Of course Mrs. Armstrong still insisted that, knowing, as she did,
Mr. Winslow's prejudice against occupying the position of landlord,
she could not think of accepting his offer. "Of course I shall
not," she declared. "I am flattered to know that you consider
Barbara and me preferable to Mr. and Mrs. Powless; but even there
you may be mistaken, and, beside, why should you feel you must
endure the lesser evil. If I were in your place I shouldn't endure
any evil at all. I should keep the house closed and empty, just as
you have been doing."
Captain Sam shook his head impatiently. "If you was in his place,"
he observed, "you would have let it every year. Don't interfere
with him, Mrs. Armstrong, for the land sakes. He's showed the
first streak of common sense about that house that he's showed
since the Davidsons went out. Don't ask him to take it back."
And Jed stubbornly refused to take it back. "I've let it to you
for a month, ma'am," he insisted. "It's yours, furniture and all,
for a month. You won't sell that Mrs. Powless any of it, will
you?" he added, anxiously. "Any of the furniture, I mean."
Mrs. Armstrong scarcely knew whether to be amused or indignant.
"Of course I shouldn't sell it," she declared. "It wouldn't be
mine to sell."
Jed looked frightened. "Yes, 'twould; yes, 'twould," he persisted.
"That's why I'm lettin' it to you. Then I can't sell it to her; I
CAN'T, don't you see?"
Captain Sam grinned. "Fur's that goes," he suggested, "I don't
see's you've got to worry, Jed. You don't need to sell it, to her
or anybody else, unless you want to."
But Jed looked dubious. "I suppose Jonah cal'lated he didn't need
to be swallowed," he mused. "You take it, ma'am, for a month, as a
favor to me."
"But how can I--like this? We haven't even settled the question of
rent. And you know nothing whatever about me."
He seemed to reflect. Then he asked:
"Your daughter don't sing like a windmill, does she?"
Barbara's eyes and mouth opened. "Why, Mamma!" she exclaimed,
indignantly.
"Hush, Babbie. Sing like a--what? I don't understand, Mr.
Winslow."
The captain burst out laughing. "No wonder you don't, ma'am," he
said. "It takes the seven wise men of Greece to understand him
most of the time. You leave it to me, Mrs. Armstrong. He and I
will talk it over together and then you and he can talk to-morrow.
But I guess likely you'll have the house, if you want it; Jed
doesn't go back on his word. I always say that for you, don't I,
old sawdust?" turning to the gentleman thus nicknamed.
Jed, humming a mournful hymn, was apparently miles away in
dreamland. Yet he returned to earth long enough to indulge in a
mild bit of repartee. "You say 'most everything for me, Sam," he
drawled, "except when I talk in my sleep."
Mrs. Armstrong and Barbara left a moment later, the lady saying
that she and Mr. Winslow would have another interview next day.
Barbara gravely shook hands with both men.
"I and Petunia hope awfully that we are going to live here, Mr.
Winslow," she said, "'specially Petunia."
Jed regarded her gravely. "Oh, she wants to more'n you do, then,
does she?" he asked.
The child looked doubtful. "No-o," she admitted, after a moment's
reflection, "but she can't talk, you know, and so she has to hope
twice as hard else I wouldn't know it. Good-by. Oh, I forgot;
Captain Hedge liked his swordfish EVER so much. He said it was a--
a--oh, yes, humdinger."
She trotted off after her mother. Captain Hunniwell, after a
chuckle of appreciation over the "humdinger," began to tell his
friend what little he had learned concerning the Armstrongs. This
was, of course, merely what Mrs. Armstrong herself had told him and
amounted to this: She was a widow whose husband had been a
physician in Middleford, Connecticut. His name was Seymour
Armstrong and he had now been dead four years. Mrs. Armstrong and
Barbara, the latter an only child, had continued to occupy the
house at Middleford, but recently the lady had come to feel that
she could not afford to live there longer, but must find some less
expensive quarters.
"She didn't say so," volunteered Captain Sam, "but I judge she lost
a good deal of her money, bad investments or somethin' like that.
If there's any bad investment anywheres in the neighborhood you can
'most generally trust a widow to hunt it up and put her insurance
money into it. Anyhow, 'twas somethin' like that, for after livin'
there a spell, just as she did when her husband was alive, she all
at once decides to up anchor and find some cheaper moorin's. First
off, though, she decided to spend the summer in a cool place and
some friend, somebody with good, sound judgment, suggests Orham.
So she lets her own place in Middleford, comes to Orham, falls in
love with the place--same as any sensible person would naturally,
of course--and, havin' spent 'most three months here, decides she
wants to spend nine more anyhow. She comes to the bank to cash a
check, she and I get talkin', she tells me what she's lookin' for,
I tell her I cal'late I've got a place in my eye that I think might
be just the thing, and--"
He paused to bite the end from a cigar. His friend finished the
sentence for him.
"And then," he said, "you, knowin' that I didn't want to let this
house any time to anybody, naturally sent her down to look at it."
"No such thing. Course I knew that you'd OUGHT to let the house
and, likin' the looks and ways of these Armstrong folks first rate,
I give in that I had made up my mind TO send her down to look at
it. But, afore I could do it, the Almighty sent her on His own
hook. Which proves," he added, with a grin, "that my judgment has
pretty good backin' sometimes."
Jed rubbed his chin. "Careful, Sam," he drawled, "careful. The
Kaiser'll be gettin' jealous of you if you don't look out. But
what," he inquired, "made her and the little girl move out of
Middleford, or wherever 'twas they lived? They could have found
cheaper quarters there, couldn't they? Course I ain't never been
there, but seems as if they could."
"Sartin they could, but the fact of their movin' is what makes me
pretty sure the widow's investments had turned sour. It's a
plaguey sight easier to begin to cut down and live economical in a
place where nobody knows you than 'tis in one where everybody has
known you for years. See that, don't you?"
Jed whistled sadly, breaking off in the middle of a bar to reply
that he didn't know as he did.
"I've never cut up, so cuttin' down don't worry me much," he
observed. "But I presume likely you're right, Sam; you generally
are." He whistled a moment longer, his gaze apparently fixed upon
a point in the middle of the white plastered ceiling. Then he
said, dreamily: "Well, anyhow, 'twon't be but a month. They'll go
somewheres else in a month."
Captain Sam sniffed. "Bet you a dollar they won't," he retorted.
"Not unless you turn 'em out. And I see you turnin' anybody out."
But Mr. Winslow looked hopeful. "They'll go when the month's up,"
he reiterated. "Nobody could stand me more than a month. Mother
used to say so, and she'd known me longer than anybody."
And so, in this curious fashion, did tenants come to the old
Winslow house. They moved in on the following Monday. Jed saw the
wagon with the trunks backing up to the door and he sighed. Then
he went over to help carry the trunks into the house.
For the first week he found the situation rather uncomfortable; not
as uncomfortable as he had feared, but a trifle embarrassing,
nevertheless. His new neighbors were not too neighborly; they did
not do what he would have termed "pester" him by running in and out
of the shop at all hours, nor did they continually ask favors. On
the other hand they did not, like his former tenants, the
Davidsons, treat him as if he were some sort of odd wooden image,
like one of his own weather vanes, a creature without feelings, to
be displayed and "shown off" when it pleased them and ignored when
it did not. Mrs. Armstrong was always quietly cheerful and
friendly when they met in the yard or about the premises, but she
neither intruded nor patronized. Jed's first impression of her, a
favorable one, was strengthened daily.
"I like her first-rate," he told Captain Sam. "She ain't too
folksy and she ain't too standoffish. Why, honest truth, Sam," he
added, ingenuously, "she treats me just the same as if I was like
the common run of folks."
The captain snorted. "Gracious king! Do stop runnin' yourself
down," he commanded. "Suppose you are a little mite--er--different
from the--well, from the heft of mackerel in the keg, what of it?
That's your own private business, ain't it?"
Jed's lip twitched. "I suppose 'tis," he drawled. "If it wan't
there wouldn't be so many folks interested in it."
At first he missed the freedom to which he had accustomed himself
during his years of solitude, the liberty of preparing for bed with
the doors and windows toward the sea wide open and the shades not
drawn; of strolling out to the well at unearthly hours of the early
morning singing at the top of his lungs; of washing face and hands
in a tin basin on a bench by that well curb instead of within
doors. There were some necessary concessions to convention to
which his attention was called by Captain Hunniwell, who took it
upon himself to act as a sort of social mentor.
"Do you always wash outdoors there?" asked the captain, after
watching one set of ablutions.
"Why--er--yes, I 'most generally do in good weather. It's sort of--
er--well, sort of cool and roomy, as you might say."
"Roomy, eh? Gracious king! Well, I should say you needed room.
You splash into that basin like a kedge anchor goin' overboard and
when you come out of it you puff like a grampus comin' up to blow.
How do you cal'late Mrs. Armstrong enjoys seein' you do that?"
Jed looked startled and much disturbed. "Eh?" he exclaimed. "Why,
I never thought about her, Sam. I declare I never did. I--I'll
fetch the wash basin inside this very minute."
And he did. The inconvenience attached to the breaking off of a
summer-time habit of years troubled him not half as much as the
fear that he might have offended a fellow creature's sensibilities.
Jed Winslow was far too sensitive himself and his own feelings had
been hurt too many times to make hurting those of another a small
offense in his eyes.
But these were minor inconveniences attached to his new position as
landlord. There were recompenses. At work in his shop he could
see through the window the white-clad, graceful figure of Mrs.
Armstrong moving about the yard, sitting with Barbara on the bench
by the edge of the bluff, or writing a letter at a table she had
taken out under the shadow of the silver-leaf tree. Gradually Jed
came to enjoy seeing her there, to see the windows of the old house
open, to hear voices once more on that side of the shop, and to
catch glimpses of Babbie dancing in and out over the shining mica
slab at the door.
He liked the child when he first met her, but he had been a little
fearful that, as a neighbor, she might trouble him by running in
and out of the shop, interfering with his privacy and his work or
making a small nuisance of herself when he was waiting on
customers. But she did none of these things, in fact she did not
come into the shop at all and, after the first week had passed, he
began to wonder why. Late that afternoon, seeing her sitting on
the bench by the bluff edge, her doll in her arms, he came out of
the door of his little kitchen at the back of the shop and called
her.
"Good evenin'," he hailed. "Takin' in the view, was you?"
She bobbed her head. "Yes, sir," she called in reply; "Petunia and
I were looking at it."
"Sho! Well, what do you and-er--What's-her-name think of it?"
Barbara pondered. "We think it's very nice," she announced, after
a moment. "Don't you like it, Mr. Winslow?"
"Eh? Oh, yes, I like it, I guess. I ain't really had time to look
at it to-day; been too busy."
The child nodded, sympathetically. "That's too bad," she said.
Jed had, for him, a curious impulse, and acted upon it.
"Maybe I might come and look at it now, if I was asked," he
suggested. "Plenty of room on that bench, is there?"
"Oh, yes, sir, there's lots. I don't take much room and Petunia
almost always sits on my lap. Please come."
So Jed came and, sitting down upon the bench, looked off at the
inlet and the beach and the ocean beyond. It was the scene most
familiar to him, one he had seen, under varying weather conditions,
through many summers and winters. This very thought was in his
mind as he looked at it now.
After a time he became aware that his companion was speaking.
"Eh?" he ejaculated, coming out of his reverie. "Did you say
somethin'?"
"Yes, sir, three times. I guess you were thinking, weren't you?"
"Um-m--yes, I shouldn't be surprised. It's one of my bad habits,
thinkin' is."
She looked hard to see if he was smiling, but he was not, and she
accepted the statement as a serious one.
"Is thinking a bad habit?" she asked. "I didn't know it was."
"Cal'late it must be. If it wasn't, more folks would do it. Tell
me, now," he added, changing the subject to avoid further cross-
questioning, "do you and your ma like it here?"
The answer was enthusiastic. "Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, "we like it
ever and ever so much. Mamma says it's--" Barbara hesitated, and
then, after what was evidently a severe mental struggle, finished
with, "she said once it was like paradise after category."
"After--which?"
The young lady frowned. "It doesn't seem to me," she observed,
slowly, "as if 'category' was what she said. Does 'category' sound
right to you, Mr. Winslow?"
Jed looked doubtful. "I shouldn't want to say that it did, right
offhand like this," he drawled.
"No-o. I don't believe it was 'category.' But I'm almost sure it
was something about a cat, something a cat eats--or does--or
something. Mew--mouse--milk--" she was wrinkling her forehead and
repeating the words to herself when Mr. Winslow had an inspiration.
"'Twan't purgatory, was it?" he suggested.
Miss Barbara's head bobbed enthusiastically. "Purr-gatory, that
was it," she declared. "And it was something a cat does--purr,
you know; I knew it was. Mamma said living here was paradise
after purr-gatory."
Jed rubbed his chin.
"I cal'late your ma didn't care much for the board at Luretta
Smalley's," he observed. He couldn't help thinking the remark an
odd one to make to a child.
"Oh, I don't think she meant Mrs. Smalley's," explained Barbara.
"She liked Mrs. Smalley's pretty well, well as any one can like
boarding, you know," this last plainly another quotation. "I think
she meant she liked living here so much better than she did living
in Middleford, where we used to be."
"Hum," was the only comment Jed made. He was surprised,
nevertheless. Judged by what Captain Sam had told him, the
Armstrong home at Middleford should have been a pleasant one.
Barbara rattled on.
"I guess that was it," she observed. "She was sort of talking to
herself when she said it. She was writing a letter--to Uncle
Charlie, I think it was--and I and Petunia asked her if she liked
it here and she sort of looked at me without looking, same as you
do sometimes, Mr. Winslow, when you're thinking of something else,
and then she said that about the catty--no, the purr-gatory. And
when I asked her what purr-gatory meant she said, 'Never mind,'
and. . . . Oh, I forgot!" in consternation; "she told me I mustn't
tell anybody she said it, either. Oh, dear me!"
Jed hastened to reassure her. "Never mind," he declared, "I'll
forget you ever did say it. I'll start in forgettin' now. In five
minutes or so I'll have forgot two words of it already. By to-
morrow mornin' I wouldn't remember it for money."
"Truly?"
"Truly bluely, lay me down and cut me in twoly. But what's this
you're sayin' about your ma lookin' at things without seein' 'em,
same as I do? She don't do that, does she?"
The young lady nodded. "Yes," she said; "course not as bad--I mean
not as often as you do, but sometimes, 'specially since--" She
hastily clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh!" she exclaimed.
"What's the matter? Toothache?"
"No. Only I almost told another somethin' I mustn't."
"Sho! Well, I'm glad you put on the cover just in time."
"So am I. What else was I talking about? Oh, yes, Mamma's
thinking so hard, same as you do, Mr. Winslow. You know," she
added, earnestly, "she acts quite a lot like you sometimes."
Jed looked at her in horror. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. Then, in
his solemnest drawl, he added, "You tell her to take somethin' for
it afore it's too late."
As he rose from the bench he observed: "Haven't seen you over to
the shop since you moved in. I've been turnin' out another school
of swordfish and whales, too. Why don't you run in and look 'em
over?"
She clapped her hands. "Oh, may I?" she cried. "I've wanted to
ever and ever so much, but Mamma said not to because it might annoy
you. Wouldn't it annoy you, TRULY?"
"Not a bit."
"Oh, goody! And might Petunia come, too?"
"Um-hm. Only," gravely, "she'll have to promise not to talk too
much. Think she'll promise that? All right; then fetch her along."
So, the very next morning, when Jed was busy at the bandsaw, he was
not greatly surprised when the door opened and Miss Barbara
appeared, with Petunia in her arms. He was surprised, however, and
not a little embarrassed when Mrs. Armstrong followed.
"Good morning," said the lady, pleasantly. "I came over to make
sure that there hadn't been a mistake. You really did ask Babby to
come in and see you at work?"
"Yes, ma'am, I--I did. I did, sartin."
"And you don't mind having her here? She won't annoy you?"
"Not a mite. Real glad to have her."
"Very well, then she may stay--an hour, but no longer. Mind,
Babby, dear, I am relying on you not to annoy Mr. Winslow."
So the juvenile visitor stayed her hour and then obediently went
away, in spite of Jed's urgent invitation to stay longer. She had
asked a good many questions and talked almost continuously, but Mr.
Winslow, instead of being bored by her prattle, was surprised to
find how empty and uninteresting the shop seemed after she had
quitted it.
She came again the next day and the next. By the end of the week
Jed had become sufficiently emboldened to ask her mother to permit
her to come in the afternoon also. This request was the result of
a conspiracy between Barbara and himself.
"You ask your ma," urged Jed. "Tell her I say I need you here
afternoons."
Barbara looked troubled. "But that would be a wrong story,
wouldn't it?" she asked. "You don't really need me, you know."
"Eh? Yes, I do; yes, I do."
"What for? What shall I tell her you need me for?"
Jed scratched his chin with the tail of a wooden whale.
"You tell her," he drawled, after considering for a minute or two,
"that I need you to help carry lumber."
Even a child could not swallow this ridiculous excuse. Barbara
burst out laughing.
"Why, Mr. Winslow!" she cried. "You don't, either. You know I
couldn't carry lumber; I'm too little. I couldn't carry any but
the littlest, tiny bit."
Jed nodded, gravely. "Yes, sartin," he agreed; "that's what I need
you to carry. You run along and tell her so, that's a good girl."
But she shook her head vigorously. "No," she declared. "She would
say it was silly, and it would be. Besides, you don't really need
me at all. You just want Petunia and me for company, same as we
want you. Isn't that it, truly?"
"Um-m. Well, I shouldn't wonder. You can tell her that, if you
want to; I'd just as soon."
The young lady still hesitated. "No-o," she said, "because she'd
think perhaps you didn't really want me, but was too polite to say
so. If you asked her yourself, though, I think she'd let me come."
At first Jed's bashfulness was up in arms at the very idea, but at
length he considered to ask Mrs. Armstrong for the permission. It
was granted, as soon as the lady was convinced that the desire for
more of her daughter's society was a genuine one, and thereafter
Barbara visited the windmill shop afternoons as well as mornings.
She sat, her doll in her arms, upon a box which she soon came to
consider her own particular and private seat, watching her long-
legged friend as he sawed or glued or jointed or painted. He had
little waiting on customers to do now, for most of the summer
people had gone. His small visitor and he had many long and, to
them, interesting conversations.
Other visitors to the shop, those who knew him well, were surprised
and amused to find him on such confidential and intimate terms with
a child. Gabe Bearse, after one short call, reported about town
that crazy Shavin's Winslow had taken up with a young-one just
about as crazy as he was.
"There she set," declared Gabriel, "on a box, hugging a broken-
nosed doll baby up to her and starin' at me and Shavin's as if we
was some kind of curiosities, as you might say. Well, one of us
was; eh? Haw, haw! She didn't say a word and Shavin's he never
said nothin' and I felt as if I was preaching in a deef and dumb
asylum. Finally, I happened to look at her and I see her lips
movin'. 'Well,' says I, 'you CAN talk, can't you, sis, even if
it's only to yourself. What was you talkin' to yourself about,
eh?' She didn't seem to want to answer; just sort of reddened up,
you know; but I kept right after her. Finally she owned up she was
countin'. 'What was you countin'?' says I. Well, she didn't want
to tell that, neither. Finally I dragged it out of her that she
was countin' how many words I'd said since I started to tell about
Melissy Busteed and what she said about Luther Small's wife's aunt,
the one that's so wheezed up with asthma and Doctor Parker don't
seem to be able to do nothin' to help. 'So you was countin' my
words, was you?' says I. 'Well, that's good business, I must say!
How many have I said?' She looked solemn and shook her head. 'I
had to give it up,' says she. 'It makes my head ache to count fast
very long. Doesn't it give you a headache to count fast, Mr.
Winslow?' Jed, he mumbled some kind of foolishness about some
things givin' him earache. I laughed at the two of 'em. 'Humph!'
says I, 'the only kind of aches I have is them in my bones,'
meanin' my rheumatiz, you understand. Shavin's he looked moony up
at the roof for about a week and a half, same as he's liable to do,
and then he drawled out: 'You see he DOES have headache, Babbie,'
says he. Now did you ever hear such fool talk outside of an
asylum? He and that Armstrong kid are well matched. No wonder she
sits in there and gapes at him half the day."
Captain Sam Hunniwell and his daughter were hugely tickled.
"Jed's got a girl at last," crowed the captain. "I'd about given
up hope, Jed. I was fearful that the bloom of your youth would
pass away from you and you wouldn't keep company with anybody.
You're so bashful that I know you'd never call on a young woman,
but I never figured that one might begin callin' on you. Course
she's kind of extra young, but she'll grow out of that, give her
time."
Maud Hunniwell laughed merrily, enjoying Mr. Winslow's confusion.
"Oh, the little girl is only the bait, Father," she declared. "It
is the pretty widow that Jed is fishing for. She'll be calling
here soon, or he'll be calling there. Isn't that true, Jed? Own
up, now. Oh, see him blush, Father! Just see him!"
Jed, of course, denied that he was blushing. His fair tormentor
had no mercy.
"You must be," she insisted. "At any rate your face is very, very
red. I'll leave it to Father. Isn't his face red, Father?"
"Red as a flannel lung-protector," declared Captain Sam, who was
never known to contradict his only daughter, nor, so report
affirmed, deny a request of hers.
"Of course it is," triumphantly. "And it can't be the heat,
because it isn't at all warm here."
Poor Jed, the long-suffering, was goaded into a mild retort.
"There's consider'ble hot air in here some spells," he drawled,
mournfully. Miss Hunniwell went away reaffirming her belief that
Mr. Winslow's friendship for the daughter was merely a strategical
advance with the mother as the ultimate objective.
"You'll see, Father," she prophesied, mischievously. "We shall
hear of his 'keeping company' with Mrs. Armstrong soon. Oh, he
couldn't escape even if he wanted to. These young widows are
perfectly irresistible."
When they were a safe distance from the windmill shop the captain
cautioned his daughter.
"Maud," he said, "you'd better not tease Jed too much about that
good-lookin' tenant of his. He's so queer and so bashful that I'm
afraid if you do he'll take a notion to turn the Armstrongs out
when this month's up."
Miss Hunniwell glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
"Suppose he does?" she asked. "What of it? She isn't a GREAT
friend of yours, is she, Father?"
It was the captain's turn to look embarrassed.
"No, no, course she ain't," he declared, hastily. "All I've been
thinkin' is that Jed ought to have a tenant in that house of his,
because he needs the money. And from what I've been able to find
out about this Mrs. Armstrong she's a real nice genteel sort of
body, and--and--er--"
"And she's very sweet and very pretty and so, of course, naturally,
all the men, especially the middle-aged men--"
Captain Sam interrupted explosively. "Don't be so foolish!" he
ordered. "If you don't stop talkin' such nonsense I'll--I don't
know what I'll do to you. What do you suppose her bein' sweet and
good-lookin' has got to do with me? Gracious king! I've got one
good-lookin'--er--that is to say, I've got one young female to take
care of now and that's enough, in all conscience."
His daughter pinched his arm.
"Oh, ho!" she observed. "You were going to say she was good-
looking and then you changed your mind. Don't you think this young
female--WHAT a word! you ought to be ashamed of it--DON'T you think
she is good-looking, Daddy, dear?"
She looked provokingly up into his face and he looked fondly down
into hers.
"Don't you?" she repeated.
"We-ll, I--I don't know as I'd want to go so far as to say that. I
presume likely her face might not stop a meetin'-house clock on a
dark night, but--"
As they were in a secluded spot where a high hedge screened them
from observation Miss Maud playfully boxed her parent's ears, a
proceeding which he seemed to enjoy hugely.
But there was reason in the captain's caution, nevertheless. Miss
Maud's "teasing" concerning the widow had set Jed to thinking. The
"trial" month was almost up. In a little while he would have to
give his decision as to whether the little Winslow house was to
continue to be occupied by Barbara and her mother, or whether it
was to be, as it had been for years, closed and shuttered tight.
He had permitted them to occupy it for that month, on the spur of
the moment, as the result of a promise made upon impulse, a
characteristic Jed Winslow impulse. Now, however, he must decide
in cold blood whether or not it should be theirs for another eleven
months at least.
In his conversation with Captain Sam, the conversation which took
place immediately after the Armstrongs came, he had stoutly
maintained that the latter would not wish to stay longer than the
month, that his own proximity as landlord and neighbor would be
unbearable longer than that period. But if the widow found it so
she had so far shown no evidence of her disgust. Apparently that
means of breaking off the relationship could not be relied upon.
Of course he did not know whether or not she wished to remain, but,
if she did, did he wish her to do so? There was nothing personal
in the matter; it was merely the question as to whether his
prejudice of years against renting that house to any one was to
rule or be overthrown. If she asked him for his decision what
should he say? At night, when he went to bed, his mind was made
up. In the morning when he arose it was unmade. As he told
Captain Hunniwell: "I'm like that old clock I used to have, Sam.
The pendulum of that thing used to work fine, but the hands
wouldn't move. Same way with me. I tick, tick, tick all day over
this pesky business, but I don't get anywheres. It's always half-
past nothin'."
Captain Sam was hugely disgusted. "It ain't more'n quarter past,
if it is that," he declared, emphatically. "It's just nothin', if
you ask me. And say, speakin' of askin', I'd like to ask you this:
How are you goin' to get 'em out, provided you're fool enough to
decide they've got to go? Are you goin' to tell Mrs. Armstrong
right up and down and flat-footed that you can't stand any more of
her? I'd like to hear you say it. Let me know when the show's
goin' to come off. I want a seat in the front row."
Poor Jed looked aghast at the very idea. His friend laughed
derisively and walked off and left him. And the days passed and
the "trial month" drew closer and closer to its end until one
morning he awoke to realize that that end had come; the month was
up that very day.
He had not mentioned the subject to the widow, nor had she to him.
His reasons for not speaking were obvious enough; one was that he
did not know what to say, and the other that he was afraid to say
it. But, as the time approached when the decision must be made, he
had expected that she would speak. And she had not. He saw her
daily, sometimes several times a day. She often came into the shop
to find Barbara, who made the workroom a playhouse on rainy or
cloudy days, and she talked with him on other topics, but she did
not mention this one.
It was raining on this particular day, the last day in the "trial
month," and Jed, working at his lathe, momentarily expected Barbara
to appear, with Petunia under one arm and a bundle of dolls'
clothes under the other, to announce casually that, as it was such
bad weather, they had run in to keep him, Mr. Winslow, from getting
lonesome. There was precious little opportunity to be lonesome
where Babbie was.
But this morning the child did not come and Jed, wondering what the
reason for her absence might be, began to feel vaguely
uncomfortable. Just what was the matter he did not know, but that
there was something wrong with him, Jed Winslow, was plain. He
could not seem to keep his mind on his work; he found himself
wandering to the window and looking out into the yard, where the
lilac bushes whipped and thrashed in the gusts, the overflowing
spouts splashed and gurgled, and the sea beyond the edge of the
bluff was a troubled stretch of gray and white, seen through
diagonal streaks of wind-driven rain. And always when he looked
out of that window he glanced toward the little house next door,
hoping to see a small figure, bundled under a big rain coat and
sheltered by a big umbrella, dodge out of the door and race across
the yard toward the shop.
But the door remained shut, the little figure did not appear and,
except for the fact that the blinds were not closed and that there
was smoke issuing from the chimney of the kitchen, the little house
might have been as empty as it had been the month before.
Or as it might be next month. The thought came to Jed with a
meaning and emphasis which it had not brought before. A stronger
gust than usual howled around the eaves of the shop, the sashes
rattled, the panes were beaten by the flung raindrops which pounded
down in watery sheets to the sills, and Jed suddenly diagnosed his
own case, he knew what was the matter with him--he was lonesome;
he, who had lived alone for five years and had hoped to live alone
for the rest of his life, was lonesome.
He would not admit it, even to himself; it was ridiculous. He was
not lonesome, he was just a little "blue," that was all. It was
the weather; he might have caught a slight cold, perhaps his
breakfast had not agreed with him. He tried to remember what that
breakfast had been. It had been eaten in a hurry, he had been
thinking of something else as usual, and, except that it consisted
of various odds and ends which he had happened to have on hand, he
could not itemize it with exactness. There had been some cold
fried potatoes, and some warmed-over pop-overs which had "slumped"
in the cooking, and a doughnut or two and--oh, yes, a saucer of
canned peaches which had been sitting around for a week and which
he had eaten to get out of the way. These, with a cup of warmed-
over coffee, made up the meal. Jed couldn't see why a breakfast of
that kind should make him "blue." And yet he was blue--yes, and
there was no use disguising the fact, he was lonesome. If that
child would only come, as she generally did, her nonsense might
cheer him up a bit. But she did not come. And if he decided not
to permit her mother to occupy the house, she would not come much
more. Eh? Why, it was the last day of the month! She might never
come again!
Jed shut off the motor and turned away from the lathe. He sank
down into his little chair, drew his knee up under his chin, and
thought, long and seriously. When the knee slid down to its normal
position once more his mind was made up. Mrs. Armstrong might
remain in the little house--for a few months more, at any rate.
Even if she insisted upon a year's lease it wouldn't do any great
harm. He would wait until she spoke to him about it and then he
would give his consent. And--and it would please Captain Sam, at
any rate.
He rose and, going to the window, looked out once more across the
yard. What he saw astonished him. The back door of the house was
partially open and a man was just coming out. The man, in dripping
oil-skins and a sou'wester, was Philander Hardy, the local
expressman. Philander turned and spoke to some one in the house
behind him. Jed opened the shop door a crack and listened.
"Yes, ma'am," he heard Hardy say. "I'll be back for 'em about four
o'clock this afternoon. Rain may let up a little mite by that
time, and anyhow, I'll have the covered wagon. Your trunks won't
get wet, ma'am; I'll see to that."
A minute later Jed, an old sweater thrown over his head and
shoulders, darted out of the front door of his shop. The express
wagon with Hardy on the driver's seat was just moving off. Jed
called after it.
"Hi, Philander!" he called, raising his voice only a little, for
fear of being overheard at the Armstrong house. "Hi, Philander,
come here a minute. I want to see you."
Mr. Hardy looked over his shoulder and then backed his equipage
opposite the Winslow gate.
"Hello, Jedidah Shavin's," he observed, with a grin. "Didn't know
you for a minute, with that shawl over your front crimps. What you
got on your mind; anything except sawdust?"
Jed was too much perturbed even to resent the loathed name "Jedidah."
"Philander," he whispered, anxiously; "say, Philander, what does
she want? Mrs. Armstrong, I mean? What is it you're comin' back
for at four o'clock?"
Philander looked down at the earnest face under the ancient
sweater. Then he winked, solemnly.
"Well, I tell you, Shavin's," he said. "You see, I don't know how
'tis, but woman folks always seem to take a terrible shine to me.
Now this Mrs. Armstrong here-- Say, she's some peach, ain't she!--
she ain't seen me more'n half a dozen times, but here she is
beggin' me to fetch her my photograph. 'It's rainin' pretty hard,
to-day,' I says. 'Won't it do if I fetch it to-morrow?' But no,
she--"
Jed held up a protesting hand. "I don't doubt she wants your
photograph, Philander," he drawled. "Your kind of face is rare.
But I heard you say somethin' about comin' for trunks. Whose
trunks?"
"Whose? Why, hers and the young-one's, I presume likely. 'Twas
them I fetched from Luretta Smalley's. Now she wants me to take
'em back there."
A tremendous gust, driven in from the sea, tore the sweater from
the Winslow head and shoulders and wrapped it lovingly about one of
the posts in the yard. Jed did not offer to recover it; he
scarcely seemed to know that it was gone. Instead he stood staring
at the express driver, while the rain ran down his nose and dripped
from its tip to his chin.
"She--she's goin' back to Luretta Smalley's?" he repeated. "She--"
He did not finish the sentence. Instead he turned on his heel and
walked slowly back to the shop. The sweater, wrapped about the
post where, in summer, a wooden sailor brandished his paddles,
flapped soggily in the wind. Hardy gazed after him.
"What in time--?" he exclaimed. Then, raising his voice, he
called: "Hi, Jed! Jed! You crazy critter! What--Jed, hold on a
minute, didn't you know she was goin'? Didn't she tell you? Jed!"
But Jed had entered the shop and closed the door. Philander drove
off, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
A few minutes later Mrs. Armstrong, hearing a knock at the rear
door of the Winslow house, opened it to find her landlord standing
on the threshold. He was bareheaded and he had no umbrella.
"Why, Mr. Winslow!" she exclaimed. It was the first time that he
had come to that house of his own accord since she had occupied it.
Now he stood there, in the rain, looking at her without speaking.
"Why, Mr. Winslow," she said again. "What is it? Come in, won't
you? You're soaking wet. Come in!"
Jed looked down at the sleeves of his jacket. "Eh?" he drawled,
slowly. "Wet? Why, I don't know's I ain't--a little. It's--it's
rainin'."
"Raining! It's pouring. Come in."
She took him by the arm and led him through the woodshed and into
the kitchen. She would have led him further, into the sitting-
room, but he hung back.
"No, ma'am, no," he said. "I--I guess I'll stay here, if you don't
mind."
There was a patter of feet from the sitting-room and Barbara came
running, Petunia in her arms. At the sight of their visitor's
lanky form the child's face brightened.
"Oh, Mr. Winslow!" she cried. "Did you come to see where Petunia
and I were? Did you?"
Jed looked down at her. "Why--why, I don't know's I didn't," he
admitted. "I--I kind of missed you, I guess."
"Yes, and we missed you. You see, Mamma said we mustn't go to the
shop to-day because-- Oh, Mamma, perhaps he has come to tell you
we won't have to--"
Mrs. Armstrong interrupted. "Hush, Babbie," she said, quickly. "I
told Barbara not to go to visit you to-day, Mr. Winslow. She has
been helping me with the packing."
Jed swallowed hard. "Packin'?" he repeated. "You've been packin'?
Then 'twas true, what Philander Hardy said about your goin' back to
Luretta's?"
The lady nodded. "Yes," she replied. "Our month here ends to-day.
Of course you knew that."
Jed sighed miserably. "Yes, ma'am," he said, "I knew it, but I
only just realized it, as you might say. I . . . Hum! . . .
Well . . ."
He turned away and walked slowly toward the kitchen door. Barbara
would have followed but her mother laid a detaining hand upon her
shoulder. On the threshold of the door between the dining-room and
kitchen Jed paused.
"Ma'am," he said, hesitatingly, "you--you don't cal'late there's
anything I can do to--to help, is there? Anything in the packin'
or movin' or anything like that?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Winslow. The packing was very simple."
"Er--yes, ma'am. . . . Yes, ma'am."
He stopped, seemed about to speak again, but evidently changed his
mind, for he opened the door and went out into the rain without
another word. Barbara, very much surprised and hurt, looked up
into her mother's face.
"Why, Mamma," she cried, "has--has he GONE? He didn't say good-by
to us or--or anything. He didn't even say he was sorry we were
going."
Mrs. Armstrong shook her head.
"I imagine that is because he isn't sorry, my dear," she replied.
"You must remember that Mr. Winslow didn't really wish to let any
one live in this house. We only came here by--well, by accident."
But Barbara was unconvinced.
"He ISN'T glad," she declared, stoutly. "He doesn't act that way
when he is glad about things. You see," she added, with the air of
a Mrs. Methusaleh, "Petunia and I know him better than you do,
Mamma; we've had more chances to get--to get acquainted."
Perhaps an hour later there was another knock at the kitchen door.
Mrs. Armstrong, when she opened it, found her landlord standing
there, one of his largest windmills--a toy at least three feet
high--in his arms. He bore it into the kitchen and stood it in the
middle of the floor, holding the mammoth thing, its peaked roof
high above his head, and peering solemnly out between one of its
arms and its side.
"Why, Mr. Winslow!" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong.
"Yes, ma'am," said Jed. "I--I fetched it for Babbie. I just kind
of thought maybe she'd like it."
Barbara clasped her hands.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, is it for me."
Jed answered.
"'Tis, if you want it," he said.
"Want it? Why, Mamma, it's one of the very best mills! It's a
five dollar one, Mamma!"
Mrs. Armstrong protested. "Oh, I couldn't let you do that, Mr.
Winslow," she declared. "It is much too expensive a present. And
besides--"
She checked herself just in time. It had been on the tip of her
tongue to say that she did not know what they could do with it.
Their rooms at Mrs. Smalley's were not large. It was as if a
dweller in a Harlem flat had been presented with a hippopotamus.
The maker of the mill looked about him, plainly seeking a place to
deposit his burden.
"'Tisn't anything much," he said, hastily. "I--I'm real glad for
you to have it."
He was about to put it on top of the cookstove, in which there was
a roaring fire, but Mrs. Armstrong, by a startled exclamation and a
frantic rush, prevented his doing so. So he put it on the table
instead. Barbara thanked him profusely. She was overjoyed; there
were no comparisons with hippopotami in HER mind. Jed seemed
pleased at her appreciation, but he did not smile. Instead he
sighed.
"I--I just thought I wanted her to have it, ma'am," he said,
turning to Mrs. Armstrong. "'Twould keep her from--from forgettin'
me altogether, maybe. . . . Not that there's any real reason why
she should remember me, of course," he added.
Barbara was hurt and indignant.
"Of COURSE I shan't forget you, Mr. Winslow," she declared.
"Neither will Petunia. And neither will Mamma, I know. She feels
awful bad because you don't want us to live here any longer, and--"
"Hush, Babbie, hush!" commanded her mother. Barbara hushed, but
she had said enough. Jed turned a wondering face in their
direction. He stared without speaking.
Mrs. Armstrong felt that some one must say something.
"You mustn't mind what the child says, Mr. Winslow," she explained,
hurriedly. "Of course I realize perfectly that this house is yours
and you certainly have the right to do what you please with your
own. And I have known all the time that we were here merely on
trial."
Jed lifted a big hand.
"Er--er--just a minute, ma'am, please," he begged. "I--I guess my
wooden head is beginnin' to splinter or somethin'. Please answer
me just this--if--if you'd just as soon: Why are you movin' back to
Luretta's?"
It was her turn to look wonderingly at him. "Why, Mr. Winslow,"
she said, after a moment's hesitation, "isn't that rather an
unnecessary question? When Babbie and I came here it was with the
understanding that we were to be on trial for a month. We had gone
into no details at all, except that the rent for this one month
should be forty dollars. You were, as I understood it, to consider
the question of our staying and, if you liked us and liked the idea
of renting the house at all, you were to come to me and discuss the
matter. The month is up and you haven't said a word on the
subject. And, knowing what your feelings HAD been, I of course
realized that you did not wish us to remain, and so, of course, we
are going. I am sorry, very sorry. Babbie and I love this little
house, and we wish you might have cared to have us stay in it, but--"
"Hold on! hold on!" Jed was, for him, almost energetic. "Mrs.
Armstrong, ma'am, do you mean to tell me you're goin' back to
Luretta Smalley's because you think I don't want you to stay? Is
that it, honest truth?"
"Why, of course, it is. What else?"
"And--and 'tain't because you can't stand me any longer, same as
Mother used to say?"
"Can't stand you? Your mother used to say? What DO you mean, Mr.
Winslow?"
"I mean--I mean you ain't goin' because I used to wash my face out
in the yard, and--and holler and sing mornin's and look so
everlastin' homely--and--and be what everybody calls a town crank--
and--"
"Mr. Winslow! PLEASE!"
"And--and you and Babbie would stay right here if--if you thought I
wanted you to?"
"Why, of course. But you don't, do you?"
Before Jed could answer the outside door was thrown open without
knock or preliminary warning, and Captain Sam Hunniwell, dripping
water like a long-haired dog after a bath, strode into the kitchen.
"Mornin', ma'am," he said, nodding to Mrs. Armstrong. Then,
turning to the maker of windmills: "You're the feller I'm lookin'
for," he declared. "Is what Philander Hardy told me just now true?
Is it?"
Jed was dreamily staring out of the window. He was smiling, a
seraphic smile. Receiving no reply, Captain Sam angrily repeated
his question. "Is it true?" he demanded.
"No-o, no, I guess 'tisn't. I'd know better if I knew what he told
you."
"He told me that Mrs. Armstrong here was movin' back to Luretta
Smalley's to-day. Jed Winslow, have you been big enough fool--"
Jed held up the big hand.
"Yes," he said. "I always am."
"You always are--what?"
"A big enough fool. Sam, what is a lease?"
"What is a lease?"
"Yes. Never mind tellin' me; show me. Make out a lease of this
house to Mrs. Armstrong here."
Mrs. Armstrong was, naturally, rather surprised.
"Why, Mr. Winslow," she cried; "what are you talking about? We
haven't agreed upon rent or--"
"Yes, we have. We've agreed about everything. Er--Babbie, you get
your things on and come on over to the shop. You and I mustn't be
sittin' 'round here any longer. We've got to get to WORK."