CHAPTER XIV.HOME AGAIN.
THE “Scrannage girls,” as their neighbors called them, were seated in high-back chairs in the big hall at “The Oaks;” their gig, in which they had followed as best they could the swift pony-cart bearing home the children, was tied at the end of the carriage-drive. They had cups of tea in their hands, from which they drew long draughts of inspiration and refreshment to help along their part of the tale.
Polly sat down in front of them on a low cushioned seat, clasping her baby in her arms, and Elyot crouched on the floor, his arms in his mother’s lap; the rest of the household and guests crowding up for the recital, old Mr. King at the visitors’ right hand, and Amy Loughead modestly selecting the background.
“Ye see,” said Miss Sally, who as usual was spokeswoman, “it was jest this way. We madeup our minds to go to town this mornin’; one thing on account o’ bringin’ you the jell you’d ordered, marm,” bobbing her large bonnet at Mrs. King.
“Yes,” said Polly. “Well, and where did you meet the children, Miss Scrannage?” clasping Barby very closely.
“I was a-goin’ to tell you. Land! but this tea is proper good, Mis’ King,” taking a long draught of it, and smacking her lips. “Well, we made up our minds to come to town as I was a-sayin’.”
“My good woman,” said Mr. King, “we do not care for all those particulars. What we do want to know is where you met those children?” pointing to Elyot and Barby.
Miss Sally Scrannage turned her large face and looked at him. Wasn’t she a Scrannage of Hingham, Jabez Scrannage’s daughter? and was she going to be put down that way, even if this was the great Mr. King, and he worth his millions? She set down her teacup, and gathered up the crumbs of cake carefully in a little heap in her napkin before she was ready to open her mouth. Phronsie stepped softly out of the group, and going up to the two old ladies, she laid her handgently on the big, square shoulder, “Don’t you understand, dear Miss Scrannage,” she said, “that we are all so anxious to know at once, just as soon as we possibly can, when you first saw the children. Their poor mother cannot bear to wait.”
Miss Sally followed the hand that pointed to Polly. When she saw the tears on the cheek usually so bright, her own face softened, and her battle feathers, so to speak, drooped. “And I’ll tell you quick’s I can, my dear,” she said, “seein’ you ask so pretty. But I ain’t accustomed to be spoke to like a dog, an’ ordered ’round, you know. Let’s see; ’twas after we’d got by the Hammatt place, Belindy, warn’t it, when we saw Abiel Babbidge driv up by the side o’ the road, an’ he a-settin’ still, an’ his horse not movin’ a hoof, an’ sez I—you remember what I sez, Belindy, says I”—
“Did Mr. Babbidge have the children in his wagon?” asked Phronsie, still standing by her side.
“Yes, he did; we was quite a piece by the Hammatt place.”
“Agoodpiece,” said Miss Belinda.
“Yes, just as I say, a good piece.”
“How far is the Hammatt place from here? Ask her, Phronsie,” said old Mr. King.
“How many miles do you think the Hammatt place is from here, Miss Scrannage?” asked Phronsie.
“Well, I d’no. It might be six mile, and then again it might be five. I hain’t heard folks say.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. King.
“Well, Jabez he was a-sittin’ stock still as a stun, an’ it scart me. I didn’t know but what he was dead. If it had ’a’ been cold weather, I should suppose he’d fruz. And I says to him, says”—
“Where did he say he found the children?” asked Phronsie.
“I was a-comin’ to that,” said Miss Sally shortly; and picking up her tea again, she took a good swallow. “Well, Jabez he says to me, he says, ‘Get these childern home, will ye, Miss Scrannage?’ I’m very sure he said home, ain’t you, B’lindy.”
“I don’t remember,” said Miss Belinda.
Miss Sally tossed her a look of scorn. “Well, I do,” she sniffed. “He says, ‘Get these childern home, will ye, Miss Scrannage, down to Mr.Beebe’s shoe-shop?’ An’ sister an’ me said of course we would; an’ he an’ I got the childern in, an’”—
The ‘Scrannage Girls,’ as their neighbors called them“The ‘Scrannage Girls,’ as their neighbors called them.”
“The ‘Scrannage Girls,’ as their neighbors called them.”
“The ‘Scrannage Girls,’ as their neighbors called them.”
“And she put me on a slippery basket, and I couldn’t see the horse,” said Elyot; “and I didn’t like it!”
“O Elyot!” said his mother gently, patting hishead; “just think how kind dear Miss Sally was. You couldn’t have gotten home without her, dear.”
Elyot grunted feebly something that was inaudible, especially as Miss Sally, much mollified by Mrs. King’s words, proceeded,—
“So B’lindy took care of the little girl,”—Polly glanced over with a smile at “sister’s” meek face,—“an’ I had the wust, ’cause I had to drive, an’ I had that boy. Well, an’ we went fust of all to the shoe-shop. I was a-comin’ here with the jell fust, but then I thought, bein’ you said you warn’t”—
“Oh! I didn’t need the jelly,” said Polly hastily; “thank you for going to Mr. Beebe’s first.”
“An’ I jest let the childern out, of course, as I s’posed ’twas their home, an’ that’s all I know, ’cept that old Mis’ Beebe run in to Simons’s with an apun over her head,—we was tradin’, gettin’ some new calikers, you know,” said Miss Sally in an important way, “an’”—
“She asked you to let us know, did she?” asked Phronsie.
“Yes, she did; an’ then I told her I was the one that brung them childern to her shop, an’then we heard a squeal, an’ that boy there,” pointing her long finger at Elyot, “come runnin’ in the shop, an’ said he’d come to bid old Mis’ Beebe good-by, and the little girl come along too, an’ he said they’d sent for ’em to come home right away, an’ he was a-comin’ again some time—but I know one thing, an’ that is, that I won’t bring him.”
“Sally, Sally,” ventured Miss Belinda in a shocked tone.
“Dear Miss Scrannage,” cried Polly, rushing out of her seat, and clinging to Barby, while Elyot dragged after, clutching her gown, “and dear Miss Belinda, you don’t know how grateful I am to you for all your lovely care of my little ones. I wish—oh, how I wish my husband was home to thank you too! Oh! we never can repay you.” She took their withered and hard hands in her soft, warm ones.
“And I’d like to kiss you,” said Barby, putting up her rosy lips, “anyway her—I would like to kiss her,” pointing to Miss Belinda, who was blushing like a winter apple, and beaming at her.
“No, we never can repay you,” repeated Polly out of a full heart.
Miss Sally received all this with the greatest satisfaction, but her cup of happiness was quite full when Grandpapa got deliberately out of his chair and advanced to her.
“And you mustn’t mind what an old fellow says, Miss Scrannage,” he said, holding out his hand with a courtly bow. “Goodness me, my dear woman, can you guess what we’ve suffered when those blessed babies couldn’t be found? And so shake hands, and forgive whatever you didn’t like in my words.”
“Oh, I’ll forgive!” said Miss Scrannage, putting out her toil-worn hand with just as much pride; “an’ mebbe I hadn’t orter been so quick myself; but I can’t help it, for I’ve got it from the Scrannage side o’ th’ house, an’ it’s hard to pull up. Well, now, B’lindy, seein’ all’s comfortable, we better be a-goin’. We’re goin’ to stay all night, ye know,” she said, addressing the company, “down to our cousin’s in town; but we got to go to one or two more o’ th’ shops, an’ then we want to visit some before supper.”
Mr. King did not dare to interrupt; but he kept fingering his pocket-book nervously, well concealed as it was. His eyes sought Phronsie’sface and Polly’s, and finding no encouragement in either, he cleared his throat, “Hem! well, now, Miss Scrannage, I don’t want to hinder you; but what sort of a man is this Mr. Babbidge, I believe you said his name was, that gave the children to you?”
“Oh! he’s a good sort o’ man, ’Biel Babbidge is,” replied Miss Sally, “dretful poor he is, an’”—
“Poor, is he?” cried old Mr. King with interest.
“Land, yes! never was forehanded; couldn’t be, with that sick wife of his.”
“Is she sick?” asked Phronsie pityingly.
“Yes; hain’t done a hand’s turn for a year, with rheumatiz, an’ before that ’twas newmony, an’ before that”—
“Poor man!” said Polly; “of course he couldn’t get along, with a sick wife.”
“That’s so,” assented Miss Sally; “an’ he hain’t got along; has to hire whatever help he gets in the house. He’s dretful good to his wife; sets a store by her, an’ treats her jest like a baby. She was a Potter, lived down to th’”—
“Now, Miss Scrannage,” said old Mr. Kingdesperately, and bringing the pocket-book out to the surface, “I want to reward somebody for all their goodness to me and to my family in bringing our children home. Do help me to do it.”
“You better give it to ’Biel Babbidge, then,” said Miss Sally with a stiffening in her back, as she looked in his eyes. Then she glanced at her sister, who straightened herself involuntarily. “Land, yes! he’s dretful poor, an’ needs it.” She stepped out of her chair with the air of being able to buy up all Badgertown. “Come, B’lindy, we reelly must be a-goin’. I thank you for that cup o’ tea, Mis’ King; ’twas reel pa’ticler good, and you, Miss Phronsie, thank you. Good-day,” with an old-time courtesy to the company.
Elyot rushed after her. “I’m sorry I said that about the basket,” he cried.
“Now,” said Phronsie, as they all turned back and went slowly over the lawn, the whole company having escorted the old ladies to their carriage, the gentlemen vying in their attentions, and David securing the honor of unhitching Billy, “why cannot we take our driving-party over to Hingham to-morrow, instead of to the Glen, and see Mr. and Mrs. Babbidge?”
“And do up the business with them,” finished old Mr. King. “The very thing, Phronsie,” with a grateful smile at her. “I only wish I could wind up my debt to that Miss Scrannage as easily,” he groaned.
“O Phronsie!” cried Polly ecstatically; “that’s a lovely plan. Oh, you dear, for thinking of it!”
And every one of the company thereupon expressed their great delight. Suddenly Elyot glanced down the road. “Oh, I see papa!” he howled; “he’s on top of the stage.”
“Well, well, what is the whole family drawn up here in parade for?” cried Jasper, swinging himself down from Mr. Tisbett’s side. And “O Jasper! what has brought you so early?” from Polly. And then all the story had to be gone over and over, with many things interspersed by Elyot and Barby, who felt that half enough attention had not been paid to the Beebes, and who clamored for every one to hear what a splendid time they’d had in the little shop.
“And I sat in the little chair that Aunt Phronsie sat in,” cried Barby. “Truly I did, papa,” pulling his sleeve.
“Yes, she did,” said Elyot; “the same littlewooden chair that Aunt Phronsie sat in when she got her red-topped shoes; Mr. Beebe said so. And I had doughnuts—all I wanted.”
Polly viewed him in alarm, while Joel smacked his lips. “We remember those doughnuts, don’t we, Dave,” poking the college instructor in the ribs.
And then they all hurried in, Jasper’s arm around Polly, while his children hung to his hand; for he had brought out a new piece of music he wanted to try with Polly before dinner.
On the way to the music-room, Joel picked up a little book from one of the window-niches in the big hall. “Whose is this?” he asked, carelessly whirling the leaves of a Greek poem.
“That’s Miss Loughead’s, I believe,” said Robert Bingley, who stood next, and looking over his shoulder.
“Impossible!” exclaimed Joel impulsively. “What, belong to that little thing! Why, man alive, she never knew enough to understand that there was such a book.” And then he turned and met Amy Loughead’s blue eyes.