"I'm glad, too. I haven't enjoyed myself so much since we moved here, only, of course, when Dolly got home," responded Mrs. Chester. "Yet what an angry, disgusted woman I was when I went over this road before, lawsuit-wards, so to speak."
They were almost at the corner when Dorothy cast a last glance backward and exclaimed:
"I don't see Jim anywhere. Why do you suppose he didn't come? Where do you suppose he is?"
"Well, little girl, my supposing is that he felt himself not one with any of our party. 'Neither hay nor grass' he would likely express it. That's for his not coming. As for where he is now I suppose, to a degree that is certainty, that he is—doing his duty! From my brief acquaintance with the lad I judge that to be his principal idea. His duty, this morning, would have been the transplanting of the celery seedlings, which yesterday's events delayed. If we could look through the trees between us and my vegetable garden I believe we should see him bending over the rows of little green plants, oblivious to all that's going on around him, so intent is he on making up for lost time and not cheating his employer by wasting it. Jim Barlow is all right. I was angry enough with him yesterday, for a while, but I can do him justice, to-day."
Her guess at his whereabouts was correct. The lad had hurried away from Seth Winters's office and was already well along with his work while they were thus discussing him. But both his new mistress and Dorothy promptly forgot him when they came to that turn of the road they had been approaching and the view beyond lay open to them.
For an instant everybody stopped, even the coachman checked his horses in amazement, though he as swiftly resumed his ordinary impassive expression and drove forward again at the risk of disaster.
"What in the world! It looks like a—a funeral! Or the county fair! Whatever does that mean?" cried Mrs. Cecil, who was the first to voice her astonishment. Yet she wondered if she heard aright when, clasping her hands in dismay, Mrs. Chester almost shouted to her husband in front—riding backwards and thus unable to see at what they all so earnestly gazed:
"John, John! That dreadful advertisement!"
John Chester had prophesied that, in answer to his ill-advised jest of an advertisement, it would "rain horses."
Apparently, it had. Not only horses but cows; and, trampled upon by the first, hooked by the latter, an assorted lot of pigs mingled with the other quadrupeds, squealing, twisting, doubling-and-turning upon their leading ropes with the perversity native to swine.
These unlovely creatures frightened the high-bred team drawing the carriage, setting them to rearing and plunging till an accident was imminent. Their driver had made to pass directly through the assembly before Skyrie gate, leaving it for meaner turnouts to make way for him: with the result that the unmanageable pigs had set other horses into a tumult.
Fortunately, the coachman was both cool and skillful, and with a dexterity that seemed wonderful he brought the Montaigne equipage around and began a retreat, over the way he had just come. This saved the situation, so far as an upset was concerned, and he did not again draw rein till well away from the scene. Then, all danger being past, Helena promptly fainted, and saved her equally frightened mother from doing so by rousing her maternal anxiety.
John Chester never knew just how he managed to get out of that carriage. Certainly, with far less difficulty than he had found in entering it, for he was suddenly upon the ground, his crutches under his arms, and himself hobbling forward with tremendous swings into the very midst of things.
"Come here, come here!" commanded Mrs. Calvert to Dorothy, withdrawing to the high bank bordering the road and that was topped by one of those great stone walls which Simon Waterman had built. Amusement, surprise, and anxiety chased one another across her mobile old features, and with a sudden movement she turned upon Mrs. Chester, crying excitedly: "Well, my friend, you can't deny that plenty of things happen in the country, as well as in the city you bewail. Match me this in Baltimore, if you please! And explain it—if you can!"
For it was mother Martha and not her daughter who had obeyed Mrs. Cecil's imperative: "Come here!" and who could only gasp, through her astonishment: "It's that advertisement. A 'joke' of John's that he didn't mean to pass beyond our own doors. We need a horse, a cow, and pig to——"
"Add hens! to scratch up your neighbors' flower beds and give completeness to your lives!" laughed Mrs. Betty, who felt and declared that: "I haven't had so much fun in a single morning since—I can't tell when. I wouldn't have missed this!"
"Seems as if everybody in the whole town must have read and answered that foolish thing. I—what shall we do? How possibly get rid of all these people!" cried the mistress of Skyrie in real distress.
As yet neither she nor Mrs. Cecil had observed Helena's faintness, for the back of the carriage was toward them now and some distance down the road. But they had observed Mr. Chester's swift departure houseward, and had seen Dorothy leap like a flash over the intervening wall, toward the kitchen door and the well which was near it.
"Makes me think of the 'Light Brigade,' with horses for 'cannon.' That's shameful for me! though, therearecows to the right of them, pigs underneath them, and horses—did anybody ever see such a collection?" asked Mrs. Calvert, clutching Mrs. Chester's arm to keep herself from slipping downward from the bank into the briars below. Then suddenly again exclaiming: "Look at that child! She's carrying water in a pitcher. She's making her way through those men out into the road again. Something has happened. Somebody is in trouble. Oh! it must be that frail-looking daughter of the Montaignes! See. Dorothy is running now straight toward the carriage."
This was sufficient to banish all amusement from Mrs. Cecil's manner and she was instantly upon Dorothy's trail, moving with an ease and swiftness that amazed Mrs. Chester, active though she herself was. Indeed, the girl had to slacken her speed in order not to spill all the water from the pitcher, and so the pair reached the side of the carriage together; the old gentlewoman nodding approval for the presence of mind which Dorothy had shown.
However, Helena was rapidly recovering from her brief swoon, and her mother looked askance at the cracked pitcher in which the water had been brought and the rusty tin cup in which it was offered; Dorothy having seized the utensils always left lying beside the well, for the convenience of passers-by, without waiting to secure more presentable articles.
Still, it was Mrs. Calvert whose hand proffered the refreshing draught, and it was Mrs. Calvert's voice which was saying, in its most aristocratic yet kindest accents:
"I did not at once see that your daughter was ill. Your husband left us at the very first crossroad toward your place and I was absorbed with my new-old neighbors' affairs. Deerhurst is nearer than the Towers. Why not drive there first and let Miss Helena rest awhile before going further?"
Now the invitation was given in all sincerity, though the mistress of Deerhurst was inwardly smiling at the pictured face of Seth Winters, had he been there to hear her thus cordially soliciting for guests the people she had once declared she would never willingly know. Only the slightest reluctance accompanied her words. She had intended calling upon the Chesters in their home and upon having a plain business talk with "Johnnie." However, from all appearances at the cottage beyond, this was not an opportune time for such an interview and one that could easily be postponed. At present, the Skyrie family had their hands sufficiently full of more pressing affairs.
Helena Montaigne shared her father's social ambition, so it was with a wan, sweet smile that she accepted from the mistress of Deerhurst the battered tin cup that she would have rejected had Dorothy held it upwards. Also, after graciously sipping a few drops of the refreshing water, she accepted for herself and mother—it was always Helena who settled such matters—that most gratifying invitation to the mansion. More than that she rose from her place on the wide back seat of the carriage and offered it to Mrs. Cecil, rather than that lady should be forced to ride backwards. But this sacrifice was declined:
"No, indeed, thank you. I will finish my trip as I begin it, by walking. It will take you as long to drive around by the entrance as for me to go across lots, through the woods. I will meet you at the door. Good-by, Dorothy. I trust you'll all come well out of your present predicament and I shall be anxious to hear results."
Mrs. Cecil was not prone to outward expressions of affection and the little girl was surprised to receive a kiss, as the pitcher was handed back to her, and this surprise was fully shared by the occupants of the carriage. But, having bestowed this light caress, the nimble old lady gathered up her skirts and struck into a footpath running beneath the trees, where every woodland creature was gay with the gladness of June. Yet as she passed among them, none seemed more glad than she; nor, maybe, in the sight of the Creator of them all was she alien to them.
Let alone, Dorothy sped backward to her home, and to the side of her parents, who stood together before the kitchen door, vainly endeavoring to hear what a half-dozen different men were saying at once. Her keen eyes scanned the odd collection of beasts with an ever increasing amusement, though she lifted her feet with a little shriek of fear as a mighty hog, which had long outgrown its "pig" days, broke from its owner's grasp and waddled up the path.
"I saw it in theLocal, and if a man's goin' to start in farmin'——" began one.
"Pooh; neighbor! this feller's hoss ain't no kind o' use to a lame man like you! That hoss? Why, that hoss has run away and smashed things more times 'an it's years old—and that's sayin' consid'able!" interrupted a second trader, as the first one edged into the dooryard leading a gaunt black steed, himself dragging through the gateway a sorrel mare which had also reached the years of discretion.
At which number one retorted with fine scorn:
"Why, if that ain't Bill Barry! Huh! Lemme tell you, neighbor, a man that trades hosses, or buys one outright, offBillgets left every time. That there sorrel? Why, she's twenty-odd if she's a day!"
Amid the laugh that followed this sally a third man called over the wall from the road beyond:
"Hello, mister? Advertised for a cow, didn't you? Well, just step a-here and take a peek at this fine Alderney o' mine. New milker with a calf still beside her—purty as a picture, the pair of 'em, and dirt cheap. Reason I sell, I've got more stawk 'an my land 'll keep. Come this way, won't you, Mr.—Mr.—'Skyrie,' is it?"
Poor father John scratched his perplexed head, shifted his weight upon his crutches, and would fain have answered each and all at once as each demanded; but the affair was too much for him, who was always so ready to see the funny side of things. He cast one bewildered glance into Dorothy's laughing, sympathetic face and, also, began to laugh aloud.
The trader nearest, he of the gaunt black steed, caught the infection of merriment and augmented it by a hoarse guffaw. Already, while waiting for the prospective purchasers, the many who had come to sell had seen the absurdity of the situation, and each new arrival of pig, cow, or horse, had caused an outburst of momentary mirth. Yet, hitherto, under this passing amusement, had lain a half-angry resentment. Each had climbed the mountain, or traveled across it, for the sole purpose of "making a good trade," and none was pleased to find his chances forestalled.
Now, however, personal feelings gave way before this good-natured acceptance of an annoying state of things; and, before another moment passed, the laughter which the master of Skyrie had started was echoed from man to man till Dorothy clapped her hands to her ears and mother Martha ran into the house, to escape the uproar.
The fun conquered, for a time at least, all ill feeling, but it had not settled more important matters. The buying and selling had yet to come, and John Chester fairly groaned as he whispered to Dorothy:
"What shall I do with them! However get out of this mess! I know no more about the good points of a horse or a cow than a babe unborn, and your mother who does—or should, for she's a farmer's daughter—has ignominiously fled!"
Seeing the pair in apparent consultation, the visiting owners of the various animals held their momentary peace, till Dorothy answered quite seriously:
"Well, whether you do or do not know which is good and which is bad, you did advertise for them, you know, and you ought to take one of each kind, I s'pose. That is—have you got the money ready, to pay right now?"
"Oh, yes! The money's all right. Martha has that in her cupboard."
"Well, then, let's try it this way. Ask her to come out again; then let's begin with the pigs. They act the meanest of all the creatures and I hate them!Mustwe have a pig, father John?"
"So your mother says. To eat up the milk!"
"Then I do think she ought to select it. I'll go and ask her, myself. Let everybody bring up his pig, one after another, like standing in line at the post-office, you know; and let mother look them all over and choose the one she wants. When we get through the pigs the rest of the pig-men will go away, and the cow-men show us their cows. Oh! it would be just jolly to do it that way! Mother buy the pig, you the horse, and I the cow! I'll go and see if she will."
Either Dorothy's arguments were convincing or Mrs. Chester had repented her retreat, thus leaving her more inexperienced husband to the mercy of possibly unscrupulous traders, for she promptly reappeared in the dooryard and announced:
"We will buy just what we advertised for: one cow, one horse, one pig. We will examine the pigs first, and in order, with lowest price stated at once. We will not dicker at all, but will buy as cheaply as we can. Now, begin."
The little woman had placed herself upon the doorstep, with an air of practical business which caused her husband to silently clap his hands and as silently applaud; nodding his head and saying, by his expression:
"Good enough, madam! Couldn't have done better if you'd been in continual practice!"
The only difficulty of the proceeding was that each "pig-man" had grown weary of waiting and now crowded to the fore, intent upon sellinghispig before another had a chance. Result: seven specimens of swine, in varying degrees of fatness, were forced into the inclosure; where each immediately proceeded to entangle himself with his neighbor and to run in a direction diametrically opposed to his owner's will.
"Oh! how glad I am our flower beds haven't been made yet!" cried Dorothy, flying up the outside stairs of the cottage, where she felt quite safe, although one inquisitive porker did plant its fore-legs on the lower step, intent to follow. Thence it was jerked back by its owner, with the remark:
"Drat a hog, anyhow! They're plaguyest critters to drive of any that lives. Next time I have a pig to sell I'll do it on my own premises—or not at all!"
In mercy to the animals and to their owners Mrs. Chester made a quick selection and one that others, wiser than herself, knew to be a fortunate one. Her choice fell upon a half-grown creature, whose body had received a good scrubbing before being taken to Skyrie, and whose skin looked pink and clean beneath its white bristles. She was asked a larger price than was quite just, as all the other dealers knew, but as all likewise considered "city folks" legitimate prey nobody enlightened her, and she handed out the money at once; merely requesting its late owner to take the animal to the corner of the old barn and securely fasten it there.
Then there followed what father John remarked was "quite a lull in the hog market," and Dorothy begged:
"Let's buy the cow next! There's a lovely one yonder! A soft, fat, écru-colored one, with the cutest little calf tied to it! Oh! do let's have the calf any way even if we don't the cow. It's a perfectly adorable little thing! see how it cocks its head and kicks up its heels—the sweet!"
The swine and their owners having departed the dooryard was comparatively clear; and it was noticeable that nobody crowded forward when, at a nod from Mr. Chester, the proprietor of the "écru-colored" cow and "adorable calf" led them up for closer inspection.
They certainly were attractive specimens of their race, and the Quaker miller who offered them had a most benignant countenance. He seemed to possess the respect and confidence of his neighbors and his words had the ring of truthfulness as he stated:
"Thee will go much further and fare much worse before thee has a cow like Hannah offered thee, friend Martha. She is of good pedigree, as I can show thee if thee will step over to my mill and look at my ledger. Her yield is ten quarts at a milking, twice a day, and her price is fifty dollars."
Martha Chester caught her breath. She had not anticipated paying more than half that sum for "just a cow"; even the price of the pig had startled her, remembering the small amount of cash she had in her purse. But alas! The demon of possession had seized her! The fact that the porcine "beauty" already tied to her barn was her own roused all her old farm-born instinct for "stock," and though she hesitated she did not say "No." Besides, her own half-forgotten grandsire had been a Friend and this man's speech carried her back to childhood's days and a roomy farmhouse, with its rich abundance of good things. Was ever a Quaker really poor?
Now nobody, in his senses, could have compared honest Oliver Sands to a tempter; yet his very next words proved temptation to John and Martha Chester, whose Christian names he had somehow acquired and now used so naturally.
"If thee buys Hannah thee will not regret it. Moreover, because I have heard the surprising tale of the little maid yonder, I will bind the bargain by giving her the calf, free of charge. I do not like to separate mother and child, even among brute creatures, unless from necessity; and, Dorothy Chester, thee may have my calf."
Of the astonishment of her parents and Dorothy's wild, almost incredulous delight, there is no need to tell. It can be easily surmised. Sufficient to state that very shortly afterward the broad-brimmed hat of Oliver Sands was disappearing down the road, while Hannah and her offspring had joined the squealing pig beside the barn.
As if by mutual consent the owners of the rejected cattle slowly departed. They had awaited the outcome of the Sands-Chester transaction rather from curiosity than any doubt as to the result.
Oliver Sands was an upright Friend. He was, also, locally known as a "slick trader." What he set out to do he generally did. Moreover, though he dwelt in a plainly furnished farmhouse, his farm comprised the richest acres of the table-land crowning the mountain, and his flocks and herds were the largest in the county. His flour mill did a thriving business. Some said that its thrift was due, in part, to the amount of toll extracted from his neighbors' grists; but this, of course, was a heresy unproved. Nor did many of even these disgruntled folk grumble openly. They dared not. Oliver "held them in his hand," as the saying went, having mortgages upon almost all the smaller farms adjacent to his own—intent upon sometime adding them to his, at that dreaded day when he should see fit to "foreclose."
With the miller's departure from the scene the horse-owners had their chance, and took it promptly; but the prices asked for the several steeds which were now "put through their paces" were far and away beyond the balance left in the Chesters' power to pay. Therefore, short work was made of this part of the memorable sale and the grounds were rapidly deserted of nearly all.
Bill Barry lingered to the last, and finding himself still unsuccessful, relieved his disappointment by a parting fling:
"Well, neighbor, after all I dunno as you willneeda hoss—ary kind of one, seein's you've got Hannah! That creatur's a repytation for speed 'at puts my sorrel here out of the runnin'. Lively, Hannah is, an' no mistake. Old Olly's head's leveler than this mountain-side, even if his mouth is mealier 'n his own flour bags. Well, good-day. If you shouldn't get suited, lemme know. I'll drive right up."
The silence that fell upon Skyrie then seemed intense, but most delightful; and for a few moments all its household felt the need of rest. They sat without speaking, for a time, till a low from the barnyard reminded them that their "family" had increased and might need attention. Who was to give it?
With a smile, half of vexation, mother Martha suddenly exclaimed:
"We've begun at the wrong end of things! 'Put the cart before the horse.' We needed a pig, a cow, a horse, and a man. Well, the man should have been our first to secure. Then he could have looked after the other things. Oh! hum! What a day this has been!"
"Yes. Country lifedoesseem to be rather exciting," agreed Mr. Chester, idly poking the end of his crutch among the weeds along the wide stone where his chair had been placed. "A lawsuit, a stock-sale, and an introduction to 'Society'—all in one morning."
"But we didn't get the horse!" said Dorothy C., who liked matters to be completely finished, once they had been undertaken; and whose fancy had been unduly stirred by the sight of Bucephalus. She had then and there decided that she, too, would become a finished equestrian as soon as possible; though she had seen none among the horses just exhibited that compared with Herbert's mount.
"The horse can wait," returned Mrs. Chester, in a tone of relief. "Yet, for your sake, John, it should have been our first purchase."
"After that necessary 'man,' my dear!"
But Mrs. Chester was in no mood for joking. The reaction from excitement had set in, and she let her husband's jest fall to the ground where it belonged. If only that unfortunate advertisement had done the same! They would not then have been so annoyed by an overflow of traders nor been rendered the laughing-stock of the community. Besides it was now past noon and dinner must be prepared; so she rose to go indoors, suggesting to Dorothy:
"It might be well to see if Hannah and the calf need water. You can take that old pail I use to scrub from and carry them a drink. Take but a half-pailful at a time. You're too young to lift heavy things, yet."
"All right: but, mother, that generous old man didn't say what the calf's name was. And isn't Hannah the oddest for—a cow? Real Quakerish it sounds to me. What shall you name your dear little pig? May I call my darling calf Jewel? Just to think! I never, never dreamed I should have a real live little calf for my very, very own!"
"May your Jewel prove a diamond of the first water!" cried father John, always sympathetic.
But mother Martha was carefully counting the contents of her depleted pocket-book and her tone was rather sharp as she answered:
"It's a poor pig that can't live without a name: and—I'm afraid that old Quaker gentleman was not—was not quite so generous as he seemed. A calf requires milk. A calf that 'runs with its mother' generally gets it; and——" She paused so long that her husband added:
"What becomes of the family that owns the calf? Is that what you were thinking, my dear? No matter! So long as that lowing mother and child were not cruelly 'separated' everything is right. May I come and peel the potatoes for you?"
For helpless to do great things for his household the crippled man had insisted upon his right to do small ones; but it always hurt his wife's pride to see her once stalwart husband doing "woman's work," so he never attempted it without permission.
This time she nodded consent, and promptly brought him a basin of them, while she sat down to shell a measure of pease procured that morning from a passing huckster. She felt that they could talk as they worked, and indeed there was much to discuss. Until her return everything had been absorbed by Dorothy's fortunes; and even still it was thought of Dorothy which lay closest to both their hearts.
"But Dolly brought down to a real bread-and-butter basis! We are compelled to make our living and hers out of this run-down farm. Now, how to begin? Shall I sit by the roadside and ask every man who passes by if he wants to hire himself out 'on shares'? Or will you risk another advertisement, compounded by yourself?" inquired Mr. Chester. "Help we must have."
"Yes, we must. If I could only get hold of some of the strong, idle, colored men loafing the streets of Baltimore! They, or he, would be just what we need."
"Maybe not, my dear. In any case we haven't one, nor time to import one. Probably he would be discontented if we got one. We'll have to depend on 'local talent' and—hear that cow 'Moo!' Sounds as if she were homesick."
"Poor thing! probably she is. I am—a little, myself," returned mother Martha, rising to put her vegetables on to boil. "Also, I consider that we have accomplished sufficient for one morning. Let's rest on it and wait what may turn up; fortunately Hannah can live upon grass—the whole farm is grass, or weeds——"
"And the calf can live upon Hannah! My dear, country life is making you a philosopher: and here comes our girl as ready for her dinner as I am. I'll take a bit of a nap while she sets the table, and the sooner I'm called to it the better. No trouble with our appetites since we came to Skyrie," rejoined the ex-postman, crossing to the lounge and settling himself, not for the "nap" he had mentioned but to best consider that farming question, almost a hopeless one to him.
The afternoon passed quietly, varied by frequent visits on the part of mother Martha and Dorothy to their respective possessions of live stock, tethered by the barn. All seemed going well. Hannah had ceased to low and lay upon the grass contentedly chewing her cud, while her festive offspring gamboled around as far as its rope-length would permit.
As for the unnamed pig, it had rooted for itself a soft muddy bed, and from having been well fed, earlier in the day, was contented to lie and slumber in the sunshine.
Contemplation of the creatures gave Martha great pleasure, till Dorothy suddenly propounded the question:
"Who's going to milk Hannah? That nice Quaker man said 'twice a day,' and 'ten quarts at a time.'"
For a moment Mrs. Chester did not answer; then she looked up and, as if in reply to her own perplexity, beheld Jim Barlow.
"O my lad! Never anybody more welcome. You can milk, of course?"
"Yes, ma'am, I should say so. Mis' Calvert she sent me over to see if you needed anything. She said as how none your folks was used to farmin' and she's got a right smart o' curiosity over how you came out with your advertisement. More'n that, here's a letter she had Ephraim fetch up-mounting, when he druv down for her mail. She said I was to tell you 't all your letters could be put with her'n if you wanted; so's to save you or Dorothy walking way to the office."
"All our letters won't be many and she is very kind. Please thank her for us and tell her that—that—Jim, would you like to change 'bosses' and come to work for us at Skyrie?" asked Mrs. Chester with sudden inspiration.
"No, ma'am, I wouldn't," answered the lad, with unflattering promptness. "I mean—you know——"
"Oh! don't try to smooth that over, pray. It was a mere thought of mine, knowing how fond you were, or seemed to be, of our girl. But, of course, you wouldn't. The comforts and conveniences of our little home can't compare with Deerhurst. Only——" said the lady, somewhat sarcastically, and on the point of adding: "It's better than Miranda Stott's." But she left her sentence unfinished and it was kinder so.
Poor Jim saw that he had offended. Even Dorothy's brown eyes had flashed, perceiving her mother's discomfiture, but though his face flushed to find himself thus misunderstood he did not alter, nor soften, his decision. He merely stated the case as he regarded it:
"If I could make two of myself I'd be glad to. I'd just admire to take hold this job an' clear the weeds an' rubbidge offen Skyrie. Not 't I think it'll ever be wuth shucks—for farmin': the land's all run to mullein an' stun. But I could make it a sight better 'n it is an' it might grow plenty of them posies Dorothy's so tickled with. If it could be stocked now—Mis' Stott used to say that keepin' lots o' cattle was to be looked at both ways; what they leave on the land in manure fetches it up, an' what they eat offen it fetches it down. She kep' more calves an' yearlin's than 'peared like she'd ought to, but she raised a power of stuff for market, 'count of 'em. If I was you folks I'd put my money into yearlin's fust thing," said this young farmer, rendered talkative by his novel position as adviser.
Dorothy was disgusted. This didn't seem like the old, subservient Jim she was familiar with and she disliked his plainness of speech. She improved the occasion by calling his attention to Jewel:
"See my calf? That's my very own! She was a present to me this very day, Jim Barlow, and I've named her Jewel. Maybe, though, I'll change that to 'Daisy.' I've read stories where cows were called 'Daisies,' and she'll be a cow sometime, and I shall sell her milk to get money."
"Pshaw! Looks like good stock, that calf does; 's if 't might make a nice steer, but 'twon't never be acowto give milk. 'Tain't that kind of a calf; and after all, raisin' young cattle is a power of work. They run over fences an' fall into hollers, an' Mis' Stott she used to say, sometimes, she didn't know but they did eat their own heads off; meanin' their keep cost more than they was wuth—time they was ready for killin'. If I was you, Dorothy, I'd fat that calf up, quick's I could, then sell him to the butcher for veal," further advised this practical youth.
"O you horrid boy! You—you—I never saw anybody who could dash cold water on people's happiness as you can! You—you're as hateful as you can be!" cried Dorothy, venting all her disappointment in anger against him.
Now it happened that that same morning, at Seth Winters's office, the untutored farm boy had seen and envied the ease of manner with which handsome Herbert Montaigne had won his way into the favor of Mrs. Calvert and had instantly made friends with Dorothy. Then and there, something sharp and bitter had stolen into Jim's big heart and had sent him speeding out of sight—eager to hide himself and his uncouthness from these more fortunate folk, whose contrast to himself was so painful. Dorothy—why, even Dorothy—had, apparently, been captivated by the dashing Herbert to the utter neglect of her former friend; and, maybe, that was what had hurt the most. Incipient jealousy had stung Jim's nobler nature and now made him say with unconscious wistfulness:
"I'm sorry, girlie. You—you didn't think so—always."
The girl had turned her back upon him, in her indignation, but at the altered tone she faced about, while a swift recollection of all that she owed to him sent the tears to her eyes and her to clasp her arms about his neck and kiss him soundly, begging:
"O Jim! forgive me! I didn't mean—I forgot.Younever can be horrid to me. I don't like to have my things made fun of—I never was given a calf before—I—Kiss me, Jim Barlow, and say you do!"
To the bashful lad this outburst was more painful than jealousy. His face grew intensely red and he did not return the kiss. On the contrary he very promptly removed her clinging arms, with his protesting:
"Pshaw! What ails you, Dorothy?"
Then he forced himself to look towards Mrs. Chester and to return to the real business of the moment. Fortunately, that lady was not even smiling. She was too accustomed to her child's impulsiveness to heed it, and she had resolved to act upon the principle that "half a loaf is better than no bread." In other words, she would improve this chance of getting some fit quarters for the pig, which had roused and begun to make its presence evident. She scarcely even heard Jim's attempted explanation:
"You see, Mis' Chester, 'twas Mis' Calvert that took me up an' set out to make a man of me. I disappointed her fust time she trusted me, and I've got to stay long enough to show I ain't so wuthless as I seemed.I've got to.More'n that, the gardener she's had so long is so old an' sot in his ways he don't get more'n half out the soil 't he'd ought to. I'm goin' to show him what Maryland folks can do! That truck o' his'n? Why, bless your heart, he couldn't sell it to Lexington Market, try his darnedest: nor Hollins', nor Richmond, nor even Ma'sh Market—where poor folks buy. Huh! No, I can't leave. But I'll come work for you-all every minute I can get, without neglectin' Mis' Calvert."
"O Jim! That's lovely of you, but you mustn't do that. It would be too great a sacrifice. You planned to study every minute you were not working or sleeping, and you must. It's your chance. You must, Jim dear. You know you're to be President—or something big—and you're to make me very, very proud of you. Some way, somebody will be found,—to farm poor Skyrie!" returned Dorothy, eagerly, yet unable to resist the last reproach.
"Now, Mis' Chester, I can, an' ought, to get that pig into a pen 'fore dark. Is there any old lumber 'round, 't you can spare?" asked the lad, rolling up his blouse sleeves, preparatory to labor.
"There's an old dog-churn in the cellar, that Alfaretta Babcock knocked to pieces the time——"
"Speaking of Babcock, ma'am, that is my name: and I've come to hire out," said a queer unknown voice, so near and so suddenly that mother Martha screamed; then having whirled about to see whence the voice came, screamed again.
The man who had come so noiselessly over the grass, from Cat Hollow, might well have been the "Nanarchist" his daughter had termed him, were one to judge from tradition and appearance; and it is small wonder that Mrs. Chester had cried out so unexpectedly, beholding this specimen of the "Red Brotherhood."
Tall beyond the average, "Pa Babcock"—he was rarely spoken of otherwise—had a great head covered by a shock of fiery hair which proved Alfaretta truthful in her statement that "he'd disdain to comb it." The hair was stiff and bristly, and stood out in every direction, while the beard matched it in growth and quantity. He wore a faded red flannel shirt, and denim overalls that had once been red, while his great hairy feet were bare and not too clean. He wore no hat and scarcely needed one, and while his physique was that of a mighty man his face was foolishly weak and vain. His voice perfectly suited the face: and, altogether, he was a most unprepossessing candidate for the position of "hired man" at Skyrie.
"You wish to hire out?" asked the mistress of the farm, repeating incredulously his statement. "But I thought—Alfaretta said——"
"I do not doubt it. The reputation I have won at the hands of my own household is part of the general injustice of society—as it exists. Nothing can convince my labor-loving spouse that I am preparing for her and her children a future of—Stay, lad: are you, also, a member of this establishment?"
"I'm goin' down suller after lumber. Come along an' help. If we hustle right smart we can get a pen done 'fore dark, let alone gettin' them cattle into a shed. Strange critters need shuttin' up, a spell, else they'll make tracks for home—wherever 'tis," answered Jim, leading the way toward the house and the door he judged must lead to the cellar. His own voice sounded very strong and masterful by contrast with the high, thin falsetto of the "Nanarchist," and Mrs. Chester smiled, while Dorothy cried out:
"Alfy's father may be agiant, but my Jim is aman!"
They were no longer afraid of "Pa Babcock." His outward appearance wholly belied his nature, and they instinctively recognized that here was an easy-going, lazy fellow, who might impress his own household with a sense of his importance but could not overawe outsiders. They sat down on the barn doorsill to wait and watch events, and presently there returned Pa Babcock carrying an enormous quantity of the heavy, cobwebby planking that had formed the framework of the old churn. Behind him was Jim, rolling the treadmill part of the affair and as profoundly engrossed by the task in hand as by all he undertook. He had evidently assumed the direction of matters and his big assistant was amusingly obedient.
Mr. Chester, also, came out to the spot and was made comfortable with an old horse-blanket for cushion of a low chopping-block near. Dorothy found the blanket in the barn and also triumphantly asserted that there was a lot of "real nice hay" in one part of it. But Jim scoffed at this statement, declaring that hay kept as long as Skyrie had been closed wouldn't be "wuth shucks."
"James, James! Don't become a pessimist!" warned father John, yet smiling, too.
"Say it again, please, sir, an' I'll look it out in that little dictionary Mis' Calvert she's put in my room. Hurry up, man! Wish to goodness I had some decent tools! Nothin' but a rusty ax to work with—an' look yonder at that sky!"
All looked and mother Martha grew frightened. She was timid during any thunder shower and this was worse than a shower which threatened—a tornado seemed imminent. To retreat indoors and help John to get there was her first impulse, but Pa Babcock held up a protesting hand and she hesitated, curiously observing his movements. Moistening his fingers he let the rising wind blow over them, then calmly resumed his task of nailing a board to a post in the cattle-shed still left standing beside the barn.
"It will not come on to rain till midnight. Then look out for a deluge. You are perfectly and entirely safe here, ma'am, until our undertaking is accomplished and it is always well to have the eye of the master—I would say, mistress—upon——"
"Hand over that scantlin', old step-an'-fetch-it!" ordered Jim, with scant reverence and—the scantling was handed. Furthermore, Pa was set to searching the barn for a possible crowbar, pick-ax, or, "Any plaguy thing a feller can bore a post-hole with."
Thus rudely interrupted, the "Nanarchist" calmly surveyed his companion in labor, then squeaked out:
"There is no occasion for such remarkable activity, young man, but——"
"Hurry up! 'Twon't be no midnight 'fore that 'gust' strikes us!" ordered Jim Barlow.
Anger is a wonderful incentive to action—sometimes. At last Pa Babcock was angry—as much so as it was in his nature ever to be. The result was that he fell to work with a vigor and skill that almost distanced Jim's own; to the great advantage of the Chesters and their live stock.
By the time darkness had come a pig-pen had been constructed in one end of the cattle-shed; a milking-stool had been nailed into shape and Hannah milked—with a remarkable shrinkage in the amount Oliver Sands had accredited to her: she and "Daisy-Jewel" put under cover for the night: and the rickety barn-doors nailed here and there as a precaution against the coming "gust."
This seemed long delayed; yet Jim was wise enough to button his blouse tightly across his heated chest and to take his prompt departure the moment his self-imposed tasks were finished; Mrs. Chester calling after him:
"Don't forget to thank Mrs. Calvert for her kindness about the mail and tell her, please, that this letter held the change due us after the printing of that advertisement And thankyou, James Barlow, for all your helpfulness in everything."
The lad went onward, with a comfortable sense of having been extremely useful and with all his slight jealousy allayed; reflecting, also:
"There ain't one that lot got any more sense about farmin' than a spring chicken! Not so much, either; 'cause a chickenwillstir round an' scratch a livin' out the ground, sooner 'n starve. Dorothy, she—Well, she's got some ideas, kind of dull ones, but might answer once she gets 'em sharpened by tryin' an' failin'; but—Pshaw! I wish to goodness she was a boy an' not a girl! Then there'd be some show. As 'tis—shucks!"
The day may come, Master James, when you'll be very glad that your wish could not be gratified! Meanwhile, as you plod along beneath the trees, sighing and moaning overhead—in seeming terror of the coming storm—the family at Skyrie have re-entered the cottage: and with the ease of one who belongs, Pa Babcock has entered with them.
"Will you stay for supper, Mr. Babcock, or shall we take some other time for talking about business?" asked Mr. Chester, as their new acquaintance coolly settled himself in the invalid's own rocker by the window and began to sway lazily to and fro, while the host himself took a straight chair near by.
"O father John! Don't sit there. I'm sure Mr. Babcock will——" began Dorothy, indignant at the stranger's selfishness.
But her father stopped her by a shake of his head and a smile of amusement which neither she nor Martha shared: though the latter did say, politely enough:
"I never knew anybody to come at a time they were more needed, for without your help Jim could never have fixed things so nicely. We owe you many thanks and some money. How much you will have to say, for we know little about wages here in the North."
Pa waited for her to finish, then ejaculated:
"I should say I did help! Done it all, if you'll recall the circumstances again. Furnished all the brain power anyway, and skilled labor outranks muscle at any time. He means well, that boy: but—I wonder if he realizes his own position in society! A poor, down-trodden member of the lower class. I must see him again. I must uplift him! Ennoble him! Rouse his slumbering ambition—Make a man of him! I——"
"You couldn't! I don't mean to be rude, but you mustn't talk about my Jim that way. Heisn'tdown-trodden. Heisuplifted. He's going to make a man of himself, for himself, by himself—without you or even dear Mrs. Cecil interfering. She'll help, of course, for she's rich and has the chance, but a boy like Jim Barlow—Huh!" cried Dorothy in valiant defense of her faithful friend, and with a contemptuous glance at this great man whom she had disliked on the instant.
"Dorothy! Dorothy C.!" reproved Mrs. Chester in her sternest accents, yet not far behind her daughter in the matter of dislike. The man seemed such a sham, but—"Praise the bridge that carries you safe over!" He was willing to be hired and they needed him.
Pa Babcock paid no more attention to the girl's outbreak than he did to the fly perambulating his frowsy forehead and which he was too indolent to brush aside; and indignant at this, also, Dorothy went about bringing food from the pantry and depositing dishes upon the table with most unnecessary decision. She hoped, oh! how she hoped that her parents would refuse to employ this "Anarchist"; or, if they did so, that they would prohibit his coming to the family table.
However, here he was and supper was ready, and he was invited to draw near; yet to the surprise of all, with the provision stipulated for by the host:
"To-night, Mr. Babcock, we consider you our guest: but should you engage to work for us I would like to arrange that you should board yourself. Mrs. Chester has no servant."
"Sir, I admire her for it! Let every member of society serve himself and the reign of equality begins. My wife is a fine cook and there will be no difficulty in our arrangements. Oliver Sands is my good friend, and it is by his suggestion that I am here. He is a man as is a man! There is no giving of titles by him. A plain man, Oliver, though not—not quite as fully imbued with the doctrines of universal equality and brotherhood as I should desire. Sir, are you a—Socialist?"
Certainly this strange man was what his daughter had described him, "a good talker," judging from the ready flow of language, and of better quality than is commonly found in men of his class. Though this may be accounted for by the fact that he was a greedy reader—of any and every thing which came his way. But to this suddenly propounded inquiry Mr. Chester answered, with his own merry smile:
"No, indeed! Nothing half so 'uplifted' or ambitious. Just a poor, afflicted fellow out of work and anxious to make a living for his family. Let us get through our meal and come to business."
Fortunately, while Pa Babcock was eating he could not well talk, and he was one, as Alfaretta had said, "could always relish his victuals." He now relished so many of prudent mother Martha's that her heart sank, knowing that food costs money and money was unpleasantly scarce in that cottage; but, at last, he seemed satisfied and pushed back from the table, saying:
"Now, let's settle things. I was sent here, first off, by my friend Oliver Sands, to negotiate a loan for him—for your benefit. He's a forehanded fellow, Oliver is, and always ready to help those along who are in trouble or—He's wanted to put a mortgage on my place in Cat Hollow, so's to give me time and opportunity—meaning cash—to promulgate the principles of——"
"Yes," said John impatiently.
"Of course, you understand. All sensible persons do and I shall eventually convert you to my ideas——"
"Possibly, possibly! But return to your errand from the miller, please. It's growing late and we've had a fatiguing day."
"I was just coming to it. He was so pleased by you and your family, so delighted to find your wife, here, such a woman of business, that he wished me to say that in case you were in need of funds, a little ready money, you know, he would feel perfectly safe in advancing it: securing it, of course, by the necessary documents."
Mr. and Mrs. Chester exchanged glances, which Dorothy did not see. She had escaped the obnoxious presence of this man by simply going to bed, meaning to get up again, as soon as he should depart, and bid her parents good-night. Then said the ex-postman, after this brief telegraphing of opinions:
"Mr. Sands has guessed correctly. We are in need of ready money—to get things into running order; but the property is my wife's and, like your friend, I have the fullest confidence in her business ability. She will do as she thinks best."
Now what a cruel thing is jealousy! It had embittered the honest heart of Jim Barlow, earlier in the day, and now attacked the tender one of Martha Chester. It was quite true—they did need money. True, also, that they had expected to raise it by a mortgage on Skyrie, at present free and clear. They knew that this money would be forthcoming from the mistress of Deerhurst, simply upon application, and upon the most favorable terms. She had already delicately hinted at the matter, and had her visit to the cottage been made that morning, as she intended, it would doubtless have been settled.
But Martha Chester disliked to be beholden to the old gentlewoman who "made so much of Dorothy" and who, the mother fancied, was superseding herself in the child's heart. It had become a habit of Dorothy's to quote Mrs. Cecil as a paragon of all the virtues, and the child's ambition was to form her own manners and opinions upon her "fairy godmother's."
Now offered a chance for independence which Mrs. Chester eagerly seized, without protest from her husband, though inwardly he disapproved putting themselves in the power of a stranger when there stood ready to take his place a tried, true friend.
"Shall you see Mr. Sands again, to-night?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. I'm due to deliver an oration in the 'Sons of Freedom' Hall, Upper Village, eight o'clock sharp, tickets twenty-five cents. Oliver directed me to say that if you would send your little daughter to Heartsease, his place, to-morrow morning he would make it his pleasure to call and arrange everything. He's a sort of lawyer, himself. And, oh yes! If you should need anything in the way of feed or fodder he is always ready to supply his customers, at the ruling prices and with dispatch.
"Which brings me, ma'am and sir, to the subject of wages between ourselves; and if it's handy, to the payment for my services in erecting a pig-pen and repairing a cow-manger. Let me see. Two hours, at a dollar an hour—Two dollars, I make it. Do you find me right?"
Well! Pa Babcock might look like a simpleton, but he could use his queer voice to his own advantage!
John Chester shrugged his shoulders and Martha replied with considerable crispness:
"A dollar an hour! I never heard of such a thing. In Baltimore——"
"We are not in Baltimore, much as I should admire to visit that city. Skilled labor, you know——"
"But theskillwas poor Jim Barlow's, and the lumbermine. At such a rate your farm services would be worth a fortune, and far more than I could pay. I hoped to get somebody to work 'on shares'; or at least, very cheaply."
"For the present, ma'am, there wouldn't be any 'shares.' The ground is absolutely profitless. But I am not exorbitant, nor would I grind the face of the poor. I am a poor man myself. I glory in it. I think that two dollars and a half a day would be fair to both sides."
With this the high, thin voice subsided and John Chester took up the theme, like his wife quoting their old city as a unit of measurement:
"In Baltimore, or its suburbs, a day or farm laborer would not earn more than a dollar and a half, or even so low as a dollar and a quarter."
"Per day, working on every consecutive day?" asked this would-be employee, leaning back in the rocker and folding his arms. It seemed he never could form a sentence without putting into it the largest words at his command, and listening to him, Martha almost hoped that their present discussion would prove fruitless. However could they endure his wordiness!
"Yes. Of course it would be every day," she answered.
But his next remark came with an originality worthy none other than himself:
"Very well. I have my price and my opinion—you have yours. Let us meet one another halfway. I will work only every other day—I can do as much as two ordinary men, anyway—and thus you will be called upon for no more than you would have had to pay some assistant from privileged Baltimore."
"But we could not board you!" protested John Chester. "I cannot have extra labor imposed upon my wife."
Pa Babcock rose, stretching all his mighty limbs as if he would convince these strangers that he could, indeed, accomplish the work of two ordinary men per day; then, waving the trivial matter of board aside with an airy lightness which his recent exhibition of appetite scarcely warranted, announced:
"We will consider the affair closed. I will work every other day, Sundays excluded, at two dollars and a half per day and find myself. I will enter upon my duties to-morrow morning, and I now wish you good-night. I go to establish the rule of equality in this unenlightened neighborhood."
So saying he slipped out of the house, a fearsome-looking but wholly harmless "crank," who seemed rather to have left his shadow behind him than to have taken it with him. As he departed the roar of thunder, the brilliant flash of lightning, filled the room; and, forestalling a remonstrance she feared might be forthcoming, mother Martha exclaimed:
"The storm is coming at last. I must go see to all the windows."
"I'll limp around and help you; and, wife dear, I can't help feeling we should think twice before we take up with that miller's offer. He's too sweet to be wholesome and I know that Mrs. Calvert——"
"The matter is settled, John. You reminded me that Skyrie was my property. I claim the right to use my own judgment in the case. I will send Dorothy to see that kind old Quaker early to-morrow."
She did. But as her husband went about with her that evening, making all secure against the tempest, the shadow that Pa Babcock had left behind him—the shadow of almost their first disagreement—followed her light footsteps and the tap-tap of his crutches from room to room.
Till at last they came to the little upper chamber which they had both vied in making attractive for Dorothy's homecoming and saw her sleeping there; her lovely innocent face flushed in slumber and dearer to them both than anything else in life.
"It was for her, else I'd have let John have his way and ask Mrs. Cecil. But I cannot have her drawn away from me—and she's being drawn, she's being drawn," thought mother Martha, stopping to straighten a moist curl and kiss the pretty cheek.
"Oh! if only for that darling's sake we had trusted Mrs. Cecil. She has trusted us: but Martha—Well, women are kittle cattle. I don't understand them, but somehow I'm sorry," was his reflection.
So they went down again, he limping, she skipping almost like a girl, but with a division of thought which saddened both.
Seth Winters was known as the best blacksmith in the country. The horses he shod never went lame, the tires of the wheels he repaired rarely loosened: consequently his patronage was extensive and of the best. Better than that, his patrons liked the man as well as his work and they were more than willing to grant him a favor—almost the first he had ever asked of them.
First, he visited Mrs. Cecil and counseled with her concerning the scheme he had formed: and she having most heartily approved it, he lost no time in mentioning it to each and all who came to his shop. The result was that on a sunny morning, not long after Dorothy's homecoming, there gathered before the little smithy an assemblage of all sorts and conditions of men and vehicles, which filled the road for a long distance either way, and even strayed into the surrounding woods for a more comfortable waiting-place.
In the wagons were also many women, farm-wives mostly, all gay with the delight of an unexpected outing and the chance to bestow a kindness.
"Amazing! How it warms the cockles of one's heart to be good to somebody!" cried Seth, his benign face aglow with the zest of the thing, as one after another team drew near and its occupants bade him a smiling "Good-morning!" "The very busiest time of all the year for farmer folk—haying, crop-raising, gardening—yet not a soul I asked has failed to respond, in some shape or other."
"Of course not! It's as good as a county fair or a Sunday-school picnic, Cousin Seth! I wouldn't have missed it for anything!" cried a merry old voice behind him, and he turned to see Mrs. Calvert nodding her handsome head in this direction and that, with that friendly simplicity of manner which had made her so generally liked. For, though she could be most austere and haughty with what she called "common and presumptuous people," she had an honest liking for all her fellow-creatures who were honest and simple themselves.
"Now, Betty! But I might have known you would come—you're always on hand for any 'doin's.' Though don't you dare to give your own generosity free rein. This is strictly a case 'of the people, by the people, for the people.' Blue-blooded aristocracy and full purses aren't 'in it,'" warned the smith, in an alarm that was more real than feigned, knowing that his impulsive old friend could spoil the pleasure of many by exceeding them in giving.
"Oh! I shall take care. I've only sent one team, a couple of men—one the gardener, the other a carpenter who was working on the place, and—Do you know, Seth Winters, you barrier-destroying old 'Socialist!'—that the man positively refused to take pay for his day's labor, even though he can ill afford to lose his time? 'No, ma'am,' said this aristocrat of the saw and plane, 'I claim the right to do a decent turn to a neighbor, same as another.' Rich or poor it doesn't appear to make a bit of difference—give them a chance at this sort of thing and they all lose their heads."
Seth laughed. Such "Socialistic" principles as these were the ones he advocated, not only by word but by his whole noble life. For him wealth had but one purpose—the bettering of these other folk to whom wealth had not been given. Then he asked:
"What of Jim Barlow? Is he one of the 'men' you furnished for the day?"
"Will you believe me—he is not? When that young Herbert Montaigne rode around this morn-thing, before breakfast, to say that his father was sending two men with a mowing machine and that he, Herbert, was going to ride on the horse-rake himself, Jim was talking to me. He was full of enthusiasm and earnest to explain that nothing in our own home garden should suffer because of his taking this day off. He would work overtime to make up—as if I would let him! But as soon as Herbert came, just as enthusiastic himself, down goes my James's countenance to the very bottom of despair. What I love about that boy is his naturalness!" exclaimed this lively old lady, irrelevantly.
"Keep to the subject in hand, please, Cousin Betty. The reason of Jim's gloom perplexes me. I should have thought he would have been——"
"Oh! he was; he did; he must have been, he should have been, he would have been—all the tenses in the grammar you choose. If it hadn't been for my precious little Dorothy. That small maid——"
She paused so long and seemed so amused that again he spoke:
"For her sake alone I should think he would be pleased to find others ready to befriend her."
"In a way, of course, he is, though man-like, or boy-like, he'd very much ratherdothe befriending than have such a handsome young fellow as Herbert take it out of hand. That lad was just fetching! He'd dressed the part to perfection. Had on a loose white flannel blouse knotted with a blue tie—his color: his denim knickers might have been the finest riding trousers; and his long boots—I fancy there was more money went to the cost of them than you'd spend on yourself in a year. And all to make himself fair in the eyes of a little maid like Dorothy. But blood will tell. My Dolly——"
"Remember, sheisn'tyour Dolly, Elizabeth Somerset Cecil Calvert, however you may now love and covet her. She's a charming small woman, as many another lad than poor Jim or gay Herbert will find some day. But I didn't dream that jealousy began so early in life, or that such a matter-of-fact person as young James Barlow could be jealous."
"He is. He is intensely so, though probably he doesn't know it himself. I fancy it is about the first time he has been brought into contact with other lads of his own age, and he is keen enough to see his own disadvantage. Herbert's nod to Jim was wholly friendly, I thought, but Jim resented it as patronizing. Silly fellow! And so he promptly changed his mind about affairs and decided that not for any consideration could he leave his garden and his 'duty' till the day's work was done. Then, if he had any time, my lord of the potato-crop may condescend to appear at Skyrie. Also by that time, he doubtless thinks, a white-handed aristocrat like Herbert will have tired of the affair and betaken himself back to the Towers where he belongs. Oh! I do love young folks! They are so transparent and honest in showing their feelings that they're wonderfully interesting. As for my Dolly C.—Seth Winters, I believe that I will really have to ask those Chesters to let me have her for 'keeps,' as the children say."
"No, no, dear friend. Don't. You must not. It were most unwise. Leave the girl to grow up in the station to which God has assigned her, no matter by whose human hands the deed was done. At present she is fair, affectionate, simple, and womanly. To be suddenly transplanted into a wealthy home would spoil her. For once, put your generous impulses aside and leave Dorothy Chester alone, to be a comfort to those who have devoted their lives to her. And now, that sermon's ended! Also, I believe that all have come who promised, which is a remarkable thing in itself. You're walking, I suppose? So am I; and we'll start on together, while I signal the rest to follow."
So they set forth, a worthy pair of white-haired "children," who could not grow old because they lived so very near that Heaven whence they had come to earth: and behind them fell into line all the motley assortment of carts and wagons, with the clattering mowing machine from the Towers bringing up the rear.
Mother Martha was in what purported to be a garden, trying to persuade Pa Babcock to plant things that would yet have time to mature that season, and was at her wits' end to find arguments to stem his eloquent reasons why he should do otherwise. Quoth he:
"Now, of all the satisfactory vegetables grown, asparagus, or sparrowgrass, as the unenlightened around here call it—asparagus contains more nourishment and the properties——"
"But, Mr. Babcock, please don't dig any longer in that trench. It will have to be four or five feet deep and so much labor. My husband was reading all about it in one of his catalogues that he's just sent for, and it would take at least three years for asparagus to grow strong enough to begin cutting. Besides the roots are too expensive. And that terrible trench, so big, filled with stones——"
"Excuse me, ma'am, there's plenty of stone at Skyrie to fill the asparagus beds of the nation: or if not quite that——"
"But I must insist, since you've refused to listen to John about it, that you stop fooling with this trench and plant some late potatoes. We bought some seed ones from Mrs. Smith and my little girl is cutting them into pieces already. We were shown that by leaving one or two 'eyes' the pieces would grow just as well as whole tubers. Everybody needs potatoes and they can do without asparagus!" and too exasperated for further speech poor mother Martha folded her arms and brought her sternest glances to bear upon her hired man.
He had kept his word and appeared upon the morning following his engagement, and for a time he had been left to his own devices: his inexperienced employers judging that any man who had been brought up in the country must be wiser in farming matters than they. Besides, the storm that had threatened on the night of his first visit had proved a most disastrous one. The roof had "leaked like a sieve," as pessimistic Jim Barlow had declared it would, "give it storm enough to try it": rusty-hinged shutters had broken loose, stopped-up drains had overflowed, the cellar had become a pool of water, and the cherished furniture brought from the little home in Baltimore had, in several rooms, been ruined by the moisture. Moreover, father John had taken a severe cold and been kept in bed in his own more sheltered apartment; where he consoled himself with the gardening catalogues he had written for and whence he endeavored to direct their hired man.
"Did Pa Babcock bring his dinner, Martha?" he had asked on that first morning, when she was running distractedly about, trying to dry the damaged furniture and undo the storm's havoc.
"No, dear. He said—just this once it didn't happen to be convenient. His wife hadn't any cold meat on hand."
"Neither have you, I believe! Well, I will not board him. I will not! The farm may go to rack and ruin first!" cried Mr. Chester, indignantly. "The idea! Here are Dorothy and I trying to put our appetites into our pockets, just to save you labor, and this great, squeaking lout of a man——"
"John, John! Why, John, I never knew you to be so unjust! If I, with my quick temper, can have patience, you certainly should."
"But, mother, he's just been doing nothing at all, all this morning!" cried Dorothy, seconding her beloved father's opinion. "Just 'sort of nudgin' 'round,' Jim used to call it when I worked that way to the truck-farm, and I only a little girl. Why, I know I could have pulled more weeds myself in this time if I hadn't had to help you indoors, even if I did take that long walk to Heartsease farm. The ground is soaking wet, weeds would pull just beautifully, I know, 'cause we used to love to work after a rain, in our little garden at home! Oh! dear! this is very pretty, but—I wish we hadn't come!"
Alas! This regret was in all their hearts, in that early time at Skyrie. Views were beautiful but they didn't support life, and though they had secured a modest sum of ready money to tide them over these beginnings it had been at the cost of "debt," a burden which the Chesters hated to bear. But, fortunately, they had scant time for repining, and there is nothing like active occupation to banish useless brooding.
Hannah herself could well keep one person busy and, of course, her youth and fleetness ordained that this person should be Dorothy. Bill Barry's statement that the écru-colored bovine was "lively" and could outrun his sorrel mare was, at least founded upon fact. Among cattlemen she was what is known as a "jumper"; and though her behavior upon her first day of residence at Skyrie was most exemplary her sedateness forsook her on the next and forever after.
With the best intentions, after having tried her own hand at milking and succeeding better than she had expected, Mrs. Cheater kindly turned Hannah "out to grass"—with most unlooked-for results.
"All cattle graze, you know, John; and she really nibbled that bit of ground clean where she was tied yesterday. Dorothy and I—we won't hinder our 'man' for a trifle like that—Dolly and I will prop up that sagging gate, so Hannah won't be tempted to stray away, and give her the run of this first lot. She might almost mow it for us in time."
"Thus cutting short her winter supply of fodder. Let her have one day at the 'mowing,' if you choose, then she'd better be put into that old pasture and left there. I know a good farmer wouldn't let even a well-trained Quaker cow into his best meadow; evenIknow that! As for the pig, since we can't possibly drink all that milk and, as yet, have no pans in which to store it, he may as well consume it sweet as wait for it to sour. That will keep him quiet, anyway, and a squealing pig—I shouldn't like one."
Martha was delighted to find even thus much farm knowledge on her husband's part, and exclaimed:
"However you guessed that much about things, that meadows are meant for hay and pigs are raised on sour milk, I don't see! Only, of course, it's as you often say to Dolly: 'Anybody can use his head for anything he chooses.' I suppose you've chosen to study farming and so I know we shall succeed. By the way, Mrs. Smith has sent word over by her little boy that she is going up to Newburgh this afternoon to do what she calls 'trading.' She sells poultry, and eggs, and butter, and such things, that she raises on her farm, and takes in exchange all sorts of staple goods. She said she'd be pleased to have me go along and learn how to 'trade,' 'cause if I was going to be a farmer I'd have to know. I shall have to take some of that money, too, and buy a churn, some milk pans, and—Well, so many things it doesn't seem as if we really had a single necessary article to start with! But it's all the same, of course, in the end. When we get the loan from Friend Oliver Sands it will be all right. You and Dorothy will be comfortable while I'm gone, I think, for our man is right on hand in the garden to——"
"Then, if you love me, keep him there!" pleaded father John, in his whimsical way. "If he forsakes the garden for the house—Well,Ishall be asleep! As for poor Dolly, if he catches her and tries to convert her to his ideas, the child has nimble feet and can run. I shall advise her so to do. But I'm glad you're to have that nice long ride, though I can't imagine you as ever becoming a good 'trader.'"
It was during this brief absence that the écru-colored Hannah first returned to her natural ways, and that Dorothy had to prove herself "nimble," indeed. Despite the fact that she stood in the midst of the most luxurious vegetation the dissatisfied cow knew that there was better in the field beyond. Regardless of the appealing cries of Daisy-Jewel, this careless mother gave one airy flick to her heels and leaped the intervening wall; and though her child essayed to follow it could not, but set up such a bawling that Mr. Chester hobbled out to see what was amiss.
"Remarkable!" cried Pa Babcock, improving this opportunity to rest from his not too arduous weeding. "Remarkable how the qualities of a race horse will sometimes inhabit the bosom of a creature——"
"Dorothy! Dorothy! I guess you'll have to put Dickens down and go get Hannah back out of that lot. She's made a—a little mistake! Your mother wants her to graze on the home-piece and mother's our farmer, you know. Do run drive her back, but look out for her hoofs. She'd take a hurdle better than any horse I ever saw," called Mr. Chester, laughing; yet regretting to disturb Dorothy, who had worked industriously beside her mother to get things into good condition after the drenching of the rain. She had taken tacks from carpets, carried wet cushions and blankets out into the sunshine to dry and carried them back again when fit, and she wanted to rest and read.
"Oh, dear! I don't see anything to laugh at in this! Why couldn't Hannah stay where she belonged! And just hear that poor little calf! I—I wish it hadn't been given to me!" fretted the tired girl, yet obediently set off in pursuit.
Now the former master of Skyrie had divided it into many fields. He had called these "building lots," and had confidently expected to sell them at high prices to the rich people who had begun to settle on the mountain. These dividing walls were stone, like all the others, but sufficiently narrow to admit of Hannah's leaping them easily. She did leap them, running from one to another in a manner confusing to herself and doubly so to Dorothy, pursuing. Fortunately, the wide walls bordering the square outline of the farm were impassable even to her: and gradually, pursued and pursuer made their way back to that home-field whence the race had started.
After all it was the voice of nature conquered, not Dorothy's fleetness. Daisy-Jewel's bleating and bawling accomplished the return of the runaway; though not till that too active creature had blundered into the wrong fields so many times that Dorothy was in despair.