ON THE THRESHOLD OF SHELTER.
Alas! To-day I would give everything
To see a friend's face, or hear voice
That had the slightest tone of comfort in it.--_Longfellow_.
About two miles from the town of Belden, N. H., stands an irregular farm
house that looks more like two dwellings forced to pass as one. One part
of it is all gables, and tile, and chimney corners, and antiquity, and
the other is square, slated, and of the newest cut, outside and in.
The farm is the property of Squire Amasa Bartlett, a good type of the big
man of the small place. He was a contented and would have been a happy
man--or at least thought he would have been--if the dearest wish of his
life could have been realized. It was that his son, Dave, and his wife's
niece, Kate, should marry. Kate was an orphan and the Squire's ward.
She owned the adjoining land, that was farmed with the Squire's as one.
So that Cupid would not have come to them empty handed; but the young
people appeared to have little interest in each other apart from that
cousinly affection which young people who are brought together would in
all probability feel for each other.
Dave was a handsome, dark-eyed young man, whose silence passed with some
for sulkiness; but he was not sulky--only deep and thoughtful, and
perhaps a little more devoid of levity than becomes a young man of
twenty-five. He had great force of character--you might have seen that
from his grave brow, and felt it in his simple speech and manner, that
was absolutely free from affectation.
Dave was his mother's idol, but his utter lack of worldliness, his
inability to drive a shrewd bargain sometimes annoyed his father, who was
a just, but an undeniably hard man, who demanded a hundred cents for his
dollar every day in the year.
Kate, whom the family circle hoped would one day be David's wife, was all
blonde hair, blue eyes and high spirits, so that the little blind god,
aided by the Squire's strategy, propinquity and the universal law of the
attraction of opposites, should have had no difficulty in making these
young people fall in love--but Destiny, apparently, decided to make them
exceptions to all rules.
Kate was fond of going to Boston to visit a schoolmate, and the Squire,
who looked with small favor on these visits, was disposed to attribute
them to Dave's lack of ardor.
"Confound it, Looizy," he would say to his wife, "if Dave made it more
lively for Kate she would not be fer flying off to Boston every time she
got a chance."
And Mrs. Bartlett had no answer. Having a woman's doubtful gift of
intuition, she was afraid that the wedding would never take place, and
also having a woman's tact she never annoyed her husband by saying so.
Kate, who had been in Boston for two months, was coming home about the
middle of July, and a little flutter of preparation went all over the
farm.
Dave had said at breakfast that he regretted not being able to go to
Wakefield to meet Kate, but that he would be busy in the north field all
day. Hi Holler, the Bartlett chore boy, had been commissioned to go in
his stead, and Hi's toilet, in consequence, had occupied most of the
morning.
Mrs. Bartlett was churning in the shadow of the wide porch, the Squire
was mending a horse collar with wax thread, and fussing about the heat
and the slowness of Hi Holler, who was always punctually fifteen minutes
late for everything.
"Confound it, Looizy, what's keeping that boy; the train'll get in before
he's started. Here you, Hi, what's keeping you?"
The delinquent stood in the doorway, his broad face rippling with smiles;
he had spent time on his toilet, but he felt that the result justified it.
His high collar had already begun to succumb to the day, and the labor
involved in greasing his boots, which were much in evidence, owing to the
brevity of the white duck trousers that needed but one or two more
washings, with the accompanying process of shrinking, to convert them
into knickerbockers. Bear's grease had turned his ordinary curling brown
hair into a damp, shining mass that dripped in tiny rills, from time to
time, down on his coat collar, but Hi was happy. Beau Brummel, at the
height of his sartorial fame, never achieved a more self-satisfying
toilet.
The Squire adjusted his spectacles. "What are you dressing up like that
on a week day for, Hi? Off with you now; and if you ain't in time for
them cars you'll catch 'Hail Columbia' when you get back."
"Looizy," said the Squire, as soon as Hi was out of hearing, "why didn't
Dave go after Katie? Yes, I know about the hay. Hay is hay, but it
ought not to come first in a man's affections."
"You'd better let 'em alone, Amasy; if they're going to marry they will
without any help from us; love affairs don't seem to prosper much, when
old folks interfere."
"Looizy, it's my opinion that Dave's too shy to make up to women folks.
I don't think he'll even get up the courage to ask Kate to marry him."
"Well, I never saw the man yet who was too bashful to propose to the
right woman." And a great deal of decision went into the churning that
accompanied her words.
"Mebbe so, mebbe so," said the Squire. He felt that the vagaries of the
affections was too deep a subject for him. "Anyhow, Looizy, I don't want
no old maids and bachelors potterin' round this farm getting cranky
notions in their heads. Look at the professor. Why, a good woman would
have taken the nonsense out of him years ago."
Mrs. Bartlett did not have to go far to look at the professor. He was
flying about her front garden at that very moment in an apparently
distracted state, crouching, springing, hiding back of bushes and
reappearing with the startling swiftness of magic. The Bartletts were
quite used to these antics on the part of their well-paying summer
boarder. He was chasing butterflies--a manifestly insane proceeding, of
course, but if a man could afford to pay ten dollars a week for summer
board in the State of New Hampshire, he could afford to chase butterflies.
Professor Sterling was an old young man who had given up his life to
entomology; his collection of butterflies was more vital to him than any
living issue; the Bartletts regarded him as a mild order of lunatic,
whose madness might have taken a more dangerous form than making up long
names for every-day common bugs.
"Look at him, just look at him, Looizy, sweating himself a day like this,
over a common dusty miller. It beats all, and with his money."
"Well, it's a harmless amusement," said the kindly Louisa, "there's a
heap more harmful things that a man might chase than butterflies."
The stillness of the midsummer day was broken by the sound of far-off
singing. It came in full-toned volume across the fields, the high
soaring of women's voices blended with the deeper harmony of men.
"What's that?" said the Squire testily, looking in the direction of the
strawberry beds, from whence the singing came.
"It's only the berry-pickers, father," said David, coming through the
field gate and going over to the well for a drink.
"I wish they'd work more and sing less," said the Squire. "All this
singing business is too picturesque for me."
"They've about finished, father. I came for the money to pay them off."
It was characteristic of Dave to uphold the rights of the berry-pickers.
They were all friends of his, young men and women who sang in the village
choir and who went out among their neighbors' berry patches in summer,
and earned a little extra money in picking the fruit. The village
thought only the more of them for their thrift, and their singing at the
close of their work was generally regarded in the light of a favor.
Zeke, Sam, Cynthia and Amelia who formed the quartet, had all fine voices
and no social function for miles around Wakefield was complete without
their music.
The Squire said no more about the berry-pickers. Dave handed him a paper
on which the time of each berry-picker and the amount of his or her wage
was marked opposite. The Squire took it and adjusted his glasses with a
certain grimness--he was honest to the core, but few things came harder
to him than parting with money.
Dave and his mother at the churn exchanged a friendly wink. The
extracting of coin from the head of the house was no easy process.
Mother and son both enjoyed its accomplishment through an outside agency.
It was too hard a process in the home circle to be at all agreeable.
While the Squire was wrestling with his arithmetic, Dave noticed a
strange girl pass by the outer gate, pause, go on and then return. He
looked at her with deep interest. She was so pale and tired-looking it
seemed as if she had not strength enough left to walk to the house. Her
long lashes rested wearily on the pale cheeks. She lifted them with an
effort, and Dave found himself staring eagerly in a pair of great,
sorrowful brown eyes.
The girl came on unsteadily up the walk to where the Squire sat, thumbing
his account to the berry-pickers. "Well, girl, who are you?" he said,
not as unkindly as the words might imply.
The sound of her own voice, as she tried to answer his question, was like
the far-off droning of a river. It did not seem to belong to her. "My
name is Moore--Anna Moore--and I thought--I hoped perhaps you might be
good enough to give me work." The strange faces spun about her eyes.
She tottered and would have fallen if Dave had not caught her.
Dave, the silent, the slow of action, the cool-headed, seemed suddenly
bereft of his chilling serenity. "Here, mother, a chair; father, some
water, quick." He carried the swooning girl to the shadow of the porch
and fanned her tenderly with his broad-brimmed straw hat.
The old people hastened to do his bidding. Dave, excited and issuing
orders in that tone, was too unusual to be passed over lightly.
"What were you going to say, Miss Moore?" said the Squire as soon as the
brown eyes opened.
"I thought, perhaps, I might find something to do here--I'm looking for
work."
"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Bartlett, smoothing the dark curls, "you are
not fit to stand, let alone work."
"You could not earn your salt," was the Squire's less sympathetic way of
expressing the same sentiment. "Where is your home?"
"I have no home." She looked at them desperately, her dark eyes
appealing to one and the other, as if they were the jury that held her
life in the balance. Only one pair of eyes seemed to hold out any hope.
"If you would only try me I could soon prove to you that I am not
worthless." Unconsciously she held out her hand in entreaty.
"Here we are, here we are, all off for Boston!" The voice was Hi's. He
was just turning in at the field gate with Kate beside him. Kate, a
ravishing vision, in pink muslin; a smiling, contented vision of happy,
rosy girlhood, coming back to the home-nest, where a thousand welcomes
awaited her.
"Hello, every one!" she said, running in and kissing them in turn, "how
nice it is to be home."
They forgot the homeless stranger and her pleading for shelter in their
glad welcome to the daughter of the house. She had shrunk back into the
shadow. She had never felt the desolation, the utter loneliness of her
position so keenly before.
"Hurrah for Kate!" cried the Squire, and everyone took it up and gave
three cheers for Kate Brewster.
The wanderer withdrew into the deepest shadow of the porch, that her
alien presence might not mar the joyous home-coming of Kate Brewster.
There was no jealousy in her soul for the fair girl who had such a royal
welcome back to the home-nest. She would not have robbed her of it if
such a thing had been possible, but the sense of her own desolation
gripped at the heart like an iron band.
She waited like a mendicant to beg for the chance of earning her bread.
That was all she asked--the chance to work, to eat the bread of
independence, and yet she knew how slim the chance was. She had been
wandering about seeking employment all day, and no one would give it.
Only Dave had not forgotten the stranger is the joy of Kate's
home-coming. He had welcomed the flurry of excitement to say a few words
to his mother, his sworn ally in all the little domestic plots.
"Mother," he said, "do contrive to keep that girl. It would be nothing
short of murder to turn her out on the highway."
A pressure of the motherly hand assured Dave that he could rely on her
support.
"Well, well, Katie," said the Squire with his arm around his niece's
waist, "the old place has been lonely without you!"
"Uncle, who is that girl on the porch?" she asked in an undertone.
"That we don't know; says her name is Moore, and that she wants work.
Kind of sounds like a fairy story, don't it, Kate?"
"Poor thing, poor thing!" was Kate's only answer.
"Amasy," said Mrs. Bartlett, assuming all the courage of a rabbit about
to assert itself, "this family is bigger than it was with Kate home and
the professor here, and I am not getting younger--I want you to let me
keep this young woman to help me about the house."
The Squire set his jaw, always an ominous sign to his family. "I don't
like this takin' strangers, folks we know nothing about; it's mighty
suspicious to see a young woman tramping around the country, without a
home, looking for work. I don't like it."
The girl, who sat apart while these strangers considered taking her in,
as if she had been a friendless dog, arose, her eyes were full of unshed
tears, her voice quivered, but pride supported her. Turning to the
Squire, she said:
"You are suspicious because you are blest with both home and family. My
mother died a few months ago, I myself have been ill. I make this
explanation not because your kindness warrants it, sir, but because your
family would have been willing to take me on faith." She bowed her head
in the direction of Mrs. Bartlett and Dave.
"Well," the Squire interrupted, "you need not go away hungry, you can
stop here and eat your dinner, and then Hi Holler can take you in the
wagon to the place provided for such unfortunate cases, and where you'll
have food and shelter."
"The poor farm, do you mean?" the girl said, wildly; "no, no; if you will
not give me work I will not take your charity."
"Father!" exclaimed Dave and his mother together.
"Now, now," said Kate, going up to the Squire and putting her hands on
his shoulders, "it seems to me as if my uncle's been getting a little
hard while I've been away from home, and I don't think it has improved
him a bit. The uncle I left here had a heart as big as a house. What
has he done with it?"
Here the professor came to Kate's aid. "Squire," said he, "isn't it
written that 'If ye do it unto the least of these, ye do it unto me?'"
"Well, well," said the Squire, "when a man's family are against him,
there's only one thing for him to do if he wants any peace of mind, and
that is to come round to their way, and I ain't never goin' to have it
said I went agin the _Scripter_." He went over to Anna and took her
pale, thin hand in his great brown one.
"Well, little woman, they want you to stay, and I am not going to
interfere. I leave it to you that I won't live to regret it."
This time the tears splashed down the pale cheeks. "Dear sir, I thank
you, and I promise you shall never repent this kindness." Then turning
to the rest--"I thank you all. I can only repay you by doing my best."
"Well said, well said," and Kate gave her a sisterly pat on the shoulder.
Anna would not listen to Mrs. Bartlett's kind suggestion that she should
rest a little while. She went immediately to the house, removed her hat,
and returned completely enveloped in a big gingham apron that proved
wonderfully becoming to her dark beauty--or was it that the homeless,
hunted look had gone out of those sorrowful eyes?
And so Anna Moore had found a home at last, one in which she would have
to work early and late to retain a foothold--but still a home, and the
word rang in her ears like a soothing song, after the anguish of the last
year. Her youth and beauty, she had long since discovered, were only
barriers to the surroundings she sought. There had been many who offered
to help the friendless girl, but their offers were such that death seemed
preferable, by contrast, and Anna had gone from place to place, seeking
only the right to earn her bread, and yet, finding only temptation and
danger.
Dave, passing out to the barn, stopped for a moment to regard her, as she
sat on the lowest step of the porch, with her sleeves rolled above the
elbow, working a bowl of butter. He smiled at her encouragingly--it was
well that none of his family saw it. Such a smile from the shy, silent
Dave might have been a revelation to the home circle.
[Illustration: Martha Perkins and Maria Poole.]