fore and aft and too broad in the beam, I cal'late. Humph! and your top-riggin's as wet as your hull. Been on your beam ends, have you?”
“I don't know, sir. I fell down in the bushes coming across. There were vines and they tripped me up. And the umbrella was so heavy that—”
“Yes, I could see right off you was carryin' too much canvas. Now take off your bunnit and I'll get a coat of mine to wrap you up in.”
He went into his bedroom and returned with a heavy “reefer” jacket. Ordering his caller to stand up he slipped her arms into the sleeves and turned the collar up about her neck. Her braided “pigtail” of yellow hair stuck out over the collar and hung down her back in a funny way. The coat sleeves reached almost to her knees and the coat itself enveloped her like a bed quilt.
“There!” said Captain Cy approvingly. “Now you look more as if you was under a storm rig. Set down and toast your toes. Where's that letter you said you had?”
“It's inside here. I don't know's I can get at it; these sleeves are so long.”
“Reef 'em. Turn 'em up. Let me show you. That's better! Hum! So you come from the depot, hey? Live up that way?”
“No, sir! I used to live in Concord, but—”
“Concord? CONCORD? Concord where?”
“Concord, New Hampshire. I came on the cars. Auntie knew a man who was going to Boston, and he said he'd take care of me as far as that and then put me on the train to come down here. I stopped at his folks' house in Charlestown last night, and this morning we got up early and he bought me a ticket and started me for here. I had a box with my things in it, but it was so heavy I couldn't carry it, so I left it up at the depot. The man there said it would be all right and you could send for it when—”
“I could SEND for it?Icould? What in the world—Say, child, you've made a mistake in your bearin's. 'Taint me you want to see, it's some of your folks, relations, most likely. Tell me who they are; maybe I know 'em.”
The girl sat upright in the big chair. Her dark eyes opened wide and her chin quivered.
“Ain't you Captain Cyrus Whittaker?” she demanded. “You said you was.”
“Yes, yes, I am. I'm Cy Whittaker, but what—”
“Well, auntie told me—”
“Auntie! Auntie who?”
“Auntie Oliver. She isn't really my auntie, but mamma and me lived in her house for ever so long and so—”
“Wait! wait! wait! I'm hull down in the fog. This is gettin' too thick for ME. Your auntie's name's Oliver and you lived in Concord, New Hampshire. For—for thunder sakes, what's YOUR name?”
“Emily Richards Thomas.”
“Em—Emily—Richards—Thomas”
“Yes, sir.”
“Emily Richards Thomas! What was your ma's name?”
“Mamma was Mrs. Thomas. Her front name was Mary. She's dead. Don't you want to see your letter? I've got it now.”
She lifted one of the flapping coat sleeves and extended a crumpled, damp envelope. Captain Cy took it in a dazed fashion and drew a long breath. Then he tore open the envelope and read the following:
DEAR CAPTAIN WHITTAKER:
The bearer of this is Emily Richards Thomas. She is seven, going on eight, but old for her years. Her mother was Mary Thomas that used to be Mary Thayer. It was her you wrote to about keeping house for you, but she had been dead a fortnight before your letter come. She had bronchial pneumonia and it carried her off, having always been delicate and with more troubles to bear than she could stand, poor thing. Since her husband, who I say was a scamp even if he is dead, left her and the baby, she has took rooms with me and done sewing and such. When she passed away I wrote to Seth Howes, a relation of hers out West, and, so far as I know, the only one she had. I told the Howes man that Mary had gone and Emmie was left. Would they take her? I wrote. And Seth's wife wrote they couldn't, being poorer than poverty themselves. I was afraid she would have to go to a Home, but when your letter came I wrote the Howeses again. And Mrs. Howes wrote back that you was rich, and a sort of far-off relation of Mary's, and probably you would be glad to take the child to bring up. Said that she had some correspondence with you about Mary before. So I send Emmie to you. Somebody's got to take care of her and I can't afford it, though I would if I could, for she's a real nice child and some like her mother. I do hope she can stay with you. It seems a shame to send her to the orphan asylum. I send along what clothes she's got, which ain't many.
Respectfully yours,
SARAH OLIVER.
Captain Cy read the letter through. Then he wiped his forehead.
“Well!” he muttered. “WELL! I never in my life! I—I never did! Of all—”
Emily Richards Thomas looked up from the depths of the coat collar.
“Don't you think,” she said, “that you had better send to the depot for my box? I can get dry SOME this way, but mamma always made me change my clothes as soon as I could. She used to be afraid I'd get cold.”
Captain Cy did not reply to the request for the box. It is doubtful if he even heard it. Mrs. Oliver's astonishing letter had, as he afterwards said, left him “high and dry with no tug in sight.” Mary Thomas was dead, and her daughter, her DAUGHTER! of whose very existence he had been ignorant, had suddenly appeared from nowhere and been dropped at his door, like an out-of-season May basket, accompanied by the modest suggestion that he assume responsibility for her thereafter. No wonder the captain wiped his forehead in utter bewilderment.
“Don't you think you'd better send for the box?” repeated the child, shivering a little under the big coat.
“Hey? What say? Never mind, though. Just keep quiet for a spell, won't you. I want to let this soak in. By the big dipper! Of all the solid brass cheek that ever I run across, this beats the whole cargo! And Betsy Howes never hinted! 'Probably you would be glad to take—' Be GLAD! Why, blast their miserable, stingy—What do they take me for? I'LL show 'em! Indiana ain't so fur that I can't—Hey? Did you say anything, sis?”
The girl had shivered again. “No, sir,” she replied. “It was my teeth, I guess. They kind of rattled.”
“What? You ain't cold, are you? With all that round you and in front of that fire?”
“No, sir, I guess not. Only my back feels sort of funny, as if somebody kept dropping icicles down it. Those bushes and vines were so wet that when I tumbled down 'twas most like being in a pond.”
“Sho! sho! That won't do. Can't have you laid up on my hands. That would be worse than—Humph! Tut, tut! Somethin' ought to be done, and I'm blessed if I know what. And not a woman round the place—not even that Debby. Say, look here, what's your name—er—Emmie, hadn't I better get the doctor?”
The child looked frightened.
“Why?” she cried, her big eyes opening. “I'm not sick, am I?”
“Sick? No, no! Course not, course not. What would you want to be sick for? But you ought to get warm and dry right off, I s'pose, and your duds are all up to the depot. Say, what does—what did your ma used to do when you felt—er—them icicles and things?”
“She changed my clothes and rubbed me. And, if I was VERY wet she put me to bed sometimes.”
“Bed? Sure! why, yes, indeed. Bed's a good place to keep off icicles. There's my bedroom right in there. You could turn in just as well as not. Bunk ain't made yet, but I can shake it up in no time. Say—er—er—you can undress yourself, can't you?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Course I can! I'm most eight.”
“Sure you are! Don't act a mite babyish. All right, you set still till I shake up that bunk.”
He entered the chamber, his own, opening from the sitting room, and proceeded, literally, to “shake up” the bed. It was not a lengthy process and, when it was completed, he returned to find his visitor already divested of the coat and standing before the stove.
“I guess perhaps you'll have to help undo me behind,” observed the young lady. “This is my best dress and I can't reach the buttons in the middle of the back.”
Captain Cy scratched his head. Then he clumsily unbuttoned the wet waist, glancing rather sheepishly at the window to see if anyone was coming.
“So this is your best dress, hey?” he asked, to cover his confusion. It was obviously not very new, for it was neatly mended in one or two places.
“Yes, sir.”
“So. Where'd you buy it—up to Concord?”
“No, sir. Mamma made it, a year ago.”
There was a little choke in the child's voice. The captain was mightily taken back.
“Hum! Yes, yes,” he muttered hurriedly. “Well, there you are. Now you can get along, can't you?”
“Yes, sir. Shall I go in that room?”
“Trot right in. You might—er—maybe you might sing out when you're tucked up. I—I'll want to know if you're got bedclothes enough.”
Emily disappeared in the bedroom. The door closed. Captain Cy, his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the length of the sitting room. The expression on his face was a queer one.
“I haven't got any nightgown,” called a voice from the other room. The captain gasped.
“Good land! so you ain't,” he exclaimed. “What in the world—Humph! I wonder—”
He went to the lower drawer of a tall “highboy” and, from the tumbled mass of apparel therein took one of his own night garments.
“Here's one,” he said, coming back with it in his hand. “I guess you'll have to make this do for now. It'll fit you enough for three times to once, but it's all I've got.”
A small hand reached 'round the edge of the door and the nightshirt disappeared. Captain Cy chuckled and resumed his pacing.
“I'm tucked up,” called Miss Thomas. The captain entered and found her in bed, the patchwork points and diamonds of the “Rising Sun” quilt covering her to the chin and her head denting the uppermost of the two big pillows. Captain Cy liked to “sleep high.”
“Got enough over you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
“That's good. I'll take your togs out and dry 'em in the kitchen. Don't be scared; I'll be right back.”
In the kitchen he sorted the wet garments and hung them about the cook stove. It was a strange occupation for him and he shook his head whimsically as he completed it. Then he took a flat iron, one of Mrs. Beasley's purchases, from the shelf in the closet and put it in the oven to heat. Soon afterwards he returned to the bedroom, bearing the iron wrapped in a dish towel.
“My ma always used to put a hot flat to my feet when I was a young one and got chilled,” he explained. “I ain't used one for some time, but I guess it's a good receipt. How do you feel now? Any more icicles?”
“No, sir. I'm ever so warm. Isn't this a nice bed?”
“Think so, do you? Glad of it. Well, now, I'm goin' to leave you in it while I step down street and see about havin' your box sent for. I'll be back in a shake. If anybody comes to the door while I'm gone don't you worry; let 'em go away again.”
He put on his hat and left the house, walking rapidly, his head down and his hands in his pockets. At times he would pause in his walk, whistle, shake his head, and go on once more. Josiah Dimick met him, and his answers to Josiah's questions were so vague and irrelevant that Captain Dimick was puzzled, and later expressed the opinion that “Whit's cookin' must be pretty bad; acted to me as if he had dyspepsy of the brain.”
Captain Cy stopped at Mr. Lumley's residence to leave an order for the delivery of the box. Then he drifted into Simmons's and accosted Alpheus Smalley.
“Al,” he said, “what's good for a cold?”
“Why?” asked Mr. Smalley, in true Yankee fashion. “You got one?”
“Hey? Oh, yes! Yes, I've got one.” By way of proof he coughed until the lamp chimneys rattled on the shelf.
“Judas! I should think you had! Well, there's 'Pine Bark Oil' and 'Sassafras Elixir' and two kinds of sass'p'rilla—that's good for most everything—and—Is your throat sore?”
“Hey? Yes, I guess so.”
“Don't you KNOW? If you've got sore throat there ain't nothin' better'n 'Arabian Balsam.' But what in time are you doin' out in this drizzle with a cold and no umbrella? Do you want to—”
“Never mind my umbrella. I left it in the church entry t'other Sunday and somebody got out afore I did. This 'Arabian Balsam'—seems to me I remember my ma's usin' that on me. Wet a rag with it, don't you, and tie it round your neck?”
“Yup. Be sure and use a flannel rag, and red flannel if you've got it; that acts quicker'n the other kinds. Fifteen cent bottle?”
“I guess so. Might's well give me some sass'p'rilla, while you're about it; always handy to have in the house. And—er—say, is that canned soup you've got up on that shelf?”
The astonished clerk admitted that it was.
“Well, give me a can of the chicken kind.”
Mr. Smalley, standing on a chair to reach the shelf where the soup was kept, shook his head.
“Now, that's too bad, Cap'n,” he said, “but we're all out of chicken just now. Fact is, we ain't got nothin' but termatter and beef broth. Yes, and I declare if the termatter ain't all gone.”
“Humph! then I guess I'll take the beef. Needn't mind wrappin' it up. So long.”
He departed bearing his purchases. When Mr. Simmons, proprietor of the store, returned, Alpheus told him that he “cal'lated” Captain Cy Whittaker was preparing to “go into a decline, or somethin'.”
“Anyhow,” said Alpheus, “he bought sass'p'rilla and 'Arabian Balsam,' and I sold him a can of that beef soup you bought three year ago last summer, when Alicia Atkins had the chicken pox.”
The captain entered the house quietly and tiptoed to the door of the bedroom. Emily was asleep, and the sight of the childish head upon the pillow gave him a start as he peeped in at it. It looked so natural, almost as if it belonged there. It had been in a bed like that and in that very room that he had slept when a boy.
Gabe, brimful of curiosity, brought the box a little later. His curiosity was ungratified, Captain Cyrus explaining that it was a package he had been expecting. The captain took the box to the bedroom, and, finding the child still asleep, deposited it on the floor and tiptoed out again. He went to the kitchen, poked up the fire, and set about getting dinner.
He was warming the beef broth in a saucepan on the stove when Emily appeared. She was dressed in dry clothes from the box and seemed to be feeling as good as new.
“Hello!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “You're on deck again, hey? How's icicles?”
“All gone,” was the reply. “Do you do your own work? Can't I help? I can set the table. I used to for Mrs. Oliver.”
The captain protested that he could do it himself just as well, but the girl persisting, he showed her where the dishes were kept. From the corner of his eye he watched her as she unfolded the tablecloth.
“Is this the only one you've got?” she inquired. “It's awful dirty.”
“Hum! Yes, I ain't tended up to my washin' and ironin' the way I'd ought to. I'll lose my job if I don't look out, hey?”
Before they sat down to the meal Captain Cy insisted that his guest take a tablespoonful of the sarsaparilla and decorate her throat with a section of red flannel soaked in the 'Arabian Balsam.' The perfume of the latter was penetrating and might have interfered with a less healthy appetite than that of Miss Thomas.
“Have some soup? Some I bought purpose for you. Best thing goin' for folks with icicles,” remarked the captain, waving the iron spoon he had used to stir the contents of the saucepan.
“Yes, sir, thank you. But don't you ask a blessing?”
“Hey?”
“A blessing, you know. Saying that you're thankful for the food now set before us.”
“Hum! Why, to tell you the truth I've kind of neglected that, I'm afraid. Bein' thankful for the grub I've had lately was most too much of a strain, I shouldn't wonder.”
“I know the one mamma used to say. Shall I ask it for you?”
“Sho! I guess so, if you want to.”
The girl bent her head and repeated a short grace. Captain Cy watched her curiously.
“Now, I'll have some soup, please,” observed Emily. “I'm awful hungry. I had breakfast at five o'clock this morning and we didn't have a chance to eat much.”
A good many times that day the captain caught himself wondering if he wasn't dreaming. The whole affair seemed too ridiculous to be an actual experience. Dinner over, he and Emmie attended to the dishes, he washing and she wiping. And even at this early stage of their acquaintance her disposition to take charge of things was apparent. She found fault with the dish towels; they were almost as bad as the tablecloth, she said. Considering that the same set had been in use since Mrs. Beasley's departure, the criticism was not altogether baseless. But the young lady did not stop there—her companion's skill as a washer was questioned.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but don't you think that plate had better be done over? I guess you didn't see that place in the corner. Perhaps you've forgot your specs. Auntie Oliver couldn't see well without her specs.”
Captain Cy grinned and admitted that a second washing wouldn't hurt the plate.
“I guess your auntie was one of the particular kind,” he said.
“No, sir, 'twas mamma. She couldn't bear dirty things. Auntie used to say that mamma hunted dust with a magnifying glass. She didn't, though; she only liked to be neat. I guess dust doesn't worry men so much as it does women.”
“Why?”
“Oh, 'cause there's so much of it here; don't you think so? I'll help you clean up by and by, if you want to.”
“YOU will?”
“Yes, sir. I used to dust sometimes when mamma was out sewing. And once I swept, but I did it so hard that auntie wouldn't let me any more. She said 'twas like trying to blow out a match with a tornado.”
Later on he found her standing in the sitting room, critically inspecting the mats, the furniture, and the pictures on the walls. He stood watching her for a moment and then asked:
“Well, what are you lookin' for—more dust? 'Twon't be hard to find it. 'Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.' Every time I go outdoor and come in again I realize how true that is.”
Emily shook her head.
“No, sir,” she said; “I was only looking at things and thinking.”
“Thinkin', hey? What about? or is that a secret?”
“No, sir. I was thinking that this room was different from any I've ever seen.”
“Humph! Yes, I presume likely 'tis. Don't like it very much, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I think I do. It's got a good many things in it that I never saw before, but I guess they're pretty—after you get used to 'em.”
Captain Cy laughed aloud. “After you get used to 'em, hey?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. That's what mamma said about Auntie Oliver's new bonnet that she made herself. I—I was thinking that you must be peculiar.”
“Peculiar?”
“Yes, sir. I like peculiar people. I'm peculiar myself. Auntie used to say I was the most peculiar child she ever saw. P'raps that's why I came to you. P'raps God meant for peculiar ones to live together. Don't you think maybe that was it?”
And the captain, having no answer ready, said nothing.
That evening when Asaph and Bailey, coming for their usual call, peeped in at the window, they were astounded by the tableau in the Whittaker sitting room. Captain Cy was seated in the rocking chair which had been his grandfather's. At his feet, on the walnut cricket with a haircloth top, sat a little girl turning over the leaves of a tattered magazine, a Godey's Lady's Book. A pile of these magazines was beside her on the floor. The captain was smiling and looking over her shoulder. The cat was curled up in another chair. The room looked more homelike than it had since its owner returned to it.
The friends entered without knocking. Captain Cy looked up, saw them, and appeared embarrassed.
“Hello, boys!” he said. “Glad to see you. Come right in. Clearin' off fine, ain't it?”
Mr. Tidditt replied absently that he wouldn't be surprised if it was. Bailey, his eyes fixed upon the occupant of the cricket, said nothing.
“We—we didn't know you had company, Whit,” said Asaph. “We been up to Simmons's and Alpheus said you was thin and peaked and looked sick. Said you bought sass'p'rilla and all kind of truck. He was afraid you had fever and was out of your head, cruisin round in the rain with no umbrella. The gang weren't talkin' of nothin' else, so me and Bailey thought we'd come right down.”
“That's kind of you, I'm sure. Take your things off and set down. No, I'm sorry to disappoint Smalley and the rest, but I'm able to be up and—er—make my own bed, thank you. So Alpheus thought I looked thin, hey? Well, if I had to live on that soup he sold me, I'd be thinner'n I am now. You tell him that canned hot water is all right if you like it, but it seems a shame to put mud in it. It only changes the color and don't help the taste.”
Mr. Bangs, who was still staring at Emily, now ventured a remark.
“Is that a relation of yours, Cy?” he asked.
“That? Oh! Well, no, not exactly. And yet I don't know but she is. Fellers, this is Emmie Thomas. Can't you shake hands, Emmie?”
The child rose, laid down the magazine, which was open at the colored picture of a group of ladies in crinoline and chignons, and, going across the room, extended a hand to Mr. Tidditt.
“How do you do, sir?” she said.
“Why—er—how d'ye do? I'm pretty smart, thank you. How's yourself?”
“I'm better now. I guess the sass'parilla was good for me.”
“'Twan't the sass'p'rilla,” observed the captain, with conviction. “'Twas the 'Arabian Balsam.' Ma always cured me with it and there's nothin' finer.”
“But what in time—” began Bailey. Captain Cy glanced at the child and then at the clock.
“Don't you think you'd better turn in now, Emmie?” he said hastily, cutting off the remainder of the Bangs query. “It's after eight, and when I was little I was abed afore that.”
Emily obediently turned, gathered up the Lady's Books and replaced them in the closet. Then she went to the dining room and came back with a hand lamp.
“Good night,” she said, addressing the visitors. Then, coming close to the captain, she put her face up for a kiss.
“Good night,” she said to him, adding, “I like it here ever so much. I'm awful glad you let me stay.”
As Bailey told Asaph afterwards, Captain Cy blushed until the ends of the red lapped over at the nape of his neck. However, he bent and kissed the rosy lips and then quickly brushed his own with his hand.
“Yes, yes,” he stammered. “Well—er—good night. Pleasant dreams to you. See you in the mornin'.”
The girl paused at the chamber door. “You won't have to unbutton my waist now,” she said. “This is my other one and it ain't that kind.”
The door closed. The captain, without looking at his friends, led the way to the dining room.
“Come on out here,” he whispered. “We can talk better here.”
Naturally, they wanted to know all about the girl, who she was and where she came from. Captain Cy told as much of the history of the affair as he thought necessary.
“Poor young one,” he concluded, “she landed on to me in the rain, soppin' wet, and ha'f sick. I COULDN'T turn her out then—nobody could. Course it's an everlastin' outrage on me and the cheekiest thing ever I heard of, but what could I do? I was fixed a good deal like an English feller by the name of Gatenby that I used to know in South America. He woke up in the middle of the night and found a boa constrictor curled on the foot of his bed. Next day, when a crowd of us happened in, there was Gatenby, white as a sheet, starin' down at the snake, and it sound asleep. 'I didn't invite him,' he says, 'but he looked so bloomin' comf'table I 'adn't the 'eart to disturb 'im.' Same way with me; the child seemed so comf'table here I ain't had the heart to disturb her—yet.”
“But she said she was goin' to stay,” put in Bailey. “You ain't goin' to KEEP her, are you?”
The captain's indignation was intense.
“Who—me?” he snorted. “What do you think I am? I ain't runnin' an orphan asylum. No, sir! I'll keep the young one a day or so—or maybe a week—and then I'll pack her off to Betsy Howes. I ain't so soft as they think I am. I'LL show 'em!”
Mr. Tidditt looked thoughtful.
“She's a kind of cute little girl, ain't she?” he observed.
Captain Cy's frown vanished and a smile took its place.
“That's so,” he chuckled. “She is, now that's a fact! I don't know's I ever saw a cuter.”