flickering through the open front of the stove, planning how they would
fix Aunt Jimmy's--or rather _his_--house, as his mother called it, and
when they would move. Of course, Lammy wished to go at once--even a
week seemed a long delay. Mrs. Lane hesitated, for she had thoughts
of waiting until spring; yet, on the other hand, she could not well
leave the house empty or travel up and down to tend the chickens.
Aunt Jimmy's house was by far the easier to heat, and now as they must
keep a hired man permanently, he could be put into their present house
and everything settle down for a comfortable winter of work, rest, and
planning, so she said, much to Lammy's joy, that she thought they could
be in by Christmas and then make the improvements at their leisure.
"Yes, we can wait to paper the rooms--that is, all except Bird's," he
added. "I'd like to have hers fixed up for her when she comes, white and
a paper with wild roses--that's what she likes, and she made a pattern
for one once and was going to send it to the wall-paper man when her
father finished the red piney pattern, only he never did." And Lammy
told his mother of Bird's hopes about her work, ending by taking the
string that held the key from about his neck and saying:--
"Please unlock my lower drawer and give me Bird's bundle that her uncle
would not let her take with her; if I can't see her, I can look at her
things. I know she wouldn't mind, because I went back in through the
cellar with her that last day and tied them up; only I didn't do it very
well because there was no good paper and string. I'd like to fix them
better and put up the paint-box by itself," he said, fumbling with the
knots, as his mother, much interested, took a fresh sheet of paper from
the press closet behind the bed.
As she reseated herself, the string broke, and the contents of the
hastily made bundle were scattered about the bed. Lammy picked up the
water-colour drawings carefully, one by one, and smoothed them out
with the greatest care. There were a couple of dozen of them, besides
those of the wild roses and the peony design, which Mrs. Lane at once
recognized from its spirit, even though it was unfinished.
Suddenly Lammy cried out in delight, for there before him was a
pen-and-ink sketch of Bird herself, much younger and happier than when
he had last seen her, but still his little friend to the life.
"Oh, mother," he said, as soon as he had feasted his eyes on it, "do you
think there could be any harm in putting this up on the mantel-shelf
where I could look at it--just for a few days until we go to get
Bird back?" And of course his mother assured him that there could be
no possible harm. Then, completely satisfied, he laid the sheets of
drawing-paper together again and prepared to make them into a neat, flat
package.
"You've dropped this out," said his mother, reaching across the bed
to pick up something that had slid down between the coverlid and the
wall, and laid what seemed to be a letter in a long, heavy, brown manila
envelope tied with pink tape in front of Lammy.
"I don't know what that is," he said, looking it over; "it must have
been between the pictures when we pulled them out of her father's box,
because those were all I saw when I made the bundle up. See, there's
writing on this side," and holding it up to the light, for the winter
twilight was setting in, he read slowly:--
"'Papers concerning the Turner Mill Farm Property,--to be recorded.' I
wonder what that means."
Mrs. Lane's eyes fairly bulged, and great drops of sweat stood on her
forehead as she answered: "Means? It means, Lammy Lane, that the Lord
don't forget the orphan, and if Bird O'More _is_ in New York, he's
lookin' after her business right here in Laurelville.
[Illustration: "'_It means, Lammy Lane, that the Lord don't forget the
orphan._'"]
"The meaning of that letter is what Abiram Slocum burnt up his
cross-road house to conceal, which he wouldn't hev done if it was of no
account." And Mrs. Lane poured out her suspicions and ideas concerning
the matter.
* * * * *
At the supper-table that night Mrs. Lane repeated Abiram Slocum's
message to her husband, and he, rubbing his chin with a troubled air,
replied, "Truth be told, Lauretta Ann, owin' to the burnin' of that
furniture there isn't a cent left to pay that claim, and I do hate to
have poor O'More held up as an insolvent around here for sixty dollars,
'count o' Bird. He was a good-natured, harmless sort o' feller, enjoyin'
of himself as he went, very much like I'd be if you hadn't taken up with
me, Mis'is Lane."
At this compliment Mrs. Lane blushed like a girl and murmured something
about all men bein' the better for women's handling, provided it was the
right woman, which Mis'is Slocum wasn't.
"Now as far as that sixty dollars goes, if it wasn't owed to 'Biram
Slocum, I'd undertake ter pay it myself, so as to get the receipt and
settle everything square up and clean billed, but, by jinks, it sticks
me to pay that low-down swindler."
"Joshua Lane!" cried his wife, in a tragic tone, standing up and
pointing her pudgy finger at him with such a jerk that it made him start
as if it had been a bayonet, while she used the most grandiloquent
language she could muster: "The estate of the late lamented Terence
O'More does not owe Abiram Slocum a bent penny, and as to the receipt
for the same, I'll hand it to you this time to-morrow night, leastwise
if it doesn't blow a blizzard 'twixt now and then, or Mis'is Slocum turn
'Biram into pickled peppers by the sight of the face she wore home from
the auction."
"Come now, Lauretta Ann," wheedled Joshua, "you ain't minded of paying
it, be ye? I'd think twice--that I would."
"Pay!" snorted Lauretta. "Don't I tell you there's nothin' owed?"
"You're talkin' an' actin' enigmas and charades. Not thet it's anything
new, but if I was you, I'd be mighty keerful how I baited 'Biram Slocum;
he is too cute for most men, and he would take to the law for a heedless
word jest now, he's that riled about the wardrobe story leakin' out and
losing the fruit farm."
"That's all right, and don't you fret, Joshua; if there is any law
called in, it'll be by me." And pump and quiz as he might, not another
word could he extract from his wife upon the subject.
* * * * *
Early the next morning Mrs. Lane harnessed the "colt," which, though
ten years old, still bore his youthful name, to the cutter, and after
putting her egg-basket deep under the robe and depositing her satchel
on top of it, turned up the hill road toward Northboro, waving her whip
good-by to Lammy, who, seated in the big chair in his window, smiled at
her, with his finger pressed to his lips, as if cautioning silence.
As the sleigh bells jingled and the "colt" loped easily along, Mrs. Lane
leaned back as if the motion and jolly sound expressed her own feelings
admirably, and the miles flew swiftly by.
When Northboro was reached, she drove to the stable where she always
left her horse in unseasonable weather, but instead of carrying the
familiar egg-basket into town, she stowed it away under the sleigh seat,
and hanging her satchel securely on her arm, drew on her best gloves
that she had brought in her pocket, and started up the main street at
a vigorous trot. Coming to a gray stone building next the court-house,
where many lawyers had offices, she read the various signs anxiously,
and then spying that of Mr. Cole, opened the swinging outside door and
climbed the two flights of stairs that led to it.
Mr. Cole greeted her pleasantly, for he had a very kindly feeling
toward this generous-hearted woman; but when he heard her story and saw
the legal-looking envelope, he became doubly interested. Untying the
tape, he read the various papers through, one after the other, while
Mrs. Lane watched his eagerness with evident satisfaction. When he had
finished, he replaced the papers and tied them up deliberately before he
said: "These papers appear to me to be of great importance to O'More's
daughter, though exactly what they amount to I cannot tell until I see
the dates of certain mortgages and transfers on record in Milltown.
Fortunately the attorney, Mr. King, who drew up the papers before he
went to California four years ago, has returned on a visit, and I am to
meet him in court this afternoon."
"I suppose you know Bird hasn't anything to pay what Joshua says they
call the retainment fee, but if a little money 'll help her get her
rights, you may hold me good for it."
"That will not be necessary," said the lawyer, smiling, "for my client,
Mr. Clarke, is as anxious to have the title to the Mill Farm cleared
as you are, so in serving him I may be able to aid Bird. Slocum, the
present owner, seems a slippery man at best. You know that the insurance
company, for which I also happen to be the agent, withholds his claim
because he gave the date of June 9 for his fire when it took place the
10th."
At this Mrs. Lane's eyes grew steelly bright, and she moistened her
lips nervously. Then Mr. Cole put the papers in his safe and closed the
door with its mysterious lock, and Mrs. Lane breathed a sigh of relief
and, asking him to write as soon as he had news, either good or bad,
went carefully down the shallow marble stairs of the office building,
for elevators she would have none of.
Once more in the street, she spied a bakery and, going in, ordered a cup
of coffee and half a custard pie, which she ate with relish and then
returned to the stable for the "colt" without doing any of her usual
market-day trading.
It was only half-past eleven when Mrs. Lane, coming down the hill road,
saw Laurelville lying before her in the valley, and five minutes later
when she hitched the colt in front of the town-house, throwing the coon
lap-robe over him in addition to his blanket.
The selectmen had been in consultation, and were now standing outside,
making holes in the snow with their boot toes and finding it difficult
to break away, after the usual manner of rural communities. Mrs. Lane
nodded pleasantly and asked if every one else had gone home to dinner.
"Mostly," replied First Selectman Penfield, "but Judge Ricker's in his
office, I reckon, and Slocum, he's in the end room as 'cessor, waitin'
for folks to swear their taxes, for which they appear to be in no
hurry."
This was exactly the information Mrs. Lane wanted, and she walked
directly down the corridor, this time firmly grasping the egg-basket and
leaving the satchel outside.
Opening the door without knocking, she had entered, closed it, and
seated herself opposite Abiram Slocum before he was aware of her
presence, and do what he could, he was not able to control the slight
start that her appearance gave him.
"Morning, marm," he said formally, putting his thumbs in the armholes of
his vest and puffing out his cheeks with importance; "want to swear your
taxes?"
"Not to-day; Joshua always attends to that. I've jest dropped in ter get
that receipt for the O'More rent, as Joshua intends settling the matter
up with Judge Ricker this afternoon."
"Very glad to hear it, Mrs. Joshua Lane; it saves me lots of trouble,
and I hate to go to law unless required." And he drew a blank form from
a desk, which he filled in, signed, and was about to hand across the
table, when he suddenly withdrew it, saying, "Well, where are the sixty
dollars?"
"They was paid you June the 10th."
"What!" shouted Abiram, really believing the woman to be crazy, and
retreating behind the table.
"Just so; by that I mean all that good furniture you set fire to along
with your house."
Slocum turned ghastly white and almost staggered, but quickly recovering
himself, he sprang forward furiously, and for a moment Mrs. Lane thought
he was going to strike her, but glancing out the window she saw that
Selectman Penfield was below, and this reassured her.
"I'll have you arrested for slander as sure as my name's Abiram Slocum,"
he gasped, trying to get out the door in front of which she stood.
"I wouldn't be too hasty; if you wait, you will hear more to get up
that slander claim on, mostlike. Jest you go back and set down while I
have my say, and if you want witnesses to it, Judge Ricker will step
in, I'm sure, or Mr. Penfield either; they are both real handy. As you
said yesterday, _there's underhand business been goin' on in town if the
light o' truth could be let in_, which I'm now doin'."
So Abiram hesitated, and sank back into the chair, casting an uneasy
look at his visitor, who proceeded to state her case both rapidly and
clearly.
"'Twas Friday, the 10th of June, you fired that house, though you did
give into the insurance company 'twas the 9th." (Here again Slocum
jumped, and his hands worked nervously.)
"The 10th was circus day, and most all the town had gone to Northboro.
Likewise Lockwood's field-hands went, and so there were no men folks
working up beyond four corners; this gave you a clear coast.
"You started for the circus with Mis'is Slocum and 'Ram; you turned
back, giving it out you'd got important business at the Mill Farm. But
you didn't go, and turned up before noon at the turnpike store, where
you never trade. There you bought a new gallon can of kerosene, saying
you was going up to the north lots to make a wash of it fer tent-worms
in the apple trees. Now there ain't even a wild crab tree in the north
lots--only corn-fields.
"You went up that way all right, and a-spookin' around the house.
Everything was tight fast, and so the only place you could get in was by
crawlin' through the cellar winder, which you did, tearin' a new pair o'
herrin'-bone pattern trousers so doin'."
Again Slocum started, and his face wore a look of intense wonder mixed
with fear.
"After you looked about for what you didn't find, you spilled the
kerosene about and set fire so's nobody could get what maybe you'd
overlooked.
"Then you scooted back in the corn lot and hid the can in the big
blasted chestnut stump, and when a hue and cry was raised walked down as
innercent as May, from hoein' corn that wasn't yet above ground!"
By this time Slocum had pulled himself together, and his defiance
returned.
"Woman, you are crazy, and what you say is perfectully redeclous; I'll
have you behind asylum bars, if not in jail. Mere talk! You can't prove
a word you say, and what is this 'thing' that I couldn't find and wanted
to burn? Just tell me that!"
"Prove? Oh, yes, I can; Lauretta Ann Lane is no random talker.
"Here's the pants you wore, and that you sold the pedler the same
afternoon--they smell yet o' kerosene, and here's the piece ye tore out
on the winder-catch!" And Mrs. Lane whipped the telltale trousers out of
her egg-basket.
"The kerosene can's in the stump yet, but I've got it all straight; that
poor Polack woman you turned out of house and home seen you hide it. Now
what else was there?" And Mrs. Lane affected a lapse of memory.
"Oh, yes; you wanted to know what you was a-lookin' for. Why, don't
you know? It was a big lawyer's envelope marked 'Papers concerning the
Turner Mill Farm Property,--to be recorded.'"
Slocum breathed hard and grasped the table edge to steady himself.
"Jest why you wanted them papers I don't know, but Lawyer Cole in
Northboro, who's got 'em, is goin' to find out."
"Lawyer Cole has them?" Slocum whispered hoarsely; "Lawyer Cole, did you
say?"
"Yes, I did!" repeated Mrs. Lane; "and if you don't think the testimony
I've been givin' you is true, and consider it a slander, I've got it
writ out, and I'll have him search that out too."
"No, no," said Slocum, speaking as if to himself. "How did you ever
find--" and then he remembered and stopped. Mrs. Lane waited a few
minutes, and then said:--
"It's full noon now, and I must get home to dinner, so I'll trouble
you for that rent receipt. Thanks, and I'll give you a word of advice
in return. The Lord mostly finds out evil-doers, and not infrequent He
trusts women to help Him, and I want you to consider that if I don't
give this matter a public airin', it isn't from either pity or fear of
you, but because I don't want the county to know that we harboured such
a skunk among us so long; my last word being that you'd better get away
from my neighbourhood before I change my mind!"
So it came about that before Christmas Abiram Slocum gave it out that
his wife's health was poor and he had been advised to go to California,
where he intended to buy a vineyard, hinting at the same time that as
he expected to sell a large tract of land to Mr. Clarke, he had no
further interest in Laurelville; and though only four people knew the
real reason, the whole village rejoiced without the slightest effort at
concealment.
At the same time Joshua Lane found that his work as administrator of the
O'More property had only begun instead of being closed.
XIV
THE FIRE-ESCAPE
What had Bird O'More been doing these many days? It did not need the
skill of a magician to tell why even her notes to her Laurelville
friends had been brief at best and then finally ceased. A single peep at
her surroundings would have told the tale, and the more completely she
became merged in them, the more hopeless she felt them to be.
Her weekly work in distributing the flowers was a bright spot indeed, as
well as her visits to Tessie; but as she looked forward to the time when
frost would kill the blossoms, the Flower Mission be closed, and the
liberty of streets and parks cut off for confinement in the dark flat,
her heart sank indeed.
All her hopes were centred about going to school, and the possibilities
of meeting teachers who would understand her desire to learn, and
help her with sympathy. Meanwhile, the city summer had told upon her
country-bred body even more than on her sensitive temperament, and she
grew thinner every day, until finally her aunt was compelled to see
it in spite of herself, and promised to take her down to Coney Island
or Rockaway Beach "some day" when she was not busy, to freshen her up
a bit; but that day never came, and as little Billy was constantly
improving, her uncle had eyes only for him. In fact, the change in the
little cripple was little short of marvellous. Of course his lameness
remained, but his cheeks were round, his lips had lost their blue tint,
and to hear him cry or complain was a rare sound indeed. That all this
came of Bird's devoted care her uncle was quite convinced; for it was
she who gave Billy his morning bath, and managed,--no easy task,--that
the battered tub should not again be used for a cupboard. It was Bird
who took his food into the fire-escape bower, and coaxed and tempted
him until he had eaten sufficient, and it was she who put him nightly
into the little bed opposite her own and taught him to say, as a little
prayer, the verse of the hymn her own mother had sung to her in the
misty long ago:--
"Jesus, gentle Shepherd, hear me;
Bless thy little lamb to-night:
Through the darkness be thou near me;
Keep me safe till morning light."
But for Billy, Bird could not have endured through that dreadful summer.
As it was, she often fingered her "keepsake," still hanging about her
neck, the thought comforting her that with the mysterious coin in it she
could get back once more to the little village that seemed like heaven
to her, no matter what happened after. Often, in fact, the only thing
that kept her from running away was the belief that if her good friends
could take her permanently, they would have sent for her, and pride,
heroic pride, born of Old and New England, was still strong in Ladybird.
"She'll perk up when school begins and she gets acquainted with girls
her own age," said O'More, cheerfully, as his attention was called to
her pale cheeks by his wife. "I'm owin' her good will for what she's
done for Billy, else I most wish I'd left her up there with those
hayseeds that wanted her. Somehow she don't fit in here, for all
that she never complains. She's different from us, and she makes me
uncomfortable, lookin' so solemn at me if I chance to take off my coat
and collar of a night at supper to ease up a bit. Terence was different
from us, too, and it's bred in the bone."
"Let well enough alone," said Mrs. O'More, glad to have Billy so
completely taken off her hands; "folks can't afford to be different to
their own, unless they've got the price. I've made her a good dress out
of a remnant of bright plaid I bought, so next week she can shell off
them shabby black duds that give me the shivers every time I see them.
Maybe fixin' up like other girls 'll bring her to and liven her. She's
queer though, sure enough, don't give no sass, and it ain't natural; I
never seen a girl her age before that didn't talk back, and sometimes it
riles me to see her keep so close shet when I up and let fly."
In September school began, but this brought further disappointment,
for Bird had hoped to find a friend at least in the teacher. She was,
however, graded according to her size and age, not ability, as if she
had been a wooden box, and found herself in an overcrowded room, a
weak-eyed little Italian, with brass earrings, seated on one side of
her, and the Polish sausage-seller's daughter on the other, her dirty
hands heavy with glass rings, which caused her to keep whispering
behind Bird's back as to her lack of jewellery and style; while at the
first recess this little Slav told the astonished Bird, "If yer tink
to get in vid us, you'll got to pomp you 'air; dis crowt, we's stylish
barticular--ve iss."
As to the teacher in trim shirt-waist, with pretty hands and hair, to
whom the class recited in chorus, Bird longed to speak to her, to touch
her, but she fled to a purer atmosphere as soon as school was out, and
was remote as the stars.
As the weather grew cool, the fire-escape arbour was abandoned; they
could spend less time out of doors, and Bird felt caged indeed. The
engine-house now was the limit of their walks, for it grew dark very
soon after school was out. Still they never tired of seeing the horses
dash out, and Billy called Big Dave "my fireman," and used to shout to
him as he passed in the street. So the autumn passed.
* * * * *
It was a clear, cold afternoon a little before Christmas; the shops were
gay with pretty things, and the streets with people. Billy was in a
fever of excitement because his father, who had left home on a business
trip a few days before, had promised him a Christmas tree, and Bird had
gone out to buy the candles and some little toys to put on it, at a
street stall. Billy, however, did not go, for he was not to see the toys
until Christmas Eve.
Bird wandered across to Broadway at 23rd Street, and then followed the
stream of shoppers southward. Was it only a year since last Christmas
when she had helped trim the tree at Sunday-school in Laurelville and
had sung the treble-solo part in--
"Watchman! tell us of the night;
What the signs of promise are."
Would there ever again be any signs of promise for her? Somehow she
had never before felt so lonely for her father as in that merry crowd.
She wondered if he saw and was disappointed in her, and what Lammy was
doing. Going up on the hill probably with the other village children to
cut the Christmas tree and greens for church.
Not minding where she went, she followed the crowd on past and around
Union Square and down town again. Then realizing that she was facing
away from home and had not bought her candles, she looked up and saw on
the opposite side of the street a beautiful gray stone church. At one
side and joined to it was what looked like a house set well back from
the street, from which it was separated by a wide garden. People were
going in and out of the church by twos and threes.
A voice seemed to call Bird, and she too crossed Broadway and timidly
pushed open the swinging door.
At first she could see nothing, as the only lights in the church were
near the chancel. Then different objects began to outline themselves.
There was no service going on, the people having come in merely for a
few quiet moments.
Bird stood quite still in the little open space by a side door back of
the pews; it was the first really peaceful time she had known since
the day that she and Lammy carried the red peonies to the hillside
graveyard, and as she thought of it, she seemed to smell the sweet
spruce fragrance of those runaway Christmas trees that watched where her
parents slept.
A flock of little choir boys trooped in from an opposite door for the
final practice of their Christmas carols and grouped themselves in
the stalls. Next a quiver of sound rushed through the church as the
great organ drew its breath and swelled its lungs, as if humming the
melody before breaking into voice. Then above its tones rang a clear
boy-soprano.
"Watchman! tell us of the night
What the signs of promise are."
and the chorus answered--
"Traveller! o'er yon mountain height,
See that glory-beaming star."