there motionless, in a growing rigidity; but light was dawning in her
eyes. Suddenly she came to her feet, and tossed her knitting on the
bed.
"Where's that piece o' chalk you had when you marked out your
tumbler-quilt?" The words rang like a martial order.
Miss Dyer drew it forth from the ancient-looking bag, known as a cavo,
which was ever at her side.
"Here 'tis," she said, in her forlornest quaver. "I hope you won't do
nothin' out o' the way with it. I should hate to git into trouble here.
I ain't that kind."
Mrs. Blair was too excited to hear or heed her. She was briefly,
flashingly, taking in the possibilities of the room, her bright black
eyes darting here and there with fiery insistence. Suddenly she went to
the closet, and, diving to the bottom of a baggy pocket in her "t'other
dress," drew forth a ball of twine. She chalked it, still in delighted
haste, and forced one end upon her bewildered room-mate.
"You go out there to the middle square o' the front winder," she
commanded, "an' hold your end o' the string down on the floor. I'll
snap it."
Miss Dyer cast one despairing glance about her, and obeyed.
"Crazy!" she muttered. "Oh my land! she's crazy's a loon. I wisht Mis'
Mitchell'd pitch her tent here a spell!"
But Mrs. Blair was following out her purpose in a manner exceedingly
methodical. Drawing out one bed, so that it stood directly opposite her
kneeling helper, she passed the cord about the leg of the bedstead and
made it fast; then, returning to the middle of the room, she snapped
the line triumphantly. A faint chalk-mark was left upon the floor.
"There!" she cried. "Leggo! Now, you gi' me the chalk, an' I'll go over
it an' make it whiter."
She knelt and chalked with the utmost absorption, crawling along on her
knees, quite heedless of the despised alpaca; and Miss Dyer, hovering
in a corner, timorously watched her. Mrs. Blair staggered to her feet,
entangled by her skirt, and pitching like a ship at sea.
"There!" she announced. "Now here's two rooms. The chalk-mark's the
partition. You can have the mornin' sun, for I'd jest as soon live by a
taller candle if I can have somethin' that's my own. I'll chalk a lane
into the closet, an' we'll both keep a right o' way there. Now I'm to
home, an' so be you. Don't you dast to speak a word to me unless you
come an' knock here on my headboard,--that's the front door,--an' I
won't to you. Well, if I ain't glad to be alone! I've hung my harp on a
willer long enough!"
It was some time before the true meaning of the new arrangement
penetrated Miss Dyer's slower intelligence; but presently she drew her
chair nearer the window and thought a little, chuckling as she did so.
She, too, was alone.
The sensation was new and very pleasant. Mrs. Blair went back and forth
through the closet-lane, putting her clothes away, with high good
humor. Once or twice she sang a little--Derby's Ram and Lord Lovel--in
a cracked voice. She was in love with solitude.
Just before tea, Mrs. Mitchell, in some trepidation, knocked at the
door, to see the fruits of contention present and to come. She had
expected to hear loud words; and the silence quite terrified her,
emphasizing, as it did, her own guilty sense of personal
responsibility. Miss Dyer gave one appealing look at Mrs. Blair, and
then, with some indecision, went to open the door, for the latch was in
her house.
"Well, here you are, comfortably settled!" began Mrs. Mitchell. She had
the unmistakable tone of professional kindliness; yet it rang clear and
true. "May I come in?"
"Set right down here," answered Miss Dyer, drawing forward a chair.
"I'm real pleased to see ye."
"And how are you this afternoon?" This was addressed to the occupant of
the other house, who, quite oblivious to any alien presence, stood
busily rubbing the chalk-marks from her dress.
Mrs. Blair made no answer. She might have been stone deaf, and as dumb
as the hearthstone bricks. Mrs. Mitchell cast an alarmed glance at her
entertainer.
"Isn't she well?" she said, softly.
"It's a real pretty day, ain't it?" responded Miss Dyer. "If 'twas
summer time, I should think there'd be a sea turn afore night. I like a
sea turn myself. It smells jest like Old Boar's Head."
"I have brought you down some fruit." Mrs. Mitchell was still anxiously
observing the silent figure, now absorbed in an apparently futile
search in a brocaded work-bag. "Mrs. Blair, do you ever cut up bananas
and oranges together?"
No answer. The visitor rose, and unwittingly stepped across the
dividing line.
"Mrs. Blair--" she began, but she got no further.
Her hostess turned upon her, in surprised welcome.
"Well, if it ain't Mis' Mitchell! I can't say I didn't expect you, for
I see you goin' into Miss Dyer's house not more'n two minutes ago.
Seems to me you make short calls. Now set right down here, where you
can see out o' the winder. That square's cracked, but I guess the
directors'll put in another."
Mrs. Mitchell was amazed, but entirely interested. It was many a long
day since any person, official or private, had met with cordiality from
this quarter.
"I hope you and our friend are going to enjoy your room together," she
essayed, with a hollow cheerfulness.
"I expect to be as gay as a cricket," returned Mrs. Blair, innocently.
"An' I do trust I've got good neighbors. I like to keep to myself, but
if I've got a neighbor, I want her to be somebody you can depend upon."
"I'm sure Miss Dyer means to be very neighborly." The director turned,
with a smile, to include that lady in the conversation. But the local
deafness had engulfed her. She was sitting peacefully by the window,
with the air of one retired within herself, to think her own very
remote thoughts. The visitor mentally improvised a little theory, and
it seemed to fit the occasion. They had quarrelled, she thought, and
each was disturbed at any notice bestowed on the other.
"I have been wondering whether you would both like to go sleighing with
me some afternoon?" she ventured, with the humility so prone to assail
humankind in a frank and shrewish presence. "The roads are in wonderful
condition, and I don't believe you'd take cold. Do you know, I found
Grandmother Eaton's foot-warmers, the other day! I'll bring them
along."
"Law! I'd go anywheres to git out o' here," said Mrs. Blair,
ruthlessly. "I dunno when I've set behind a horse, either. I guess the
last time was the day I rid up here for good, an' then I didn't feel
much like lookin' at outdoor. Well, I guess you _be_ a new director, or
you never'd ha' thought on't!"
"How do you feel about it, Miss Dyer?" asked the visitor. "Will you
go,--perhaps on, Wednesday?"
The other householder moved uneasily. Her hands twitched at their
knitting; a flush came over her cheeks, and she cast a childishly
appealing glance at her neighbor across the chalkline. Her eyes were
filling fast with tears. "Save me!" her look seemed to entreat "Let me
not lose this happy fortune!" Mrs. Blair interpreted the message, and
rose to the occasion with the vigor of the intellectually great.
"Mis' Mitchell," she said, clearly, "I may be queer in my notions, but
it makes me as nervous as a witch to have anybody hollerin' out o' my
winders. I don't care whether it's company nor whether it's my own
folks. If you want to speak to Miss Dyer, you come along here after
me,--don't you hit the partition now!--right out o' my door an' into
her'n. Here, I'll knock! Miss Dyer, be you to home?"
The little old lady came forward, fluttering and radiant in the excess
of her relief.
"Yes, I guess I be," she said, "an' all alone, too! I see you go by the
winder, an' I was in' hopes you'd come in!"
Then the situation dawned upon Mrs. Mitchell with an effect vastly
surprising to the two old pensioners. She turned from one to the other,
including them both in a look of warm loving-kindness. It was truly an
illumination. Hitherto, they had thought chiefly of her winter cloak
and nodding ostrich plume; now, at last, they saw her face, and read
some part of its message.
"You poor souls!" she cried. "Do you care so much as that? 'O you poor
souls!"
Miss Dyer fingered her apron and looked at the floor, but her companion
turned brusquely away, even though she trod upon the partition in her
haste.
"Law! it's nothin' to make such a handle of" she said. "Folks don't
want to be under each other's noses all the time. I dunno's anybody
could stan' it, unless 'twas an emmet. They seem to git along swarmin'
round together."
Mrs. Mitchell left the room abruptly.
"Wednesday or Thursday, then!" she called over her shoulder.
The next forenoon, Mrs. Blair made her neighbor a long visit. Both old
ladies had their knitting, and they sat peacefully swaying back and
forth, recalling times past, and occasionally alluding to their happy
Wednesday.
"What I really come in for," said Mrs. Blair, finally, "was to ask if
you don't think both our settin'-rooms need new paper."
The other gave one bewildered glance about her.
"Why, 'tain't been on more 'n two weeks," she began; and then
remembrance awoke in her, and she stopped. It was not the scene of
their refuge and conflict that must be considered; it was the house of
fancy built by each unto herself. Invention did not come easily to her
as yet, and she spoke with some hesitation.
"I've had it in mind myself quite a spell, but somehow I 'ain't been
able to fix on the right sort o' paper."
"What do you say to a kind of a straw color, all lit up with tulips?"
inquired Mrs. Blair; triumphantly.
"Ain't that kind o' gay?"
"Gay? Well, you want it gay, don't ye? I dunno why folks seem to think
they've got to live in a hearse because they expect to ride in one!
What if we be gittin' on a little mite in years? We ain't underground
yit, be we? I see a real good ninepenny paper once, all covered over
with green brakes. I declare if 'twa'n't sweet pretty! Well, whether I
paper or whether I don't, I've got some thoughts of a magenta sofy. I'm
tired to death o' that old horsehair lounge that sets in my clock-room.
Sometimes I wish the moths would tackle it, but I guess they've got
more sense. I've al'ays said to myself I'd have a magenta sofy when I
could git round to it, and I dunno's I shall be any nearer to it than I
be now."
"Well, you _are_ tasty," said Miss Dyer, in some awe. "I dunno how you
come to think o' that!"
"Priest Rowe had one when I wa'n't more 'n twenty. Some o' his
relations give it to him (he married into the quality), an' I remember
as if 'twas yisterday what a tew there was over it. An' I said to
myself then, if ever I was prospered I'd have a magenta sofy. I 'ain't
got to it till now, but now I'll have it if I die for't."
"Well, I guess you're in the right on't." Miss Dyer spoke absently,
glancing from the window in growing trouble. "O Mis' Blair!" she
continued, with a sudden burst of confidence, "you don't think there's a
storm brewin', do you? If it snows Wednesday, I shall give up beat!"
Mrs. Blair, in her turn, peered at the smiling sky.
"I hope you ain't one o' them kind that thinks every fair day's a
weather breeder," she said. "Law, no! I don't b'lieve it will storm;
an' if it does, why, there's other Wednesdays comin'!"
AT SUDLEIGH FAIR.
Delilah Joyce was sitting on her front doorstone with a fine disregard
of the fact that her little clock had struck eight of the morning,
while her bed was still unmade. The Tiverton folk who disapproved of
her shiftlessness in letting the golden hours, run thus to waste, did
grudgingly commend her for airing well. Her bed might not even be
spread up till sundown, but the sheets were always hanging from her
little side window, in fine weather, flapping dazzlingly in the sun;
and sometimes her feather-bed lay, the whole day long, on the green
slope outside, called by Dilly her "spring," only because the snow
melted first there on the freedom days of the year. The new editor of
the Sudleigh "Star," seeing her slight, wiry figure struggling with the
bed like a very little ant under a caterpillar all too large, was once
on the point of drawing up his horse at her gate. He was a chivalrous
fellow, and he wanted to help; but Brad Freeman, hulking by with his
gun at the moment, stopped him.
"That's only Dilly wrastlin' with, her bed," he called back, in the act
of stepping over the wall into the meadow. "'Twon't do no good to take
holt once, unless you're round here every mornin' 'bout the same time.
Dilly'll git the better on't. She al'ays does." So the editor laughed,
put down another Tiverton custom in his mental notebook, and drove on.
Dilly was a very little woman, with abnormally long and sinewy arms.
Her small, rather delicate face had a healthy coat of tan, and her
iron-gray hair was braided with scrupulous care. She resembled her own
house to a striking degree; she was fastidiously neat, but not in the
least orderly. The Tiverton housekeepers could not appreciate this
attitude in reference to the conventional world. It was all very well
to keep the kitchen floor scrubbed, but they did believe, also, in
seeing the table properly set, and in finishing the washing by eight
o'clock on Monday morning. Now Dilly seldom felt inclined to set any
table at all. She was far more likely to take her bread and milk under
a tree; and as for washing, Thursday was as good a day as any, she was
wont to declare. Moreover, the tradition of hanging garments on the
line according to a severely classified system, did not in the least
appeal to her.
"I guess a petticoat'll dry jest as quick if it's hung 'side of a
nightgown," she told her critics, drily. "An' when you come to hangin'
stockin's by the pair, better separate 'em, I say! Like man an' wife!
Give 'em a vacation, once in a while, an' love'll live the longer!"
Dilly was thinking, this morning, of all the possibilities of the
lovely, shining day. So many delights lay open to her! She could take
her luncheon in her pocket, and go threading through the woods behind
her house. She could walk over to Pine Hollow, to see how the cones
were coming on, and perchance scrape together a basket of pine needles,
to add to her winter's kindling; or she might, if the world and the
desires thereof assailed her, visit Sudleigh Fair. Better still, she
need account to nobody if she chose to sit there on the doorstone, and
let the hours go unregretted by. Presently, her happy musing was broken
by a ripple from the outer world. A girl came briskly round the corner
where the stone-wall lay hidden under a wilderness of cinnamon
rosebushes and blackberry vines,--Rosa Tolman, dressed in white
_piqué_, with a great leghorn hat over her curls. The girl came
hurrying up the path, with a rustle of starched petticoats, and still
Dilly kept her trance-like posture.
"I know who 'tis!" she announced, presently, in a declamatory voice.
"It's Rosy Tolman, an' she's dressed in white, with red roses, all
complete, an' she's goin' to Sudleigh Cattle-Show."
Rosa lost a shade of pink from her cheeks. Her round blue eyes widened,
in an unmistakable terror quite piteous to see.
"O Dilly!" she quavered, "how do you know such things? Why, you 'ain't
looked at me!"
Dilly opened her eyes, and chuckled in keen enjoyment.
"Bless ye!" she said, "I can't help imposin' on ye, no more 'n a cat
could help ketchin' a mouse, if't made a nest down her throat. Why, I
see ye comin' round the corner! But when folks thinks you're a witch,
it ain't in human natur' not to fool 'em. I _am_ a witch, ain't I,
dear? Now, ain't I?"
Rosa's color had faltered back, but she still stood visibly in awe of
her old neighbor.
"Well," she owned, "Elvin Drew says you can see in the dark, but I
don't know's he means anything by it."
Again Dilly broke into laughter, rocking back and forth, in happy
abandonment.
"I can!" she cried, gleefully. "You tell him I can! An' when I can't,
folks are so neighborly they strike a light for me to see by. You tell
him! Well, now, what is it? You've come to ask suthin'. Out with it!"
"Father told me to come over, and see if you can't tell something about
our cows. They're all drying up, and he don't see any reason why."
Dilly nodded her head sagely.
"You'd better ha' come sooner," she announced. "You tell him he must
drive 'em to pastur' himself, an' go arter 'em, too."
"Why?"
"An' you tell him to give Davie a Saturday, here an' there, to go
fishin' in, an' not let him do so many chores. Now, you hear! Your
father must drive the cows, an' he must give Davie time to play a
little, or there'll be dark days comin', an' he won't be prepared for
'em."
"My!" exclaimed Rosa, blankly. "My! Ain't it queer! It kind o' scares
me. But, Dilly,"--she turned about, so that only one flushed cheek
remained visible,--"Dilly, 'ain't you got something to say to me? We're
going to be married next Tuesday, Elvin and me. It's all right, ain't
it?"
Dilly bent forward, and peered masterfully into her face. She took the
girl's plump pink handy and drew her forward. Rosa, as if compelled by
some unseen force, turned about, and allowed her frightened gaze to lie
ensnared by the witch's great black eyes. Dilly began, in a deep
intense voice, with the rhythm of the Methodist exhorter, though on a
lower key,--
"Two years, that boy's been arter you. Two years, you trampled on him
as if he'd been the dust under your feet. He was poor an' strugglin'.
He was left with his mother to take care on, an' a mortgage to work off.
An' then his house burnt down, an' he got his insurance money; an' that
minute, you turned right round an' says, 'I'll have you.' An' now, you
say, 'Is it all right?' _Is_ it right, Rosy Tolman? You tell _me_!"
Rosa was sobbing hysterically.
"Oh, I wish you wouldn't scare me so!" she exclaimed, yet not for a
moment attempting to withdraw her hand, or turn aside her terrified
gaze. "I wish I never'd said one word!"
Dilly broke the spell as lightly as she had woven it. A smile passed
over her face, like a charm, dispelling all its prophetic fervor.
"There! there!" she said, dropping the girl's hand. "I thought I'd
scare ye! What's the use o' bein' a witch, if ye can't upset folks? Now
don't cry, an' git your cheeks all blotched up afore Elvin calls to
fetch ye, with that hired horse, an' take ye to the Cattle-Show! But
don't ye forgit what I say! You remember we ain't goin' to wait for the
Day o' Judgment, none on us. It comes every hour. If Gabriel was
tootin', should you turn fust to Elvin Drew, an' go up or down with
him, wherever he was 'lected? That's what you've got to think on; not
your new hat nor your white _pique_. (Didn't iron it under the
overskirt, did ye? How'd I know? Law! how's a witch know anything?)
Now, you 'ain't opened your bundle, dear, have ye? Raisin-cake in it,
ain't there?"
Rosa bent suddenly forward, and placed the package in Dilly's lap. In
spite of the bright daylight all about her, she was frightened; if a
cloud had swept over, she must have screamed.
"I don't know how you found it out," she whispered, "but _'tis_
raisin-cake. Mother sent it. She knew I was going to ask you about the
cows. She said I was to tell you, too, there's some sickness over to
Sudleigh, and she thought you could go over there nussing, if you
wanted to."
"I 'ain't got time," said Dilly, placidly. "I give up nussin', two year
ago. I 'ain't got any time at all! Well, here they come, don't they?
One for me, an' one for you!"
A light wagon, driven rapidly round the corner, drew up at the gate.
Elvin Drew jumped down, and helped out his companion, a short, rather
thickset girl, with smooth, dark hair, honest eyes, and a sensitive
mouth. She came quickly up the path, after an embarrassed word of
thanks to the young man.
"He took me in," she began, almost apologetically to Rosa, who surveyed
her with some haughtiness. "I was comin' up here to see Dilly, an' he
offered me a ride."
Rosa's color and spirits had returned, at the sight of her tangible
ally at the gate.
"Well, I guess I must be going," she said, airily. "Elvin won't want to
wait. Good-by, Dilly! I'll tell father. Good-by, Molly Drew!"
But Dilly followed her down to the road, where Elvin stood waiting with
the reins in his hands. He was a very blond young man, with curly hair,
and eyes honest in contour and clear of glance. Perhaps his coloring
impressed one with the fact that he should have looked very young; but
his face shrunk now behind a subtile veil of keen anxiety, of irritated
emotion, which were evidently quite foreign to him. Even a stranger,
looking at him, could hardly help suspecting an alien trouble grafted
upon a healthy stem. He gave Dilly a pleasant little nod, in the act of
turning eagerly to help Rosa into the wagon. But when he would have
followed her, Dilly laid a light but imperative hand on his arm.
"Don't you want your fortune told?" she asked, meaningly. "Here's the
witch all ready. Ain't it well for me I wa'n't born a hunderd year ago?
Shouldn't I ha' sizzled well? An' now, all there is to burn me is God
A'mighty's sunshine!"
Elvin laughed lightly.
"I guess I don't need any fortune," he said. "Mine looks pretty fair
now. I don't feel as if anybody'd better meddle with it." But he had
not withdrawn his arm, and his gaze still dwelt on hers.
"You know suthin' you don't mean to tell," said Dilly, speaking so
rapidly that although Rosa bent forward to listen, she caught only a
word, here and there. "You think you won't have to tell, but you will.
God A'mighty'll make you. You'll be a stranger among your own folks,
an' a wanderer on the earth; till you tell. There! go along! Go an' see
the punkins an' crazy-quilts!"
She withdrew her hand, and turned away. Elvin, his face suddenly
blanched, looked after her, fascinated, while she went quickly up the
garden walk. An impatient word from Rosa recalled him to himself, and
he got heavily into the wagon and drove on again.
When Dilly reached the steps where her new guest had seated herself,
her manner had quite changed. It breathed an open frankness, a sweet
and homely warmth which were very engaging. Molly spoke first.
"How pleased he is with her!" she said, dreamily.
"Yes," answered Dilly, "but to-day ain't tomorrer. They're both
light-complected. It's jest like patchwork. Put light an' dark
together, I say, or you won't git no figger. Here, le's have a mite o'
cake! Mis' Tolman's a proper good cook, if her childern _have_ all
turned out ducks, an' took to the water. Every one on 'em's took back
as much as three generations for their noses an' tempers. Strange they
had to go so fur!"
She broke the rich brown loaf in the middle, and divided a piece
with Molly. Such were the habits calculated to irritate the
conventionalities of Tiverton against her. Who ever heard of breaking
cake when one could go into the house for a knife! They ate in silence,
and the delights of the summer day grew upon Molly as they never did
save when she felt the nearness of this queer little woman. Turn which
side of her personality she might toward you, Dilly could always bend
you to her own train of thought.
"I come down to talk things over," said Molly, at last, brushing the
crumbs of cake from her lap. "I've got a chance in the shoe-shop."
"Do tell! Well, ain't that complete? Don't you say one word, now! I
know how 'tis. You think how you'll have to give up the birds' singin',
an' your goin' into the woods arter groundpine, an' stay cooped up in a
boardin'-house to Sudleigh. I know how 'tis! But don't you fret. You
come right here an' stay Sundays, an' we'll eat up the woods an' drink
up the sky! There! It's better for ye, dear. Some folks are made to
live in a holler tree, like me; some ain't. You'll be better on't among
folks."
Molly's eyes filled with tears.
"You've been real good to me," she said, simply.
"I wish I'd begun it afore," responded Dilly, with a quick upward lift
of her head, and her brightest smile. "You see I didn't know ye very
well, for all you'd lived with old Mis' Drew so many year. I 'ain't had
much to do with folks. I knew ye hadn't got nobody except her, but I
knew, too, ye were contented there as a cricket. But when she died, an'
the house burnt down, I begun to wonder what was goin' to become on
ye."
Molly sat looking over at the pine woods, her lips compressed, her
cheeks slowly reddening. Finally she burst passionately forth,--
"Dilly, I'd like to know why I couldn't have got some rooms an' kep'
house for Elvin? His mother's my own aunt!"