SCOLDING AWAY "JES LAK AN OLE BLUE JAY." DECLARED JAKE.
SCOLDING AWAY "JES LAK AN OLE BLUE JAY." DECLARED JAKE.
But Linda had made no reply except a faint "I don't know what I shall do next summer." That season was too far off to be making plans for it now when the winter must be gone through, a winter whose unknown ways she would be compelled to learn.
But Miss Ri's welcome was so warm that there was little room left for the sadness of parting after the cheery greeting. "Welcome home, dear child. Come right upstairs. Your room is all ready. That's it, Phebe. Fetch along the bags. I've fixed you up a place over the kitchen. It is a new experience for me to have a cook who doesn't want to go home nights. Right through the kitchen and up the back stairs. You'll find your way. Come, Verlinda, let me have your umbrella or something. I can take that bag."
"Indeed, no. I'm not going to have you waiting on me, Miss Ri."
"Just this once. I'm so proud of having a young lass to look after that you'll have to let me have my way for this first day. There, how do you like it?" She threw open the door of the spotless room, whose windows, though small, were many, and revealed a view of the sparkling blue river, the harbor near by and, on the opposite shores, stretches of green farmlands. The room itself was long and low. It held an old-fashioned four-poster bed with snowy valance, a handsomely-carved mahogany bureau, a spindle-legged table with leaf setup against the wall, a desk which was opened to show many pigeon-holes and small drawers. A low, soft couch, chairs of an antique pattern, and a wood stove completed the furniture. White curtains were at the windows, and on the high mantel were one or two quaint ornaments.
"Now, my dear," said Miss Ri, "this is your sanctum. You can switch the furniture around any way that you prefer, tack up pictures, put your own belongings where you choose, and if there is anything you don't like, it shall be removed."
"It is a darling room," returned Linda gratefully. "I can't imagine how one could want to change a single thing."
"Then we'll have your trunk up; there will be room for one at least in this closet," Miss Ri told her, flinging open a door to disclose further accommodations. "Here's your washstand, you see, and there will be room for some of your frocks on these hooks; the rest can go in the clothes-press on the other side of the room and you can have another bureau, if you like. The trunks could go up in the attic, if that would suit better; but we will let that work out as it will later. Now, make yourself comfortable, and I'll go look after Phebe. Come down when you are ready."
Left to herself, Linda sank down in a chair by the window, for a moment overcome by the thought that she had cut loose from all the ties which boundher to the dear old home. But in a moment her courage returned. "What nonsense," she murmured. "Was ever a girl so lucky? Here I am with my living assured and with dear Miss Ri to coddle me; with this darling room; and, last of all, with my own old Mammy at hand. I am a perfect ingrate to want more." She turned her eyes from a survey of the room to a survey of the outside. Along the river's brink stood some little houses, where the oystermen lived; nearer, was a long building, where the oyster-packing went on. Every now and then, through the open window, came a sound of cheerful singing from the shuckers at work. Tall-masted sail-boats dipped and curtseyed upon the sapphire waters. Across the river a line of shore was misty-green in the autumn light; closer at hand a grassy slope, over which tall trees cast their shadows, stretched down to the river. One or two little row-boats tethered to a stake, near a small boat-house, rocked gently as the tiny wavelets leaped up on the sandy brink. Vines clambered to the very windows of her room, amongst their leaves birds were twittering. The trees about the place were many, and from one of them a scarlet tanager was shrilling out his inviting call. "It is next best to being at home," Linda told herself, "and to get next best is a rare thing. I will unpack at my leisure, for perhaps I'd better see how Mammy is faring."
She found Miss Ri in the sitting-room and Phebe already busy in the kitchen. Miss Ri was looking over some photograph prints. She handed one to Linda. "Tell me what you think of it," she said.
"Fine!" exclaimed Linda. "I didn't know you were an expert photographer, Miss Ri."
"I'm not. Don't give me credit for them. Sit down and I'll tell you how I happen to have them. One day, not long ago, I was potting some of my plants for the winter, when a young man came in the gate. I had never seen him before and thought he must be a book-agent or some sort of trader in dustless dusters or patent flat-irons, though he was much too nice-looking for that kind of business. Well, he walked up to me and said, 'Don't you want me to take some photographs of your house and grounds? This is certainly the most picturesque place I have seen about here.'"
"Of course, that pleased you, and so—"
"Yes, that is it exactly, and so he took a lot of views, interiors and exteriors, and I think they are pretty good. He didn't overcharge, and if he had done it, I should be disposed to forgive him. He stayed all the morning—"
"And I'll venture to say you asked him to dinner."
Miss Ri laughed. "Well, yes, I did; for who wouldn't have almost anyone rather than eat alone?He did stay and told me his story, which was a most interesting one."
"I hope he didn't go off with his pockets full of your old silver."
"My dear, he is a gentleman."
"Oh, is he? And goes around taking photographs? This is interesting, Miss Ri. Tell me some more."
"Well, it seems that he has come down here to look up some property that belonged to his great-grandfather and which he should have inherited by all rights; but, unfortunately, his trunk, with all the papers he needs, has gone astray, and, what is more, he was robbed of his pocketbook; so now, while he is waiting to find the trunk and until his next quarter's money comes in, he finds himself, as they express it, 'momentarily embarrassed'; but, having his camera with him and being a good amateur photographer, he is turning his gifts to account, that he may at least pay his board."
"It seems to me it would have been more to the purpose, if he had been robbed of the camera instead of the pocket-book. He strikes me as a very careless young man to lose both his trunk and his purse."
"He didn't lose the pocket-book; it was stolen; he is sure of that; and as for the trunk, it was sent by a local expressman to the steamboat, and so far has not been traced."
"A very clever story," Linda went on. "I am only surprised that you didn't offer to take him in here until the missing articles are found."
"I did think of it," returned Miss Ri with a twinkle in her eye, "and if you hadn't been coming, I might have done it; but I was afraid he might prove too susceptible or that—"
"I might," returned Linda, laughing. "You certainly are considerate, Miss Ri. Where is our paragon, now?"
"Oh, I sent him to Parthy Turner's, and they are both having a mighty nice time of it. She has turned him over to Berk Matthews, and he is doing what he can for him."
"And do you believe there really was a great-grandfather?"
"Oh, dear, yes; I am convinced of it. The young man has shown us his credentials, and I have no doubt but that in time he can find enough proof to substantiate what he has told us about his claim. If only the trunk could be found, he says he thinks it would be a very simple thing to establish his rights."
"And am I not to see this mysterious stranger? I suppose he comes here sometimes to report."
"If you are very good, I may let you see him through the crack of the door; but he is not for you. I have picked out someone else."
"Oh, you have? So you are a confessed matchmaker,Miss Ri? May I know the name of my knight?"
"No, you may not; that would be enough to make you turn your back on him at once. It is entirely my secret."
"And the picked out person doesn't know he is picked out?"
"Not a bit of it; he hasn't the faintest suspicion. How good that dinner does smell. Phebe is the only thing I wanted that I didn't have, and now I have her."
"Do you really mean, Miss Ri, that you get everything you want in this world?"
"Why, yes; at least of late years it has been so. I found out the secret from Thoreau some ten or more years ago."
"A precious secret, I should say."
"A very simple one. It is easy enough to get what one wants, when one makes it a rule to want only what he can get. If you think you haven't enough for your wants, all you have to do is to reduce your wants."
"I'm afraid my philosophy isn't sufficient for such a state of things," said Linda with a sigh.
"Why isn't it? Now, let's face the question. What do you want that you can't get?"
Linda was silent before she said tremulously, "My brother."
"Ah, my dear, that is all wrong. Don't youbelieve that you have your brother still? If he were in Europe, in China, in India, wouldn't you still have him? Even if he were in some unreachable place like the South Pole, he would still be your brother, and now because he has gone a little further away, is he not yours just the same?"
"Oh, Miss Ri, sometimes I am afraid I doubt it."
"But I know it, for there was One who said, 'If it werenotso, I would have told you.' Even the greatest scoffer among us must admit that our Lord was one who did speak the truth; that is what comforts."
Linda laid her cheek against the other woman's hand. "That does comfort," she said. "I never saw it that way before. Is it that, Miss Ri, that keeps you almost always so bright and happy? You who have lost all your nearest and dearest, too? You so seldom get worried or blue."
"Yes, I suppose it is that and another reason," returned Miss Ri, unwilling to continue so serious a talk.
"And what is the other?"
"I try to make it a rule never to get mad with fools," replied Miss Ri with a laugh. "Of course, I don't always succeed, but the trying helps a lot."
Just here Phebe's head appeared at the door. "Miss Ri, I cain't find no tater-masher. What I gwine do?"
"Oh, dear me; let me see. Oh, yes, I remember;Randy threw it at black Wally the other day when he was pestering her. She didn't hit him and I reckon she never troubled herself to pick up the potato-masher; you'll find it somewhere about the back yard. Randy certainly has a temper, for all she is so slow in other ways. Come along, Verlinda; I promised to show you that old wine-cooler we were talking about the other day. I found it down cellar, when the men were clearing out the trash; I've had it done over, and it isn't bad." She led the way to the living-room, which, rich in old mahogany, displayed an added treasure in the quaint wine-cooler, in which the bottles could lie slanting, around the central receptacle for ice.
"It is a beautiful piece of wood," commented Linda, "and it is certainly curious enough. I do love this room, with all this beautiful old furniture. How do you manage to keep it so beautifully polished?"
"Give it a rub up once in a while; and, you see, between whiles there is no one to abuse the things, so they keep bright. Let us see about the potato-masher; Phebe's found it, I declare. I venture to say it won't lie out of doors for a week, while she's here."
Miss Parthy Turner's back garden was separated from Miss Maria Hill's by a fence in which a gate was cut that the two might sociably jog back and forth without going around the block. One of Linda's windows overlooked these gardens, where apple-trees disputed right of way with lilac bushes and grape-vines, and where, just now, late roses were cast in the shade by the more brilliant chrysanthemums. Miss Parthy, it may be said, was of a more practical turn than her neighbor in that she gave over to vegetables a larger part of her garden space, so that there were still discernible rows of cabbages, slowly-ripening pumpkins, high-poled beans, and a few late tomatoes.
The morning after her arrival, Linda noticed in the garden, beyond the dividing line, a young man walking about with an evident eye to the quality of the apples shining redly above his head. She regarded this person with some curiosity, conjecturing that he was the mysterious stranger who had taken the photographs for Miss Ri. "He doesn't look like a fake," she told herself. "I supposehis story may be true. By the way, Miss Ri didn't tell me his name nor where he hails from." However, her thoughts did not long dwell upon the stranger, for this was to be her initial morning at school, and she was looking forward to it with dismay and dread. She scarce tasted her breakfast and looked so pale and anxious, that Miss Ri's heart ached for her. Mammy, too, was most solicitous, but knew no better way to express her sympathy than by urging hot cakes upon the girl with such persistence that at last, to please her, Linda managed to eat one.
In spite of fears, the morning went more smoothly than she had anticipated, for Miss Patterson remained to coach her and she became familiarized with the routine, at least. Her pupils were little boys, none too docile, and naturally a new teacher was a target for tricks, if so she did not show her mettle. Under Miss Patterson's watchful eye there was no chance for mutiny, and Linda went home with some of her qualms allayed. She had passed her examinations creditably enough and felt that she could cope with the mere matters of teaching, but the disciplining of a room full of mischievous urchins was quite another question, and the next morning her heart misgave her when she met the rows of upturned faces, some expressing mock meekness, some defiant bravado, some open mirth. Courageously as she met the situation,it was a trying morning. If her back was turned for but an instant, there were subdued snickers; if she made a statement, it was questioned; if she censured, there were black looks and whispers of disapproval. At last one offender, sneaking on his hands and knees to the desk of another boy, was captured and marched off to the principal, a last resort, as poor Linda's nerves could stand no more. She was near to crying, her voice trembled and her heart beat fast. She scarcely knew how she went through the rest of the morning, for, though her summary act had quelled open rebellion, she was not at ease and keenly felt the undercurrent of criticism. She did not realize that the boys were trying her spirit, and she went home discouraged and exhausted, a sense of defeat overcoming her.
As she was entering the gate, she met someone coming out, a young man, rather heavily built, with a keen, clever face, rather than a handsome one. "Ah, Miss Linda," he exclaimed, holding out his hand, "I've just been hearing about you."
"From Miss Ri, of course. Well, what has she been telling you?"
"It wouldn't do to say. How is the school going?"
"The school in general seems to be going very well; as to my part of it, the least said, the better."
"Really? What's the trouble?"
"I don't know exactly. I suppose that I am the trouble, perhaps; Miss Patterson seemed to get along well enough."
"Boys or girls do you have?"
"Boys; little wretches from eight to ten, such sinners, not a saint among them."
"Would you have even one saint? I wouldn't, for he couldn't be a truly normal, healthy boy. But I am keeping you standing and I know you are ready for your dinner. I'll walk back to the house with you, and you can tell me the particular kinds of sin that have annoyed you. I was a boy myself once, you know."
He walked by her side to the house. Miss Ri, seeing them coming, was at the door to meet them. "I thought I sent you home once, Berk Matthews," she said.
"So you did, but I took this way of going. Don't imagine for a moment that my return involves an invitation to dinner, Miss Ri."
"That is an excellent thing, for I don't intend to extend one."
"Could you believe that she would so fail in hospitality?" said the young man, turning to Linda. "I am mortified, Miss Ri, not because of the dinner, but that you should go back on the reputation of an Eastern Shore hostess. Isn't it a world-wide theory that we of the Eastern Shore never turn a guest from the door when there is the faintest possibilityof his accepting a bid to a meal? Alas, that you should be the first to establish a precedent that will change the world's opinion of us."
Miss Ri laughed. "You would think I was a client for the other side and that he was using his wiles to get me fined, at least. Come along in, if you must; I can guarantee you better fare than you will get at the Jackson House, I am bound to say."
"That sounds alluring, but my feelings are hurt because I had to hint for an invitation."
"Could anything so obvious be dignified by the name of a hint? Very well, go along and cut off your nose to spite your face, if you like; you will be the loser."
"Not very complimentary, is she?" said Mr. Matthews, laughing. "I believe I will come now, just to show you that I am not to be badgered."
"Then don't stand there keeping us from our dinner. It is all ready, and I don't want it spoiled." Thus adjured, the young man followed the others into the dining-room, where Phebe was just setting forth the meal.
"Well, and how did it go to-day, Verlinda?" asked Miss Ri, when they had seated themselves.
"Don't ask her anything till after dinner," put in Mr. Matthews. "Things will assume an entirely different aspect when she has had something to eat. Just now the shooting of the young idea is not apleasant process to contemplate, in the eyes of Miss Linda. We'll talk about something else. Where did you get these oysters, Miss Ri? I never tasted such a pie."
"Of course you didn't, for you never ate one made by such a cook. The oysters came from the usual place, but I'm in high feather, Berk, for I have the best cook in town. I have Linda's Phebe."
"You don't want another boarder?"
"Not I. Linda is adopted; she is not to be classed with common boarders, and I certainly don't want to spoil my ideal household by taking in a—"
"Mere man," interrupted Berkley. "Very well, I will find an excuse to come in every day about meal time. What are you going to have for supper?"
"Cold cornbread, dried apples and chipped beef," replied Miss Ri with gravity.
"That's mean. Well, I'll come around with the papers to-morrow."
"We're going to have the remains of the chipped beef and dried apples for dinner."
"Then I'll come about supper time; they can't last over three meals."
"You don't know the surviving qualities of those articles of diet; they may last a week with proper care."
"I'll come and find out. I can go in the back way and ask Phebe, or I might bribe her to throw the stuff over the fence to Miss Parthy's chickens."
"Don't you be up to any of your lawyer's tricks, Berk Matthews. I warn you, not a meal in my house shall you eat, if I hear of any shenannyging on your part."
"I'll be good then, but I'd like a piece of that pie, a nice big piece."
While all this nonsense was going on, Linda kept silence. She was really hungry and the light foolish talk was a relief, as the others intended it should be. In consequence, she went back to school in better spirits and the afternoon passed more satisfactorily.
True to his threat, Berkley Matthews did appear with some papers just before supper time, but refused to stay, telling Miss Ri with great glee that Miss Parthy had invited him to her house and that she was going to cook the supper herself, while he and her other guest, Wyatt Jeffreys, were going to help.
"Wyatt Jeffreys, Wyatt Jeffreys," repeated Linda. "That name sounds very familiar. I wonder where I have heard it. Where is he from, Miss Ri?"
"From Connecticut, I believe. Any more light on the case, Berk?"
"No. Nothing can be done till he shows up hispapers, and they seem to be lost irrevocably. It's pretty hard on the poor chap, if there is really anything in the claim. Good-by, Miss Linda. I must be going, Miss Ri; you can't wheedle me into staying this time."
"Wheedle you!" cried Miss Ri in pretended indignation. "I can scarcely get rid of such a persistent beggar. Go along and don't come back."
"I'll have to," cried he. "You must sign those papers at once, this very evening."
"I'll bring them to your office to-morrow morning," Miss Ri called after him, but he only waved his hand with a parting "Shan't be there," and Miss Ri turned to Linda, laughing. "We always have it back and forth this way. He attends to my business, you know, and runs in often. Now that his mother and sister have left town, he boards at the hotel, and likes the home feeling of coming here to a meal. Nice boy, Berk is."
Linda had known Berkley Matthews all her life. As a little stocky boy he had come to play with her in Miss Ri's garden on some of the occasions when she was brought from Talbot's Angles to spend the day. Later he had gone to boarding-school, then to college, and she had seen little of him during late years.
"He'll be back," said Miss Ri nodding, "just to get the better of me. But to tell you the truth, Verlinda, he certainly is a comfort, for he looks outfor my interest every time. I wouldn't have a house nor a field left by this time, if it had depended upon my kin folks. Don't be an old maid, Verlinda. When their very nearest and dearest are gone, old maids seem to be regarded, by the world in general, as things so detached as to have no rights whatever; their possessions appear to be regarded as so many threads hanging from them; whoever comes along in need of a needleful, makes a grab, possesses himself of such a length and makes off with it, never stopping to see that it leaves a gaping rent behind."
Linda laughed. Miss Ri's grievances were not many, but were generally those caused by her stepbrother's family, who lived not far away and made raids upon her whenever they came to town.
"Oh, well, you may laugh," Miss Ri went on, "but it is quite true. Why, only the last time Becky was here she carried off a little mirror that had belonged to my great-grandmother."
"Why did you let her have it? Your great-grandmother was no relation of hers."
"I know that; but she talked so much, I had to let her take it to get rid of the incessant buzzing. You know what a talker Becky is."
"But you like Mrs. Becky; I've often heard you say so."
"Oh, yes, I like her well enough. She is entertaining when she is talking about other people'saffairs and not mine," remarked Miss Ri with a droll smile. "That is the way it generally is, I suppose. Well, anyhow, Berk Matthews keeps my business together, and I'm sure I am satisfied to have him run in when he chooses, if only to keep me in a good humor."
"I thought you were always so, and that you never got mad with fools."
"I don't; but Becky is no fool, my dear."
They turned into the big drawing-room, a room charming enough in itself, without the addition of the fine old Chippendale chairs and tables, the carved davenport, the big inlaid piano, and the portraits representing beauties of a departed time. Linda knew them all. The beautiful girl in white, holding a rose, was Miss Ri's grandmother, for whom she was named and who was a famous belle in her day. The gentleman in red hunting-coat was a great-grandfather and his wife the lady with powdered hair and robed in blue satin. The man with the sword was another great-grandfather, and so on. One must go up a step to reach the embrasured windows which looked riverward, but at the others, which faced the lawn, hung heavy damask curtains. Linda had always liked the smaller windows, and when she was a little child had preferred to play on the platform before them to going anywhere else. There was such a sense of security in being thus raised above the floor. She liked, too, the littlewriting-room and the tiny boudoir which led from the larger room, though these were closed, except in summer, as so large a house was hard to heat comfortably.
A freshly-burning fire in the fireplace sent glancing lights over the tall candlesticks and sought out the brightest spots on the old picture-frames. It picked out the brass beading on the yellow-keyed piano, and flickered across Chinese curios on the spindle-legged tables. Miss Ri's grandfather had been an admiral in the navy and many were the treasures which were tucked away here, out of sight there, or more happily, brought forth to take the place of some more modern gift which had come to grief in the hands of careless servants.
"It is a dear old room," said Linda, sitting down at the piano and touching softly the yellowed keys, which gave forth a tinkling response.
"I ought to have a new piano," said Miss Ri, "and now you have come, it will be an excuse to get one. I'll see what I can do next time I go to town. I remember that you have a nice voice."
"Nothing to boast of."
"Not very powerful, perhaps, but sweet and true. I wish you'd sing for me, Verlinda, if you are not too tired."
"I will, if you will first play for me some of those things I used to love when I was a child. Youwould play till I grew drowsy, and then you would carry me off to bed."
"Oh, my dear, I don't play nowadays, and on that old tinkling piano."
"But it is just because it is the old piano that I want the old tunes."
"Then pick out what you like, and I will try."
Linda turned over a pile of music to find such obsolete titles as "Twilight Dews," "Departed Days," "Showers of Pearl," and the like. She selected one and set it on the rack. "Here is one I used to like the best," she said. "It suggested all sorts of things to my childish mind; deep woods, fairy calls, growling giants; I don't know what all."
"'Departed Days.' Very fitly named, isn't it? for it is at least fifteen years ago, and it was an old thing then. Well, I will try; but you mustn't criticise when I stumble." She sat down to the piano, a stout, fresh-colored, grey-haired woman with a large mouth, whose sweet expression betokened the kindly nature better than did the humorous twinkling eyes. She played with little style, but sympathetically, though the thin tinkling notes might have jarred upon the ears of one who had no tender associations with the commonplace melody. To Linda it was a voice from out of her long-ago, and she listened with a wistful smile till suddenlythe door opened and the music ended with a false chord. Miss Ri shut the piano with a bang, and turned to greet the young man who entered.
"Have I interrupted a musicale?" asked Berkley jauntily.
"You are just in time to hear Verlinda sing," responded Miss Ri with ready tact and in order to cover her own confusion.
"Ah, that's good," cried he, though "Oh, Miss Ri," came in protest from Linda.
"Didn't you promise to sing for me, if I played for you?" queried Miss Ri.
"Yes,—but—only for you."
"Now, Miss Linda," Berkley expostulated, "haven't I known you as long as Miss Ri has?"
"Not quite," Linda answered.
"But does the matter of a few months or even years, when you were yet in a state of infantile bewilderment, make any difference?"
"It makes all the difference," Linda was positive.
"Oh, come, come," spoke up Miss Ri, "that is all nonsense. You don't make any bones of singing in the church choir, Verlinda."
"Oh, but then I have the support of other voices."
"Well, you can have the support of Berk's voice; I am sure it is big enough."
"Oh, but I don't sing anything but college songs," the young man declared.
"Such a very modest pair," laughed Miss Ri.
"Well, who was blushing like a sixteen-older when I came in? Tell me that," said Berkley triumphantly. And Miss Ri was perforce to acknowledge that she was as bad as the rest, but the controversy was finally ended by Linda's consenting to sing one song if Berkley would do the same. She chose a quaint old English ballad as being in keeping with the clinking piano, and then Berkley sang a rollicking college song to a monotonous accompaniment which, however, was nearly drowned by his big baritone.
By the time this was ended the ice was broken and they warmed up to the occasion. They dragged forth some of Miss Ri's old music-books to find such sentimental songs of a former day as pleased their fancy. Over some of these they made merry; over others they paused. "My mother used to sing that," Berkley would say. "So did my mother," Linda would answer, and then would follow: "She Wore a Wreath of Roses," "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton," "Cast That Shadow from Thy Brow," or some other forgotten ballad.
"Oh, here is 'The Knight of the Raven Black Plume,'" cried Linda, as she turned the discoloredpages of one of the old books. "How I used to love that; it is so romantic. Listen," and she began, "A lady looked forth from her lattice."
So they went from one thing to another till Berkley, looking at his watch exclaimed, "I'm keeping you all up, and Miss Ri, we haven't seen to those papers. That music is a treasure-trove, Miss Linda. We must get at the other books sometime, but we'll take some Friday night when you can sleep late the next morning."
Linda's face shadowed. "Why remind me of such things? I had nearly forgotten that there were matters like school-rooms and abandoned little wretches of boys."
"Don't be so hard on the little chaps. I was one once, as I reminded you, and I have some sympathy with them caged up in a school-room. Just get the point of contact and you will be all right."
"Ah, but there's the rub," returned Linda ruefully. "I am not used to boys, and any sort of contact, pointed or otherwise, doesn't appeal to me."
"You must just bully them into good behavior," put in Miss Ri. "Here, Berk, you be the little boy and I'll be the school-marm. Verlinda needs an object lesson." Then followed a scene so funny that Linda laughed till she cried.
"Where are those papers?" inquired Miss Ri suddenly putting an end to the nonsense. "Bring them into the sitting-room, Berk, and we will getthem done with. I'm going up to town to-morrow, and we may as well finish up this business before I go."
"One of your mysterious errands, Miss Ri?" said Berkley smiling.
"Never mind what it is; that is none of your concern. You don't suppose because you collect my rents, and look after my leases that you must know every time I buy a paper of hairpins."
"You don't have to go up to the city for those, you see. It is my private opinion, Miss Linda, that she makes a semi-annual visit to a fortune-teller or some one of that ilk. I notice she is more than ordinarily keen when she gets back after one of these trips."
"Come along, come along," interrupted Miss Ri. "You'll stand here talking all night. I declare you are as bad as Becky Hill."
"Oh, yes, I'm coming, Miss Ri. Do you know Mrs. Hill, Miss Linda? and did you ever hear what her sister, Mrs. Phil Reed says of her?"
"I know Mrs. Hill, yes, indeed, but I never heard the speech. What was it?"
"You know what a talker Mrs. Becky is. Mrs. Reed refers to it in this way. 'Becky, dear child, is so sympathetic, so interested in others that she exhausts herself by giving out so much to her friends.'"
"I should say it was the friends who were exhausted,"returned Linda. But here Miss Ri suddenly turned out the lights leaving them to grope their way to the sitting-room where the papers were signed and then Berkley was, as Miss Ri termed it, driven out.
The steamboat which left at six o'clock every evening bore Miss Ri away on its next trip. It was an all night journey down the river and up the bay, and therefore, Miss Ri would not return till the morning of the second day when the boat arrived on its voyage from the city.
"If you are afraid to sleep in the house with no one but Phebe, get some one to come and stay with you," charged Miss Ri. "Bertie Bryan will come, I am sure."
"I shall not be in the least afraid," declared Linda. "Phebe and I have often stayed in the house alone at Talbot's Angles."
"Nevertheless, I would rather you did have someone. I'll send Phebe over to the Bryans with a note." This she did in spite of Linda's protest that it was not necessary, and after Linda had returned from seeing Miss Ri on her way, Bertie arrived. She was a nice wholesome girl who had been a schoolmate of Linda's and had spent many a day with her at Talbot's Angles. She was not exactly a beauty, but a lovely complexion and sweet innocent eyes helped out the charm of frank good nature and unaffected geniality.
"It certainly is good to see you in town, Linda," she said as she greeted her friend. "Why didn't you send me word you were here? I would have been over long ago."
"I wanted to gather my wits together first. I am experimenting, you see, and I didn't know how my experiment might turn out. I was afraid I might have to slink off again ignominiously after the first week."
"But, as this is the second week and you are not slinking, I surmise it is all right."
"Not exactly all right, but I manage to keep from having hysterics, and am getting my youngsters in hand better."
"I heard Miss Adams say this morning that you were getting on very well for one who had never had any experience."
"That is the most encouraging thing I have heard yet. I have been wondering what my principal really did think, and to have that much praise is worth a great deal," said Linda gratefully. "Now don't let us talk shop. Tell me what is going on in town."
"Don't you hear every bit of town news from Miss Ri? What she can't tell you Miss Parthy can."
"I haven't seen much of Miss Parthy. The hobnobbing between those two generally goes on whileI am at school. Have you met the mysterious stranger, Bertie?"
"Yes, indeed, and he is quite an acquisition, or would be if he could find his trunk. Have you met him?"
Linda smiled. "No, Miss Ri is afraid I shall fall in love with him, I think, and has stipulated that he is only to call at such hours as I am at school."
"What nonsense. Is she making a recluse of you?"
"Oh, no. Berk Matthews is allowed, or rather he comes without being allowed, being a favorite and liable to take his own way. Tell me more of the man without a trunk."
"Sounds rather ghastly, doesn't it? Well, he is like almost any other nice young man, has good manners, speaks correctly, makes himself agreeable when the opportunity is afforded. It is rumored that his affairs are in better shape, and that money orders and checks and things have come in, so he is no longer a mere travelling photographer."
"I wonder he stays here now that he has the means to get away."
"Oh, but he came prepared to stay. At least his object was to look up this property. He has been up to the city once or twice and is still hopingto recover the trunk which he thinks must be in Baltimore still. In the meantime he is very reticent about his case, won't talk of it to anyone, so nobody seems to know exactly what he does claim."
"The name is very familiar," remarked Linda thoughtfully. "I can't think where I have heard it."
"There is some sort of romantic tale about him, Miss Parthy says. She seems to know more than anyone."
"He can't be a duke or a prince in disguise," said Linda.
"He might be, for he was educated abroad, I have heard."
"Wyatt Jeffreys—Jeffreys—I can't get the name located. I suppose it will come to me sometime."
The girls had a quiet chatty evening alone, and started upstairs betimes. To Bertie was given a room opening out of Linda's, and with many a good-night they at last settled down to sleep.
From her first nap Linda, after a while, was awakened by the low murmur of voices beneath her window. She listened with beating heart. No, there was no mistake. Should she arouse Bertie? She listened for a few moments and then heard a sound as of someone trying a shutter. Next a door-knob rattled slightly. Though frightened enough Linda was no coward, and as she sat upin bed listening, her brain worked rapidly. It would be better to arouse Bertie than to go prowling around alone, and have her friend doubly alarmed. Together they would go down stairs and perhaps could scare off the would-be burglars. Slipping on some clothing she cautiously went to Bertie's door, candle in hand. Flashing the light before her friend's closed eyes she succeeded in awaking without alarming her.
"What's the matter, Linda?" asked Bertie sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Are you ill? It isn't morning, is it?"
"No, I'm not ill. Don't be scared, Bertie, but get up and put on some clothes quickly. I am sure I heard someone trying to get into the house."
"But what can we do?" asked Bertie in a shaking voice. "We mustn't go down, Linda; we mustn't. Let's lock the doors and let them take what they want."
"I don't believe they have really broken in yet, and I am going to try to scare them away. I wish I had a pistol; I left mine in the country, not supposing I should need it here."
"I'm sure we left everything safely locked and barred; you know we tried every door and window."
"Yes, I know. It wouldn't be any sneak thief, of course. I have a plan. Come into my room and let's peep out the window." They extinguishedthe candle and crept to Linda's window, already raised. There was no one in sight.
"Now we'll go to Miss Ri's room," whispered Linda. Tiptoeing across the hall they went into this room at the front of the house and gently raised a window here.
"I believe I hear someone on the porch," whispered Linda, drawing in her head. "Someone is at the front door. Come on down. They are not inside yet; that is a comfort."
"Oh, but do you think we ought to go?" asked Bertie in trepidation. "Suppose they should get in and shoot us."
"No, they are still outside, I am sure."
The rooms below were dark and silent, windows and shutters tightly closed. The girls listened at the front door. Yes, surely there was a very low murmur of voices. Linda crept into the dining-room, Bertie holding tightly to her sleeve.
"What are you going to do?" asked Bertie fearfully.
"I'll show you. Don't be scared, and don't hold on to me."
"But what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to blow up some paper bags. You take this one and blow into it while I open the window. As soon as it is up burst your bag, and I'll get mine ready. Say when you are ready."
"DON'T SHOOT!"
"DON'T SHOOT!"
"Ready!" whispered Bertie and up went the window,back shot the bolt and upon the silence of the night sounded a loud report quickly followed by a second.
"Hallo!" cried a surprised voice. "Here, Miss Linda, don't shoot."
The girls who had drawn back from the window clutched one another, but felt an immense relief.
There were footsteps on the porch and presently two figures appeared before the open window. "Hallo, in there," called someone. "It's only I, Berk Matthews, Miss Linda."
The two girls approached the window. "What in the world are you doing prowling around here at this time of night, trying our bolts and bars?" asked Linda, indignantly. "You scared us nearly to death."
"And don't you reckon you gave us a good scare. It is lucky you don't see one of us weltering in gore, Linda Talbot. Just like a girl to be reckless with fire-arms."
Bertie stifled a giggle and pinched Linda's arm.
"It would serve you right to welter," Linda replied severely. "What right had you to try to frighten us, I demand?"
"We didn't intend to, but I promised Miss Ri faithfully that I would make a point of coming around here after you had gone to bed to see if by any chance some door or window had been left insecure."
"Well, you might have told us what you were going to do," returned Linda somewhat mollified.
"I couldn't," returned Berkley meekly, "for I haven't seen you since, and—Do you happen to know Mr. Jeffreys? Here, Jeffreys, I want to present you to Miss Talbot and—who is with you, Linda?"
"Bertie Bryan."
"And Miss Bryan. It is rather dark to tell which from t'other, but I would like especially to warn you against Miss Talbot. She carries a pistol and in her hot rage against us may still yearn for prey."
"It was Bertie who fired the first shot," declared Linda with a gravity which brought a giggle from Bertie. "Don't tell what it was," whispered Linda to her.
"Oh," said Mr. Jeffreys, "I have met Miss Bryan, so it will not be difficult to identify her when she is brought up with intent to kill."
"Well, whatever happens to-morrow, we mustn't keep these ladies from their slumbers now," said Berkley. "I'm awfully sorry, girls, really I am, that we frightened you. We tried not to make any noise. Let's be friends. We will forgive you for the shooting if you will forgive us for the scare."
"But," said Linda, "the laugh is entirely on our side, for—it wasn't a pistol. Please shut in the shutters, Berk, and I'll fasten them inside."
"It wasn't a pistol? Then what in the world was it?" Berkley paused in the act of closing the shutters.
"Paper bags!" returned Linda pulling the shutters together with a bang and closing the window, while upon the quiet of the night rang out a hearty peal of laughter from the two outside.
"It's lucky I didn't use a bottle of ammonia to throw in their faces," remarked Linda as the girls climbed the stairs. "That was my first thought, but the bags were handy in my washstand drawer."
"It was an awfully good joke," replied Bertie, "and I wouldn't have missed it, scared as I was at first. I was dreadfully afraid of burglars getting in and chloroforming us."
"Did you ever hear of the girl who slept with her head at the foot of her bed and who was roused by feeling something cold on her toes? A burglar was chloroforming them, and she let him do it, then when he was out of the room she jumped up, locked her door and gave the alarm."
Bertie laughed. "There is no fear of burglars now, I think, when we have two self-appointed watchmen."
"It does give us a safer feeling," acknowledged Linda.
"So we can rest in peace," returned Bertie going to her room.
There was no disturbing of slumbers the nextnight, for the young men made noise enough to arouse the girls, who, in fact, had not gone to bed when stentorian voices called to them, "Here we are. Get out your ammunition. We're ready to stand fire."
The girls looked down from above. "Anyone who is scared at a bag of wind would be sure to run from a flash in the pan," called Bertie. "We won't test your courage to-night, Berk."
"Did you find everything all right?" asked Linda.
"All's well," answered Berkley.
"Thank you, watchmen," returned Linda, and then the window was closed and the young men tramped off softly singing: "Good-night, ladies."
Miss Ri returned in due time. The girls were at breakfast when she came in bearing a small package which she laid on the table, a merry twinkle in her eye. "Well, girls," she exclaimed, "so nobody has carried you off, I see."
The girls laughed. "No one has, although—" began Linda.
"Don't tell me anything has happened," exclaimed Miss Ri. "Now isn't that just the way? I might stay at home a thousand years and nothing would happen. Tell me about it. I'm glad it's Saturday, Verlinda, so you don't have to hurry. Just touch the bell for Phebe to bring in some hot coffee. I don't take meals on the boat when I know what I can get at home. Those rolls look delicious."
"Did you have a good trip, Miss Ri?" asked Bertie.
"Never had such a stupid one. I didn't get a good state-room going up, and what with the men talking in the cabin outside my door all night, andthe calves bleating in their stalls below, I did not get a wink of sleep, and there never was such a stupid sale."
"Sale? Oh, you went to a sale? Of what?" Bertie was interested.
"Oh, just things—all kinds of things," returned Miss Ri vaguely. Then, turning her attention to her breakfast she said, "Go on now, and tell me all that has been going on."
The girls delivered themselves of the news of their adventure with supposed burglars to the great entertainment of Miss Ri, and then a message coming to Bertie from her mother, she departed while Miss Ri finished her breakfast.
"I've almost as good a tale to tell myself," remarked that lady as she folded her napkin. "I think I shall have to tell you, Linda, but you must promise not to repeat it. I couldn't have told it to Bertie for she would never rest till she had passed it on. However, I can trust you, and you mustn't hint of it to Bertie of all people."
Linda gave the required promise, Miss Ri picked up her wraps and the small bundle, and proposed they should go into the sitting-room where the sun was shining brightly. They settled themselves comfortably and Miss Ri proceeded to unfold her secret. "Berk was entirely too keen when he said I had a special purpose in going to town periodically," she began. "I have a harmless little fad,Verlinda; it is nothing more nor less than the buying of "old horse" if you know what that is."
"I'm sure I don't," Linda confessed.
"It's the stuff that collects at the express office; it may have been sent to a wrong address, or in some way has failed of being delivered. When it has accumulated for so many months they sell it at auction to the highest bidder. I have had some rare fun over it for it is much on the principle of a grab-bag at a fair. Of course I never venture a large sum and I generally go early enough to look around and make up my mind just what I will bid on. Once I had a whole barrel of glass ware knocked down to me; another time I was fortunate enough to get a whole case of canned goods of all sorts. This time—" she shook her head as denying her good luck. "I saw this neat little package which looked as if it might contain something very nice; it had such a compact orderly appearance, so I bid on it, only up to fifty cents, Verlinda, and when I came out of the place to take the car I couldn't forbear from tearing the paper in order to peep in. I saw a nice wooden box, and I said to myself, 'Here is something worth while.' I had some errands to do before boat time so didn't examine further until I was in my state-room, then I opened the box and what do you think I found?"
"I can't imagine." Linda's curiosity wasaroused. She looked interestedly at the small parcel.
"I found a bottle," Miss Ri chuckled, "a bottle of what is evidently nice, home-made cough syrup, sent by some well-meaning mother to her son who had left the address to which it was sent. As I haven't an idea of the ingredients I don't dare pass it along to anyone else. I was tempted to chuck it in the river, but I thought I would bring it home to you." She made great form of presenting it to Linda who took it laughing.
"I'll give it to Phebe," declared the girl. "She'd love to take it when she has a 'mis'ry in her chist.'"
"Don't you do it," cried Miss Ri in alarm. "It might make her really ill, and then who would cook for us? Give it right back to me." She possessed herself of the bottle, trotted back to the dining-room where she emptied the contents into the slop-bowl, returning to the sitting-room with the empty bottle in her hand. "You can have the bottle," she said, "and the nice wooden box. I don't want to keep any reminder of my folly."
"And you have sworn off?"
Miss Ri laughed. "Not exactly. At least I've sworn off before, but I am always seized with the craze as soon as I see the advertisement in the paper. Once I was cheated out of a dollar by getting a box of decayed fruit, and another time I got a parcel of old clothes that I gave to Randy aftermaking her boil them to get rid of any lingering microbes. This is the third time I have been bamboozled, but very likely next time I will draw a prize. Goodness, Verlinda, if here doesn't come Grace and her sister. Do you suppose they are off for the city to-night?"
"I think it is very probable," returned Linda as she followed Miss Ri to the door.
Even though she did not admire Grace Talbot, Miss Ri could not be anything but graciously hospitable, and was ready to greet the visitors heartily as they came up on the porch. "Well, Mrs. Talbot," she exclaimed, "come right in. This is your sister, isn't it? How are you, Miss Johnson. It is lucky you chose Saturday when Linda is at home. You'll stay to dinner, of course. Here, let me take those bags. Are you on your way to the city?"
"Yes," returned Grace, "we're leaving for the winter. Howdy, Linda." She viewed her sister-in-law critically, finding her paler and thinner, but keeping the discovery to herself. Lauretta, however, spoke her thought. "I don't believe town agrees with you as well as country, Linda. You look a little peaked."
"That comes from being shut up in a school-room," Miss Ri hastened to say; "it is trying work."
"She will get used to it in time," Grace replied."Why, there is Miss Sally Price about as sturdy and rosy as anyone I know, and she's been teaching twenty-five years. What lovely old tables you have, Miss Ri. They remind me of grandmother's, don't they you, Lauretta? Dear grandmother, she was such a very particular old dame and would have her mahogany and silver always shining. I remember how she would say to her butler, 'James, that service is not as bright as it should be.'" Grace's imitation of her various forbears always conveyed the idea that they were most haughty and severe personages who never spoke except with military peremptoriness. She was constantly referring to grandmother Johnson, or great-uncle Blair or someone utterly irrelevant to the topic of the moment, and as entirely uninteresting to her audience.
"Did you leave everything all right at the farm?" asked Linda, hastening to change the subject. She knew that great-uncle Blair would be paraded next, if the slightest opportunity was allowed.
"Everything is as it should be," returned Grace high-and-mightily. "You didn't suppose for an instant, Linda, that I would leave anything at loose ends. Of course, it has been most arduous work for Lauretta and I, but we have the satisfaction of knowing that we have not neglected anything. I am completely fagged out, and feel that a rest is essential."
Miss Ri's eye travelled from Grace's plump proportions to Linda's slight figure. "Well," she said bluntly, "work evidently agrees with you, for I never saw you looking better."
Grace bit her lip and searched her mind for a fitting retort but could only say piously, "One must bear up for the sake of others. The world cannot see behind the scenes, my dear Miss Hill, and that a smile may hide a breaking heart."
"Come up and see my room," proposed Linda, anxious to prevent what promised to be a passage at arms between Miss Ri and Grace. "Come, Lauretta, I want you to see the view from my windows." And so she managed to get them away before there were any hurt feelings.
After this matters passed off well enough, although great-uncle Blair was dragged in more than once at the dinner table, and grandmother Johnson's haughty attitude toward underlings was again reproduced for the benefit of all. Miss Ri chafed under the affectations, but was too polite to show it, though when the door at last closed upon her guests she turned to Linda.
"I'm glad enough they are not your blood kin, Verlinda Talbot. I hope Heaven will give me patience always to behave with politeness when Grace Talbot is around. A daily dose of her would be too much for my Christian forbearance. I wonder you stood her so long, and what Martin wasthinking of to be blinded by a superficial, shallow, underbred creature like that is beyond me."
"Grace has her good points," said Linda with an effort to be loyal. "I think she was genuinely fond of Martin."
"You mean she was fond of his fondness for her. There is a lot of difference, my dear. The idea of her trying to parade her ancestors before me. Why, old John Blair was the plainest of the plain, a decent, humble sort of man who accumulated a tidy little sum which his sister Eliza Johnson inherited; the Johnsons hadn't a picayune; I know all about them. I have heard my grandfather speak of John Blair and his sister a dozen times. They lived down in East Baltimore and he had a little carpenter shop. Grandfather used to tell a funny story of how Blair brought him in a bill in which he had spelled tacks, t-a-x. 'That isn't the way to spell tacks, John,' said grandfather. John scratched his head and looked at the bill. 'Well, Mr. Hill,' he said; 'if t-a-x don't spell tacks, what do it spell?' He was a good honest man enough, and afterward became a builder, but he never put on any airs, as why should he? You may talk a great deal about your grandfather, and make much display of your family silver, my dear, but if you don't speak correct English the ancestors don't count for much. Evidently Grace thinkssolid silver is vastly more important than correct speech."
"You certainly are put out of humor this time, Miss Ri."
"Oh, such people exasperate me beyond words. 'Major Forbes sent tickets to Lauretta and I.' To I, forsooth. 'Mrs. General So-and-So invited Grace and I to tea.' Invited I, did she?"
"It seems there is a necessity for a schoolmarm in the family," remarked Linda.
"Yes, but the unfortunate part of it is that they haven't a ghost of an idea that they do need one. Well, let them go up to the city, to their Major Forbes and their Mrs. Generals, I say, and I hope to goodness Grace will marry her major and good luck to him."
"Oh, Miss Ri."
"I can't help it. Let me rave for awhile. I shall feel better afterward. Did you ever know such a talker as she is? She is as bad as Becky, and did you hear Lauretta? 'Poor dear Grace does so draw upon her vitality.' Oh, dear me, what fools we mortals be."
"And you are the one who never gets mad with fools."
"I don't, as a rule, but when a person is as many kinds of a fool as Grace is I can't grapple with all the varieties at one sitting. There now, I havefinished my tirade. I won't abuse your in-laws any more. Let us hope they have passed out of our lives. Now let us talk about something pleasant. How do you like Mr. Jeffreys?"
"Is he something pleasant? I really haven't had a chance to decide. We met in the dark and we didn't exchange a dozen words. Bertie likes him."
Miss Ri sat looking out of the window, drumming on the arms of her chair with her strong capable fingers. "I wish I knew," she murmured; "I wish I knew. Has Berk been here?" she asked presently.
"If you call his nocturnal prowlings visits, he has."
"Oh, I don't mean those, but, of course, he wouldn't come. I must see him. I think I'd better call him up, although he is pretty sure to look in upon us this evening."
After the strain consequent upon Grace's visit, Linda felt that even Miss Ri's cheerful chatter was more than she could stand, so she sought an opportune moment to escape to the lawn and from there to wander down the box-bordered walks to the foot of the garden. The chickens in Miss Parthy's premises on the other side of the fence, were discoursing in their accustomed manner before going to roost, making contented little sounds as someone threw them handfuls of grain. Once in a while would come a discordant "Caw! Caw!"as an over-greedy rooster would set upon one less aggressive. It all sounded very homelike and Linda wondered how matters were going with the familiar flocks she had left at home. Grace's coming, her talk of affairs at the farm had made a great wave of homesickness come over the girl as she approached the fence to look at Miss Parthy's chickens. These, she discovered, were being fed with careful hand by some other than Miss Parthy. A young man with crisp auburn hair, which was cropped close. He had a good figure, and rather a serious expression. His eyes, much the color of his hair, were turned quickly upon Linda as her face appeared above the fence. "Good-evening, Miss Talbot," he said.
"Good-evening, Mr. Jeffreys," she returned. "How is it you are taking Miss Parthy's tasks upon yourself?"
"Oh, I begged leave to do it. I like it. Don't you think chickens are very amusing? They are as different in character as people, and give me as much amusement as a crowd of human beings. Look at that ridiculous little hen; she reminds me of a girl scared by a mouse the way she jumps every time I throw down a handful of food."
"Don't you think," said Linda mockingly, "that it is more reasonable to be afraid of creepy things like mice than to be frightened out of your wits by a paper bag?"
"You have me there," returned the young man. "That was certainly one on us. I hope you have not been disturbed since."
"Oh, no, and now my natural protector has returned, I shall feel perfectly safe. You know Miss Ri, I believe."
"Oh, yes. She is a most interesting character. She doesn't run from mice, I fancy."
"No, and neither do I."
"Really? Then you are a rarity whom I am fortunate in meeting. I understand, Miss Talbot, that your home is some distance from this town."
"My home was some distance, about seven miles away."
"On Broad Creek? Do the Talbots come from that neighborhood?"
"Yes, they are old settlers. We hold the original land grant from Lord Baltimore."
"That is interesting. Did you ever happen to know of a Madison Talbot who lived—let me see—about 1812 or thereabouts?"
"Why, yes. That was the name of my great-grandfather."
"It was?"
"Why do you ask?" inquired Linda curiously.
"Oh, because I have heard the name. My grandfather has mentioned him. I believe he knew him, and coming down to this unexplored region,I am naturally reminded of anyone who might have been connected with what I have heard of it."
"Unexplored? Do you mean by yourself?"
"Well, yes, and by some others. I doubt if the majority of those one meets could locate this special town, for instance."
"Anyone who knows anything must have heard of it," said Linda with innocent conviction.
"Oh, I am not disparaging it. In some respects it is the nicest place I ever saw. Tell me something about your home there on Broad Creek."
Linda's eyes grew wistful. "It is the dearest spot on earth. The house is old and low and queer, with rambling rooms that go up a step here, down one there. The water is always in sight, and through the trees you can see the old church; it is on our ground, you know, and there is an old windmill on the place. I should hate to have that old windmill taken away. I used to watch its long arms go around and around when I was a child, and I made up all sorts of tales about it."
"How many acres are there?" Mr. Jeffreys asked the practical question suddenly.
"About two or three hundred. There was another farm. It all belonged to the same estate originally, or at least there were two farms, and ours is the older. My brother brought it up wonderfully, and it is in very good condition now. My father was in ill health for years and when he diedhis affairs were in a sad state; the farm was not making anything till my brother took hold of it."
"And it is yours?"
Linda wondered at the question. She colored with both indignation and confusion. "It is my home," she replied with dignity, "and it is the dearest spot on earth to me." Having made this answer she turned from the fence and resumed her walk while Mr. Jeffreys gave one wide flourish with his pan of screenings and then walked thoughtfully back to the house where Miss Parthy waited supper.