"I never saw a Skyrie Ghost,I never hope to see one;But I can tell you, anyhowI'd rather see than be one."
"I never saw a Skyrie Ghost,I never hope to see one;But I can tell you, anyhowI'd rather see than be one."
Dorothy as merrily and promptly joined in this remodeled ditty of the "Purple Cow," but they were destined never to complete it; because, absorbed in her own relation and astonished at their light treatment of it, Alfaretta ceased to observe the smoothness or roughness of their path and inadvertently propelled the wheel-chair into a wide, open ditch, whose edge was veiled by a luxurious growth of weeds.
An instant later the wheels were uppermost, the two girls had been projected upon them, and poor father John buried beneath the whole.
As the old man called Winters left the post-office he struck out for the mountain road, a smooth macadamized thoroughfare kept in perfect order for the benefit of the wealthy summer residents of the Heights, whither it led: but he soon left it for a leafy ravine that ran alongside and was rich with the sights and sounds of June.
Whether he did this from habit, being an ardent lover of nature, or because he knew that all anger must be soothed by the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers, can only be guessed. Certain it is that if he sought to obtain the latter result for his disturbed companion, who had as silently followed him into the shady by-way as he had from the crowded office, he fully succeeded.
The ravine, like the road, climbed steadily upward, and the noisy little stream that tumbled through it made a soothing accompaniment to the bird songs: and in his own delight of listening the old man almost forgot his fellow traveler. Almost, but not quite; for just at a point where the gully branched eastward and he paused to admire, a sigh fell on Seth Winters's ear, and set him face backward, smiling cheerily and remarking:
"This is one of my resting-spots. Let's stop a minute. The moss—or lichen—on this bowlder must be an inch thick. Dry as a feather cushion, too, because the sun strikes this particular place as soon as it rises above old Beacon, across the river. Sit, please."
He seated himself as he spoke, and Jim dropped down beside him.
"Beautiful, isn't it, lad? And made for just us two to appreciate, it may be: for I doubt if any others ever visit this hidden nook. Think of the immeasurable wealth of a Providence who could create such a wonder for just two insignificant human beings. Ah! but it takes my breath away!" and as if in the presence of Deity itself, the blacksmith reverently bared his head.
Unconsciously, Jim doffed his own new straw hat; though his companion smiled, realizing that the action was due to example merely, or even to a heated forehead. But he commended, saying:
"That's right. A man can think better with his head uncovered. If it wouldn't rouse too much idle talk I'd never wear a hat, the year round."
To this the troubled lad made no reply. Indeed, he scarcely noticed what was said, he was so anxious over the affair of the morning; and, with another prodigious sigh, he suddenly burst forth;
"What in the world 'll I do!"
"Do right, of course. That's easy."
"Huh! But when a feller don't know which is right—Pshaw!"
"You might as well tell me the whole story. I'm bound to hear it in the end, you know, because I'm the justice of the peace whom that angry gentleman was in pursuit of. If his common sense doesn't get the better of his anger, you'll likely be served a summons to appear before me and answer for your 'assault.' But—he hasn't applied to me yet; and until he does I've a right to hear all you have to say. Better begin at the beginning of things."
Jim looked up perplexed. He had only very vague ideas of justice as administered by law and, at present, he cared little about that. If he could make this fine old fellow see right into his heart, for a minute, he was sure he would be given good advice. He even opened his lips to speak, but closed them again with a sense of the uselessness of the attempt. So that it was with the surprise of one who first listens to a "mind reader" that he heard Seth Winters say:
"I know all about you. If you can't talk for yourself, my lad, I'll talk for you. You are an orphan. As far as you know there isn't a human being living who has any claim to your services by reason of blood relationship. You worked like a bond slave for an exacting old woman truck-farmer until pity got the better of your abnormal sense of 'duty,' when you ran away and helped a kidnapped girl to reach her friends. In recognition of your brave action my neighbor, Mrs. Betty Calvert, has taken you in hand to give you a chance to make a man of yourself. She is going to test your character further and, if you prove worthy, will give you the education you covet more than anything else in life. She brought you here last night and this morning trusted you with two important matters: the delivery to a certain gentleman, whom as yet I do not know, of a confidential letter: and the care of her Great Danes, creatures which she looks upon as almost wiser than human beings and considers her stanchest friends. The latter safely reached Mr. Chester's hands; but—the Danes? What shall we do about the Danes, Jim Barlow?"
"Thun—der—a—tion! You must be one them air wizards I heerd Mis' Stott tell about, 't used to be in that Germany country where she was raised. Why—pshaw! I feel as if you'd turned me clean inside out! How—how come it?"
"In the most natural way. The men who print newspapers search closely for a bit of 'news,' and so your simple story got into the columns of my weekly. Besides, Mrs. Betty Calvert and I are lifelong friends. Our fathers' estates in old Maryland lay side by side. She's a gossip, Betty is, and who so delightful to gossip with as an old man who's known your whole life from A to izzard? So when she can't seat herself in my little smithy and hinder my work by chattering there, she must needs put all her thoughts and actions on a bit of writing paper and send it through the post. Now, my lad, I've talked to you more than common. Do you know why?"
"No, I don't, and it sounds like some them yarns Dorothy C. used to make up whilst we was pickin' berries in the sun, just to make it come easier like. She can tell more stories, right out her plain head 'n a feller 'd believe! She's awful clever, Dorothy is—and spell! My sakes! If I could spell like her I'd be sot up. But I don't see how just bein' befriended by Mis' Calvert made you talk to me so much."
The blacksmith laughed, and answered:
"Indeed, lad, it wasn't that. That big-hearted woman has so many protégés that one more or less scarcely interests me. Only for something in themselves. Well, it was something in yourself. Down there in the office, while I stood behind a partition and nobody saw me—I would hide anywhere to keep out of a quarrel!—I saw you, the very instant after Mr. Montaigne had shaken you and you'd struck back, lift your foot and step aside because a poor little caterpillar was crawling across the floor and you were in danger of crushing it. It was a very little thing in itself, but a big thing to have been done by a boy in the terrific passion you were. It was one of God's creatures, and you spared it. I believe you're worth knowing. But I'd like to have that belief confirmed by hearing what you are going to do next. Let us go on."
They both rose and each carrying his hat in his hand, the better to facilitate "thinking," went silently onward again. It was a long climb, something more than two miles, but the ravine ended at length in a meadow on the sloping hillside, which Seth Winters crossed by a tiny footpath. Then they were upon the smooth white road again. Before them rose the fine mansions of those residents designated by Alfaretta as the "aristocratics," and scattered here and there among these larger estates were the humbler homes of the farmer folk who had dwelt "up-mounting" long before it had become the fashionable "Heights."
Not far ahead lay Deerhurst, the very first of the expensive dwellings to be erected amid such a wilderness of rocks and trees: its massive stone walls half-hidden by the ivy clambering over them, its judiciously trimmed "vistas" through which one might look northward to the Catskills and downward to the valley bordering the great Hudson.
Just within the clematis-draped entrance-pillars stood the picturesque lodge where the childless couple lived who had charge of the estate and with whom Jim was to stay. He had been assigned a pleasant upper chamber, comfortably fitted up with what seemed to its humble occupant almost palatial splendor. Best of all, there hung upon the wall of this chamber a little book-rack filled with well-selected literature. And, though the boy did not know this, the books had been chosen to meet just his especial case by Seth Winters himself, at the behest of his old friend, Mrs. Calvert, immediately upon her decision to bring Jim to Deerhurst.
Even now, one volume lay on the window ledge, where the happy lad had risen to study it as soon as daylight came. He fancied that he could see it, even at this distance, and another of his prodigious sighs issued from his lips.
"Well, lad. We have come to the parting of the ways, at least for the present. My smithy lies yonder, beyond that turn of the road and behind the biggest oak tree in the country. Behind the shop is another mighty fellow, known all over this countryside as the 'Great Balm of Gilead.' It's as old, maybe, as 'the everlasting hills,' and seems to hold the strength of one. I've built an iron fence around it, to protect its bark from the knives of silly people who would carve their names upon it, and—it's well worth seeing. Good-by."
"Hold on! Say. You seem so friendly like, mebbe—mebbe you could give me a job."
"No, I couldn't," came the answer with unexpected sharpness, yet a tinge of regret.
"Why not? I'm strong—strong as blazes, for all I'm kind of lean 'count of growin' so fast. And I'm steady. If you could see Mirandy Stott, she'd have to 'low that, no matter how mad she was about my leavin'. Give me a job, won't ye?"
"No. I thought you were going to do right. Good-morning;" and, as if he wholly gave up his apparent interest in the lad, Seth Winters, known widely and well as the "Learned Blacksmith," strode rapidly homeward to his daily toil, feeling that he had indeed wasted his morning; and he was a man to whom every hour was precious.
Jim's perplexity was such that he would far rather run away and turn his back on all these new helpful friends than return to Deerhurst and confess his unfaithfulness to his duty. He fancied he could hear Mrs. Cecil saying:
"Well, I tried you and found you wanting. I shall never trust you again. You can go where you please, for you've had your chance and wasted it."
Of course, even in fancy, he couldn't frame sentences just like these, but the spirit of them was plain enough to his mind. The dogs—One thought of these, at that moment, altered everything. It had been commented upon by all the retainers of the house of Calvert that such discriminating animals had made instant friends with the uncouth farm boy. This had flattered his pride and his fondness for all dumb creatures had made them dear to him beyond his own belief. Poor Ponce! Poor Peter! If they suffered because of his negligence—Well, he must make what atonement he could!
His doubts sank to rest though his reluctance to follow the dictates of his conscience did not; and it was by actual force he dragged his unwilling feet through the great stone gateway and along the driveway to that shady veranda where he saw the mistress of Deerhurst sitting, ready waiting for her morning drive and the arrival of Ephraim. As Jim approached she looked at him curiously. Why should he come by that road when he was due from another? and why was he not long ago transplanting those celery seedlings which she had directed him should be his first day's labor?
As he reached the wide steps he snatched off his hat again; not, as she fancied, from an instinctive respect to her but to cool his hot face, and without prelude jerked out the whole of his story:
"Mis' Calvert, ma'am, I've lost your dogs. I've been in a fight. I'm going to be arrested an' took afore a judge-blacksmith. Likely I'll be jailed. 'Tain't no sort o' use sayin' I'm sorry—that don't even touch to what I feel inside me. You give me a chance an'—an'—I wasn't worth it. I'll go, now, and—and soon's I can get a job an' earn somethin' I'll send you back your clothes. Good-by."
"Stop! Wait!You lost my dogs!" cried Mrs. Cecil, springing up and in a tone which brooked no disobedience: a tone such as a high-born dame might sometimes use to an inferior but was rarely heard from this real gentlewoman; a tone that, despite the humility and self-contempt he felt at that moment, stung the unhappy youth like a whip-lash. "Explain. At once. If they're lost they must be found. That you've been foolish enough to fight and get arrested—that's your own affair—nothing to me; but my dogs, my priceless, splendid, irreplaceable Great Danes! Boy, you might as well have struck me on my very heart. Where? When? Oh! if I had never, never seen you!"
Poor Jim said nothing. He stood waiting with bowed head while she lavished her indignation upon him, and realizing, for the first, how great a part of a lonely old life even dumb animals may become. When, for want of breath, or further power to contemn, she sank back in her stoop chair, he turned to go, a dejected, disappointed creature that would have moved Mrs. Cecil's heart to pity, had she opened her eyes to look. But she had closed them in a sort of hopeless despair, and he had already retraced his footsteps some distance toward the outer road when there sounded upon the air that which sent her to her feet again—this time in wild delight—and arrested him where he stood.
At once, following those joyful barks, that both hearers would have recognized anywhere, came the leaping, springing dogs; dangling their broken chains and the freshly gnawed and broken ropes—with which old Ephraim had unwisely reckoned to restrain them from the sweets of a once tasted liberty.
But even amid her sudden rejoicing where had been profound sorrow, the doting mistress of the troublesome Great Danes felt a sharp tinge of jealousy.
"They're safe, the precious creatures! But—they went to that farm boy first!"
The screams of Dorothy and Alfaretta brought Mrs. Chester hurrying back to them and as she saw what had happened her alarm increased, for it seemed impossible that a helpless person, like her husband, should go through such an accident and come out safe.
For a moment her strength left her and she turned giddy with fear, believing that she had brought her invalid here only to be killed. The next instant she was helping the girls to free themselves from the tangle of wheels, briars, and limbs; and then all three took hold of the heavy chair to lift it from the prostrate man.
"John! John! Are you alive? Speak—do speak if you love me!" cried poor mother Martha, frantic with anxiety.
But for a time, even after they had lifted him to the bank above, Mr. Chester lay still with closed eyes and no sign of life about him. There was a bruise upon his forehead where he had struck against a rock in falling; and, seeing him so motionless, poor Dorothy buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud:
"Oh! I've killed him! I've killed my precious father!"
"There is a bridge across the ditch just yonder!—Why didn't you see it! How could you—" began Mrs. Chester; yet got no further in her up-braidings, for father John opened his eyes and looked confusedly about him.
Either the sound of voices or the liberal dash of cold water, which thoughtful Alfaretta had rushed away to bring and throw upon him, had restored him to consciousness, and his beclouded senses rapidly became normal. It had been a great shock but, more fortunately than his frightened wife at first dared to believe, there were no broken bones, and it was with intense thankfulness that she now picked up his crutches and handed them to him at his demand.
"Well, I reckon wooden feet are safest, after all! I've never—I'll never go without them. Good thing I brought them—No, thank you! Walking's good!" he cried, with all his usual spirit though in a weak voice.
They had managed to get the chair into position and found it as uninjured as its owner. A few scratches here and there marred the polish of the frame and one cushion had sustained an ugly rent. It had been a very expensive purchase for the donors and an ill-advised one. A lighter, cheaper chair would have been far more serviceable; and, as father John tried to steady himself upon his crutches, he regarded it with his familiar, whimsical smile that comforted them all more readily than words:
"The boys might as well have given me an automobile! Wouldn't have been much more clumsy—nor dangerous!" he declared, trying to swing himself forward from the spot where he stood, striving to steady himself upon his safer "wooden feet."
"O John! how can you joke? You might be—be dead!" wailed mother Martha, weeping and unnerved for the first time, now that all danger was past.
"And that's the best 'joke' of all. I might be but I'm not. So let's all heave—heave away! for that pleasant shore of a wide lounge and a—towel! With the best intentions—I've been ducked pretty wet!"
"That was my fault! I'm awful sorry but—but—that time John Babcock he fell off the barn roof ma she flung a whole pail of water right out the rain-barrel onto him and that brung him to quicker'n scat. So I remembered and I'm real sorry now," explained Alfaretta, more abashed than ordinarily: and in her own heart feeling that the guilt of carelessness which caused the accident had been more hers than Dorothy's. "And nobody needn't scold Dolly C. 'Cause she didn't know about the bridge over an' I did, and——"
"No, no! My fault, my very own!" interposed Dorothy hastily.
"Let nobody blame nobody! All's well that ends well! Alfaretta mustn't regret her serviceable memory nor my drenching, for she's a wise little maid and I owe my 'coming to,' to her 'remembering.' As for you, Dolly darling, let me see another tear in your eye and I will 'scold' in earnest. Now, Martha, wife, I'll give it up. I'm rather shaky on my pins yet and the chair it must be, if I'm to put myself in connection with that lounge. I shan't need the towel after all. I've just let myself 'dreen,' as my girl used to do with the dishes, sometimes!"
He talked so cheerily and so naturally that he almost deceived them into believing that he was not a whit the worse for his tumble, and as they helped him to be seated and began to push him up the slope toward the cottage, he whistled as merrily as he had used to do upon his postal route.
"And you ain't goin' to the gold mine after all?" asked Alfy, much disappointed. It was a spot she had hitherto shunned on account of its ghostly reputation, but was eager to visit now in company with these owners of it, who scoffed at the "haunt." She wanted to show them she was right and see what they would say then.
"Gold mine? Trash! If there had been such a thing on this farm, a man as clever as my uncle Simon Waterman would have used some of the 'gold' to keep things in better shape. I don't want to hear any more of that nonsense, nor to have you, Dorothy, go searching for the place. Our first trip to hunt for gold has been a lesson to us all," said mother Martha, with such sharpness that Alfaretta stared and the others, who knew her better, realized that this was a time to keep silence.
More than once that day was the good housewife tempted to send the three visiting Babcocks home, but was too courteous to do so. She longed to have her daughter to herself, and to discuss with her not only the happenings of the past but plans for the future. Besides this desire, she also saw, at last, how badly shaken by his fall her husband was and that he needed perfect quiet—a thing impossible to procure with Alfaretta Babcock in the cottage.
However, the day wore away at length. The girl showed herself as useful in the dinner-getting and clearing away as she had done at breakfast time; also, she and her sisters brought to it as keen an appetite, so that, after all, the clearing away was not so great a matter as might be.
Dorothy kept the smaller girls out of doors, helping them to make a playhouse with bits of stones, to stock it with broken crockery and holly-hock dolls, and to entrance them with her store of fairy tales to such a degree that Baretta decided:
"I'm comin' again, Dorothy Chester. I'm comin' ever' single day they is."
"Oh, no! You mustn't do that!" gasped the surprised young hostess. "I will have to work a great deal to help my mother and I shan't have time for visiting."
"Me come, too, Do'thy Chetter," lisped Claretta. "Me like playhouth futh-rate. Me come to-mowwow day, maybe."
Dorothy said no more, but found a way to end their plans by getting a book for herself, and becoming so absorbed in it that they ceased to find her interesting and wandered off by themselves to rummage in the old barn; and, finally, to grow so tired of the whole place that they began to howl with homesickness.
Dorothy let them howl. She had recently been promoted to the reading of Dickens, and enthralled by the adventures of Barnaby Rudge she had wandered far in spirit from that mountain farm and the disgruntled Babcocks. Curled up on the grass beneath a low-branched tree she forgot everything, and for a long time knew nothing of what went on about her.
Meantime, to keep Alfaretta's tongue beyond reach of her husband's ears, Mrs. Chester had gone down into the cellar of the cottage which, her visitor informed her, had once been the "dairy." Until now, since her coming to Skyrie, the housemistress had occupied herself only in getting the upper rooms cleaned and furnished with such of her belongings as she had brought with her, and in attendance upon father John. She had not attempted any real farm work, though she had listened to his plans with patient unbelief in his power to accomplish any of them.
"If Dorothy should be found," had been his own conclusion of all his schemes, during the time of their uncertainty concerning her; and afterward, when news of her safety and early coming had reached them, he merely changed this form to: "Now that Dorothy is found."
Everything had its beginning and end in "Dorothy." For her the garden was to be made, especially the flower beds in it; the farm rescued from its neglected condition and made a well-paying one, that Dorothy might be educated; and because of Dorothy's love of nature the whole property must be rendered delightfully picturesque.
Now Dorothy had really come; and, unfortunately, as Mrs. Chester expressed it:
"I can see to the bottom of our pocket-book, John dear, and it's not very deep down. Plans and talk are nice but it takes money to carry them out. As for your doing any real work yourself, you can't till you get well. 'Twould only hinder your doing so if you tried. We'll have to hire a man to work the ground for us and clear it of weeds. If we can get him to do it 'on shares,' so much the better; if he won't do that—Oh! hum! To think of folks having more dollars than they can spend and we just enough to starve on!"
This talk had been on that very day before, while they sat impatiently awaiting her arrival, and it had made John Chester wince. While his life had been in danger, even during all their time of doubt concerning their adopted child, Martha had been gentleness and hopefulness indeed. She had seemed to assume his nature and he hers: but now that their more serious fears were removed, each had returned to his own again; she become once more a fretter over trifles and he a jester at them.
"Don't say that, dear wife. I don't believe we will starve; or that we'll have to beg the superfluous dollars of other people," he had answered, hiding his regret for his own lost health and comfortable salary.
But the much-tried lady was on the highroad toward trouble-borrowing and bound to reach her end.
"I might as well say it as think it, John. I never was one to keep things to myself that concern us both, as you did all that time you knew you was going lame and never told me. Besides the man, we must have a horse, or two of them. Maybe mules would come cheaper, if they have 'em around here. We'll have to get a cow, of course. Milk and butter save a lot of butcher stuff. Then we must get a pig. The pig will eat up the sour milk left after the butter's made——"
"My dear, don't let him eat up the buttermilk, too! Save that for Dorothy and me, please. Remember how the little darling used to coax for a nickel to run to the 'corner' and buy a quart of it, when we'd been digging extra hard in our pretty yard. And don't forget, in your financial reckonings, to leave us a few cents to buy roses with. I've been thinking how well some climbing 'Clothilde Souperts' would look, trained against that barn wall, with, maybe, a row of crimson 'Jacks,' or 'Rohans' in front. Dorothy would like that, I guess. I must send for a new lot of florists' catalogues, since you didn't bring my old ones."
"I hadn't room; and I hope you won't. We've not one cent to waste on plants, let alone dollars. Besides, once you and Dorothy get your heads together over one those books you want all that's in it, from cover to cover. There's things I want, too, but I put temptation behind me. The whole farm's run to weeds and posies, anyhow. No need to buy more."
Father John had thought it wise to change the subject. Martha was the best of wives, but there were some things in which she failed to sympathize. He therefore remarked, what he honestly believed:
"I think it's wonderful, little woman, how you can remember so much about farming, when you haven't lived on one since you were a child."
"Children remember better than grown folks. I don't forget how I used to have to churn in a dash-churn, till my arms ached fit to drop off. And I learned to milk till I could finish one cow in a few minutes; but it nearly broke my fingers in two, at first. I wonder if I can milk now! I'll have to try, anyway, soon as we get the cow. I guess you'd better write an advertisement for theLocal News, and I'll go to Mrs. Calvert's place and ask her coachman to post it when he goes down the mountains to meet the folks. Just to think we shall have our blessed child this very night before we sleep!" ended the housemistress, with a return of her good spirits.
Father John laughed with almost boyish gayety. Dorothy was coming! Everything would be right. So he hobbled across to his own old desk which Martha had placed in the cheeriest corner of the room assigned to him, looking back over his shoulder to inquire:
"Shall it be for a cow, a horse, or that milk-saving pig? Or all three at one fell swoop? Must I say second-hand or first-class? I never lived on a farm, you know, and enjoyed your advantages of knowledge: and, by the way, what will we do with the creatures when we get them? I haven't been into that barn yet, but it looks shaky."
"John Chester! Folks don't keep pigs in their barns! They keep them in pens. Even an ex-postman ought to know enough for that. And make the thing short. The printers charge so much a word, remember."
"All right. 'Brevity is the soul of wit.' I'll condense."
Whistling over his task, Mr. Chester soon evolved the following "Want Ad.":
"Immediate. Pig. Cow. Horse. Skyrie."
This effusion, over which he chuckled considerably, he neatly folded and addressed to the publisher of the local newspaper and left on his desk for his wife to read, then hobbled back to his bed to sleep away the time till Dorothy came, if he could thus calm his happy excitement. But it never entered his mind that his careful wife would not read and reconstruct the advertisement before she dispatched it to its destination.
However, this she did not do. She simply sealed and delivered it to old Ephraim, just as he was on the point of starting for his mistress at the Landing: and the result of its prompt appearance in the weekly sheet, issued the next morning, was not just what either of the Chesters would have desired.
After all, Alfaretta was good company down in that old cellar-dairy, poking into things, explaining the probable usage of much that Martha did not understand. For instance:
"That there great big wooden thing in the corner's a dog-churn. Ma says 'twas one more o' old Si Waterman's crazy kinks. He had the biggest kind of a dog an' used to make him do his churnin'. Used to try, anyhow. See? This great barrel-like thing is the churn. That's the treadmill 'Hendrick Hudson'—that was the dog's name—had to walk on. Step, step, step! an' never get through! Ma says 'twas no wonder the creatur' 'd run away an' hide in the woods soon's churnin' days come round. He knew when Tuesday an' Friday was just as well as folks. Then old Si he'd spend the whole mornin' chasing 'Hudson'—he was named after the river or something—from Pontius to Pilate; an' when he'd catch him, Si'd be a good deal more tuckered out an' if he'd done his churnin' himself."
Martha laughed, and rolling the big, barrel-churn upon its side was more than delighted to see it fall apart, useless.
"How could he ever get cream enough to fill such a thing? Or enough water to keep it clean? And look, Alfy! what a perfect rat-hole of dirt and rubbish is under it. That old dog-churn must come down first thing. I've a notion to take that rusty ax yonder and knock it to pieces myself," she remarked and turned her back for a moment, to examine the other portions of her future dairy.
Now good-natured Alfaretta was nothing if not helpful, and quite human enough to enjoy smashing something. Before Mrs. Chester could turn around, the girl had caught up the ax and with one vigorous blow from her strong arm sent the dog-churn, already tumbling to pieces with age, with a deafening rattle down upon the stone floor.
The sound startled John Chester from his restful nap, silenced the outcries of the little Babcocks, and sent Dorothy to her feet, in frightened bewilderment. For there before her, in the flesh, stood the hero of the very book she dropped as she sprang up—Barnaby Rudge himself!
"Barnaby Rudge! Fiddlesticks! That ain't his name nor nothing like it. He's Peter Piper. He's out the poorhouse or something. He ain't like other folks. He's crazy, or silly-witted, or somethin'. How-de-do, Peter?" said Alfaretta, as Dorothy, closely followed by the little Babcocks and the "apparition" himself, dashed down into the dust-clouded dairy where Mrs. Chester stood still, gazing in bewilderment at the demolished dog-churn.
Anybody might have easily been startled by the appearance of the unfortunate creature who had, also, come into the cellar; especially a girl whose head was already filled with the image of another storied "natural," as Dorothy's was. He was tall and gaunt, with an unnaturally white face and a mass of hair almost as white in color, though not from age. His narrow, receding forehead was topped by a hat bestowed upon him by some parading political band of the autumn previous, and was gay with red cock feathers and a glittering buckle polished to the last degree. His clothing was also, in part, that of a parader: a brilliant-hued coat worn over his ordinary faded suit of denim. In one hand he carried the same burnt-out torch bestowed upon him with his hat, and by the other he led a cow that might once have been a calf. He did not speak, though he evidently heard and understood Alfaretta's greeting, for he turned his protruding eyes from Dorothy to her and answered by a foolish smile.
"Why, Peter Piper, what you bringin' old Brindle up here for? Who told you to?"
Again Peter grinned and answered nothing, but he turned his gaze from Alfaretta to Mr. Chester, who had come to the window above, and stared until the gentleman fidgeted and broke the spell by saying:
"Good-afternoon, lad. 'Peter Piper,' are you? Well, I'm glad to see you;" then added in a voice only Dorothy, who had run in to stand beside him, could overhear. "Wonder if he's any relation to the man who pricked his fingers picking pickled peppers!"
"Looks as if he might be, doesn't he? Only, Dad, I feel so sorry for him."
"Oh! I'm sorry for him, too. I am sincerely. But—I'm a trifle sorry for myself, as well. I wonder—is this the beginning of things! What a power the press certainly is, if one little advertisement—Why, Martha, Martha! Come up here, please! Come right away."
Mrs. Chester promptly obeyed, surprised by the mingled mirth and vexation expressed by her husband's face. And came not only Martha but the trio of Babcocks, behind her. At which father John frowned and observed:
"I was speaking to Mrs. Chester."
"Yes, I heard you," answered Alfaretta, coolly: at which all the Chesters laughed, and she joined heartily in, not dreaming that what her host afterwards called her "perfect ease of manner" was the cause of the fun.
"Well, John, what is it? You seemed to want me."
"My dear, I always do. Never more than now when I wish you to tell me—Did you rewrite that advertisement sent to the local newspaper yesterday?"
"Rewrite it? No, indeed. Why should I? You understand such things better than I. So I just sealed it, with money inside to pay—By the way, there should be considerable change due us. I don't believe one advertisement in a country paper would cost a whole dollar: do you?"
Mr. Chester laughed now in earnest.
"No, I do not. Not that I sent, anyway. Martha, why didn't you look? Why didn't you? My dear, you wanted it brief and I made it so. But if such brevity brings such an answer, so soon, why—it will fairly rain cows before we're many hours older. Cows!Andhorses!Andpigs! But worst of all, I've made the new Skyrie folks ridiculous in the eyes of their future townsmen."
"Tell it, John. Tell it exactly as you wrote it."
So he did; and though the lady was dismayed she couldn't help smiling under her frown, and it was a momentary relief to hear Alfaretta calmly explaining:
"That there cow don't belong to nobody. All her folks are dead. I mean all the folks she belonged to. She's a regular pest, ma says, an' 'twould be a real kindness to kill her. But nobody won't. She's too old for beef, or the butcher would; and she makes out to get her livin' without botherin' nobodymuch. She goes onto folkses' lawns an' nibbles till she's driv' off—summer times an' in winter, why 'most anybody 't has a barnyard and fodder give her a little. Pa he says she's a relict of a glorious past and is due her keep from a—a kermune—ity she's kep' in hot water as many years as she has. Ma she says she can recollect that old Brindle ever since she was a little girl, an' that cow has got more folks into lawsuits than any other creatur', beast or human, in Riverside villages—Upper or Lower.
"Last one took her in an' done for her was Seth Winters, that lives up-mounting here, an' goes by the name o' 'Learned Blacksmith.' He's another crank; but ma she says he's a practical Nanarchist, 'cause he lives up to his idees. He's rich, or he was; but he's give his money away an' just lives in his old shop an' the woods, same as poor folks. He treats Peter Piper same as he does old Brindle. Keeps 'em both to his place, if they want to stay; an' don't hinder 'em none when they clear out. Pa an' him both say how 'freedom' is the 'herintage' of every livin' thing, an' they both take it. Ma she says there's consid'able difference in their ways, though; 'cause Seth he works, constant, an' pa he never does a stroke. Say, Peter, did Seth Winters send you an' Brindle up here?"
Peter did not answer. As if the question had roused some unsettled matter in his clouded mind, he frowned, studied the earth at his feet, and slowly walked away. A pitiable object in the sunset of that fair summer day, with his bedraggled scarlet feathers, and his scarlet leather uniform that must have been uncomfortably burdensome in the heat.
But Brindle tarried behind and foraged for her supper by nibbling the grass from the overgrown dooryard.
Suddenly, remembered Alfaretta:
"Ma she said I was to come home in time to get the cows in from pasture and milk 'em. She 'lowed she wouldn't get back up-mounting till real dark: 'cause she was goin' to stop all along the road, and get all the news she could an' tell what she knows, back. Ma she's a powerful hand to know what's doin', 'round. So, Baretta Babcock! Claretta Babcock! Put your toes together; even now, an' make your manners pretty, like I showed you teacher learnedme, and say good-by."
With that the amusing girl drew herself up to her tallest, squared her own bare feet upon a seam of the carpet, and bent her body forward with the stiffest of bows. Then she took a hand of each little sister, and said—with more courtesy than some better trained children might have shown:
"I've had a real nice visit, Mis' Chester, an' I enjoyed my victuals. I'll come again an' you must let Dorothy C. come to my house. I'm sorry I tipped Mr. Chester into the ditch an' that I couldn't done more toward cleanin' up that cellar that I did. Good-night. I hope you'll all have nice dreams. Too bad Peter Piper went off mad, but he'll get over it. Good-night. Come, children, come."
So the three Babcocks departed, and the silence which succeeded her deluge of words was soothing to her hosts beyond expression. They sat long on the west veranda of the little cottage, resting and delighting in the beauty of nature and in the presence of each other. Then Dorothy slipped away and after a little absence returned with a tray of bread and butter, a big pitcher of milk, and the jar of honey Mrs. Calvert had sent.
"Bread and honey! Fare fit for a prince!" cried father John, as the food appeared. "And princes, indeed, we are to be able to sit and feast upon it with all this glorious prospect spread out before us."
He seemed to have entirely recovered from the shock of his fall and on his fine face was a look of deep content. He had suffered much and he must still so suffer—both pain of body and of mind. Poverty was his, and worse—it was the lot of his dear ones, also. To live at all, he must run in debt; and to his uprightness debt seemed little less than a crime.
However, the present was theirs. They had no immediate needs; there was food for the morrow, and more; and leaning back in the old rocker Martha brought for him, he let his fancy picture what Skyrie should be—"Some time, 'when my ship comes in'! Meanwhile—Sing to us, Dolly darling! I hear a whip-poor-will away off somewhere in the distance, and it's too mournful a sound for my mood. Sing the gayest, merriest songs you know; and, Martha dear, please do let Dorothy bring another rocker for yourself. Don't sit on that hard bench, but just indulge yourself in comfort for once."
When they were quite settled again Dorothy sang; and in listening to her clear young voice both her parents felt their spirits soothed till they almost forgot all care. Indeed, it seemed a scene upon which nothing sordid nor evil would dare enter; yet, just as the singer uttered the last note of her father's beloved "Annie Laurie," there sounded upon the stone pathway below a heavy footstep and, immediately thereafter, an impatient pounding upon the kitchen door.
Since their arrival at Skyrie none of their few visitors had called so late in the day as this, and it was with a real foreboding that Mrs. Chester rose and went to answer the summons. At a nod from her father, Dorothy followed the housemistress and saw, standing on the threshold, a rather rough-looking man, whose impatience suddenly gave place to hesitation at sight of the pair before him.
"Good-evening," said Martha, politely, though still surprised. Then, as he did not at once reply and she remembered the absurd advertisement in theLocal, she asked: "Did you come to see about work, or selling us a horse, or anything?"
"H'm'm. A—Ahem. No, ma'am. 'Twasn't no horse errand brought me, this time, though I might admit Iberuther in the horse-trade myself, being's I keep livery in Lower village. 'Twas a dog—a couple of dogs—sent me away up-mounting, this time o' day, a-foot, too, 'cause all my critters have been out so long they wasn't fit to ride nor drive, neither. Been two summer-boarder picnics, to-day, an' that took 'em. 'Shoemakers go barefoot,' is the old sayin', and might as well be 't liverymen use shanks-mares. I——"
By this time the housemistress had perceived that though the man was rough in appearance he was not unkindly in manner and that he was reluctant to disclose his errand. Also, if he had walked up the mountain he must be tired, indeed; so she fetched a chair and offered it, but only to have the courtesy declined:
"Thank ye, ma'am, but I—I guess you won't care to have me sit when I've told my job. 'Tain't to say a pleasant one but—Well, I'm the constable of Lower Riverside, and I've come to serve this summonses on that there little girl o' yourn. You must see to it that she's on hand at Seth Winterses' blacksmith shop an' justice's office, to-morrow morning at ten o'clock sharp. Here, ma'am, is the writ of subpœny 't calls for her to be a witness in a case of assault an' battery. Leastwise, to bein' known to the critters what assaulted and battered."
Before Mrs. Chester could really comprehend what he was saying or doing, the man had thrust a paper into her hand, and had vanished. He had never performed an official act of which he was more ashamed; nor can words properly express her amazement.
Fortunately the distance to the blacksmith's was not great, for Mr. Chester could not be dissuaded from accompanying his wife and daughter thither, in answer to that astounding "summons." That the document was legal and not to be ignored, he knew well enough, though mother Martha protested vigorously against paying any attention to it.
"It's some absurd mistake, John. How in the world could our Dolly be a witness in any such affair? No, indeed. Not a step will any of us take toward that shop-office! A pretty justice of the peace a blacksmith must be, anyway! I never was so insulted in my life. Instead of going there, I'm going down cellar to clean it up and made ready for our butter-making."
"First—catch your cow, wife dear! A better one than that old Brindle who has deserted us already. And as for your going, why, of course,youneedn't. Dorothy C. is the important person in this case, and I'm as much her guardian as you."
"John, you mustn't! You couldn't walk so far on your crutches——"
"Oh! I must learn to walk long distances, and 'up-mounting' must be comparatively near. I remember that Alfaretta said it was 'next door to Cat Hollow,' and Cat Hollow's just beyond Skyrie. Dorothy'd better run over to Mrs. Smith's, where you get your milk, and ask directions. No use to waste any strength hobbling over the wrong route——"
"Maybe the grocer's wagon will be up before ten o'clock and he might carry you," suggested Mrs. Chester.
"He ought not to go out of his way, that clerk; besides, it would be as difficult for me to climb into his high cart as to trot along on my own wooden feet. Shall Dolly inquire?"
So Dorothy was dispatched upon the errand, duly warned not to inform the Smith household of its cause, though there was small danger of that. The girl had never been so angry in her life. "Arrested," was the way she put the matter to herself, yet why—why! She had never done anything wicked in her life! and this man, "Archibald Montaigne," what did she know about such a person or any dogs which might have run into him? Nor was she prepared for the evident curiosity with which Mrs. Smith regarded her; a curiosity greater than that her kidnapping adventures had provoked, and which angered her still more.
"The way to Seth's shop? Sure. I know it well's I know the road to my own barnyard. You go out your gate and turn toward the river and walk till you come to the corner of two roads. Take the upper road, right into the woods, and there you'll be. Don't you be afraid, Sis. Nobody can do anything to just a witness, so. The boy'll be the one'll catch it, and heavy. That Mr. Montaigne looks like a regular pepper-pod, and is, too. Why, he sent his man down here, t'other day, to warn me to keep my hens shut up and off his property.My hens!That was never shut up in their lives, nor found fault with before. But——"
"Good-morning. Thank you," interrupted Dorothy, rather rudely, but too impatient to be back at home to think about that. Arrived there she found that, like a good many other people, once given her own way mother Martha did not care to take it. Instead of ignoring the summons to court, she arrayed herself in her best street costume and duly appeared at Seth Winters's home with her crippled husband and indignant child.
There is no need to describe the "trial" which followed. It was almost farcical in its needlessness, and poor Dorothy's part in it of the slightest import. She had to tell that she did know the dogs, Peter and Ponce, and that once she had been run against and knocked down by one of them. Also, that on the morning of the "assault" these dogs had called at Skyrie and that she had lost hold of one of them, and that they had run away with one James Barlow in pursuit. Then she was dismissed; but at a nod from Mrs. Calvert, crossed the room to where that lady sat and nestled down beside her, surprised to find her in such a place and, apparently, so much amused by the scene.
The outcome of the affair was simple. Mr. Montaigne's anger had had time to cool and he was a snob. It was one thing to prosecute a helpless lad but quite another to find that the "ferocious" dogs belonged to his aristocratic neighbor, whose acquaintance he had not heretofore been permitted to make, although he had endeavored so to do. Mrs. Cecil was, practically, the very center and queen of that exclusive circle which had "discovered" the "Heights" and was the most bitterly opposed to "outsiders" possessing property thereon.
"This man Montaigne, Cousin Seth, may have much more money than brains, but we don't want him up here on our hill," she had once said to her old friend, and giving him that title of "Cousin" from real affection rather than because he had any right to it.
He had laughed at her in his genial, hearty way, which could give no offence, and had returned:
"My good Betty, you need humanizing. We can't all be old Maryland Calverts, and I like new people. Don't fancy that a man who has made millions—made it, understand—is brainless, and not well worth knowing. You know I canspendmoney——"
"None better, man!"
"But the gift ofmakingit was denied me. I intend that you and I shall know this Mr. Montaigne and—like him. I shall make it my business to accomplish that fact even though, at present, he thinks a country blacksmith beneath his notice. That time will come. I have infinite patience, I can wait, but I shall hugely enjoy the event when it arrives."
This conversation had taken place the summer before, when the newcomer had begun the building of his really palatial residence, and Seth Winters had waited a whole year, little dreaming that the acquaintance he had determined upon should begin in his own office, with him as arbiter in a case between a rich man and a penniless boy.
"The complaint is withdrawn," declared the complainant, as soon as he had discovered the real state of affairs, and that now was his chance to become acquainted with Mrs. Cecil. "I—I was offended at the time, but—it's too trivial to notice. I beg to apologize, Madam Calvert, for the annoyance I've given you. Of course, the lad——"
"Don't mention it; an amusement rather than an annoyance," replied the lady, graciously. "So little of moment happens up here on our mountain that an episode of this kind is quite—quite refreshing. My Great Danes will not trouble you again. My 'Cousin' Winters, here—allow me to make you acquainted in a social as well as business way—my 'Cousin' Winters is almost as much attached to the beautiful animals as I am, and he has this very morning presented me with a pair of wonderful chains, warranted not to break. Fortunately, he had them already waiting my arrival, as a gift, and never gift more opportune."
"My 'Cousin' Winters!"
Archibald Montaigne felt as if the boards beneath his feet were giving way. That this old gentlewoman whose blood was of the bluest—and he adored "blue blood"—should claim relationship with an obscure farrier was a most amazing thing. Well, then, the next best step for himself to take in this affair was to foster the acquaintance with the smith; and thereby, it might be, gain entrance for his family and himself into "Society."
For his family first. That credit was due him. Personally, he loved better a quiet corner in his own great mansion, where he might study the fluctuations of the "market" and scheme to increase the wealth he had already compassed. And with the shrewdness which had enabled him to take advantage of mere money-making "chances," he now seized upon the social one presented.
"My dear Madam Calvert, my wife and daughter are without in my carriage. They have been a little—little lonely up here, for it's quiet, as you say. Do allow me to present them, call them in, or—if you will be so kind, so very kind, our precious Helena is an invalid, you know, you might step out to them with me. If I might appeal to your kindness for my daughter, who's heard so much about you and will be so delighted."
What could Mrs. Cecil do? Nobody had ever appealed to her "kindness" without receiving it, and though she positively hated to know these "new, upstart people," she was too well bred to show it. But as Mr. Montaigne bowed the way outward she flashed a look toward the smiling smith, which said as plainly as words:
"You've caught me in this trap! The consequences are yours!"
The glance he telegraphed back meant, as well:
"Good enough! I'm always glad to see a prejudice get its downfall. The time I waited for came, you see."
Almost unconsciously, Mrs. Cecil still retained in her own soft hand the clinging one of Dorothy C., which she had taken when she called the girl to her side; so that she now led her out of the office to the carriage before its door and to what Dorothy thought was the loveliest person she had ever seen.
This was Helena Montaigne, a blonde of the purest type, whose great blue eyes were full of a fine intelligence, but whose perfect features were marred by an expression of habitual discontent. This little lady made Dorothy think of the heads of angels painted upon Christmas cards and, also, for an instant made her stare rather rudely. The next she had recovered herself and acknowledged Mr. Montaigne's introduction with a natural grace and ease which delighted Mrs. Cecil beyond words. She was always gratified when "Johnnie's" adopted daughter proved herself worthy of the interest she had taken in her; and she now mentally compared the beauty of the two girls, with no disparagement to Dorothy C.
Indeed, the dark eyes, the tumbled curly head,—where the brown hair was just recovering from the rough shearing Miranda Stott had given it, while her young prisoner was ill with the measles,—and the trim, erect little figure, had already become in the eyes of this childless old lady a very dear and charming picture.
Helena's manner was that of a grown young lady, which, indeed, she quite fancied herself to be. Was she not fourteen and, on state occasions, promoted to the dignity of having her abundant hair "done up" by her mother's own hairdresser? And as for skirts, they had been lengthened to the tops of her boots: and by another year she would have her dinner frocks madeen train. Her own manner was rather disdainful, as if the people she met were not her equals; yet this contempt was for their "general stupidity." She had not her father's love of money nor her mother's timidity concerning her own behavior; for the fear that she should not conduct herself according to the "best usages of polite society" was the bane of gentle Mrs. Montaigne's existence. By nature extremely simple and sweet, she tormented herself by her efforts to be haughty and "aristocratic"—not quite understanding the true meaning of the latter term.
Money had come to her too late in life for her to become accustomed to the use of, and indifferent to, it; and, though she revered her husband on account of his ability to make it, their wealth was a burden for her, at times almost too heavy to bear.
On the other hand, Helena and Herbert, her brother, two years older, could not remember when they had not more money at their command than they knew how to use. The boy was not as clever as his sister, but he was more generally liked, though his insolence, sometimes, was most offensive. He rode up, at this moment, upon a spirited black horse, and called out, noisily:
"Well, dad! How'd the trial go? Hope you walloped that lumpkin good; and the old woman owns the dogs——"
"Herbert!Herbert!" warned Mr. Montaigne, in distress. Whereupon his son came round from the corner of the shop, which had hidden him from sight of all the party save his father, and found himself in the presence of the very "old woman" herself. He had none of his parents' ambition to know her or any other of the "exclusives" of the Heights, being quite sufficient unto himself; but he had been trained in the best schools and knew how to conduct himself properly. Besides, he was more frank by nature than the others of his family and, having found himself "in a box," escaped from it by the shortest way possible.
"Hello! I've done it now, haven't I? I beg your pardon, Mrs. Calvert, and dad's and everybody's;" saying which, the lad pulled his hat from his head, and checked his horse to a standstill beside the carriage where his mother and sister sat.
He was a handsome boy, of the same fair type as Helena, but much more rugged in strength; and his blue eyes danced with merriment instead of frowning with the disdain of hers. He adored her yet quarreled with her continually, because she had so little interest in "sensible, outdoor things"; and his gaze now turned upon Dorothy with instant perception that here was a girl worth knowing and no nonsense about her.
His gay debonair manner and his ready apology for his own blunder pleased Mrs. Calvert. She liked honesty and did not mind, in the least, having been termed an "old woman." This boy was worth all the rest of the Montaignes put together, she decided, and thereupon showed her good will by admiring his thoroughbred mount.
"That's a fine beast you have there, lad. Needs a little exercise to get him into shape, but I reckon a few trips up and down this mountain will fetch him right."
She had herself walked to her old friend's shop and now stepped forward to examine at closer range the good points of the horse, stroking his velvet nostrils with an affectionate touch, and patting his shoulder approvingly.
Herbert stared and exclaimed:
"Why, that's strange! Cephy hates women. Won't let mother nor sister come near him, or wouldn't if they tried—which only Helena has done—once! You must like horses, ma'am, and understand 'em a lot."
"I ought to. I was brought up with them. They've been my best company many and many a time. I was put into a saddle when I was but a year and a half old. Held there, of course; but took to the business so well that by the time I was five I could take a fence with my father, any time he wanted to ride over the plantation. I'm glad to see you like them, too. But I must be going. I'm sorry, Mr. Chester, that I didn't drive over; then I could have taken you home, but. I didn't expect to have the pleasure of meeting you here. I——"
As she paused this straightforward old lady looked at Mrs. Montaigne with a questioning glance; but receiving no comprehending glance in return addressed herself to her late opponent in law.
"Won't you let Mr. Chester take your place in your carriage, Mr. Montaigne, and you walk alongside me? It's such a low, easy vehicle and it's a good bit of a way back to Skyrie. I'm going there myself, and there couldn't be a better time than this for all of us to call upon our new neighbors. I'm sure we're all delighted to have them among us."
There was nothing for it but compliance. Though his face reddened and he would far rather have walked, or hobbled, twice the distance than become an enforced recipient of the Montaigne courtesy, John Chester felt that this old gentlewoman had been and was too true a friend for him to offend by not falling in with her proposal.
On his own part, Archibald Montaigne winced at the picture of this crippled ex-postman riding in state beside his wife and daughter, yet dared not refuse, lest by so doing he would close the door to that future intimacy which he coveted. He felt that this intimacy with Mrs. Cecil, personally, might be anything but agreeable; yet in her old white hands lay the key to the social situation which was his latest ambition.
There ensued but the briefest hesitation, during which there issued from Seth Winters's lips an amused, reproachful exclamation:
"O Betty, Betty! Never too old for mischief!"
But none heard the words save "Betty," who smiled as she did so. The others were helping Mr. Chester into the carriage and settling him comfortably there, with an ostentatious kindness on the part of Mr. Montaigne which the ex-postman inwardly resented. Then the coachman started his team forward, and the justice returned to his smithy, cheerily calling out:
"Well, lad, we've come out of that business with flying colors! It was the presence of Mrs. Calvert which did the most for us, though the man has more sense than appeared, yesterday, else he wouldn't—Why, Jim? James? Jimmy?"
There was no response. None but the office cat answered this summons. The defendant in this remarkable suit had vanished.
It was with great surprise that the dwellers in the houses along the way saw the contestants in a case of law returning from the trial in the most harmonious manner.
First came the Montaigne equipage, with Mrs. Montaigne and Helena upon the back seat, the latter sitting stiffly erect and haughty, the former chatting most pleasantly with the cripple facing her. Behind the carriage walked Mrs. Calvert and Mrs. Chester, both in the gayest of spirits and talking volubly of household matters; as mother Martha afterward described it:
"Might have been plain Mrs. Bruce, or Jane Jones herself, Mrs. Cecil might, she was that simple and plain spoke. She's going to have her currant jell' made right away, even whilst the currants are half green. Says she's read it was better so, and though she's afraid her old cook'll 'act up' about it she's bound to try. She said that when a body gets too old to learn—even about cookin'—it's time to give up living. Land! She's not one that will give it up till she has to! I never saw anybody as full of plans as that old lady is. You'd think she was just starting out in life instead of being so nigh the end of it, and I guess she thought I was s'prised to hear her tell. Because she caught me looking at her once, right sharp, and she laughed and said: 'I'm one of the people who can't settle down, I'm so many years young!' Why, she might have been Dolly, even, she was so full of fun over the way that lawsuit ended. I know 'twas that that pleased her so, though she never mentioned it from the time we left the shop till we got back to Skyrie. Well, green currantsmaymake the jell' solider, but I shall wait till just before the Fourth, as I always have, to make mine: and I'm thankful for the few old currant bushes that still grow along that east wall. Almost any other kind of shrub'd have died long ago, neglected as things have been, but you can't kill a currant bush. More'n that, when I get my jell' done I'm going to send Mrs. Calvert a tumbler and compare notes. I reckon mine'll come out head, for I never was one to take up with everything one reads in the papers, nor cook books, either."
Which shows that, despite her previous objections to it, that morning's excursion to the haunts of justice proved a very enjoyable one to the rather lonely little woman from the city, who found the enforced quiet of the country one of her greatest privations.
Following their elders came also Dorothy C. and Herbert, who had slipped from his saddle to walk beside his new acquaintance, and she was already chatting with him as if they had always known each other. To both the world of "outdoors" meant everything. To him because of the gunning, fishing, riding, and rowing; to her because of its never-ending marvels, of scenery, of growing things, and of the songs of birds.
"I tell you what—Steady, Bucephalus!" cried Herbert to the restless animal he led and whose prancing made Dorothy jump aside, now and then, lest she should be trampled upon. "I tell you what! The very next time I go out fishing in theMerry Chanter, my catboat, I'll coax sister to go, too, and you must come with us. If she will! But Helena's such a 'fraid-cat and Miss Milliken—she's my sister's governess—is about as bad. There's some excuse for Helena because she is real delicate. Nerves or chest or something, I don't know just what nor does anybody else, I fancy. But the Milliken! Wait till you see her, then talk about nerves. Say, Miss Dorothy——"
"I'm just plain Dorothy, yet."
"Good enough. I like that. I knew you were the right stuff the minute I looked at you. I—you're not a goody-good girl nor a 'fraid-cat, now are you?" demanded Herbert, anxiously.
"No, indeed! I'm not a bit good. I wish I were! And I'm not often afraid of—things. But I am of folks—some folks," she answered with a little shudder.
"Yes, I know about that. Just like a story out of a book, your being stolen was. But never mind. That's gone by. Do you like to fish?"
"I never fished," said Dorothy, with some decision.
"You'll learn. The old Hudson's the jolliest going for all sorts of fish. There's an old fellow at the Landing generally goes out with me and the rest the boys. He's a champion oarsman, old as he is, and as for—Say! Ever taste a planked shad?"
"No, never."
"You shall! Old Joe Wampers shall fix us one the first time we go out on the river. He can cook as well as he can fish, and some of us fellows had a camp set up on the old Point, last year. I haven't been over there yet, this summer, but it's all mine anyhow. When it came fall and the others had to go back to school they—well, they were short on cash and long on camp, so I bought them out. You like flowers? Ever gather any water lilies?"
"Like them? I just love them,love them! Of course, I never gathered water lilies, for I've always lived in the city. But I've often—I mean, sometimes—bought them out of pails, down by Lexington Market. Five or ten cents a bunch, according to the size. I always tried to save up and get a big bunch for mother Martha on her birthday. I used to envy the boys that had them for sale and wish I could go and pick them for myself. But—but I've seen pictures of them as they really grow," concluded Dorothy C., anxious that Herbert should not consider her too ignorant.
However, it was not the fact that she had never gathered lilies which had caught his attention; it was that one little sentence: "to save up." He really could scarcely imagine a state of things in which anybody would have to "save" the insignificant amount of five or ten cents, in order to buy a parent a bunch of flowers. Instantly, he was filled with keen compassion for this down-trodden little maid who was denied the use of abundant pocket money, and with as great an indignation against the parents who would so mistreat a child—such a pretty child as Dorothy C. Of course, it was because the niggardly creatures were only parents by adoption; and—at that moment there entered the brain of this young gentleman a scheme by which many matters should be righted. The suddenness and beauty of the idea almost took his breath away, but he kept his thought to himself and returned to the practical suggestion of planked shad.
"Well, sir,—I mean, Dorothy,—a planked shad is about the most delicious morsel a fellow ever put in his mouth. First, catch your shad. Old Joe does that in a twinkling. Then while it's still flopping, he scales and cleans it, splits it open, nails it on a board, seasons it well with salt and pepper, and stands it up before a rousing fire we've built on the ground. U'm'm—Yum! In about half or three-quarters of an hour it's done. Then with the potatoes we've roasted in the ashes and plenty of bread and butter and a pot of coffee—Well, words fail. You'll have to taste that feast to know what it means. All the better, too, if you've been rowing for practice all morning. Old Joe Wampers coaches college crews even yet, and once he went over with Columbia to Henley. That's the time he tells about whenever he gets a chance. 'The time of his life' he calls it, and that's not slang, either. Say. What's to hinder our doing it right now? This very afternoon—morning, for that matter, though it's getting rather late to go before lunch, I suppose. I'll tell you! Just you mention to your folks that you're going on the river, this afternoon, and I'll coax mother to make Helena and the Milliken go, too. Then I'll ride right away down to the Landing and get old Joe warmed up to the subject. He's getting a little stiff in the joints of his good nature, but a good dose of flattery'll limber him up considerable. Besides, when he hears it's for that real heroine of a kidnapping story everybody was talking about, he'll be willing enough. I'll tell him you never tasted planked shad nor saw one cooked, and he'll just spread himself. 'Poor as a June shad,' he said yesterday, when I begged for one, though that's all nonsense. They're good yet. Will you?"
He paused for breath, his words having fairly tumbled over each other in their rapidity, and was utterly amazed to hear Dorothy reply:
"No, thank you, I will not. Nothing would tempt me."
"Why, Dorothy Chester! What do you mean?" he asked, incredulous that anybody, least of all an inexperienced girl, should resist the tempting prospect that he had spread before her.
"I wouldn'ttouchto taste one of those horrible 'flopping' fish! I couldn't. I wouldn't—not for anything. I should feel like a murderer. So there!"
"Whew! George and the cherry tree! You wouldn't? 'Not for anything?' Not even for a chance to sail along over a lovely piece of water, dabbling your hand in it, and pulling out great, sweet-smelling flowers? 'Course,youneedn't see the shad 'flop.' I only said that to show how fresh we get them. Why, I coaxed even dad over to camp once and I've always wanted Helena to go. Pshaw! Iamdisappointed."
"I don't see why nor how you can be much. You didn't know me till an hour ago—or less, even. And I'm disappointed too. You didn't look like a boy who would"—Dorothy paused and gave her new acquaintance a critical glance—"who wouldkillthings!"
"Nor you like a silly, sentimental girl. 'Kill things!' Don't you ever eat fish? Or beef? or dear little gentle chickens?" demanded this teasing lad, as he quieted his horse and prepared to mount, though at the same time managing to keep that animal so directly in Dorothy's path that she had to stand still for a moment till he should move aside.
She frowned, then laughed, acknowledging:
"Of course I do. I mean I have; but—seems to me now as if I never would again."
"Well, I'm sorry; and—Good-morning, Miss Chester!"
Away he went, lifting his hat in the direction of the people ahead, looking an extremely handsome young fellow in his riding clothes, and sitting the fiery Bucephalus with such ease that lad and steed seemed but part and parcel of each other. Yet his whole manner was now one of disapproval, and the acquaintance which had begun so pleasantly seemed destined to prove quite the contrary.
"He's a horrid, cruel boy! Kills birds and things just for fun! He isn't half as nice as Jim Barlow, for all he's so much better looking and richer. Poor Jim! He felt so ashamed to have made everybody so much trouble. I wish—I wish he'd come with us instead of that Herbert:" thought the little maid so unceremoniously deserted by her new friend.
"She's just a plain, silly, 'fraid-cat of a girl, after all!" were the reflections of the young horseman, as he galloped away, and with these he dismissed her from his mind.
Now it happened that Mrs. Calvert liked young folks much better than she did old ones, and the conversation which she had rendered so delightful to Mrs. Chester, during that homeward walk, was far less interesting to herself than the fragments of talk which reached her from the girl and boy behind her. So when the hoofs of Bucephalus clattered away in an opposite direction, she turned to Dorothy and mischievously inquired:
"What's the matter, little girl? Isn't he the sort of boy you like? You don't look pleased."
Dorothy's frown vanished as she ran forward to take the hand held toward her and she answered readily enough, as she put herself "in step" with her elders:
"I would like him—lots, if he didn't—if he wasn't such akiller. I like his knowing so much about birds and animals—he says he can whistle a squirrel out of a tree, any time, and that's more than even Jim can do. At least I never heard him say he could. And Jim Barlow will not kill anything. He simply will not. Even old Mrs. Stott had to kill her own poultry for the market though she'd strap him well for refusing. All the reason he'd tell her was that he could not make anything live, so he didn't think he'd any right to make it die. Mrs. Calvert, have—have you forgiven poor Jim for letting the dogs get away? and me too? Because I know he feels terrible. I do, and it makes me sort of ashamed to have you so kind to me when it was part my carelessness——"
"There, there, child! Have done with that affair. It was more amusing than annoying, for a time, and after I found my Danes were safe; but I hate old stories repeated, and that story is finished—for the present. There'll be more to come, naturally. One can't make a single new acquaintance without many unexpected things following. For instance: John Chester riding so familiarly in Archibald Montaigne's carriage and talking—Well, talking almost as his little daughter has been doing with her new friend. I overheard Mrs. Montaigne mention something about having once been a patient at a hospital in our city and that was the 'open sesame' to 'Johnnie's' confidence. Oh! it's a dear old world, isn't it? Where enemies can change into friends, all in one morning: and where people whom we didn't know at breakfast time have become our intimates by the dinner hour. This is a glorious day! See. We are almost at the turn of the road that leads to Skyrie. Slowly as we have come it hasn't taken us long. I'm glad I walked. It has done me good and—given my neighbors yonder a chance to know one another."