It was in the latter part of August of that year that it became
necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St.
Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me
as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than
any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like
to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far
into the regulation sleeping-hours.
There were very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I would
not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first
place, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to
take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We
had never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we
would see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes
and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then
we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how
could we do that?
This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of
our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicated
belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables
were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory
condition--altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables--for which
I had labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful
anticipations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard,--with Euphemia away,--the
subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would
give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most
desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come
and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not
run itself for three weeks.
We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not
feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends;
but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea of
handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my
part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;
but, then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she
would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in
regard to the disqualifications. So, when I went to the office the next
morning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find
some one to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned
from the office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By
this time, I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere
very much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in
that time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not,
Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, and
Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we
felt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement
was exactly what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it, our
consciences were easy.
We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would
be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well
able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she
needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night.
Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of
directions for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters, and
directed her to keep a careful record of everything note worthy that
might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life,
and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a
responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.
She was very proud of it.
Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it would
be, and successful in every way; and yet, although we enjoyed every hour
of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our way home than we became so
wildly anxious to get there, that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday,
whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrived
early in the afternoon and walked up from the station, leaving our
baggage to be sent in the express wagon. As we approached our dear home,
we wanted to run, we were so eager to see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was
locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then I
noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering
was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read:
TO BE SOLD
For TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
“What does this mean?” said I. “Has our landlord--”
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place might
pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put
the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got over
the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. This
was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much about
its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions.
I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windows
were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than
anything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had HE been sold?
Before we reached the back part of the house, Euphemia said she felt
faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I had
made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass and I ran
to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which
always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a traveling-cup in
my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was an
air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, but
I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and began
to pump.
At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the
direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lord
Edward. Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe
the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water.
He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running from
the barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were two
friends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.
Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put a
question to her, she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.
“You know,” said she, “you said you wasn't comin' till to-morrow. If
you only HAD come then--I was goin' to have everything just exactly
right--an' now you had to climb in--”
And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been a
wonderful thing for Pomona to do.
“Tell me one thing,” said I. “What about--those taxes?”
“Oh, that's all right,” she cried. “Don't think another minute about
that. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I'll get
you some lunch in a minute.”
We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was “all right”
in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all
about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any
questions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked us, as a
particular favor, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself,
and then, said she, “I'll have everything looking just as if it was
to-morrow.”
We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointment
to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room
until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about.
We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to
the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As
I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passing
the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the
chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.
“Would you rather,” said she, “hear it all together, when you come in,
or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?”
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so
anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait
and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order,--the
garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had
not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy
enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid
the taxes--however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she
was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in, and we
sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some
sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.
“I wrote down the things of any account what happened,” said she, “as
you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I'd make it like a
novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I suppose you
don't mind?”
No, we didn't mind. So she went on.
“I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out
to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the first
chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my early
adventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you was
away, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that's
written here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to you, but I've put
it into novel language because it seems to come easier to me.”
And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as if
the “novel language” demanded it, she began to read:
“Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I left
alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kine
and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal repast, I
clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past and
also foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. I
slept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpired
which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue
can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast,
the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-osene oil and a half
a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the
in-sid-ious foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent him
home with a empty can. For two long days I wander-ed amid the ver-dant
pathways of the gar-den and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-ty
call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o'er-spread
this happy pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon
although I saw it not.
“It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a
Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do with
the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was green
corn and lima-beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use.
And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for as
my employer had advis-ed and order-ed I had put the steed to grass. And
here was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or even
the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-ced vender. With the
truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load that wagon--”
“O, Pomona,” interrupted Euphemia. “You don't mean to say that you were
thinking of doing anything like that?”
“Well, I was just beginning to think of it,” said Pomona, “but of course
I couldn't have gone away and left the house. And you'll see I didn't do
it.” And then she continued her novel. “But while my thoughts were thus
employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter--”
At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona did
not seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.
“I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the gate.
Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, 'Wilt open this gate?' I had
fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every steal-able ar-ticle from the
yard.”
Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of the
rustic seat and the dipper.
“Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the dog
(for he it was), roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-erce
bull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold, unto
him, 'No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now
from home. What do you want?' Then says he, as bold as brass, 'I've
come to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate.' 'What
rods?' says I. 'The rods as was ordered,' says he, 'open the gate.' I
stood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. I
knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods,
and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-able
trash that would attrack the light-ening, instead of keep-ing it off.
Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be kept,
and pay demand-ed. 'No, sir,' says I. 'No light-en-ing rods upon this
house whilst I stand here,' and with that I walk-ed away, and let Lord
Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-ed
fire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the dog he
did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed the fowls;
but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the blood with-in my
veins--”
“The dog didn't kill him?” cried Euphemia.
“Oh no, ma'am!” said Pomona. “You'll see that that wasn't it. At one
corn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this
man, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ing
to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a
light-en-ing rod-der had brought a lad-der to the other side of the
house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What horrors
fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This,” continued Pomona, “is the
end of the novel,” and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had just
reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yet
about that affair of the taxes.
“You see, sir,” said Pomona, “it took me so long to write out the
chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that
I hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happened
after that jus' as well as if I had writ it out.” And so she went on,
much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the
lightning-rod man.
“There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rods and
hammerin' away for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over the side
fence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside,
couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, an' then I know'd I had
him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to the
bull-dog's collar, an' dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom
rung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with Lord
Edward's chain, for I knew that if he got at that bull-dog there'd be
times, for they'd never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I to
the boy, 'I'm goin' to tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid of his
jumpin' over the fence,'--which he couldn't do, or the boy would have
been a corpse for twenty minutes, or may be half an hour. The boy kinder
laughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to the
gate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an' off
he starts, as good as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy, he said
somethin' or other pretty bad, an' away he goes after him; but the horse
was a-trottin' real fast, an' had a good start.”
“How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?” said
Euphemia. “That horse might have upset the wagon and broken all the
lightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many people.”
“But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout,” said Pomona. “I was
a-defendin' the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happen
to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the man
just coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go off, and when
he got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the bull-dog, he was
madder than ever you seed a lightnin'-rodder in all your born days.
'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me. 'No, I wont, says I. 'I
never see a girl like you since I was born,' he screams at me. 'I guess
it would 'a' been better fur you if you had,' says I; an' then he was
so mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as he
could, and when he saw just how long the rope was,--which was pretty
short,--he made a jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on
dreadful because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away; and I
wouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the tendons out
of that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boiling
passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdlin' grunts.
An' I don't see how the rodder would 'a' got his ladder at all if the
dog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. It
just missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other end
of it, and began pullin' it away, dog an' all. 'Look-a-here,' says I,
'we can fix him now; and so he cooled down enough to help me, and I
unlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder
in, dog and all; an' then I shut the door as tight as it would go, an'
untied the end of the rope, an' the rodder pulled the ladder out while I
held the door to keep the dog from follerin', which he came pretty near
doin', anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin'
again about his wagon; but when he looked out an' see the boy comin'
back with it,--for somebody must 'a' stopped the horse,--he stopped
stormin' and went to put up his ladder ag'in. 'No, you don't,' says I;
'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot of
your ladder, you'll never come down.' 'But I want to go and take down
what I put up,' he says; 'I aint a-goin' on with this job.' 'No,' says
I, 'you aint; and you can't go up there to wrench off them rods and make
rain-holes in the roof, neither.' He couldn't get no madder than he was
then, an' fur a minute or two he couldn't speak, an' then he says, 'I'll
have satisfaction for this.' An' says I, 'How? 'An' says he, 'You'll see
what it is to interfere with a ordered job.' An' says I, 'There wasn't
no order about it;' an' says he, 'I'll show you better than that;' an'
he goes to his wagon an' gits a book. 'There,' says he, 'read that.'
'What of it? 'says I 'there's nobody of the name of Ball lives here.'
That took the man kinder aback, and he said he was told it was the only
house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane he
oughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder
in his wagon, and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He left
a trail of his baleful presence behind him.
“That horrid bull-dog wouldn't let me come into the house! No matter
what door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let him stay till
nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good.
He'd got an awful spite ag'in me. I found something to eat down cellar,
and I made a fire outside an' roasted some corn and potatoes. That night
I slep' in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from the house, for I
knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it and Lord Edward outside.
For three days, Sunday an' all, I was kep' out of this here house. I got
along pretty well with the sleepin' and the eatin', but the drinkin'
was the worst. I couldn't get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty of
milk.”
“Why didn't you get some man to come and attend to the dog?” I asked.
“It was dreadful to live that way.”
“Well, I didn't know no man that could do it,” said Pomona. “The dog
would 'a' been too much for Old John, and besides, he was mad about the
kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and their
little girl in a push-wagon, come here, and I told 'em you was gone
away; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them a
drink; an' I had nothin' to give it to them but an old chicken-bowl that
I had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an' I told 'em
everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must 'a'
thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn't a-goin' to say
nothin' about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it.
So as soon as they'd gone, I went down into the cellar,--and it's lucky
that I had the key for the outside cellar door,--and I got a piece of
fat corn-beef and the meat-axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in,
with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might take
his choice. I know'd he must be pretty nigh famished, for there was
nothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he came
runnin' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked a
sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all right
then.”
“Oh, my!” said Euphemia, “I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid you
never got in. But we saw the dog--is he as savage yet?”
“Oh no!” said Pomona; “nothin' like it.”
“Look here, Pomona,” said I, “I want to know about those taxes. When do
they come into your story?”
“Pretty soon, sir,” said she, and she went on:
“After that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so that
they'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as not
I'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fightin', and leave me
to settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin'-rodder. So, as I know'd if
they once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they'd be
good friends afterwards, I thought the best thing to do would be to let
'em fight it out, when there was nothin' else for 'em to do. So I fixed
up things for the combat.”
“Why, Pomona!” cried Euphemia, “I didn't think you were capable of such
a cruel thing.”
“It looks that way, ma'am, but really it aint,” replied the girl. “It
seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have the
thing settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed and
unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called the
bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and his blood-shot eyes,
and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin' from the mount'in blast, he
made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there was! They
rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips
a-flyin' all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minute
or two; but he didn't, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and they
was havin' it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me,
and turnin' quick, there was the 'Piscopalian minister, 'My! my! my!'
he hollers; 'what a awful spectacle! Aint there no way of stoppin' it?'
'No, sir,' says I, and I told him how I didn't want to stop it, and the
reason why. Then says he, 'Where's your master?' and I told him how you
was away. 'Isn't there any man at all about?' says he. 'No,' says
I. 'Then,' says he, 'if there's nobody else to stop it, I must do it
myself.' An' he took off his coat. 'No,' says I, 'you keep back, sir. If
there's anybody to plunge into that erena, the blood be mine;' an' I
put my hand, without thinkin', ag'in his black shirt-bosom, to hold him
back; but he didn't notice, bein' so excited. 'Now,' says I, 'jist wait
one minute, and you'll see that bull's tail go between his legs. He's
weakenin'.' An' sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and was
a-shakin' the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edward
by the collar. 'Drop it!' says I, and he dropped it, for he know'd he'd
whipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog, he trotted
off with his tail a-hangin' down. 'Now, then,' says I, 'them dogs will
be bosom friends forever after this.' 'Ah me!' says he, 'I'm sorry
indeed that your employer, for who I've always had a great respect,
should allow you to get into such habits.' That made me feel real bad,
and I told him, mighty quick, that you was the last man in the world to
let me do anything like that, and that, if you'd 'a' been here, you'd
'a' separated them dogs, if they'd a-chawed your arms off; that you was
very particular about such things; and that it would be a pity if he was
to think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman, when I'd often heard you say
that, now you was fixed an' settled, the one thing you would like most
would be to be made a vestryman.”
I sat up straight in my chair.
“Pomona!” I exclaimed, “you didn't tell him that?”
“That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was;
an' he says, 'Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very good
thing. I'll speak to some of the members about it. There's two vacancies
now in our vestry.”
I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightest
light.
“Perhaps it may all turn out for the best,” she said, “and you may be
elected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funny
thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestry-man.”
I could not talk on this subject. “Go on, Pomona,” I said, trying to
feel resigned to my shame, “and tell us about that poster on the fence.”
“I'll be to that almost right away,” she said. “It was two or three days
after the dog-fight that I was down at the barn, and happenin' to look
over to Old John's, I saw that tree-man there. He was a-showin' his
book to John, and him and his wife and all the young ones was a-standin'
there, drinkin' down them big peaches and pears as if they was all real.
I know'd he'd come here ag'in, for them fellers never gives you up; and
I didn't know how to keep him away, for I didn't want to let the dogs
loose on a man what, after all, didn't want to do no more harm than to
talk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice, as I came to the
house, how kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought perhaps
I might make it look worse, and he wouldn't care to deal here. So I
thought of puttin' up a poster like that, for nobody whose place was
a-goin' to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So I run in
the house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And sure enough, the man he
come along soon, and when he looked at that paper, and tried the gate,
an' looked over the fence an' saw the house all shut up an' not a livin'
soul about,--for I had both the dogs in the house with me,--he shook his
head an' walked off, as much as to say, 'If that man had fixed his place
up proper with my trees, he wouldn't 'a' come to this!' An' then, as I
found the poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other people
from comin' a-botherin' around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin'
to be sure and take it down before you came.”
As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona
should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said that
there was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did not
feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was very
particular.
When we were alone, I said to Euphemia:
“If we ever have to go away from this place again--”
“But we wont go away,” she interrupted, looking up to me with as bright
a face as she ever had, “at least not for a long, long, long time to
come. And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman.”