The legacy amounted to ten thousand dollars; and coming as it did from
a little known, scarcely remembered relative it seemed even more unreal
than the man who had bequeathed it. Not until lawyers' visits and
numerous official-looking papers had convinced the Daltons beyond the
smallest doubt did the family believe their good fortune genuine; then,
with the conviction, came all the overwhelming ambitions and
unsatisfied longings of past years.
"There, now we can leave the farm," exulted Mrs. Dalton.
"Why, Sarah, do--do you think that is quite--wise?" asked her husband.
"Wise? Of course it is!" she returned decidedly. "Why, Caleb, don't
you know?--we've always wanted to go to the city; and Cousin John said
he 'd give you a place in his store any time, so you'll earn something
to start with right away. We never dared to before, you know, for you
wa'n't sure how you'd do; but now we 've got all this money we shan't
have to worry a mite. Oh, isn't it just splendid, Caleb?"
"Yes; but--" he hesitated.
"Why, Caleb, I don't believe you appreciate it a bit!"
"Oh, I do, indeed I do, Sarah, but--" again he hesitated.
"But there is n't any 'but,' Caleb," laughed Sarah, and turned to a boy
of twelve and a girl of fourteen who entered the room at that moment.
"We've got it all settled, children. We 're going to Boston, sure,
this fall."
"Oh, mother!"--Ethel's hands came together in ecstasy, while Fred
whooped in glee.
"There's the lovely big stores and the people," cried Ethel.
"And the cars and Bunker Hill Monument," supplemented Fred.
"And we won't ever have to come back to this snippy little town,"
continued Ethel.
"My, won't Bill Higgins just stare!" interposed Fred. "Oh, I say, sis,
we might come back just once, you know, just to tell them about things."
"Yes, that's so," agreed Ethel readily; "and--say, let's tell them now
that we're going. Come on!" she finished over her shoulder as she flew
through the door.
"There, Caleb, I told you how it would be," smiled Mrs. Dalton as the
door banged behind Fred; then, anxiously: "You would n't want to spoil
it all, now, would you?"
"N-no; but--no, no, of course not," murmured Caleb, rising to his feet
and crossing to the outside door with heavy, slow-moving steps.
This was in August. By the middle of September such household goods as
the Daltons had planned to take with them were packed, burlapped,
crated, and labeled. It had been Mrs. Dalton's idea to sell the rest
of the furniture and the farm at auction, but just here she encountered
an unexpected but stubborn resistance from her husband. Consequently,
the remainder of the goods were stored in the attic, and the farm was
rented until the first of May--the house being close to the village, it
made a not undesirable winter residence. A longer lease than this
Caleb would not grant, in spite of his wife's remonstrances.
"Just as if we would want to come back by May, Caleb!" she scoffed.
"Why, by that time we shall be real city folks, and you 'll be a
partner in the business, maybe."
"Hm-m,--maybe," echoed Caleb imperturbably; "but--we'll see when May
comes."
"Cousin John" in Boston had received the news of their intended coming
with cordial interest, and had already procured for them a six-room
apartment in Roxbury; and it was in his thriving market and grocery
store on Warren Avenue that Caleb was to have a position as clerk. The
wages, at first, were not large--Cousin John explained when he
good-naturedly ran up to the farm to make arrangements--but the figures
looked fabulous to Sarah until John told her that they must pay
twenty-five dollars every month for their flat.
"Twenty-five dollars, and not even a spare room!" she gasped. "Why,
John, it's too nice--it must be. We did n't want such a fancy one."
"Oh, 't is n't fancy," laughed the man, "not a bit! It's clean and
neat and on a respectable street. Land costs something down there, you
know. You have to pay something for rent. Why, I pay fifty, myself."
"Oh, oh!" moaned Sarah. Then she threw back her head with an assumed
courage. "Never mind, I 'll just have to change my plans a bit. I did
n't intend to keep anything, but I can have just a few hens and a cow
as well as not, and that will help some. Like enough I can sell a
little butter and what eggs I don't use, too, and--" a long, hearty
laugh interrupted her.
"Oh, Cousin Sarah, Cousin Sarah!" choked John, as soon as he could find
his voice.
"Well," said Mrs. Dalton, with some dignity, "I'm waiting."
Cousin John pulled his face into shape and steadied his voice.
"Sarah, your flat is up three flights, and has n't even a back piazza.
Where are you going to keep hens and cows?"
Mrs. Dalton's jaw fell.
"Three flights!" she gasped.
He nodded.
"And is n't there a yard, or--or anything?"
"Not that belongs to you--except the fire escape and a place on the
roof to dry your clothes." His lips were twitching, as Mrs. Dalton was
not slow to see.
"Never mind," she retorted airily. "I did n't want them, anyhow, and,
after all, we've got the money, so why can't we take a little good in
spending it!"
Some weeks later when Mrs. Dalton saw her new home, she did n't know
whether to laugh or to cry. The three long flights of stairs and dim,
narrow halls filled her with dismay, but the entrance with its shining
letter-boxes and leaded-glass door-panels overwhelmed her with its
magnificence. The big brick block in which she was to live looked like
a palace to her eyes; but the six rooms in which she was to stow
herself and family amazed and disheartened her with their
diminutiveness.
"Why, Caleb, I--I can't breathe--they 're so small!" she gasped. Then
she broke off suddenly, as she glanced through the window: "Oh, my,
my--who 'd ever have thought there were so many roofs and chimneys in
the world!"
Getting settled was a wonderful experience. The Daltons had never
moved before, and it took many days to bring even a semblance of order
out of the chaos into which the six small rooms were thrown by the
unpacking of the boxes and barrels. The delay worried Sarah more than
did the work itself.
"Oh, dear, Ethel," she moaned each afternoon, "we're so slow in getting
settled, and I just know some one will call before we 're even half
fixed!"
At last the tiny "parlor" with its mirror-adorned mantel and showy gas
fixtures--the pride of Sarah's heart--was in order; and, after that,
Sarah made sure each day that three o'clock found her dressed in her
best and sitting in solemn state in that same parlor waiting for the
calls that were surely now long overdue.
Days passed, and her patience was unrewarded save for a sharp ring from
a sewing-machine agent, and another from a book canvasser.
Sarah could not understand it. Surely, her neighbors in the block must
know of her arrival even if those in her immediate vicinity on the
street did not. Occasionally she met women in the halls, or going in
and out of the big main door. At first she looked at them with a
half-formed smile on her face, waiting for the confidently expected
greeting; later, she eyed them with a distinctly grieved
expression--the greeting had never been given; but at last, her hunger
to talk with some one not of her own family led her to take the
initiative herself. Meeting a tall, slender woman, whom she had
already seen three times, she spoke.
"How--how d'ye do?" she began timidly.
The tall woman started, threw a hurried glance around her, then came to
the conclusion that the salutation was meant for herself.
"Good-morning," she returned, then hurried along through the hall.
Sarah stood looking after her with dazed eyes.
"Why, how funny!" she murmured. "She did n't even stop a minute.
Maybe she's sort of bashful, now. I should n't wonder a mite if she
was."
Three days later the two ladies again met at the outer door.
"Oh, how d'ye do? Nice day, ain't it?" began Sarah, hurriedly.
"You--you live here, don't you?"
"Why--yes," said the woman, smiling a little.
"I do, too--on the top floor. You 're not so high up, are you?"
The woman shook her head.
"Not quite," she said.
"I--I 'm all settled, now," announced Sarah, stumbling over the words a
little.
"Is that so?" returned the woman politely, but without enthusiasm.
Sarah nodded.
"Yes, all ready for callers. I--I hope you'll come soon," she finished
with sudden courage.
"Thank you; you are very kind," murmured the woman, as she smiled and
turned away.
The tall woman did not call, and Sarah never asked her again. A few
words from Cousin John's wife at about this time opened Sarah's eyes,
and taught her not to expect to become acquainted with her neighbors.
At first Sarah was more than dismayed; but she quickly brought to bear
the courage with which she fought all the strange things in this new
life.
"Of course they can't call on every one, Cousin Mary," she said airily
to John's wife; "and like enough they 're not the kind of folks I would
care to know, anyhow."
Sarah was not the only member of the family who had found trials by the
way. Ethel and Fred had entered school, and at first they came home
each afternoon with woeful faces. New methods of study, recitation,
discipline, and even of recreation puzzled and frightened them. They
regularly begged each morning not to go back; but as regularly their
mother's diplomatic bantering and systematic appeals to their pride
conquered, and they started off at half-past eight, heads high, and
chins bravely up-raised.
To Caleb, the city was a thing of noise, hurry, and more people than he
had thought existed. Early and late he worked in the store. To the
"early" part he did not object--it even seemed late to his farm-bred
ideas of early rising; but to the evenings--Caleb never understood the
rush and confusion that entered the big market and grocery with the
lighting of the flaring gas jets. To him it was a time for quiet
meditation and sleep--not for haggling over the price of sugar and
beans.
"I don't like it," he would say sometimes to his wife; "I don't like
it, Sarah. This doling out a peck of potatoes and two quarts of
apples--why, Sarah, just think of the bushels and barrels I 've grown
myself! It's so small, Sarah, so small!"
"Of course it is now," comforted Sarah, "but only think what 't will be
later on--only think."
December, January, February, and March passed; and the first of April
brought a letter from the lessee of the farm asking if he was to have
the place through the summer.
"Of course he can have it," declared Sarah. "Just as if we wanted it
again!"
"Yes, yes, of course," murmured Caleb. "I--I'll write later on. He
said if he heard by the middle of the month, 't would do."
It was an early, and a wonderfully beautiful spring that year. Warm,
moist winds came up from the south and stirred the twigs and branches
into life. The grass grew green on sunny slopes, and the tulips and
crocuses turned the dull brown beds into riotous color and bloom.
Caleb went out of his way each day that he might pass a tiny little
park, and he always stopped there a motionless two minutes--he would
have told you that he was listening to the green things growing. Sarah
grew restless indoors. She even crawled out on to the fire escape and
sat there one day; but she never tried that but once.
Downstairs, on each side of the big front door was a square-yard patch
of puny, straggling grass; and it was these two bits of possibilities
that put a happy thought into Sarah's head. For three days she said
nothing, but she fell into the way of going often in and out of that
door, and always her eyes were hungrily fixed on one or the other of
those squares. On the fourth day she bought a trowel and some flower
seeds and set resolutely to work. She had dug the trowel into the
earth four times, and was delightedly sniffing the odor from the moist
earth when the janitor appeared.
"Did ye lose something, ma'am?" he asked suspiciously.
"Lose something?" laughed the woman. "Of course not! I've found
something, William. I 've found a flower bed. I 'm going to have the
prettiest one ever was."
"Oh, come now," began the man, plainly disturbed, "that ain't going to
do, you know. I'll have to--"
"Oh, I'll tend it," she interrupted eagerly. "You won't even have to
touch it."
The man shook his head.
"'T won't do, ma 'am,--'t won't, really, now. I'm sorry, but the boss
won't stand it."
"Won't stand it!--not even for flowers!" she gasped.
"No, ma'am"--the janitor's tone was firm but regretful. A queer
feeling of sympathy came over him for this gentle little woman on the
top floor whom he had always liked. "There hain't none of the tenants
no business with them yards; he said so."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Dalton, "I--I'll go then." And she picked up the
trowel and rose to her feet.
She passed the janitor without a word, her head held high, and her eyes
looking straight before her; but once in the seclusion of the halls,
her head drooped, and her eyes rained tears that rolled down her cheeks
unceasingly all the way to the top floor.
It was that night that Caleb brought out the paper and pen to write the
letter which would lease the farm for another six months. Twice he
dipped his pen in the ink, and paused with no word written. Finally he
spoke.
"I--I'm going to give him some hints, Sarah. He won't know how to run
some of the things, I 'm sure. If he should plant the meadow lot to
potatoes, now, it--"
"And, Caleb," cut in Sarah, "be sure and send word to his wife about
the roses; if she don't spray 'em real early, the bugs and worms will
get an awful start. Caleb, don't you remember how lovely that crimson
rambler was last year?"
Caleb nodded; his eyes were fixed on the wallpaper.
"I--I wonder if this warm weather has made the leaves start out on it,"
resumed Sarah. "I hope not--you know we always have frosts up there."
"Hm-m," murmured Caleb.
There was a long silence; then Sarah drew a deep breath.
"Caleb, do you s'pose it 'll get up to the front-chamber window this
year--that rosebush, I mean?"
"I don't know, Sarah." Caleb's eyes were still on the wall-paper.
There was another long silence, broken this time by the children's
entrance.
"Mother," began Fred discontentedly, "don't they ever go fishing down
here, or swimming, or anything?"
Sarah sprang to her feet with a nervous little laugh.
"Caleb, we--we might go up home just for--for a visit," she said.
"Hurrah!--let's!" crowed Fred; and Ethel clapped her hands.
"I'll do it," cried Caleb suddenly, bringing his fist down hard on his
knee. "I'll write that we 'll go up next week for three days. There's
lots of room, and they can tuck us away somewhere for just that little
time. We can show 'em things better than we can tell 'em, and I can
close the deal when I get there."
It was a jubilant four that left the North Station a few days later,
and it was a still more jubilant four that arrived in the village at
the foot of the green hills. The Dalton's intended visit had been
heralded far and near, and the progress from the train to the farmhouse
was a succession of hand-shakes and cordial greetings.
"Oh, don't it look splendid and roomy!" cried Sarah, as they reached
the turn where they could see the farmhouse. "And don't the air smell
good!"
"Hm-m," murmured Caleb, and turned his face away with set lips.
How crowded to overflowing those three days were! Caleb valiantly
tried to give his intended suggestions, but the most of his time was
spent in joyous tramps from one end of the farm to the other, that no
favorite field nor pet pasture should escape his adoring eyes. Sarah,
when not gloating over every tender shoot and starting bud in her
flower garden, was being fêted and fed by the entire neighborhood.
"Oh, how good it is to just talk!" murmured Sarah, as she went to sleep
that first night.
As for Fred and Ethel, they were scarcely seen at the farmhouse.
Just at dusk on the third day Caleb found his wife in the old
summer-house. Wrapped in shawls, she was fastening vines to the
trellis.
"Well, Sarah, I--I s'pose I'd better settle up with West, now. I
hain't yet, you know."
Sarah nodded, without speaking.
"I hain't seemed to amount to much about telling him things," continued
Caleb. "Somehow, I did n't get time. He's careless, too; I'm afraid
he ain't going to do well."
"She is, too," moaned Sarah. "She don't know a thing about roses.
Caleb, do you think that rosebush will get up to that window?"
"I don't know," returned Caleb absently. Then, with a choke in his
voice, he said: "Things look first-rate, now, but--I've got my doubts
of West. I--I wish I could handle them myself."
Sarah threw a quick glance at his averted face.
"Well--why--don't you?" she almost whispered.
"Sarah!" exclaimed Caleb.
"Oh, here you are," cried Fred from the doorway. "Say, is it to-morrow
we go?--just to-morrow? Why, we have n't done half that we wanted to!"
Behind him stood Ethel, her eyes wistful, her mouth drooping at the
corners.
Sarah drew a quick breath.
"Ask--ask your father," she faltered.
"Sarah, would you?--would you come back? Do you mean it?" cried Caleb,
with a swift joy in his eyes.
Sarah burst into tears, and threw herself into her husband's arms.
"Oh, Caleb, I--just would! I--I 've wanted to ever so long, but--I
just would n't own up."
"There, there," soothed the man, with loving pats, his face alight,
"we'll come back, so we will; we'll come back right away."
Ethel and Fred ran shouting from the summer-house, and Sarah raised a
tear-stained face.
"Well, anyhow," she laughed softly, "now we can see just how high that
rosebush does get!"