AUNT JIMMY'S WILL
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "_'Hem!' The lawyer cleared his throat._"
(See p. 52.)]
AUNT JIMMY'S WILL
BY
MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT
AUTHOR OF "BIRDCRAFT," "WABENO THE MAGICIAN,"
ETC., ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY
FLORENCE SCOVELL SHINN_
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1903
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1903,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up, electrotyped, and published October, 1903.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
[Decoration]
To my God-child
MARY ELIZABETH MILLER
[Decoration]
"_Aim at the highest, and never mind the money._"
--L. M. ALCOTT.
[Decoration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. RED PINEYS 1
II. HER UNCLE JOHN 23
III. AUNT JIMMY 38
IV. A CAGED BIRD 58
V. MRS. LANE PLAYS DETECTIVE 77
VI. BIRD'S COUSINS 103
VII. SUMMER IN NEW YORK 131
VIII. THE FLOWER MISSIONARY 146
IX. 'RAM SLOCUM'S TAUNT 162
X. LAMMY CONSULTS OLD LUCKY 181
XI. THE PEWTER TEA-POT 202
XII. THE TUG OF WAR 217
XIII. TELLTALE TROUSERS 225
XIV. THE FIRE-ESCAPE 242
XV. THE BIRD IS FREED 258
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Hem!' The lawyer cleared his throat" (p. 52) _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"Bird crouched in a black heap" 8
Bird, Lammy, and Twinkle 13
"'Buy something to-day? Nice goots ver' cheap'" 99
Bird and Billy on the fire-escape 137
"'They ain't fer me, fer sure?'" 158
"'It means, Lammy Lane, that the Lord don't forget the orphan'" 230
"Bird was found at last" 267
Aunt Jimmy's Will
I
RED PINEYS
Bird O'More crouched in a little black heap in the corner of the sofa
that stood between the closed windows in the farmhouse sitting room. Her
eyes, that looked straight before her, yet without seeing anything, were
quite dry; but her feverish cheeks, that she pressed against the cool
haircloth, and the twisting of her fingers in the folds of her gown,
told of grief, as well as her black frock and the closed blinds.
Outside the house, in the road, half a dozen country teams were hitched
to the rickety fence, while their owners roamed about the yard, talking
in low voices, and occasionally wondering aloud "when the women folks
would be ready to go home."
But the women folks had no idea of going yet, and small wonder, for they
had come from a funeral that had made poor Bird an orphan; they had much
to discuss, and without them, also, she would be all alone at the farm
that lay on a straggling cross-road a mile from neighbours, as if it,
like its recent owners, had tried to hide from those who had known it in
better days.
The little girl had been christened Bertha, after her grandmother, but
as, from the time she could speak a word, she was always singing, her
father had called her "Bird." Yet this day the little bird in her throat
was mute and only made a strange fluttering; so that the neighbours,
talking in whispers as they drank the tea that a stout, rosy woman, who
seemed to be in charge, was serving in the kitchen, said, "Poor child,
if she'd only let go and cry it out natural, it would do her good; but
that dry sobbing is enough to break a body's heart."
Then, as she gradually grew quiet, dulled by fatigue and the heat of the
room, her head sliding down on her arm in heavy sleep, they drew sighs
of relief and their voices arose in chat about the happenings of the
last few days and the natural question as to what was to become of Bird.
"Hasn't she got any folks either side?" asked a young woman who had but
recently moved into Laurelville, and did not yet know the comings and
goings and kith and kin of her neighbours.
"Only her father's half-brother," spoke up the rosy woman, Mrs. Lane by
name, "and he lives way down in New York City. Joshua wrote him ten days
back when Mr. More took sick; but he never answered, so two days ago
he wrote again. Joshua says he guesses maybe they've moved, for folks
are awful restless down in York, and shift around as often as every few
years--says he reckons you have to if you're anybody, cause there's
sudden fashions in buildings down there as well as in clothes, and they
get made over frequent to keep in style, likewise the streets.
"Yes, I wouldn't even have known his name if Mis' More hadn't told me
about him before she died, two years back. You see," turning to Mrs.
Tilby, the newcomer, "she was Sarah Turner, born and raised over at the
Milltown, and, being an only child, was give her own head a good deal. I
must allow she was pretty, and had those big black eyes that you can't
guess what they're seeing, same as Bird's got. Her folks felt dreadful
bad when she wouldn't take up with any of the solid fellers who would
have taken pride in the farm and mill business, but married young O'More
that nobody knew a speck about, except that he claimed to be an artist,
but folks didn't buy his pictures, and I don't wonder, for there's some
up attic now, and you have to stand way back to even see a shape to 'em,
being not near as clear as those that come extry with the Sunday papers.
"No, Mis' Slocum, I _don't_ take Sunday papers, on 'count of Joshua's
aunt's husband being deacon, and not desirin' to call trouble on the
family; but if he wasn't I would, for besides them pictures an' readin'
an' advertisements, that wonderful they'd raise curiosity in froze
dough, there's your money's worth o' paper for carpet linin' or kindlin'
over and above.
"Where was I? Mis' Slocum, you shouldn't 'a' set me off the track, so's
I'm not giving Mis' Tilby a clear idee of how it was.
"Ah, yes, I remember,--his wall pictures not sellin', he got a job
to paint posies and neat little views the size of your hand on the
inside covers of sewin'-machine boxes and trays and work-tables over in
Northboro. It paid first-rate, I guess, for a spell, so after the old
folks died, they sold out the farm and mill and moved into town.
"When Bird here was five years old or so, O'More had a knock-down, for
they got some kind of a machine in the factory that could do pictures
quicker than he, and at the same time the folks that had bought the
place on a mortgage caved in, and, between havin' no sense themselves
and lawyers, most everything was ate up and mixed so's Mis' O'More lost
the mill and all, and they moved out here.
"Mis' More--folks round here never could swaller the O', it being the
sign, as it were, of a furrin race and religion--just drew in like a
turtle in a shell, losin' hope altogether, and never went any place.
And as for Terence,--that was him, Bird always callin' him 'Terry' like
he was her brother,--I suppose he was always what bustlin' folks like
us would call slack; but after he came here, he seemed to grow happy in
spite of the fact that only one shop, the work-box and the picture-frame
one, gave him jobs. He painted out his flowers as careful, no two
pictures alike, and when I said, 'Why don't you do one and copy it--it
would be less trouble,' he looked up sort of reproachful and said, 'It
makes me happy to do good work, Mrs. Lane; a machine can do the other
kind.'
"Mis' More fretted herself to death, dumblike, same as snow disappears,
and it's two years now that Bird and her father have made out to get
along alone. Once in a time old Dinah Lucky would come up and wash or
scrub a day, and he and Bird always was together, and he learned her
to be what I call a real lady, and never hurt anybody's feelin's, to
say poetry and write a fine hand, and draw out flowers so you'd know
'em right off. The s'lectmen went after him onct 'cause he'd never sent
the girl to school, but when they found she knew more'n the grammar
grade, they kept their hands off from her; and as for speakin',--since
she talked plain, she's spoke nicer, and chose her words better'n
anybody but story-books and the parson, which come natural, her mother
bein' well learned and her father havin' a tone of voice not belonging
in these parts. Never a cross word did he speak or a complaint, so I
guess it was true he was born a gentleman on one side, as poor Sarah
always claimed, and it stuck to him all through, too, for the day he
died he worried for troublin' me to draw him a cool drink, saying, 'The
well-sweep was out of repair,' which it was, Mis' Slocum, _awful_, 'and
too heavy for a woman to handle,' as if I wasn't always stronger than
two of him. But then I never was, and never will be, his kind of a lady,
for there's folks whose feelin's I'm just achin' to hurt if I knew a
sure way. And now to think of it, Bird left at only thirteen with no own
folks and little better'n nothing."
"Less than nothin', _I_ should say," put in Mrs. Slocum, setting her cup
in its saucer with an unnecessary clash, "for what's here won't pay Mr.
Slocum his back rent on the place and the fence rails of the south lot
that they've seemingly used for firin'. _I_ should say that the clothes
on the girl's back didn't fairly belong to her, mournin' and all.
"If she is only a little turned thirteen from what you say she has
schoolin' enough to pass for fourteen and get work in the factory. I'll
keep her if she'll help me evenings and she gets enough to pay full
board,--growin' girls eats hearty," and Mrs. Slocum settled back in her
chair, folding her arms as if she expected Mrs. Lane to be speechless at
her generosity.
Speechless she was for a few moments, but for a different cause--a
struggle between prudence and a quick but just temper--then she said
very slowly and distinctly: "Mis' Slocum, the back rent is not for me
to deny you, but the fence rails is and the few clothes the poor lamb's
wearin' also. There hasn't been any fence to that south lot since the
summer before my Sammy was born and I was there berryin' and noticed
the rails was rotted and fell, and that's fifteen years! As to clothes,
they was give her outside of the family, which was me, ma'am, made out
of those that belonged to my Janey and for her sake, and besides which a
minor child isn't liable for her father's debts, 'it bein' the law,' as
Joshua says, and he knows.
"I wouldn't have mentioned this in public, except some folks needs to
have witnesses around before they can take in things, Mis' Jedge o'
Probate Ricker bein' here makin' it quite suitable for me to testify.
"As for who'll take her, there's those that'll ask no board, but Joshua
says 'no one's got a right until the uncle either turns up or else
doesn't,' which I'd much prefer. And there'll be no talk of factory and
passin' her for above her age, Mis' Slocum, I bein' the niece-in-law to
a deacon, as I've said before, should feel called upon to testify and
give the truth a full airing."
Whatever action Mrs. Slocum would have taken, it was sidetracked by the
minister's wife, who, with a sharp warning cough and a hurried "s'h'ush,
she's awake," turned the attention toward the darkened room again.
Bird rubbed her eyes drowsily, then started up murmuring, "Yes, Terry,
I'm coming, I didn't mean to fall asleep," as if she fancied herself
called, stumbled toward the door, saw the kitchen full of people, while
the bright light and lilac perfume of the May afternoon came through the
open door. Then she remembered.
"Here, let me wash your face and freshen you up a bit," said Mrs. Lane,
whisking out a clean handkerchief and dipping it in the water bucket,
while at the same time she put her arm around Bird to cut off her
retreat. "Now, that is better. Just a sip of tea, dearie, and a bite,
and then go out and get a mouthful of air, while I open up the windows,
for it's sizzling in here if it does lack two days yet of almanac
summer."
[Illustration: "_Bird crouched in a black heap._"]
The child did as she was told, gave her friend one grateful look, and
slipped out the door without speaking, much to the relief of the others,
the minister's wife nodding caution to Mrs. Tilby who said: "Sakes
alive! she scart me silly, gropin' in that way. I do wonder how much she
heard."
Meanwhile as Bird disappeared around the house a tall boy, carrying a
big bunch of red peonies, came up the track in the grass that served as
a path. It was Sammy, or Lammy Lane, as he was usually called, clad in
his best clothes and red with running, having only come to a full stop
as he reached the kitchen door, where he stood looking anxiously in, the
flowers clutched nervously in both hands.
"Lammy Lane, where've you bin, to go and miss the funeral and all, when
I started you out close after breakfast?" asked his mother, fiercely,
yet with an air of relief.
"Catchin' fish in the brook with his eyes, I reckon," said Mrs. Slocum,
with a glittering smile, which was very trying to Mrs. Lane, for Lammy,
the youngest of her three sons, was not esteemed over clever, in fact
a sort of village Johnny-Look-in-the-Air, always going to do something
that he never did, and lacking in courage to boot. In fact the twisting
of the name of Sammy into Lammy was really a slur upon his lack of sand
and the fighting spirit natural to the average boy.
It is perfectly true that Lammy at this time was not a beauty with his
tousled reddish hair, freckles, and lean colt's legs, but no one who was
a judge of faces could look in his straightforward gray eyes and at the
firm line of his chin without feeling that here was the makings of a
man, if people did not meddle with the plan God had for his work.
Lammy's eyes roved about, and, not seeing the object he wanted, answered
his mother slowly, as if it was hard to remember exactly where he had
been.
"I've been at Aunt Jimmy's most all day until now," he answered. "When
I took the butter down after breakfast, she wanted me to help her
fix up cause she didn't feel smart, 'n' then there was the chickens
to feed, and Jake he didn't go yesterday to spread the grass under
the strawberries, and she said if it rained, they'd spoil, so I did
that; 'n' then I ate dinner, 'n' dressed up again and started. Then
I remembered I told Bird I'd cut her some o' Aunt Jimmy's red pineys
for her to take along up there," nodding his head backward toward the
hillside graveyard.
"Aunt Jimmy's awful particular about those red pineys, and she wouldn't
let me cut 'em. She came out in the yard to do it herself, but it took
her a long while, and when she'd got them tied up, she said, 'Best go
to the house now for they'll be back, and tell your ma to come over
to-night, for somehow I feel all strange and worked up as if I was going
to have a spell,' and that's why I'm late, and where's Bird?" he ended
abruptly.
"Lammy Lane, do you mean that aunt is threatened with a spell, and
you've took all this time to tell me?" said Mrs. Lane, hardly believing
her ears.
"Neighbours, I'll have to close up here, Joshua bein' in charge,
as it were, as Mis' Jedge o' Probate Ricker understands, until a
'ministrator's fixed on, but we can meet to-morrow forenoon to wash up
and discuss the situation. Goodness me, I hope Aunt Jimmy's no more'n
overtired!"
"'Twouldn't be surprisin' if you was resigned to the worst, seein' your
expectations through being the favourite nephew's wife," said Mrs.
Slocum, slyly.
"Expectations, fiddlesticks!" snorted Mrs. Lane, "you know perfectly
well, Mis' Slocum, that the Lord and I are working together as hard as
we can to give Aunt Jimmy every breath of life that's coming to her,
and seein' that she enjoys it too, her ownin' the best southslope fruit
garden between Milltown and Northboro having nothing to do with it.
"Lammy, do you go round, and I guess you'll find Bird back of the shed,
and you can take her a walk to fetch the posies up yonder, and then
bring her down to our house for supper; and if I don't get back first,
the butt'ry key is in the kitchen clock, and you and pa can set out a
full table.
"Young company's best for the young in sorrow," she added to the group
as Lammy shot off.
"Yes, Mis' Slocum, those spoons is real silver, but biting 'em 'll
injure them new teeth o' yourn, and not profit you anything, for they're
_my_ spoons I fetched up for the funeral, minding how well the Turners
always set out things at such times in the old days."
With this parting shot Mrs. Lane shooed the women out and locked
the door, called Joshua from the group of men who were examining a
broken-down grindstone for lack of better occupation, climbed into the
old buggy, and disappeared in a cloud of dust, the others following
until they scattered at the four corners.
* * * * *
As Mrs. Lane had said, Bird was behind the shed. She was sitting on an
old log, her face between her hands, as she looked across the fresh
green grass to where the ragged spiræas and purple and white lilacs
waved against the sky. Leaning against her knees was a queer little
rough-haired, brown terrier with unkempt, lopping ears, his keen eyes
intent on her face as if he knew that she was in trouble, and only
waited for some signal that he might understand to go to her aid, while
he vainly licked her hands to attract her attention.
As Lammy came around the corner suddenly, at first the dog gave a growl,
and then bounding toward the boy fairly leaped into his arms in joy,
for Twinkle, named for his keen twitching eyes, had once been Lammy's
best-beloved pup, that he had given to Bird for a companion.
"Hello, Twinkle, where've you been these days?" said the boy, holding
the flowers at arm's-length with one hand, while he tucked the little
dog between his shoulder and neck with the other. "Seems to me you've
got pretty thin wherever you've tramped to."
[Illustration: _Bird, Lammy, and Twinkle._]
"He hasn't been away," answered Bird, looking up; "he was hiding all the
time in Terry's--I mean father's room, and to-day, after they took _him_
away, he knew it wasn't any use waiting any longer, and he came out,
and Lammy, you--know--he's--all--I've--got--now," and, burying her face
in the terrier's ragged coat, she broke into a perfect storm of crying.
Lammy felt like crying, too, and in fact a tear rolled so far down on
his cheek that he had to struggle hard to lick it up, for Bird was his
dear friend, the only girl in the village who had never laughed at him
or called him "Nose-in-the-Air," or "Look-up-Lammy," and seemed to
understand the way in which he saw things. At first he looked around
helplessly, and then remembering that his mother had gone, and that he
must get Bird down to his home before supper-time, he blurted out: "Say,
don't you reckon Twinkle's pretty hungry by this? I guess we'd better
get him some feed down to my house, and you can leave these red pineys
over yonder as we go along if you like."
Lammy could not have done better, for Bird sprang up instantly, all the
pity aroused for the dog, and, turning toward the house, said: "How
selfish of me; we'll go in and get him something right away. Do you
think the people have gone yet? 'They mean kindly,' Terry used to say. I
must never forget that, but they talked so much I couldn't seem to bear
it."
"Yes, they've gone; mother wouldn't leave them behind 'cause of Mis'
Slocum," and he began to tell her about his Aunt Jimmy's ill turn and of
his delay in getting back with the flowers.
Bird listened quietly, and as they stood before the door of the silent,
empty house, a strange look crossed the girl's face that frightened poor
gentle Lammy, as she gazed straight before her and said: "Now I know
that I was not asleep this afternoon, only dull and faint, and that
what I thought was a dream was partly true. Terry _did_ owe rent to
Mrs. Slocum, and that was what he tried to tell me and couldn't when he
said there was only a little bit of money in the Centre bank to pay for
things, so that I must be sure and keep his paint-box and the pictures
in the big portfolio. The Slocums might try to take them. That's why
your mother made the people go and locked the door. Oh, Lammy, I haven't
any home or anything of my very own but Twinkle, but I could work and
learn to paint. Terry said I could and if everything gave out, I can
open the keepsake bag. See, I've got it now," and Bird pulled out a
small, flat, leather case, strongly sewed together, that hung close
around her neck on a thin gold chain.
"Do you know what's in it?" asked Lammy, fingering it curiously.
"No, but I think it's a piece of gold money; for it's round, though one
side is thicker than the other. Mother wore it, and then father put it
about my neck for me to keep, and he said his mother gave it to him when
he came away from home long ago."
As Bird stood looking at the house, the afternoon shadows began to
fall and a change came over her. That morning the thought of leaving
the place frightened her, but now the thing she most wanted was to get
away. "Lammy," she cried presently, "we must get those pictures and the
paint-box _now_; to-morrow the people may come back."
"But mother's taken the key."
"That doesn't matter, the cellar-door flap doesn't fasten--it never has
since I can remember--we can go in that way," and then Lammy, quaking
mightily, though he didn't know why, followed Bird into the house.
Love lights up many a dark, shabby room, and Bird had never been lonely
with her father for a companion, and in spite of his own shiftlessness
and poverty he had taught her much that she never would forget; but now
love had gone, and as she crept down the rickety stairs hugging the box,
Lammy stumbling after with the portfolio, her only desire was to go
somewhere, anywhere to get away, lingering only a moment in the kitchen
to collect some scraps of food for the dog. When they reached the porch,
they stopped to fasten the things together with some twine from Lammy's
pocket. The portfolio was full of flower pictures and some designs such
as wall-papers are made from. Bird turned them over lovingly, explaining
as she did so that a man in New York had written to Terry that if he
could do these well, he could earn money, and that he was only waiting
for spring flowers to begin. The letter was still in the portfolio.
"See," she said, "here is one of red peonies all ready to put the last
color in, and father was only waiting for them to bloom, but it is too
late now, so we will take them to him," and she took the bouquet from
Lammy, gently kissing each of the glowing flowers; and then they went
out of the yard in silence, Twinkle first, then Lammy with the bundle,
while Bird hesitated a moment; lifting the sagging gate she dragged it
to, fastened it to the post with the old barrel hoop that had replaced
the latch, and with one parting look shook the tears from her long
lashes and walked straight down the road. At the gate of the little
graveyard Lammy put down the bundle, and they went in together.
"See, I've made it look nice until dad can turf it over," said Lammy,
"and put a little Christmas tree for a head-mark," and sure enough the
mound that a few hours before was a heap of rough gravel was green
with young bayberry twigs and spruce branches, for on the upper side
of the hill had once been a great nursery of evergreens, the seed had
scattered, and the fragrant little Christmas trees had run all down the
hill and clustered in groups around the fence posts.
Kneeling very carefully, Bird arranged the crimson peonies. The country
folk thought only white flowers proper for such a place, but Bird loved
colour and Lammy's gift cheered her more than any words.
"Janey's close by here and grandma," said Lammy, presently, "so it
won't be a bit lonesome for your father, and I was hoping to-day that
he'd remember to tell Janey that you're going to be my sister now and
come down and live at our house, for she'll be glad that mother and I
won't be so lonesome as we've been at our home since she went to heaven.
'Cause you will stop with us, won't you?" he added earnestly as he saw
Bird hesitate. "Mother's going to fix it just as soon as she gets word
from your uncle. She didn't want to write, only dad said she'd ought to
because of the law or something."
"I'll always love you, Lammy," said Bird, slowly, the tears gathering
again, "and I never can like any place so much as this, and I'll never
forget to-day and the red peonies and your covering up the ugly stones,
but I've got to earn my living and I can't be a drag on anybody. I
thought, you know, if there was enough left to get to a city,--New York,
perhaps,--I might learn to paint quicker, and perhaps the man that
wanted Terry to make pictures for wall-paper might tell me how," and
then the poor child, tired and overcome with the long strain and the
new loneliness, could keep up no longer, and, throwing her arms about
Lammy's neck, sobbed, "Oh, take me somewhere out of sight, for I feel as
if I was all falling--way down a--deep--well."
Poor little Bird! All that she knew of the great city was from the
pictures in the papers and an occasional magazine, and it seemed to her
so big and gay and busy that there must be some place in it for her,
and now that night was coming, the country felt so empty and lonely to
the little girl, faint from weariness, and with the door of all the
home she had known closed upon her. For no one but Lammy had had time
to really comfort her, and in her unhappiness God seemed to have taken
her parents away and then hidden Himself. If only Aunt Jimmy had not
had the spell just then and she could have laid her head on Mrs. Lane's
motherly bosom, how different it might all have been. A carriage passed
as they turned into the highway, and the clanking of the harness made
Bird lift her head from Lammy's shoulder where she had hidden it, and
looking up she met the eyes of a young girl who was sitting alone on
the back seat of the handsome victoria. She was perhaps sixteen, or a
little over,--the braids of pale golden hair were fastened up loosely
behind,--and she was beautifully dressed; but it was not the clothes but
her sweet face and wistful big gray eyes that made Bird look a second
time, and then the carriage had passed by.
"How happy she must be," thought Bird.
"I'd rather walk than ride, and wear stubby shoes, or go barefoot, if I
only had a brother so that I need not go alone," was what the other girl
thought.
"That's Miss Marion Clarke that lives in the big stone house on the hill
before you come to Northboro," quoth Lammy. "There's only one of her,
and she can have everything she wants." Then he straightway forgot her.
Bird did not, however, for there was something in the gray eyes that
would not let themselves be forgotten.
By the time they reached the Lane farmhouse Bird was quiet again,
though her eyes drooped with sleep, and Lammy was telling eagerly how
next autumn they could perhaps go over to Northboro to school, for
drawing was taught there, and, he confided to Bird what had never before
taken the form of words, that he too longed to learn to draw, not
flowers, but machinery and engines, such as pulled the trains over at
the Centre.
As they came in sight of the house Lammy noticed that there was a
strange team at the gate, a buggy from the livery-stable at the Centre,
for quiet Lammy kept his eyes open, and knew almost every horse in the
county. On the stoop a short, thick-set man, with a fat, clean-shaven
face, and clad in smart black clothes, stood talking to Lammy's father.
Both men glanced up the road from time to time, and then Lammy noticed
that the stranger held his watch in his hand, and he kept fidgeting and
looking at it as if in a great hurry.
As the children entered the gate they heard Mr. Lane say, "Here she is
now, but you can't catch that evenin' train from the Centre; you'll have
to put over here until morning."
Bird gave a gasp and instinctively clutched Lammy's hand. Could this
be some one from her uncle? Of course it was not he himself, for her
father had been youngish, tall and slight, with fair hair, small feet
and hands, while this man was all of fifty, and had a rough and common
look in spite of his clothes that did not match his heavy boots and
clumsy grimy hands.
For a moment Bird forgot the story of her father's boyhood that he had
so often told her, forgot that fifteen years and a different mother
separated him from his half-brothers, and when Mr. Lane called her, as
she tried to slip in at the side door after Lammy, saying, "Come here,
Bird, this is your Uncle John O'More come from New York," she could only
keep from falling by an effort, and stood still, nervously twisting her
hands in the skirt of her black frock without being able to speak a
word, while Twinkle seated himself at her feet looking anxiously, first
at the stranger, then at Mr. Lane, with his head cocked on one side.
II
HER UNCLE JOHN
"Got a start? Didn't expect to see me here, did you? else maybe you
never knew you had an Uncle John," said the stranger, by way of
greeting, taking Bird roughly, but not unkindly, by the shoulders and
looking her full in the face. Then, noticing how pale she was and that
her eyes were red with crying, he let her go with a pat of his heavy
hand that shook her through and through, saying, half to her and half
to Mr. Lane, "Go along in now and get your supper. You look done up,
and I wouldn't object to a bite myself since I've got to hang around
over night; been chasing round after you since morning, and those
sandwiches I got at that tumble-down ranch at what they call the Centre
were made up of last year's mule-heel. They ain't gone further'n here
yet," he added, striking his chest that was covered by a showy scarf,
emphatically.
Bird began to breathe more freely to know he was going away in the
morning. Her father had told her in one of the long sleepless nights
of his illness about his two half-brothers, one in Australia, as far
as he knew, and the other in New York. Their mother had been a strong,
black-eyed, south-country lass, but his mother, the wife of his father's
later years, was a gentle, fair-haired, English girl, the governess in
the family to which his father was steward. At her death when he was a
lad of about fifteen, family differences arose, and he had gone to his
mother's people until he finally came to America with this brother John.
John was sturdy and coarse-grained; Terence delicate and sensitive.
They soon parted, and in the years between the artist had written
occasionally to his brother, but kept him in ignorance of his poverty.
Yet, in spite of knowing it all, Bird was bitterly disappointed in her
uncle. She built hopes about him, for did he not live in New York, and
there were schools where painting was taught in that magical city, also
the man lived there who wanted the wall-papers. Ah, if her uncle had
only been different, he might have asked her to visit him or perhaps
even have known the wall-paper man himself.
But this uncle seemed an impossibility and fairly repelled her, so that
to get out of his sight was all she desired. Presently she went into the
house, and, after carefully dusting her plain, little, black straw hat
and laying it on the sofa in the best room, she covered her new dress
with Mrs. Lane's gingham apron that hung on its usual peg and fell to
work at helping Lammy with the supper.
Now Bird was a clever little housewife while Lammy was very clumsy at
the work, so that in a few minutes they were both absorbed and chatting
quite cheerfully, never dreaming of the conversation that was going on
in the north porch. Only the white-curtained windows of the best room
could hear it, and they were shut tight.
"Now, Mr. Lane, since the youngster's gone in, I guess we might as well
get right down to business. I've shown you my papers and proofs, and
there's no special use rubbing it into her that her father was a dead
failure clear from the start, and that the sticks of furniture he left
and the few dollars banked or coming from his work 'll only square up
his accounts and leave the kid on the world, so to speak. I own I'm
clean flabbergasted myself, for I thought he was a man of some property
through his wife, for when he wrote, his letters were chuck full of high
ideas for the girl here."
Joshua Lane fidgeted miserably on the edge of his chair, and if ever a
man longed for the presence and ready tongue of his wife, it was he.
"I suppose that's one way o' lookin' at it," he assented after a while,
"but mebbe in some way he didn't flat out so much as it looks. He never
gave an ill word to any one, and Bird here's as smart and talkable and
writes a fist as good as the seminary principal over to Northboro, all
through his teachin', so no wonder she set a store by him. As to leavin'
the child on the world, she'll never feel the hurtin' edge of it while
mother and Joshua Lane's got roof and bite. I told O'More so, and I
reckon it eased him considerable."
"Smart, is she?" echoed the other; "that's a mercy. Girls have to get
a move on them nowadays in the city, and if they can't start in at
type-writing or something when they're sixteen or so, they get shoved
out of the race as leftovers by a new lot before they've earned their
ten a week. I've got a good job now, but I've had to hustle for it and
keep a lively step, too. That's why it goes hard to lose two days'
time on this business. I was mighty afraid when I saw what a forsaken
hole this was that the girl might be green as the grass, and n. g.
altogether. No, I didn't mean any offence," he said, as he noticed
Joshua's face flush at his reference to the pretty hillside village,
"but I've never had a use for the country. Give me streets with a push
of people and a lively noise and trolleys going by at night to remind
you yer alive, if you don't sleep straight through.
"Of course, knowing nothing of the circumstances before I left, I
couldn't quite fix a plan,--might have had to wait around and see to
that mill property if it hadn't vamoosed, but as it is, I don't see why
Bird shouldn't go right back with me to-morrow morning. I've got three
lively boys besides a poor little crippled feller,--them and the city
sights 'll cheer her up. It's different from what I thought to find, and
I don't owe Terry any favours of purse or tongue, but I've no girls, and
blood's thicker 'n water even though the English streak is heatin' to
an all-through Irishman,--but let that go. I'll give her some schooling
until she's fit age to choose her trade, or if she's tasty looking, get
in some good shop, and she can ease her way along meantime in minding
little Billy or helping the woman out. For I'd have you know that though
I've a good job, and there's always meat in the pot, we're plain people
of no pretence. I've money in a land company, though, that'll soon give
us our own home and not so far out either but what a gun would shoot
into the Bowery."
John O'More's speech poured out so rapidly that it almost stunned Joshua
Lane. When he pulled himself together, he gasped: "Did you say that you
calkerlate to take Bird away from us and to-morrow at that? I'll have
to go down to Aunt Jimmy's, I reckon, and call mother to onct," but as
he started from his chair "mother" appeared, coming up the road in the
buggy clucking vigorously to the old gray horse, excitement written in
every line of her homely, lovable face.
As she pulled up the horse at the gate, an entirely unnecessary labour
as for the past ten years he had never willingly gone past it, Joshua,
wearing a white, scared look upon his usually placid face, greeted
her with: "Sakes alive, Lauretta Ann, I'm wonderful put out; it never
rains but it pours; an' 's if there wasn't enough trouble for one
day, Bird's uncle, John O'More, has turned up. He's a rough, drivin',
quick-tongued sort o' chap, like the travellin' man that sold us the
horse-rake that had fits of balking and tearin' up the medder, and when
I complained, he said, says he, 'Why, certainly, I forgot it had the
plough combination,--I had oughter asked you an extry five on it.'"
"Nonsense, Joshua Lane, nobody's going to carry Bird off under our very
noses, uncle or no uncle; I'll soon settle that! But talking of pourin'
rain,--it's certainly let drive on us this day, for your Aunt Jimmy's
had a stroke; and though she can't move she can speak her mind still,
and isn't for lettin' folks in or havin' things done for her as she
ought. I've left Dinah Lucky with her, and I've stopped at Doctor Jedd's
and told him to hurry down, but the time has come when you've just got
to assert yourself willy-nilly. It's you, not me, as is her eldest
nephew and kin, and while I'm more'n willing to do the work, you've got
to show some spunk. Now jist you git into a biled shirt and your good
coat and go down and stand off the neighbours that, now she can't stir,
'll all be wrigglin' and slippin' through that door like eels in the
mill sluice when the gate's up. I'll soon settle that O'More."
Joshua, much relieved, obediently went into the house, while Mrs. Lane,
after looking into the kitchen to be sure that supper was progressing,
smoothed her Sunday dress that she had donned that morning for the
funeral, opened the windows of the best room to impress her visitor with
its green carpet and cabinet organ, and asked John O'More to come in.
"Thanks, Mrs. Lane I take it, but I guess I'll stay out here,--had
enough of shut-up places in that train to-day, besides some ladies
object to smoke in the house."
Before she could speak a word or even notice the long cigar that was
sticking out of his mouth in the direction of his left eye, he had
plunged into the subject at the exact point where it had been dropped.
"Now as to Bird, Mrs. Lane; your husband and I have tongue-threshed
things out, and he can repeat the same to you. I know just how things
stand, so nuff said about what's past. I travel in the west and Canada
for a steady house, and I'm away a good deal; now Bird can be company
for my wife as my kids are all boys. I'll give her schoolin', a trade,
and a shove along on the road in a couple of years. I wouldn't do less
for any kin of my own, and I kind o' take to her."
"But we don't want you to take her, and I reckon she don't either,
for--" put in Mrs. Lane, almost bursting with suppressed speech.
"Excuse me, one moment more, madam," he continued, removing his cigar
and speaking rather more slowly, "I judge that you object to her going
to-morrow; now I can't stop around here, and it's an expensive trip.
Seein' the city 'll be a change, and she'll soon settle down all right."
"But we don't want her to go at all," Mrs. Lane almost shrieked; "we
want her to live with us!"
"As what, for instance?" queried O'More, growing more Irish in his
speech, "a kind of a charity help, or had you intentions of adopting
her by the law? If so, and she wishes, I'll stand in the way of nothing
but a change of her name, to which I'd object."
Mrs. Lane was struck dumb. She had no idea of making a servant of Bird,
but on the other hand she knew that legal adoption would mean to give
Bird a like share with her own boys, and as what little they had, or
might expect, came from her husband's people, this she could not promise
at once.
"I meant--to treat her just like my little girl that died--but"--poor
Mrs. Lane got more and more mixed up--"I haven't asked Joshua about the
adoptin' business--it's so lately happened, we'd not got that far, you
see."
"Yes, mum, I see," said the fat man, drawing his lips together shrewdly,
"yourself has a warm heart, but others, yer own boys likely, may give
it a chill some day, and then where's Bird? No, mum, the girl 'll have
an easier berth with her own, I fancy, and not have to bend her back
drawin' and fetchin' water, either,--we've it set quite handy."
This was said with withering sarcasm for, unfortunately, at that moment,
Bird could be seen lugging in a heavy water bucket from the well,
something she had been warned not to do, and yet did unthinkingly, for
to-day she walked as in a dream.
Mrs. Lane saw that in reality she was helpless, unless she appealed to
Bird herself, and to rouse the child's sensitive spirit she knew would
be not only foolish but wicked, so for once Lauretta Ann Lane sat silent
and with bowed head, only saying with a choking voice, "I will tell her
after--supper--and you'll let--us write--to her, I suppose, and have
her--back to visit if she gets piney for Lammy,--they've been like twin
brother and sister ever since Janey died."
"I will that, ma'am, and I'll say more; if within the year she don't
content herself and settle down and grieves for yer, and yer see it
clear in that time to adopt her fair and square, and guarantee to do by
her as I will,--you'll get the chance."
O'More stretched his legs, stiff with sitting, and jerked his
half-burned cigar into the bushes, while at the same moment Oliver and
Nellis, Lammy's big brothers who worked in Milltown, rode up on their
wheels and the bell rang for supper.
* * * * *
No one but Bird ever knew what Mrs. Lane said to her that night,
during the sad hours that she held the child in her arms in the great
rocking-chair that had soothed to sleep three generations of Lane
babies. Perhaps it soothed poor Bird, too, only she did not know it
then; yet she fell asleep, after a storm of crying, with her arms around
Twinkle, the terrier, as soon as Mrs. Lane had put her to bed, promising
to come back from Aunt Jimmy's early in the morning to awaken her, for
her uncle was to take the nine o'clock train from the Centre.
As Mrs. Lane collected, in a valise, the few clothes that made up
Bird's wardrobe, she felt broken-hearted indeed, but she could not but
realize that if the little girl must go, the quicker the better, and who
knew what might turn up, for Mrs. Lane was always hopeful. But Lammy,
poor boy, could not see one bright spot in the darkness. It was with
difficulty that his father could keep the child, usually so gentle,
from flying at O'More; he stormed and begged and finally, completely
exhausted, fled to the stuffy attic where he fell asleep, pillowed by
some hard ears of seed corn.
Next morning when Bird awoke, she had forgotten and felt much better for
her long sleep, but when she sat up and looked at the strange room, it
all came back. One thought mingled with the dread of parting,--she was
going to New York; there was where the wall-paper man lived and people
learned things. Hope was strong in her also, and never did she doubt
for a moment but what she could win her way and come back some day to
her friends if she could only find the right path.
Downstairs all was confusion. Joshua Lane had come from Aunt Jimmy's to
take O'More over to the judge's house to sign some papers. A man had
followed him up to say Dr. Jedd felt the old lady was worse. Mrs. Lane
was giving Bird a thousand directions and warnings that she couldn't
possibly remember, and in the middle of it all Lammy, looking straight
before him and dumb as an owl, his eyes nearly closed from last night's
crying, drove around in the business wagon to take the travellers to the
station, four good miles away.
"Here's my card, so you'll know where I hang out," said John O'More, as
he stepped into the wagon, holding out a bit of printed pasteboard to
Joshua Lane, "and if you need anything in my line, I'll let you in on
the square." On one corner was the picture of a horse's head, on the
other a wagon, and the letters read, "John O'More with Brush & Burr,
Dealers in Horses, Vehicles of all Kinds, Harness & Stable Fixings."
Then they drove away, Bird keeping her eyes fixed on Twinkle who Lammy
had settled in the straw at their feet.
"To think she was going and I was so put about I never asked the
address," sighed Mrs. Lane, adjusting her glasses and looking at the
card. "For goodness sakes, Joshua, _do_ you suppose he's a horse-jockey?
I sort of hoped he might be in groceries, or coal or lumber,--something
solid and respectable. What would poor Terry say?"
"I really don't know, Lauretta Ann," sighed Joshua, whose slow nature
was showing the wear, tear, and hurry of the last few days; "but he's
Terry's brother, not ourn. It takes all kinds of fellers to make up a
world, and I _hev_ met honest horse-jockeys, and then again I haven't. I
wished I'd thought to ask him the bottom price for a new chaise; ourn is
so weak every time you cross the ford I'm afeared you'll spill through
the bottom into the water," and Joshua turned on his heel and went in to
a belated breakfast, while his wife jerked remarks at the chickens she
made haste to feed, about the heartlessness of all men, which she didn't
in the least mean.
* * * * *
They had ten minutes or so to wait for the train when they reached
the Centre, and, after taking her valise to be checked and buying the
ticket, O'More returned to the wagon for Bird. For the first time
she remembered that she had not asked about Twinkle and perhaps he
might need a ticket. Making a brave effort to get out the name that
choked her, yet too considerate to use the plain Mr., she said: "Uncle
John,--you won't mind if I take Twinkle with me, will you? He's very
clean and clever; I love him dearly and he was so good to Terry when he
was sick."
O'More was the bustling city man now, and whatever sentiment had swayed
him the night before was slept away. He gave a glance at the dog and
shook his head in the negative.
"That's a no account little yaller cur. If your aunt will let you keep a
pup, there's always a litter around the stable you can pick from, though
they're more'n likely to fall off the fire-escape."
The tears came to Bird's eyes, but she blinked them back; but not before
Lammy saw them. "I'll keep Twinkle all safe for you--till--you come
a-visiting," he said in a shaky voice, reading her wish.
Then the train came around the curve and stopped at the big tank to
drink.
"Come along," called O'More.
"Oh, I've forgotten my paint-box and bundle!" said Bird, running back to
get the precious portfolio that had been wrapped in the horse blanket.
"Your what?" said O'More, "paint-box! Just you leave that nonsense to
your chum along with the dog. You've had enough of paints and painting
for your vittles; I'm going to see you stick to bread and meat," and,
waving his hand good-by to Lammy, he flung him a silver dollar, that
missing the wagon rolled in the dirt.
For a moment the sickening disappointment tempted Bird to turn and run
down the track, anywhere so long as she got away; then her pride came to
her aid, and, stretching out her hands to her playmate, she cried, "Keep
them safe for me, oh, Lammy, please do!"
"You bet I will, don't you fret!" he called back.
Then she followed her uncle quietly to the cars, and her last glimpse,
as the train entered the cut, was of Lammy, seated in the old wagon with
Twinkle at his side, the box and the portfolio clasped in his arms, and
a brave smile on his face.
III
AUNT JIMMY
For a few minutes Lammy sat looking after the vanishing train. Then he
carefully wrapped the paint-box and portfolio in the blanket again, and,
patting Twinkle, who was quivering with excitement and looking into his
face with a pitiful, pleading glance, he put the dog down in the straw
again, saying, "We can't help it, old fellow; we've just got to stand it
until we can fix up some way to get her back."
As he turned the wagon about, with much backing and rasping of cramped
wheels, the bright silver dollar that was lying in the dirt caught his
eye. It seemed like a slap in the face when O'More threw it, though in
his rough way he meant well enough, and Lammy's first impulse was to
drive home and leave it where it had fallen.
Still, after all, it was money, and to earn money vaguely seemed to
him the only way by which he could get Bird back again, for though
Lammy had a comfortable home, enough clothing, and plenty to eat, whole
dollars were as rare in his pockets as white robins in the orchard.
So he picked up the shining bit of silver, wiped it carefully on his
sleeve, and, wrapping it in a scrap of paper, opened the precious
paint-box, and tucked the coin into one of the small compartments. It
never occurred to him to spend the money for any of the little things
a boy of fourteen always wants, and he quite forgot that his knife had
only half of one blade left. The money was for Bird, and from that
moment the paint-box, which was to spend some months in his lower bureau
drawer in company with his best jacket and two prizes won at school,
became a savings bank.
Lammy stopped at the "Centre" druggist's for some medicine for Aunt
Jimmy, and while he was waiting for the mixture, he had to undergo a
running fire of questions concerning his aunt's "spell" from the people
who came in from all sections for their mail, as this store was also
the post-office and there was as yet no rural free-delivery system to
deprive the community of its daily trade in news.
Now Aunt Jimmy, otherwise Jemima Lane, occupied an unusual position in
the neighbourhood and was a personage of more than common importance.
In the first place she was a miser, which is always interesting, as a
miser is thought to be a sort of magician whose money is supposed to
lie hidden in the chimney and yet increase as by double cube root; then
she owned ten acres of the best land for small fruits--strawberries,
raspberries, currants, and peaches--in the state. The ground was on the
southern slope of Laurel Ridge, and though it was shielded in such a way
that the March sun did not tempt the peach blossoms out before their
time, yet Aunt Jimmy's strawberries were always in the Northboro market
a full week ahead of the other native fruit.