A FRIENDLY SHELTER
“Eat away, eat away,” said old Mr. Ross, heartily; “it doos me good to
see ye eat. Nothin’ sence mornin’! My! Wife, ain’t ye got some cake to
set out?”
“Yes, I hev,” said Mrs. Ross, coming in at that moment with a large loaf
of plum-cake; “an’ some canned peaches, too, thet ain’t be’n sealed up
more ’n a week.” Betty clapped her hands in glee, for she was still
hungry, and she loved plum-cake.
“Eat away, little gal,” said the old man, “though you seem to hev growed
up to be a lady all of a suddint, with yer curls piled up into a
waterfall. Mother—I say, mother, don’t she look like Lallowet now?”
“No, Jim, she don’t. It’s jest the dress an’ that comb as makes it seem
so. Lallowet had ripply gold hair an’ blue eyes.”
“So she did, mother, so she did; but all the same, little miss reminds
me of her. I s’pose it’s the dress—hey, Purty?”
The old man sat at the head of his table, and on the arm of his chair
sat a huge white cat, whom he stroked and petted continually, and to
whom he referred any puzzling questions.
The wise-looking animal responded by a prolonged purr.
“That’s a fine cat you have,” remarked Miss Grace, pleasantly.
“Purty? Yes, ma’am; she’s a great cat. We couldn’t keep house ’thout
Purty. She’s allers lively an’ pleasant, an’ it makes it cheery fur us
two lone old critters to have her round.”
“Do you live all alone, you and Mrs. Ross?”
“Wal, yes, ’m, we do now. But we’re goin’ out to Chicago soon, to live
with my son’s folks. He says we’re too lonely here in the winter-time,
an’ I guess we be. We useter have neighbors, but they all moved away or
burnt down, an’ now we’re alone here, ’ceptin’ the cat. But you’re as
good as folks, ain’t you, Purty?”
The cat purred, and the old man went on:
“We useter take summer boarders, an’ they was a heap of comp’ny. What
with gettin’ ready fur ’em an’ clearin’ up after ’em, they lasted e’en
a’most the hull year round. Purty liked them boarders—hey, Purty?”
“But she doesn’t like dogs?” asked Betty.
“No, miss; she was skeered by a dorg onct when she was a little kitten,
an’ she ain’t never got over it. An’ so I try to keep dorgs away from
her. It’s the least I can do fur her—an’ she so fond of me—ain’t you,
Purty?”
The cat rubbed lovingly against her old master, and seemed to understand
the whole conversation.
“Knowin’est cat ever was,” said Mrs. Ross. “Lallowet useter say she was
a real human bein’—a princess, like as not—laid under a spell an’
bewitched into a cat.”
“And who is this wonderful Lallowet?” inquired Mr. Van Court.
“Oh, she was one of our summer boarders,” replied Mr. Ross. “We never
had but three, an’ they came every summer for six years. But they didn’t
come last year, nor this, an’ I don’t know what’s gone with ’em.
Lallowet she was a beautiful lady, an’ it’s her clo’es you two ladies is
now appearin’ in. That trunkful of white clo’es is all hern; she left
’em here, sayin’ she’d send fur ’em, but she never did.”
“Didn’t she have any other name but Lallowet?” said Betty, quite
interested in the owner of such beautiful dresses.
“Yes, miss, I s’pose she did, but I don’t know what it was. Her father
an’ mother was always with her, but they called her jest ‘Lallowet.’
Their names was Irving,—Mr. an’ Mrs. Irving,—an’ they was the nicest
people ever trod shoe-leather. Fur six years, reg’lar, they come down
here an’ stayed all summer. Liked the quiet, they said, an’ land sakes!
it was quiet enough. They liked Purty too, an’ she liked them. Useter
tag round after ’em all the time. Thet trunk ain’t never be’n opened
sence she left it—’cept now an’ then wife’s looked over the clo’es,
fearin’ of moth or mildew.”
“Did Lallowet always wear white dresses?” asked Betty.
“In the house she did,” said Mrs. Ross, “but when she’d be comin’ or
goin’ home she wore a black or black-an’-white dress. Hadn’t no taste
for colors at all. An’ maybe she was in mournin’—I don’t know. I never
asked her, fur she was a quiet little lady, not given to talkin’. But
she could sing. My! how she _could_ sing. Sometimes she’d snatch off her
collar, as if it kep’ the songs back, an’ then she’d jest fairly yell.”
“Very interesting person,” remarked Mr. Van Court. “Remember, Popinjay,
when you learn to sing you must take your collar off.”
“You’d better sing now, then,” said Betty, roguishly, “for you haven’t
any collar on.”
“That only shows how adaptable to circumstances I am,” said Mr. Dick,
calmly. “I had quite forgotten that my costume lacked a few finishing
touches. But you’ll be ill if you adapt yourself to any more of Mrs.
Ross’s plum-cake. Take it away, Mrs. Ross; she’s only a little girl, if
she is wearing a trailing dress and a high-heeled comb.”
“Bless the lamb, let her have all she wants,” replied the kind-hearted
hostess; “but I think she looks clean tuckered out, an’ she ought to be
abed and asleep this minute.”
“No, I’m not sleepy,” said Betty, “but I’m wondering what Grandma Jean
will think has became of us.”
“That’s worrying me, too,” said Miss Grace.
“There’s no use worrying about it,” said Richard Van Court, “for there’s
no possible way to send them word to-night. Of course they’re anxious—I
suppose mother and Margaret are just about wild. But I hope they’ll
think we’ve landed somewhere to wait until the storm is over.”
“How far is it to Greenborough?” asked Jack, and Mr. Ross replied:
“It’s about six miles by the wagon-road, an’ to walk it across the
medders it’s about four. But land sakes! of course you can’t do nothin’
to-night. To-morrow mornin’ I would hitch up my horse to the old
carryall, an’ jog along up; but he’s gone lame, an’ I don’t see how I
can. I couldn’t tote you all at onct, anyhow. But you can go back in
your boat, can’t you?”
“I don’t want to go in the boat,” said Miss Van Court, with a little
shudder. “I’ve had enough of the _Pixie_ for one while.”
“The _Pixie_’s all right,” said her brother. “She behaved beautifully,
and carried us safely through the storm.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Grace, “but I don’t want to go home in her; I’d
rather ride on land.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Mr. Brewster.
Then Mrs. Ross brought candles, and escorted Grace and Betty up to the
kitchen bedroom again.
“I’m sorry to put you ladies in here to sleep,” she said; “it isn’t the
nicest place in the world, but it’s warm an’ dry, an’ the best bedrooms
ain’t be’n opened, to speak of, in two years, an’ I’m afraid they’d give
you fever ’n’ ager.”
Miss Grace declared the room was cozy and pleasant, and quite large
enough, and she was sure she and Betty were so tired they could sleep
anywhere.
And soon the whole of the shipwrecked party had forgotten their day of
discomfort in a night of pleasant dreams.
Very early in the morning, Jack, who had slept on the sofa in the
living-room, opened his eyes.
At first he couldn’t think where he was. Then suddenly he remembered,
and then he lay there thinking. As a result of his thoughts he rose very
softly and dressed himself in the old fisherman’s suit that Mr. Ross had
lent him.
The sun was just about to rise, and by its dawning light Jack hunted
around for a pencil. Then, finding a bit of paper, he wrote rather
hastily the following note:
DEAR BETTY: I am going to walk home so grandma and Mr. Dick’s
folks won’t worry. I would have told you last night, only I knew
you would think it too long a walk for me; but it isn’t. I’ll
send the carriage back for the rest of you. Wait for it.
Yours truly, JACK.
Then he carefully and noiselessly opened a window and climbed out, and
was soon trudging over the salt meadows toward Greenborough. And that’s
how it happened that just as Grandma Jean threw open her shutters she
saw Jack slowly making his way toward the house.
“They’re drowned!” she cried out. “Oh, I knew they would be!” And then
she went down-stairs as fast as she could and opened the front door.
Jack came up the steps, and fell into the hammock.
“They’re all right, grandma,” he said, “and I’m all right; every one’s
safe, and so is the _Pixie_; only it was a long walk.”
“Poor boy!” said grandma; and then, being a sensible lady, she asked no
more questions until Jack had rested a few minutes. She went and told
Ellen, who was rejoiced at the good news, and delighted to have her
ministrations of use at last.
They quickly prepared a hot bath and a hot breakfast for the shipwrecked
mariner, and when Grandma Jean went back to him he was telling Pete all
about it, and directing him to send the carriage after Betty. Almost,
before Jack had finished speaking, Pete had whistled for Barney, who
harnessed the horses in short order, and then Pete himself jumped to the
box and took the reins.
Although tired from his long night watch, he would allow no one else to
go for his beloved Miss Betty.
“Tell the Van Coort leddies as how I’ll bring back the whole party,” he
said, as he drove away.
* * * * *
Meantime Betty and Grace had awakened, and were wondering if their
storm-drenched garments had yet become wearable, when there was a gentle
rap at their door, and Mrs. Ross entered the room.
“It doos seem,” she said, “as if them dresses of yourn wouldn’t never
get dry. The cloth is so thick an’ the gethers is so full that they’re
all damp through yet, an’ it would be flyin’ in the face of Providence
fur you to put ’em on.”
Betty laughed with glee.
“I’m glad of it,” she said. “I’ll wear the pretty white silk dress home.
There’s a lovely embroidered collar in the trunk that will make it
high-necked.”
“Yes, do, my lamb,” said Mrs. Ross, smiling back into Betty’s bright
eyes; “an’ you can have that frock to keep, seein’ ’s you like it so
much. I don’t suppose poor Lallowet’ll ever claim it, an’ if she should,
I’ll make it all right with her. I know she’d be glad to give it to
you—she’s that kind-hearted.”
Betty was delighted, and jumped out of bed to array herself in the
pretty grown-up gown.
Then she danced down-stairs to find Jack, and presently found his note
instead.
“That dear old Jack!” she exclaimed. “He’s walked all the way to
Denniston so that I can have a comfortable ride home.”
“Bless the boy!” cried Mrs. Ross; “an’ he hadn’t no breakfast, neither.”
“Oh, he’ll get along,” said Mr. Dick. “He tucked away supper enough for
two, and when he gets to Denniston they’ll kill a whole drove of fatted
calves for him. But it was jolly good of him to go. Now, Grace, you
won’t have to go home in the boat.”
“No,” said Miss Grace, with a contented smile; “and I’m very glad. I
suppose the carriage will be here soon.”
“Then come to breakfast right away,” sang out Mr. Ross. “My! I wish we
had a big family like this all the time. It’s right-down gay—hey,
Purty?”
The cat purred assentingly, and jumped up on the arm of the chair in
which Mr. Ross had seated himself.
Soon after they had finished the homely, hearty meal, the Denniston
carriage drove up to the house. Betty flew to the door and opened it.
“Hello, Pete!” she called out. “Did you come for us? Here we are.”
“The saints be praised, Miss Betty, darlint! An’ are ye all alive an’
well this blissid marnin’? I’m thot glad, I can’t tell ye. Shure ye look
like a white angel. An’ will yez be afther goin’ home now?”
“Yes, Pete; we’ll be ready in a few minutes. Was grandma worried? What
did Polly say? This is Mr. Ross, the gentleman who so kindly took us in
for the night.”
The old farmer hobnobbed with Pete in a friendly manner while his guests
prepared for their ride home.
Grandma Jean had sent a warm cloak for Betty, and she bundled herself
into it, and so protected the pretty white dress from possible harm.
Soon they were ready; and after expressing their heartfelt thanks to the
old farmer and his wife, which Mr. Dick supplemented by a more
substantial recognition, they drove back to Denniston.
[Illustration: “THERE IS NOTHING SO COMFORTING AS A PILLOW.”]
Then there was great rejoicing. The Van Court people all stayed to
dinner, and everybody told the story of the storm, and everybody else
listened and sympathized. And although Betty’s thankful little heart was
as glad as the others that they were all safe home again, yet she felt a
certain sadness which she couldn’t have explained if she had been asked
to. It was a vague feeling of disappointment—the old longing for some
one who belonged to her without being “bought.”
This sensation was only a fleeting one, for Betty was a merry little
girl, and had a happy faculty for making the best of everything.
But that night, in her room, she talked longer than usual to her blue
pillow.
You know, when we feel bad, either mentally or physically, there is
nothing so comforting as a pillow; and Betty’s favorite was one of her
couch pillows—a particularly big, fluffy, downy one, covered with
blue-and-white silk. She would often fling herself on the couch and bury
her head in this pillow, and talk to it as to a confidential friend.
“Oh, Pillow,” she said, as she put her arms round it and laid her cheek
against its softness, “are _you_ glad I didn’t get drowned? I’m awful
glad to get back to you, anyway. Suppose I had to always sleep in that
kitchen bedroom of Mrs. Ross’s! I’m glad to be again in my own dear room
so full of things of beauty and joys forever. Oh, I’ve everything to be
thankful for, and yet—I seem to miss something. Do you hear, Pillow?
Wake up, you stupid old thing, and listen to me. There’s just a little
_something_—I don’t know what—that keeps my beautiful home from being
a perfect success. But, as everything else is all right, the fault must
be in me, and I’m going to overcome it. So there, now!”
She gave poor Pillow a vigorous thump, and then patted it gently to make
up. “Only, Pillow, I’ll whisper to you just one thing: if Mr. Morris
writes me anything about my really truly family, I’m going to hunt them
up, if it takes all my money!”
Then she went to bed, and dreamed that Mr. Morris wrote her that she had
a dozen sisters and a dozen brothers all coming to live with her at
Denniston.