three times a mile, and took four hours for the journey by himself,
and longer whenever he had a passenger. But in pleasant weather the
road was delightful, and full of people who drove their own
conveyances, and liked to stop and talk. There were not many farms,
and the third growth of white pines made a pleasant shade, though
Jefferson liked to say that when he began to carry the mail his way
lay through an open country of stumps and sparse underbrush, where the
white pines nowadays completely arched the road.
They had passed the barn with circus posters, and felt colder than
ever when they caught sight of the weather-beaten acrobats in their
tights.
"My gorry!" exclaimed Widow Tobin, "them pore creatur's looks as
cheerless as little birch-trees in snow-time. I hope they dresses 'em
warmer this time o' year. Now, there! look at that one jumpin' through
the little hoop, will ye?"
"He couldn't git himself through there with two pair o' pants on,"
answered Mr. Briley. "I expect they must have to keep limber as eels.
I used to think, when I was a boy, that 'twas the only thing I could
ever be reconciled to do for a livin'. I set out to run away an'
follow a rovin' showman once, but mother needed me to home. There
warn't nobody but me an' the little gals."
"You ain't the only one that's be'n disapp'inted o' their heart's
desire," said Mrs. Tobin sadly. "'T warn't so that I could be spared
from home to learn the dressmaker's trade."
"'T would a come handy later on, I declare," answered the sympathetic
driver, "bein' 's you went an' had such a passel o' gals to clothe an'
feed. There, them that's livin' is all well off now, but it must ha'
been some inconvenient for ye when they was small."
"Yes, Mr. Briley, but then I've had my mercies, too," said the widow
somewhat grudgingly. "I take it master hard now, though, havin' to
give up my own home and live round from place to place, if they be my
own child'en. There was Ad'line and Susan Ellen fussin' an' bickerin'
yesterday about who'd got to have me next; and, Lord be thanked, they
both wanted me right off but I hated to hear 'em talkin' of it over.
I'd rather live to home, and do for myself."
"I've got consider'ble used to boardin'," said Jefferson, "sence ma'am
died, but it made me ache 'long at the fust on 't, I tell ye. Bein' on
the road's I be, I couldn't do no ways at keepin' house. I should want
to keep right there and see to things."
"Course you would," replied Mrs. Tobin, with a sudden inspiration of
opportunity which sent a welcome glow all over her. "Course you would,
Jeff'son,"--she leaned toward the front seat; "that is to say, onless
you had jest the right one to do it for ye."
And Jefferson felt a strange glow also, and a sense of unexpected
interest and enjoyment.
"See here, Sister Tobin," he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Why can't ye
take the trouble to shift seats, and come front here long o' me? We
could put one buff'lo top o' the other,--they're both wearin'
thin,--and set close, and I do' know but we sh'd be more protected
ag'inst the weather."
"Well, I couldn't be no colder if I was froze to death," answered the
widow, with an amiable simper. "Don't ye let me delay you, nor put you
out, Mr. Briley. I don't know's I'd set forth to-day if I'd known 't
was so cold; but I had all my bundles done up, and I ain't one that
puts my hand to the plough an' looks back, 'cordin' to Scriptur'."
"You wouldn't wanted me to ride all them seven miles alone?" asked the
gallant Briley sentimentally, as he lifted her down, and helped her up
again to the front seat. She was a few years older than he, but they
had been schoolmates, and Mrs. Tobin's youthful freshness was suddenly
revived to his mind's eye. She had a little farm; there was nobody
left at home now but herself, and so she had broken up housekeeping
for the winter. Jefferson himself had savings of no mean amount.
They tucked themselves in, and felt better for the change, but there
was a sudden awkwardness between them; they had not had time to
prepare for an unexpected crisis.
"They say Elder Bickers, over to East Sanscrit, 's been and got
married again to a gal that's four year younger than his oldest
daughter," proclaimed Mrs. Tobin presently. "Seems to me 't was fool's
business."
"I view it so," said the stage-driver. "There's goin' to be a mild
open winter for that fam'ly."
"What a joker you be for a man that's had so much responsibility!"
smiled Mrs. Tobin, after they had done laughing. "Ain't you never
'fraid, carryin' mail matter and such valuable stuff, that you'll be
set on an' robbed, 'specially by night?"
Jefferson braced his feet against the dasher under the worn buffalo
skin. "It is kind o' scary, or would be for some folks, but I'd like
to see anybody get the better o' me. I go armed, and I don't care who
knows it. Some o' them drover men that comes from Canady looks as if
they didn't care what they did, but I look 'em right in the eye every
time."
"Men folks is brave by natur'," said the widow admiringly. "You know
how Tobin would let his fist right out at anybody that undertook to
sass him. Town-meetin' days, if he got disappointed about the way
things went, he'd lay 'em out in win'rows; and ef he hadn't been a
church-member he'd been a real fightin' character. I was always 'fraid
to have him roused, for all he was so willin' and meechin' to home,
and set round clever as anybody. My Susan Ellen used to boss him
same's the kitten, when she was four year old."
"I've got a kind of a sideways cant to my nose, that Tobin give me
when we was to school. I don't know's you ever noticed it," said Mr.
Briley. "We was scufflin', as lads will. I never bore him no kind of a
grudge. I pitied ye, when he was taken away. I re'lly did, now, Fanny.
I liked Tobin first-rate, and I liked you. I used to say you was the
han'somest girl to school."
"Lemme see your nose. 'Tis all straight, for what I know," said the
widow gently, as with a trace of coyness she gave a hasty glance. "I
don't know but what 'tis warped a little, but nothin' to speak of.
You've got real nice features, like your marm's folks."
It was becoming a sentimental occasion, and Jefferson Briley felt that
he was in for something more than he had bargained. He hurried the
faltering sorrel horse, and began to talk of the weather. It certainly
did look like snow, and he was tired of bumping over the frozen road.
"I shouldn't wonder if I hired a hand here another year, and went off
out West myself to see the country."
"Why, how you talk!" answered the widow.
"Yes'm," pursued Jefferson. "'Tis tamer here than I like, and I was
tellin' 'em yesterday I've got to know this road most too well. I'd
like to go out an' ride in the mountains with some o' them great
clipper coaches, where the driver don't know one minute but he'll be
shot dead the next. They carry an awful sight o' gold down from the
mines, I expect."
"I should be scairt to death," said Mrs. Tobin. "What creatur's men
folks be to like such things! Well, I do declare."
"Yes," explained the mild little man. "There's sights of desp'radoes
makes a han'some livin' out o' followin' them coaches, an' stoppin'
an' robbin' 'em clean to the bone. Your money _or_ your life!" and he
flourished his stub of a whip over the sorrel mare.
"Landy me! you make me run all of a cold creep. Do tell somethin'
heartenin', this cold day. I shall dream bad dreams all night."
"They put on black crape over their heads," said the driver
mysteriously. "Nobody knows who most on 'em be, and like as not some
o' them fellows come o' good families. They've got so they stop the
cars, and go right through 'em bold as brass. I could make your hair
stand on end, Mis' Tobin,--I could _so!_"
"I hope none on 'em'll git round our way, I'm sure," said Fanny Tobin.
"I don't want to see none on 'em in their crape bunnits comin' after
me."
"I ain't goin' to let nobody touch a hair o' your head," and Mr.
Briley moved a little nearer, and tucked in the buffaloes again.
"I feel considerable warm to what I did," observed the widow by way of
reward.
"There, I used to have my fears," Mr. Briley resumed, with an inward
feeling that he never would get to North Kilby depot a single man.
"But you see I hadn't nobody but myself to think of. I've got cousins,
as you know, but nothin' nearer, and what I've laid up would soon be
parted out; and--well, I suppose some folks would think o' me if
anything was to happen."
Mrs. Tobin was holding her cloud over her face,--the wind was sharp on
that bit of open road,--but she gave an encouraging sound, between a
groan and a chirp.
"'T wouldn't be like nothin' to me not to see you drivin' by," she
said, after a minute. "I shouldn't know the days o' the week. I says
to Susan Ellen last week I was sure 'twas Friday, and she said no,
'twas Thursday; but next minute you druv by and headin' toward North
Kilby, so we found I was right."
"I've got to be a featur' of the landscape," said Mr. Briley
plaintively. "This kind o' weather the old mare and me, we wish we was
done with it, and could settle down kind o' comfortable. I've been
lookin' this good while, as I drove the road, and I've picked me out a
piece o' land two or three times. But I can't abide the thought o'
buildin',--'twould plague me to death; and both Sister Peak to North
Kilby and Mis' Deacon Ash to the Pond, they vie with one another to do
well by me, fear I'll like the other stoppin'-place best."
"I shouldn't covet livin' long o' neither one o' them women,"
responded the passenger with some spirit. "I see some o' Mis' Peak's
cookin' to a farmers' supper once, when I was visitin' Susan Ellen's
folks, an' I says 'Deliver me from sech pale-complected baked beans as
them!' and she give a kind of a quack. She was settin' jest at my left
hand, and couldn't help hearin' of me. I wouldn't have spoken if I had
known, but she needn't have let on they was hers an' make everything
unpleasant. 'I guess them beans taste just as well as other folks','
says she, and she wouldn't never speak to me afterward."
"Do' know's I blame her," ventured Mr. Briley. "Women folks is
dreadful pudjicky about their cookin'. I've always heard you was one
o' the best o' cooks, Mis' Tobin. I know them doughnuts an' things
you've give me in times past, when I was drivin' by. Wish I had some
on 'em now. I never let on, but Mis' Ash's cookin's the best by a long
chalk. Mis' Peak's handy about some things, and looks after mendin' of
me up."
"It doos seem as if a man o' your years and your quiet make ought to
have a home you could call your own," suggested the passenger. "I kind
of hate to think o' your bangein' here and boardin' there, and one old
woman mendin', and the other settin' ye down to meals that like's not
don't agree with ye."
"Lor', now, Mis' Tobin, le's not fuss round no longer," said Mr.
Briley impatiently. "You know you covet me same's I do you."
"I don't nuther. Don't you go an' say fo'lish things you can't stand
to."
"I've been tryin' to git a chance to put in a word with you ever
sence--Well, I expected you'd want to get your feelin's kind o'
calloused after losin' Tobin."
"There's nobody can fill his place," said the widow.
"I do' know but I can fight for ye town-meetin' days, on a pinch,"
urged Jefferson boldly.
"I never see the beat o' you men fur conceit," and Mrs. Tobin laughed.
"I ain't goin' to bother with ye, gone half the time as you be, an'
carryin' on with your Mis' Peaks and Mis' Ashes. I dare say you've
promised yourself to both on 'em twenty times."
"I hope to gracious if I ever breathed a word to none on 'em!"
protested the lover. "'T ain't for lack o' opportunities set afore me,
nuther;" and then Mr. Briley craftily kept silence, as if he had made
a fair proposal, and expected a definite reply.
The lady of his choice was, as she might have expressed it, much beat
about. As she soberly thought, she was getting along in years, and
must put up with Jefferson all the rest of the time. It was not likely
she would ever have the chance of choosing again, though she was one
who liked variety.
Jefferson wasn't much to look at, but he was pleasant and appeared
boyish and young-feeling. "I do' know's I should do better," she said
unconsciously and half aloud. "Well, yes, Jefferson, seein' it's you.
But we're both on us kind of old to change our situation." Fanny Tobin
gave a gentle sigh.
"Hooray!" said Jefferson. "I was scairt you meant to keep me sufferin'
here a half an hour. I declare, I'm more pleased than I calc'lated on.
An' I expected till lately to die a single man!"
"'Twould re'lly have been a shame; 'tain't natur'," said Mrs. Tobin,
with confidence. "I don't see how you held out so long with bein'
solitary."
"I'll hire a hand to drive for me, and we'll have a good comfortable
winter, me an' you an' the old sorrel. I've been promisin' of her a
rest this good while."
"Better keep her a steppin'," urged thrifty Mrs. Fanny. "She'll
stiffen up master, an' disapp'int ye, come spring."
"You'll have me, now, won't ye, sartin?" pleaded Jefferson, to make
sure. "You ain't one o' them that plays with a man's feelin's. Say
right out you'll have me."
"I s'pose I shall have to," said Mrs. Tobin somewhat mournfully. "I
feel for Mis' Peak an' Mis' Ash, pore creatur's. I expect they'll be
hardshipped. They've always been hard-worked, an' may have kind o'
looked forward to a little ease. But one on 'em would be left
lamentin', anyhow," and she gave a girlish laugh. An air of victory
animated the frame of Mrs. Tobin. She felt but twenty-five years of
age. In that moment she made plans for cutting her Briley's hair, and
making him look smartened-up and ambitious. Then she wished that she
knew for certain how much money he had in the bank; not that it would
make any difference now. "He needn't bluster none before me," she
thought gayly. "He's harmless as a fly."
"Who'd have thought we'd done such a piece of engineerin', when we
started out?" inquired the dear one of Mr. Briley's heart, as he
tenderly helped her to alight at Susan Ellen's door.
"Both on us, jest the least grain," answered the lover. "Gimme a good
smack, now, you clever creatur';" and so they parted. Mr. Bailey had
been taken on the road in spite of his pistol.
* * * * *
_Going to Shrewsbury_
The train stopped at a way station with apparent unwillingness, and
there was barely time for one elderly passenger to be hurried on board
before a sudden jerk threw her almost off her unsteady old feet and we
moved on. At my first glance I saw only a perturbed old countrywoman,
laden with a large basket and a heavy bundle tied up in an
old-fashioned bundle-handkerchief; then I discovered that she was a
friend of mine, Mrs. Peet, who lived on a small farm, several miles
from the village. She used to be renowned for good butter and fresh
eggs and the earliest cowslip greens; in fact, she always made the
most of her farm's slender resources; but it was some time since I had
seen her drive by from market in her ancient thorough-braced wagon.
The brakeman followed her into the crowded car, also carrying a number
of packages. I leaned forward and asked Mrs. Peet to sit by me; it was
a great pleasure to see her again. The brakeman seemed relieved, and
smiled as he tried to put part of his burden into the rack overhead;
but even the flowered carpet-bag was much too large, and he explained
that he would take care of everything at the end of the car. Mrs. Peet
was not large herself, but with the big basket, and the
bundle-handkerchief, and some possessions of my own we had very little
spare room.
"So this 'ere is what you call ridin' in the cars! Well, I do
declare!" said my friend, as soon as she had recovered herself a
little. She looked pale and as if she had been in tears, but there was
the familiar gleam of good humor in her tired old eyes.
"Where in the world are you going, Mrs. Peet?" I asked.
"Can't be you ain't heared about me, dear?" said she. "Well, the
world's bigger than I used to think 't was. I've broke up,--'twas the
only thing _to_ do,--and I'm a-movin' to Shrewsbury."
"To Shrewsbury? Have you sold the farm?" I exclaimed, with sorrow and
surprise. Mrs. Peet was too old and too characteristic to be suddenly
transplanted from her native soil. "'T wa'n't mine, the place wa'n't."
Her pleasant face hardened slightly. "He was coaxed an' over-persuaded
into signin' off before he was taken away. Is'iah, son of his sister
that married old Josh Peet, come it over him about his bein' past work
and how he'd do for him like an own son, an' we owed him a little
somethin'. I'd paid off everythin' but that, an' was fool enough to
leave it till the last, on account o' Is'iah's bein' a relation and
not needin' his pay much as some others did. It's hurt me to have the
place fall into other hands. Some wanted me to go right to law; but 't
wouldn't be no use. Is'iah's smarter 'n I be about them matters. You
see he's got my name on the paper, too; he said 't was somethin' 'bout
bein' responsible for the taxes. We was scant o' money, an' I was wore
out with watchin' an' being broke o' my rest. After my tryin' hard for
risin' forty-five year to provide for bein' past work, here I be,
dear, here I be! I used to drive things smart, you remember. But we
was fools enough in '72 to put about everythin' we had safe in the
bank into that spool factory that come to nothin'. But I tell ye I
could ha' kept myself long's I lived, if I could ha' held the place.
I'd parted with most o' the woodland, if Is'iah'd coveted it. He was
welcome to that, 'cept what might keep me in oven-wood. I've always
desired to travel an' see somethin' o' the world, but I've got the
chance now when I don't value it no great."
"Shrewsbury is a busy, pleasant place," I ventured to say by way of
comfort, though my heart was filled with rage at the trickery of
Isaiah Peet, who had always looked like a fox and behaved like one.
"Shrewsbury's be'n held up consid'able for me to smile at," said the
poor old soul, "but I tell ye, dear, it's hard to go an' live
twenty-two miles from where you've always had your home and friends.
It may divert me, but it won't be home. You might as well set out one
o' my old apple-trees on the beach, so 't could see the waves come
in,--there wouldn't be no please to it."
"Where are you going to live in Shrewsbury?" I asked presently.
"I don't expect to stop long, dear creatur'. I'm 'most seventy-six
year old," and Mrs. Peet turned to look at me with pathetic amusement
in her honest wrinkled face. "I said right out to Is'iah, before a
roomful o' the neighbors, that I expected it of him to git me home an'
bury me when my time come, and do it respectable; but I wanted to airn
my livin', if 'twas so I could, till then. He'd made sly talk, you
see, about my electin' to leave the farm and go 'long some o' my own
folks; but"--and she whispered this carefully--"he didn't give me no
chance to stay there without hurtin' my pride and dependin' on him. I
ain't said that to many folks, but all must have suspected. A good
sight on 'em's had money of Is'iah, though, and they don't like to do
nothin' but take his part an' be pretty soft spoken, fear it'll git to
his ears. Well, well, dear, we'll let it be bygones, and not think of
it no more;" but I saw the great tears roll slowly down her cheeks,
and she pulled her bonnet forward impatiently, and looked the other
way.
"There looks to be plenty o' good farmin' land in this part o' the
country," she said, a minute later. "Where be we now? See them
handsome farm buildin's; he must be a well-off man." But I had to
tell my companion that we were still within the borders of the old
town where we had both been born. Mrs. Peet gave a pleased little
laugh, like a girl. "I'm expectin' Shrewsbury to pop up any minute.
I'm feared to be kerried right by. I wa'n't never aboard of the cars
before, but I've so often thought about 'em I don't know but it seems
natural. Ain't it jest like flyin' through the air? I can't catch holt
to see nothin'. Land! and here's my old cat goin' too, and never
mistrustin'. I ain't told you that I'd fetched her."
"Is she in that basket?" I inquired with interest.
"Yis, dear. Truth was, I calc'lated to have her put out o' the misery
o' movin', an spoke to one o' the Barnes boys, an' he promised me all
fair; but he wa'n't there in season, an' I kind o' made excuse to
myself to fetch her along. She's an' old creatur', like me, an' I can
make shift to keep her some way or 'nuther; there's probably mice
where we're goin', an' she's a proper mouser that can about keep
herself if there's any sort o' chance. 'T will be somethin' o' home to
see her goin' an' comin', but I expect we're both on us goin' to miss
our old haunts. I'd love to know what kind o' mousin' there's goin' to
be for me."
"You mustn't worry," I answered, with all the bravery and assurance
that I could muster. "Your niece will be thankful to have you with
her. Is she one of Mrs. Winn's daughters?"
"Oh, no, they ain't able; it's Sister Wayland's darter Isabella, that
married the overseer of the gre't carriage-shop. I ain't seen her
since just after she was married; but I turned to her first because I
knew she was best able to have me, and then I can see just how the
other girls is situated and make me some kind of a plot. I wrote to
Isabella, though she _is_ ambitious, and said 'twas so I'd got to ask
to come an' make her a visit, an' she wrote back she would be glad to
have me; but she didn't write right off, and her letter was scented up
dreadful strong with some sort o' essence, and I don't feel heartened
about no great of a welcome. But there, I've got eyes, an' I can see
_ho_'t is when I git _where_'t is. Sister Winn's gals ain't married,
an' they've always boarded, an' worked in the shop on trimmin's.
Isabella's well off; she had some means from her father's sister. I
thought it all over by night an' day, an' I recalled that our folks
kept Sister Wayland's folks all one winter, when he'd failed up and
got into trouble. I'm reckonin' on sendin' over to-night an' gittin'
the Winn gals to come and see me and advise. Perhaps some on 'em may
know of somebody that'll take me for what help I can give about house,
or some clever folks that have been lookin' for a smart cat, any ways;
no, I don't know's I could let her go to strangers.
"There was two or three o' the folks round home that acted real
warm-hearted towards me, an' urged me to come an' winter with 'em,"
continued the exile; "an' this mornin' I wished I'd agreed to, 'twas
so hard to break away. But now it's done I feel more'n ever it's best.
I couldn't bear to live right in sight o' the old place, and come
spring I shouldn't 'prove of nothing Is'iah ondertakes to do with the
land. Oh, dear sakes! now it comes hard with me not to have had no
child'n. When I was young an' workin' hard and into everything, I felt
kind of free an' superior to them that was so blessed, an' their
houses cluttered up from mornin' till night, but I tell ye it comes
home to me now. I'd be most willin' to own to even Is'iah, mean's he
is; but I tell ye I'd took it out of him 'fore he was a grown man, if
there'd be'n any virtue in cow-hidin' of him. Folks don't look like
wild creatur's for nothin'. Is'iah's got fox blood in him, an'
p'r'haps 't is his misfortune. His own mother always favored the looks
of an old fox, true's the world; she was a poor tool,--a poor tool! I
d'know's we ought to blame him same's we do.