A week later Eben began grubbing out the vineyard. The weather turned
suddenly warm, and the harvest was coming on rapidly. Parker Lowe had
gone to Temecula with Mose Doolittle, who was about to purchase a
machine, presumably feminine, which they both referred to familiarly as
"she," and styled more formally "a second-hand steam-thrasher." It was
Monday, and Idy was putting the week's washing through the wringer with
a loud vocal accompaniment of gospel hymn.
Eben had worked steadily since sunrise. The vines were young, and the
ground was not heavy, but the day was warm, and he wielded the mattock
rapidly, stooping now and then to jerk out a refractory root with his
hands. An hour before noon his daughter saw him coming through the
apricot orchard, walking wearily, with his soiled handkerchief pressed
to his lips. The girl's voice lost its song abruptly, and then broke out
again in a low, faltering wail. She bounded across the warm plowed
ground to his side.
"Pappy! O pappy!" she cried, breathing wildly, "what is it? Tell me,
can't you, pappy?"
The little man smiled at her with his patient eyes, and shook his head.
She put her hand under his elbow, and walked beside him, her arm across
his shoulders, her tortured young face close to his. When they reached
the kitchen door he sank down on the edge of the platform, resting his
head on his hand. The girl took off his weather-beaten hat, and
smoothed the wet hair from his forehead.
"O pappy! Poor, little, sweet old pappy!" she moaned, rubbing her cheek
caressingly on his bowed head.
Eben took the handkerchief from his lips, and she started back, crying
out piteously as she saw it stained with blood. He looked up at her, a
gentle, tremulous smile twitching his beard.
"Don't--tell--your--maw," he said, putting out his hand feebly.
The words seemed to recall her. She went hurriedly into the house and
close to the lounge where her mother was lying.
"Maw," she said quickly, "you must get up! Pappy's got a hem'ridge. I
want you to help me to get 'im to bed, an' then I'm goin' fer a doctor."
The woman got up, and followed her daughter eagerly.
"Why, Eben!" she said, when they reached the kitchen door. Her voice was
almost womanly; and a real anxiety seemed to have penetrated her
hysterical egoism.
They got him to bed tenderly, and propped him up among the white
pillows. His knotted hands lay on the coverlet, gray and bloodless
under the stains of hard work. Idy bent over him, tucking him in with
little pats and crooning moans of sympathy. When she had finished, she
dropped her wet cheek against his beard.
"I'm goin' fer the doctor, pappy," she whispered; "I won't be gone but a
little while,"--then rushed down the path to the stable, and flung the
harness on the pinto.
The buggy was standing in the shed, and she caught the shafts and
dragged it out with superabundant energy, as if her anxiety found relief
in the exertion. A few minutes later she drove out between the rows of
pallid young eucalyptus-trees that led to the road, leaning eagerly
forward, her young face white and set beneath the row of knobby
protuberances that represented the morning stage of her much cherished
bang. It was thus that she drove into Elsmore, the rattling of the old
buggy and the spots of lather on the pinto's sides exciting a ripple of
curiosity, which furnished its own solution in the fact that it was
"that there Starkweather girl," who was generally conceded to be "a
great one."
She stopped her panting horse before the doctor's office, and sprang
out.
"Are you the doctor?" she asked breathlessly, standing on the threshold,
with one hand on each side of the casing.
A man in his shirt-sleeves, who was writing at the desk, turned and
looked at her. It was the same man who had prevented the runaway. He
began to smile, but the girl's stricken face stopped him.
"Dr. Patterson has gone to the tin-mine," he said, getting up and coming
forward; "he will not be home till to-morrow."
Idy grasped the casing so tightly that her knuckles shone white and
polished.
"My fawther's got a hem'ridge," she said, swallowing after the words. "I
don't know what on earth to do."
"A hemorrhage!" said the young man with kindly sympathy. "Well, now,
don't be too much alarmed, Miss--"
"Starkweather," quavered Idy.
"Starkweather? Oh, it's Mr. Starkweather. Why, he's a friend of mine.
And so you're his daughter. Well, you mustn't be too much alarmed. I've
had a great many hemorrhages myself, and I'm good for twenty years
yet." He had taken his coat from a nail at the back of the room, and was
putting it on hurriedly. "Prop him up in bed, and don't let him talk,
and give him a spoonful of salt-and-water now and then. My horse is
standing outside, and I'll go right down to Maravilla and fetch a
doctor. I'll come up on the other side of the lake, and get there almost
as soon as you do--let me help you into your buggy. And drive right on
home, and don't worry."
He had put on his hat, and they stood on the sidewalk together.
Idy made a little impulsive stoop toward him, as if she would have taken
him in her arms.
"Oh!" she gasped, her eyes swimming, and her chin working painfully; "I
just think you're the very best man I ever saw in all my life!"
A moment later she saw him driving a tall black horse toward the lake at
a speed that brought her the first sigh of relief she had known, and
made her put up her hand suddenly to her forehead.
"Good gracious me!" she exclaimed under her breath--"if I didn't forget
to take down my crimps!"
Two or three times as she drove home through the warm odors of the
harvest noon her anxiety was invaded by the recollection of this man, to
whose promptness and decision her own vigorous nature responded with a
strong sense of liking; and this liking did not suffer any abatement
when he came into her father's sick-room with the doctor, and the
invalid looked at the stranger, and then at her, with a faint, troubled
smile.
"Don't try to speak, Mr. Starkweather," said the visitor cheerfully;
"I've made your daughter's acquaintance already. We want you to give
your entire attention to getting well, and let us do the talking."
He went out of the room, and strolled about the place while the doctor
made his call, and when it was over he went around to the kitchen, where
Idy was kindling a fire, and said:--
"Doctor Patterson thinks your father will be all right in a day or so,
Miss Starkweather. Be careful to keep him quiet. I'm going to drive
around to the station, so the doctor can catch the evening train, and
save my driving him down to Maravilla; and I'll go on over to Elsmore
and get this prescription filled, and bring the medicine back to you. Is
there anything else you'd like from town--a piece of meat to make
beef-tea, or anything?"
"Well, I wouldn't mind much if you _would_ bring me a piece of beef,"
said Idy, pausing with a stick of redwood kindling across her knee. Then
she dropped it, and came forward. "We're _ever_ so much obliged to
ye--pappy 'n' all of us. Seem 's if you always turn up. I think you've
been just awful good and kind--an' us strangers, too."
"Oh, you're not strangers," laughed the young man, lifting his hat;
"I've known your father ever since he came."
He went around the house, and got into the cart with the doctor.
"Starkweather's a crank," he said, as they drove off, "but he's the kind
of crank that makes you wish you were one yourself. When I see a man
like that going off with consumption, and a lot of loafers getting so
fat they crowd each other off the store boxes, I wonder what Providence
is thinking of."
"He works too hard," growled the doctor, with the savagery of science.
"What can Providence do with a man who grubs greasewood when he ought to
be in bed!"
It was moonlight when the stranger returned, and handed the packages to
Idy at the kitchen door.
"Pappy's asleep," she whispered, in answer to his inquiries; "he seems
to be restin' easy."
"Is there no one about the place but yourself and mother, Miss
Starkweather?"
Idy shook her head.
"Well, then, if you don't mind, I think I will put my horse in the barn,
and sleep in the shed here, on the hay. If you should need any one in
the night, you can call me. I haven't an idea but that your father will
be all right, but it's a little more comfortable to have some one within
call."
"Well," said Idy, dropping her hands at her sides, and looking at him in
admiring bewilderment, "if you ain't just-- Have you had anythin' to
eat?" she broke off, with sudden hospitality.
"Oh yes, thank you; I had dinner at Elsmore," laughed the young man,
backing out into the shadow. "Good-night."
Half a minute later she followed him down the walk, carrying a heavy
blanket over her arm. He had led his horse to the water-trough, and the
moonlight shone full upon him as he stood with one arm thrown over the
glossy creature's neck.
"I brought you this here blanket, Mr.--"
"Barden," supplied the young man, carelessly.
Idy sank back against the corral fence as if she were stunned.
"Barden!" she repeated helplessly. "Is your name Barden?"
"Yes."