CHAPTER VI
Where is Bubbles?
At last the man came driving down the lane. He drew rein as he saw the little figure by the gate. "Want a lift, little girl?" he asked cheerfully.
"Yes, please," Eleanor responded. And the man helped her up beside him.
"How far are you going?" he asked.
"To Sylvy's," Eleanor answered in all simplicity.
"To Sylvy's? You don't mean Sylvy Johnson's? No wonder you want a lift. What are you going away off there for? It is a long way for a little girl to go alone. Bless me!" He looked closer. "Bless my soul, if it isn't the little Dallas girl! Why, what does this mean? What's the matter at your house that they're running you off in this fashion?"
Eleanor's cough interrupted her speech for a moment, and the man tucked a warm cover closer around her. "See here," he continued, "I'll take you home with me, and we'll see what's to be done. I'm not in the notion of your going to Johnson's by yourself. How did you expect to get back?"
"I didn't expect to get back at all, at least, not till mamma comes home."
"Why, that's the queerest thing I ever heard. Did Mrs. Murdoch send you off there?"
"No," Eleanor confessed, "I am going of my own accord. Cousin Ellen doesn't know anything about it."
"Hm—hm." Mr. Snyder nodded thoughtfully. "Well, Mrs. Snyder will settle it. I can't take you back just at once, for I must go home and feed my horses, and get a bite myself, but if mother says so, home you go."
"Oh, no, please," begged Eleanor. "I want to go to Sylvy's."
"Well, you wait and see what my wife says. Mrs. Snyder'll know what's best. 'Tain't much further; only a couple of miles. Here, get up, Pete. Get up, Morgan." And the horses quickened their trot soon bringing them up to a substantial white house standing back some distance from the road. "Here we are," said Mr. Snyder, lifting Eleanor down. "Whoa there, Pete! I'd better fasten that horse; he's dead set on getting to the stable. He knows it's his dinner time."
A rosy-faced woman came to the side door. "Here, mother," said Mr. Snyder, "I've got company for you; Mr. Dallas's little girl. Run in, honey, out of the cold. It's blowing up, mother. Take the little girl in where it's warm, and I'll come as soon as I've fed the stock."
Into a clean warm kitchen Eleanor was led. There was an odor of fried ham and potatoes, and from an iron pot, bubbling on the stove, came a spicy smell. "Take off your things, honey," said Mrs. Snyder in a matter-of-fact way, as if the coming of a strange little girl to dinner were an everyday occurrence, and Eleanor obeyed, glad of the warmth and the welcome.
Mr. Snyder was not long gone, and when he returned he remarked, "This young lady wants to go to Johnson's, Almiry. What do you think of that?"
"Not to stay!" said Mrs. Snyder, pausing in the act of taking a pan of biscuits from the oven. "You wasn't meaning to stay, was you?" she asked Eleanor.
"Yes, till my mother comes home. You see, Bubbles is there, at least, I suppose she is. Didn't she come with you about two weeks ago, Mr. Snyder?"
"With me? No, indeed. Do you mean the little darky girl that lives at your house? Haven't laid eyes on her."
"Oh!" Eleanor's eyes grew big with anxiety, and her chin began to quiver. "Then she's lost, unless she is at Sylvy's. Won't you please take me there?"
"Why, child," said Mrs. Snyder, "that ain't a fit place for you; just a little two-story cabin with a loft. What on earth possesses you to want to go there? Hear the child cough, Ben. Sounds to me like the whooping-cough; mighty like it. I shouldn't be surprised if the child had it. She oughtn't to be running wild around the country in this way."
"Oh, do you think I really have it? I am so glad," Eleanor exclaimed in a satisfied tone.
Mr. Snyder laughed. "Funny thing to be glad about."
"Why, you see, they have all got it at my aunt's in the city and that is why I couldn't go there when mamma went away, and now maybe I can."
"But what put it into your head to come so far from home to-day?" Mrs. Snyder asked.
Eleanor hung her head. "Because—because, Don hung my doll, and I can't bear him, and they don't believe anything I say, and nobody loves me, and I was so lonely I just couldn't stand it."
Mrs. Snyder looked at her husband and then gathered Eleanor into her motherly arms. "Poor little thing! Homesick in her own home; mother sick, I reckon. Let us keep her here a bit, Ben. You told me a month ago that Mrs. Dallas had gone off to them Hot Springs and left the child with kinfolks. I remember, because you said you'd never had no complaint of your butter and eggs from that house in all these years, and you reckoned Mrs. Murdoch was kind of fussy. Ain't her name Murdoch?"
"Yes, that's it; Murdoch. She did say the butter was too salt and couldn't I bring her bigger eggs; these was too small; and I told her I'd call the hen's attention to it, and tell them they must keep their tape-measures in their pockets. She didn't half like that. Fact is, she told me she'd get some one else to serve her."
"And that house has been supplied by you ever since Mrs. Dallas went there a bride. Well, child, I guess your mother didn't know who she was leaving you with. I reckon you haven't been very well looked after. Here, set right up here and eat some dinner. She looks kind of blue around the mouth, Ben. I don't think she'd ought to go back to-day, in this cold wind."
"Then, I'll send word to Mrs. Murdoch by Lem. He can go some time before night; I'd as lief let her worry for a while. He can go 'round by Johnson's and see if the little darky is there. Very likely she's all snug with them. Some one else probably gave her a lift. I remember, now, I didn't go to town on Wednesday week. I went to that sale over by the crossroads, and I got Nat Gilam to go for me. No doubt she went with him to Johnson's. Don't you worry about her, honey. What you got bilin' in that pot, mother?"
"Suet puddin'. Seemed like the day for it. I'd as lief let her fuss for a while, that Mrs. Murdoch, I mean. Butter too salt, indeed."
"Give the child somethin' to eat, mother; she ain't scarcely touched anything."
"She's half sick," said Mrs. Snyder, regarding the child with kind eyes. "Don't you pester her, Mr. Snyder. I'll look after her. I've lost six," she said to Eleanor, "and it's mighty lonely sometimes. I'm glad enough to see a little child, once in a while."
"There, mother, there; don't let's talk about it now," said Mr. Snyder; "you'll be losin' your appetite next. I'm savin' a place for that suet puddin' myself."
Eleanor watched with wonder the huge amount of food which Mr. Snyder consumed, but she hardly tasted any herself, and after the good man had left the kitchen and Mrs. Snyder had washed the dishes and put them away, she took the child on her lap and rocked her in an old splint-bottomed chair which had a cozy squeak to it, so that, feeling very content, Eleanor fell asleep to the accompaniment of creaking chair and singing teakettle.
She did not awaken till the short winter day had ended. Once she stirred and was dimly conscious of being placed in a more comfortable position, and felt herself warmly covered up and a soft kiss imprinted upon her cheek; then she dropped into a sound sleep, to dream that her mother was near her; that it was soft spring weather and the birds were singing in the apple-tree by the kitchen door.
It was when Mr. Snyder came noisily into the kitchen that she sat up and rubbed her eyes, wondering where she was. "There, now, Ben, you've waked the child, and she was sleeping so sweetly. I think she's got a little fever." Mrs. Snyder bent over her, looking much concerned. "How do you feel, my dear? Are you rested?"
"Oh, yes." Eleanor threw off the shawl which had covered her, and arose to her feet. "I feel very much rested, thank you, Mrs. Snyder."
"Bless her dear heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Snyder, hugging her up close to her.
Eleanor gave a sigh of satisfaction. "It was so nice to have you rock me to sleep," she said. "It made me feel as if I had mamma again."
"I went over to see about your little Bubbles," said Mr. Snyder, "but nobody's seen her. Sylvy showed every tooth in her head when she saw me, and I told her you were here with us. I could scarcely keep her from coming right over, but I told her you were too tired and were taking a nap. How far did you trot behind my wagon? All the way out from town to Murphy's, mother. That's where I met up with her. Sylvy says she will be here to-morrow, and I've sent word to your cousin that you are safe and sound, but that you've got the whooping-cough. That'll finish the business, I think, mother. Those precious children of hers are all made of gold studded with diamonds, and if there's any way to prevent your coming near them she'll agree to it." He nodded knowingly at Eleanor.
Two red spots were burning on the child's cheeks; her eyes were very bright, and her hands hot, so that Mrs. Snyder declared that she must go to bed early, and after supper, for which Eleanor had but little appetite, she was dosed with an herby draught and snugly placed between warm sheets in a clean little room where a wood stove roared and sent out a pleasant heat. "I shall be right in here," Mrs. Snyder said, "so don't you be scared. If your cough is bad in the night, I'll come in and give you something for it." She stooped to give a good-night kiss, and Eleanor reached out her arms from under the covers and clasped the good woman's neck.
"I do love you," she said. "Nobody has kissed me good-night since mamma went away. Where do you suppose poor little Bubbles is? Oh, Mrs. Snyder, I am so distressed about her. I'm afraid she might be the one that Zula, the gipsy girl, told me about. Why didn't I ask more about her? I never thought it might be Bubbles. I thought of course that she was safe with Sylvy."
"There, dear, there, Mr. Snyder'll see about it the first thing in the morning," said Mrs. Snyder.
But Eleanor kept repeating: "What has become of her? Poor little Bubbles!" She sobbed piteously, and for all Mrs. Snyder comforted her as best she could, it was a long time before she could go to sleep, and when she did her pillow was wet with tears.
Meantime, quite a stir was caused by Eleanor's long absence. Olive and Jessie returned home from school with the news that Eleanor had not been seen since eleven o'clock, when she was met by some of the girls on her way to Mrs. Wills'. Miss Reese had questioned the old woman who remembered that the little Dallas girl had been there. Yes, she had been there, and she had not stopped long; but Mrs. Wills said nothing about the bundle which Eleanor had left in her care and which she had taken away with her. The old woman had a very poor memory, at the best, and she was peculiar.
Miss Reese stopped to report the result of her inquiries to Mrs. Murdoch. "Just like the child," said the latter; "she delights to annoy me, and has taken this means of doing it. She probably wanted to play truant, and will be coming toward night, no doubt." Nevertheless, there was an undercurrent of anxiety, and some qualms of conscience regarding the child's real reason for going off in this stealthy way, and as the afternoon wore on and no Eleanor appeared, Mrs. Murdoch became more and more annoyed. "The child was left in my care," she said to Olive, "and her mother will censure me if anything happens to her. Do you and Donald hunt around the house and grounds for her, and I will send Jessie to the houses where she would be most likely to visit."
But after a thorough search, Olive, of course, reported that no Eleanor was to be found, and then, just as Mrs. Murdoch was really getting worked up into a state of nervous fear and dread, Miss Reese came in. "I have just received a little note from Eleanor," she said, "and she tells me that she has gone to find Bubbles." She handed the note to Mrs. Murdoch, who read it without a word, although under Miss Reese's quiet gaze, she flushed slightly.
"It is not always easy to understand children," said Miss Reese gently. "Often their little hearts are bleeding under an indifferent, and, often, defiant exterior. Eleanor has always had a life so full of love and sympathy that any lack of it would probably affect her more seriously than it would a less emotional child."
"I am sure I have tried to do my duty," said Mrs. Murdoch plaintively. "I have bathed her with my own hands more than once, and I have been most particular to see that she was properly clad, and I have seen to it that she had her study hour."
Miss Reese said only: "She is safe, at all events. I think that Dr. Sullivan goes out in that direction and perhaps, to-morrow, he will stop and bring her back with him. He is very fond of her, I know, and it would not be asking him to perform an unpleasant task. Shall I speak to him about it?"
"I shall be very much relieved if you will," returned Mrs. Murdoch, glad to see a way out of the difficulty; and Miss Reese departed. But next came word from Mr. Snyder that Eleanor was at his house, and that she was not well; Mrs. Snyder had a suspicion that she might be developing the whooping-cough. Perhaps she would best stay where she was till the truth could be learned from the doctor.
Therefore, much against his will, Donald was dispatched to take word to Miss Reese and to the doctor. "That child will be the death of me," complained Mrs. Murdoch. "I wish to heavens I had never undertaken the care of her. I know nothing about these people to whom she has gone."
But a call from the doctor reassured her. "She couldn't be in better hands," he said. "I'll stop there to-morrow and see how she is. Bless the little monkey! she ought to have come to me, if she was sick. She is a dear child, one of the sweetest I ever knew, and that is a good deal for a doctor to say." Mrs. Murdoch probably did not agree with him, but she did not say so.
But Eleanor, sleeping soundly, did not concern herself about any of this and little knew what the morrow had in store for her.