GOODY’S BOY.
THE right of Spring to exercise idiosyncrasies of weather was conceded,
doubtless, by the first man. Spring is well known to be female, for this
very proclivity of changing her mind as to what she will do next. Having
been a spitfire nearly all night, Spring smiled in the morning, as balmy
as if she had caught the fancy of some tropical zephyr, that hastened
rashly northward to catch her for a kiss.
The first ray of the sun found itself entangled in the hair of Mistress
Merrill. Garde had not slept during the night. She had not gone to bed,
nor had she prepared her mind for obedience to her grandfather’s
commands. She had spent the hours sitting at the window, waiting for the
morning.
She now sped swiftly through the unawakened streets, a prey to a sense
of fear that she was being pursued. From time to time she cast a quick
glance across her shoulder, but there was no one following. There was
hardly a sound, save that a few birds—hardy little scouts, ahead of the
northward-creeping caravan of summer—twittered and set up rival centers
of melody in the trees.
There was no hesitation in the girl’s footsteps. She knew where she was
going. Goody Dune’s was the only place where she could go, with her
present resolutions. She had come to a logical conclusion, as to what
was now to be done, shortly after leaving David Donner. Her mouth was
firmly set, where determination had come to abide.
As always, she found Goody stirring about, with her door wide open, when
she came to the tidy little home. Goody beheld her coming before she
reached the gate. Peering into her face knowingly, the old woman gave a
little shake to her head. She was adept at deciphering the hieroglyphics
which human emotions write upon brows and lips and eyes, especially in
the faces of the young.
“So your grandfather insists and you are going to run away?” she said,
as Garde came eagerly up the garden path to the door.
“Yes,” said Garde, in some awe of the wise old woman and her means of
acquiring knowledge, “and I want you to help me,—oh, you must help
me—just as fast as you can! How did you know?”
“I could see that you were deeply troubled, and I know exactly what a
girl like you would do,” said Goody. “I was the same kind of a girl,
once, myself. Now tell me, first, where are you going.”
“I don’t know,” said Garde, “I think to Plymouth, to my aunt Rosella.”
“You would do well to make up your mind on that point,” said Goody. “And
how are you going, shall you sail, or ride, or walk?”
“Oh, I shall run,” said Garde.
“If you walk it will last longer,” said the old woman, with just a
suspicion of a smile. “Then, those two points being settled, have you
brought anything to eat, in your pocket?”
“No—no, I didn’t wait for anything. I shan’t want anything to eat for
days. I don’t feel like eating, and I don’t know when I ever shall.”
“And no blankets to sleep in?”
“Oh no, Goody, how could I?” said Garde.
“Let me see; it is something like forty or fifty miles to Plymouth,”
Goody mused. “Have you thought how it would look if a young woman were
seen, running night and day for sixty miles? You know many people walk
from Plymouth here.”
“Yes,” said Garde, eagerly. “That is the only trouble. I want you to do
something for me, or tell me what to do. Everybody would see a girl and
if Grandther were told, he would have me caught and brought back—and I
would rather die!”
Goody laughed at her now, more than half gaily. Her own eyes twinkled
with delight over the venture. “What would be the good of all the things
my friends have given me, all these years, if I did not use them at such
a time as this?” she asked.
“Oh, have you got anything I could really use?” Garde responded. “What
is it? What can you do? I mustn’t wait,—they will catch me, just as sure
as the world!”
“Not if I make you invisible,” chucked Goody. She dived into a chest she
had opened and began to paw, in an orderly manner, at a heap of clothing
which the box contained. She presently drew forth a complete suit of
clothing for a boy. “There,” she continued, “go into the next room and
put those on, as fast as ever you are a mind to.”
“Those?” said the astonished Garde. “But these are——”
“Yes, I know. They will make you invisible—as a girl. Do you wish to be
seen? If not, go and put them on and let me get at something else. We
still have other fish to fry.”
“But——” started Garde, when Goody pushed her into the next apartment.
Goody continued to rummage in the chest, producing a hat, much the worse
for age, a pair of stout shoes, a stick and a large, red handkerchief.
Into this handkerchief she knotted a number of slices of bread, some
pickles and some cold meat. She then secured it on the end of the stick,
and dropped inside it a little wad of money, tied in a parcel by itself.
Garde now returned, blushing as red as a rose and bending her legs
inward at the knee most shyly, although anything prettier could hardly
be conceived, and there was no one present save the old woman to look,
anyway.
“Oh dear me!” said the jackdaw. “Oh dear me!”
“Stand up stiffly on your pins,” commanded Goody. “You are not invisible
as a girl at all. Come, now, be a man.”
“But—Goody——” gasped Garde. “I—I really can’t——”
“Yes, you can. You must,” corrected the old woman. “Or else you can give
up running away altogether.”
“Oh no, no!”
“Then do as I tell you. Feet more apart, knees stiff. That’s better.”
“But, I feel—I feel so—so cold.”
“Where, in your face? Nonsense. Now try on this hat.”
Goody adjusted the hat. It was much too small to cover all of Garde’s
glorious hair.
“This will have to come off,” said the old woman.
“Oh!” was all Garde could reply.
It did seem a pity, but the business in hand was altogether grim. The
scissors snipped briskly. The hat presently covered a quaint, pretty
head with close-cropped locks. Garde caught the gleam in Goody’s eyes,
for Goody could not but admire her for a most handsome and irresistible
boy, and again the blushes leaped into her cheeks, and those tell-tale
knees began to try to hide one another.
Goody shook her head. “Any one would still know you for Garde Merrill,”
she confessed, “whether they had ever known you before or not.”
“Then what shall I do? I might as well go back to my own clothes,” said
the girl eagerly.
“You remain where you are,” instructed her mentor. “If you are going to
run away successfully, you must muster up your courage. But perhaps you
prefer to go back to——”
“No! I’ll——do anything,” interrupted Garde. A sudden horror of the
thought of going back, or of being caught and taken back, to Randolph
and all the rest of it, put good steel into her shoulders and some also
into her legs. “Please make haste and let me be starting,” she added.
“They may be coming at any moment!”
Goody lost but little time in thinking. She produced a cup, from her
shelf of decoctions, and dabbling her finger into its contents she
proceeded to stain the girl’s face a rich brown color, which made her
more handsome than ever, if possible, but which masked her so completely
that her own reflection would not have known her. The brown stuff went
into her pretty ears and all around her plump pretty throat and even on
top of her eyelids as they were closed, for Goody was something of an
artist. When she had finished, she regarded her work critically.
“The angel Gabriel wouldn’t know you now, himself,” she said. “When you
wish to get it off, use vinegar. Take your stick and your little pack,
put it over your shoulder, so, and now you are ready. Would you like
something to eat before you go?”
“Oh no,” gasped the girl, frightened half out of her wits, at the
prospect of going forth into the world with two pretty, visible legs to
walk withal. “I—I couldn’t eat anything. I—wait a minute. I—I think I
would like a little drink of water.”
Goody gave her a dipper full, of which she took one miniature sip.
“Do I—do I look—terrible?” she faltered.
“You look like a farmer’s boy—a lout of a country lad,” said Goody. “So,
good-by, young man. My last word is, forget you have got any legs, or
you will surely be detected.”
“Legs!” said the jackdaw, glad of a new word. “Legs! Legs!”
“I couldn’t—wear anything—over them, could I?” said Garde, timidly,
having jumped when Rex croaked so suddenly.
“You can wear a wedding gown over them, if you prefer,” said the old
woman, grimly, and suggestively. “I really expected you to do better
than this.”
“Well—I will!” said the poor child, resolutely. “Good-by, dear Goody. I
shall always love you, more than ever, for this.”
Goody kissed her, as she bent affectionately forward, and patted her
motherly on the back. “That’s a good boy,” she said.
She opened the door and Garde went forth. The open air made her
conscious of her attire instantly. But she did her best, shy and
unboyish as the effort was.
“Oh, I forgot to ask,” she said, glad to get one more moment in which to
get ready. “How is Hester? How was she when you saw her last?”
Goody’s face darkened. “I saw her the first thing this morning,” she
said. “Some one must have called last night, after I left. Hester is
dead.”
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