It was in the latter part of August of that year that it became
necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to
St. Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point
to me as the fit person, for I understood the particular business
better than any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not
altogether like to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over
the matter far into the regulation sleeping hours.
There were very good reasons why we should go (for of course I would
not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first
place, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to
take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We
had never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we
would see would be new to us. We would come home by the Great Lakes
and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then
we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how
could we do that?
This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care
of our garden, our poultry, our horse, and cow, and all their
complicated belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our
vegetables were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory
condition--altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables--for which I
had labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful
anticipations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard--with Euphemia away--the
subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would
give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most
desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come
and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not
run itself for three weeks.
We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not
feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends;
but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea of
handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my
part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;
but then Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she
would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in regard
to the disqualifications. So when I went to the office the next morning
we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one to
take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the
office in the afternoon I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time
I had no choice in the matter unless I wished to interfere very much
with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that time
we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomona
must assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, and Pomona did
assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt when
we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactly
what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it our consciences
were easy.
We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would
be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinary well able
to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she
needed him, and I borrowed a bulldog to be kept in the house at night.
Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of
directions for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters, and
directed her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy that
might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life,
and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a
responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.
She was very proud of it. Our journey was ten times more delightful
than we had expected it would be, and successful in every way; and yet,
although we enjoyed every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly
on our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there that we
reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we
would be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walked
up from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express
wagon. As we approached our dear home we wanted to run, we were so
eager to see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was
locked. We ran to the carriage gate; that was locked, too. Just then I
noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering
was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read--
TO BE SOLD
FOR TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
"What does this mean?" said I. "Has our landlord----?"
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place might
pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put
the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got
over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side
fence. This was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking
much about its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful
apprehensions. I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the
lower windows were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised
us more than anything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had _he_
been sold?
Before we reached the back part of the house Euphemia said she felt
faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree nearby, under which I
had made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass,
and I ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin
dipper which always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a
traveling cup in my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around
me. There was an air of bareness over everything. I did not know what
it all meant, but I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the
pump-handle and began to pump.
At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the
direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lord
Edward.
Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe the
glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water. He
was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running from
the barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were two
friends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.
Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put a
question to her she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.
"You know," said she, "you said you wasn't coming till to-morrow. If
you only _had_ come then--I was going to have everything just exactly
right--an' now you had to climb in----"
And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been a
wonderful thing for Pomona to do.
"Tell me one thing," said I. "What about--those taxes?"
"Oh, that's all right," she cried. "Don't think another minute about
that. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I'll get
you some lunch in a minute."
We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was "all right"
in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all about
the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any
questions.
As soon as she had made ready our lunch she asked us as a particular
favor to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, said
she, "I'll have everything looking just as if it was to-morrow."
We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great
disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in
the dining-room until she appeared and announced that she was ready
for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and
Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the
garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in
its place, and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there.
I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as
was her habit.
"Would you rather," said she, "hear it altogether, when you come in, or
have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so
anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait
and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order--the
garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had
not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy
enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid
the taxes--however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she
was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in, and we
sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some
sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.
"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she, "as
you told me to, and while I was about it I thought I'd make it like a
novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I suppose
you don't mind?"
No, we didn't mind. So she went on.
"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out
to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the first
chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage, and my early
adventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you was
away, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that's
written here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to you, but I've
put it into novel language because it comes easier to me."
And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as if
the "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:
"'Chapter Five. The Lonely House and the Faithful Friend. Thus was
I left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the
lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal
repast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections
of the past and also foresights into the future. That night was a
me-mor-able one. I slept soundly until the break of morn, but had the
events transpired which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed
to me no tongue can tell. Early the next day nothing happen-ed. Soon
after breakfast the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-o-sene
oil and a half a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew
too well the in-sid-i-ous foe. In the very out-set of his vil-la-in-y
I sent him home with a empty can. For two long days I wan-der-ed amid
the ver-dant pathways of the garden and to the barn, when-ever and
anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud
o'erspread this happy peri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in
the horizon, although I saw it not.
"'It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a
Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do
with the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was
green corn and lima beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could
use. And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field,
for as my employer had advis-ed and order-ed, I had put the steed to
grass. And here was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top taken
off, or even the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-sed vender.
With the truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load the
wagon----'"
"Oh, Pomona," interrupted Euphemia, "you don't mean to say that you
were thinking of doing anything like that?"
"Well, I was just beginning to think of it," said Pomona. "But I
couldn't have gone away and left the house. And you'll see I didn't do
it." And then she continued her novel. "'But while my thoughts were
thus employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter----'"
At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona
did not seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.
"'I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the gate.
Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he "Wilt open the gate?" I had
fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every stealable ar-ticle from the
yard.'"
Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of the
rustic seat and the dipper.
"'Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the
dog, for he it was, roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-erce
bulldog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold unto
him, "No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now
from home. What do you want?" Then says he, as bold as brass, "I've
come to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate." "What
rods?" says I. "The rods as was order-ed," says he. "Open the gate." I
stood and gazed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. I
knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my employer, he would put up rods
and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miserable
trash that would attract the light-en-ing, instead of keep-ing it off.
Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be
kept, and pay demand-ed. "No, sir," says I. "No light-en-ing rods upon
this house whilst I stand here," and with that I walk-ed away, and
let Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes
flash-ed fire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the
dog he did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed
the fowls; but when I did return I saw a sight which froze the blood
with-in my veins----'"
"The dog didn't kill him?" cried Euphemia.
"Oh, no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "You'll see that that wasn't it. 'At one
cor-ner of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this
man, was banging on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ing
to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a
light-en-ing rodder had brought a lad-der to the other side of the
house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What
horrors fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed!' This," continued
Pomona, "is the end of the novel," and she laid her foolscap pages on
the porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had just
reached the most exciting part, and I added we had heard nothing yet
about that affair of the taxes.
"You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out the
chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that
I hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happened
after that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so she went on,
much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the
lightning-rod man.
"There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rods
and hammerin' away for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over the
side fence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside,
couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, and then I know'd I had
him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to the
bulldog's collar, an' dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom
rung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with Lord
Edward's chain, for I knew that if he got at that bulldog there'd be
times, for they'd never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I
to the boy, 'I'm goin' to tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid of
his jumpin' over the fence'--which he couldn't do, or the boy would
have been a corpse for twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour. The boy
kinder laughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to
the gate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an' off
he starts, as good as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy, he said
somethin' or other pretty bad an' away he goes after him; but the horse
was a-trottin' real fast, an' had a good start."
"How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?" said
Euphemia. "That horse might have upset the wagon and broken all the
lightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many people."
"But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout," said Pomona. "I was
a-defendin' the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happen
to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the
man just coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go off, and when
he got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the bulldog, he was
madder than ever you seed a lightnin-rodder in all your born days.
'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me. 'No, I won't,' says I.
'I never see a girl like you since I was born,' he screams at me. 'I
guess it would 'a' been better fur you if you had,' says I; an' then he
was so mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as
he could, and when he saw just how long the rope was--which was pretty
short--he made a jump and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on
dreadful because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away; and I
wouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the tendons out
of that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boiling
passion, and yet never making no sound at all but bloodcurdlin' grunts.
An' I don't see how the rodder would 'a' got his ladder at all if the
dog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. It
just missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other end
of it, and began pulling it away, dog and all. 'Look a-here,' says I,
'we can fix him now;' and so he cooled down enough to help me, and I
unlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder
in, dog and all; an' then I shut the door as tight as it would go
an' untied the end of the rope, an' the rodder pulled the ladder out
while I held the door to keep the dog from follerin', which he came
pretty near doin', anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began
stormin' again about his wagon; but when he looked out an' see the
boy comin' back with it--for somebody must 'a' stopped the horse--he
stopped stormin' and went to put up his ladder ag'in. 'No, you don't,'
says I; 'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the
foot of your ladder you'll never come down.' 'But I want to go and take
down what I put up,' he says; 'I ain't a-goin' on with this job.' 'No,'
says I, 'you ain't; and you can't go up there to wrench off them rods
and make rain-holes in the roof, neither.' He couldn't get no madder
than he was then, an' fur a minute or two he couldn't speak, an' then
he says, 'I'll have satisfaction for this.' An' says I, 'How?' An' says
he, 'You'll see what it is to interfere with a ordered job.' An' says
I, 'There wasn't no order about it;' an' says he, 'I'll show you better
than that;' an' he goes to his wagon an' gits a book, 'There,' says he,
'read that.' 'What of it?' says I; 'there's nobody of the name of Ball
lives here.' That took the man kinder back, and he said he was told it
was the only house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the
next lane he oughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that, but just
put his ladder in his wagon and went off. But I was not altogether rid
of him. He left a trail of his baleful presence behind him.
"That horrid bulldog wouldn't let me come into the house! No matter
what door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let him stay till
nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good.
He'd got an awful spite ag'in me. I found something to eat down cellar,
and I made a fire outside an' roasted some corn and potatoes. That
night I slep' in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from the house
for I knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it, and Lord Edward
outside. For three days, Sunday an all, I was kep' out of this here
house. I got along pretty well with the sleepin' and the eatin', but
the drinkin' was the worst. I couldn' get no coffee or tea; but there
was plenty of milk."
"Why didn't you get some man to come and attend to the dog?" I asked.
"It was dreadful to live in that way."
"Well, I didn't know no man that could do it," said Pomona. "The dog
would 'a' been too much for old John, and besides, he was mad about
the kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and
their little girl in a push-wagon come here, and I told 'em you was
gone away; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give
them a drink; an' I had nothin' to give it them but an old chicken-bowl
that I had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an' I told
'em everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must
'a' thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn't a-goin' to say
nothin' about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it.
So as soon as they'd gone, I went down into the cellar--and it's lucky
that I had the key for the outside cellar door--and I got a piece of
fat corn-beef and the meat ax. I unlocked the kitchen door and went
in, with the ax in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might
take his choice. I know'd he must be pretty nigh famished, for there
was nothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he came
runnin' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked a
sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all right
then."
"Oh, my!" said Euphemia, "I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid you
never got in. But we saw the dog--is he as savage yet?"
"Oh, no!" said Pomona; "nothin' like it."
"Look here, Pomona," said I, "I want to know about those taxes. When do
they come into your story?"
"Pretty soon, sir," said she, and she went on:
"After that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so that
they'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as not
I'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fighting, and leave
me to settle with some bloodthirsty lightnin'-rodder. So, as I know'd
if they once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they'd be
good friends afterward, I thought the best thing to do would be to let
'em fight it out, when there was nothin' else for 'em to do. So I fixed
up things for the combat."
"Why, Pomona!" cried Euphemia, "I didn't think you were capable of such
a cruel thing."
"It looks that way, ma'am, but really it ain't," replied the girl.
"It seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have the
thing settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the woodshed and
unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called
the bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and his bloodshot
eyes, and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin' from the mount'in
blast, he made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there
was! They rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and
sent chips a-flyin' all ways at onst. I thought Lord Edward would whip
in a minute or two; but he didn't, for the bull stuck to him like a
burr, and they was havin' it, ground and lofty, when I hears some
one run up behind me, an' turnin' quick, there was the 'piscopalian
minister. 'My! my! my!' he hollers, 'what an awful spectacle! Ain't
there no way of stoppin' it?' 'No, sir,' says I, and I told him how I
didn't want to stop it and the reason why. 'Then,' says he, 'where's
your master?' and I told him how you was away. 'Isn't there any man at
all about?' says he. 'No,' says I. 'Then,' says he, 'if there's nobody
else to stop it, I must do it myself.' An' he took off his coat. 'No,'
says I, 'you keep back, sir. If there's anybody to plunge into that
erena, the blood be mine;' an' I put my hand, without thinkin', ag'in
his black shirt-bosom, to hold him back; but he didn't notice, bein'
so excited. 'Now,' says I, jist wait one minute, and you'll see that
bull's tail go between his legs. He's weakenin'.' An' sure enough, Lord
Edward got a good grab at him, and was a-shakin' the very life out of
him, when I run up and took Lord Edward by the collar. 'Drop it!' says
I; an' he dropped it, for he know'd he'd whipped, and he was pretty
tired hisself. Then the bulldog, he trotted off with his tail a-hangin'
down. 'Now, then,' says I, 'them dogs will be bosom friends forever
after this.' 'Ah, me!' says he, 'I'm sorry indeed that your employer,
for whom I've always had a great respect, should allow you to get into
such bad habits.'
"That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty quick, that you was
the last man in the world to let me do anything like that, and that if
you'd a-been here you'd a-separated them dogs if they'd a-chawed your
arms off; that you was very particular about such things, and that it
would be a pity if he was to think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman,
when I'd often heard you say that, now you was fixed and settled, the
one thing you would like most would be to be made a vestry-man."