“How dare you sneak into my home and take up the time of my maids? Leave
this house instantly.”
I whirled around, too amazed to speak. A large, pompous woman was
standing in the inner doorway, motioning me out with a be-ringed hand.
“But—but madam,” I stammered, “your maid wants to buy some of these
articles. She has gone to get the money.”
“I’ll not have you cheating my servants. Go away from here.”
The girl appeared at that moment, but her mistress blocked the door.
“Hulda, you stay right where you are. Shame on you, wasting valuable
time on a tricky pedler. What do you suppose I pay you wages for?”
“Oh, mam. I ban long tam want....”
“That will do. That will do. I don’t want any of your saucy talk. You
are paid to do the housework, so get at it.” She turned on me.
“Get off these premises at once. You may be able to swindle these
ignorant foreigners, but you can’t impose on me. Go now, or I’ll call
the constable. The very idea, crowding yourself right into people’s
homes, talking to their servants, impudent....”
She was still raving as I passed out of hearing. The day was very warm.
I was dusty and tired and hungry. Aimlessly I followed the street till
it terminated in a country road and finally sank down by the roadside,
too weary and disheartened to think clearly.
I was roused by the sound of pattering hoofs and glancing up, saw a team
of grey Indian ponies, attached to a light buckboard, come scampering
around a curve. They shied sharply at sight of my recumbent figure,
reared and tried to break into a run. Their driver drew them in with
masterly skill, and circling through the weeds and brush, returned to
learn the cause of the fracas. She was a tall, strong woman, with an
aquiline nose and iron grey hair. The smile with which she greeted me as
I approached the wagon was very winning.
“Is there something the matter? Are you ill or hurt?” she inquired,
leaning toward me with kindling eyes.
“No, just tired and a bit blue, I guess. It didn’t seem worth while to
walk any more, so I dropped right down here.”
“Pardon me, but aren’t you a stranger to these parts? I don’t recall
seeing you before. In these little towns we generally know every one, at
least by sight.”
“Yes, I arrived only a couple of hours ago, but I know this town pretty
well already.”
She searched my face as though seeking the true meaning of my words;
then her eyes fell on my sample case, which was still clutched in my
left hand.
“Oh, you are selling something,” she exclaimed. “What is it, books?”
“No, not books. And I’m not selling anything either—not in this town.”
“Oh, so that’s it. You must have started on the wrong street. Suppose
you jump in with me and ride out to the house. Maybe it will change your
luck.”
I hesitated for a moment, my usual faith in human nature somewhat shaken
by recent experiences.
“Come on, now. Jump in. I’ll bring you back to wherever you want to go,
whenever you are ready.”
I walked around the wagon and clambered in. The ponies bounded forward,
and away we flew, winding up among low, rolling hills, until we came to
a small house perched on the side of a knoll. Care of the team had
occupied my companion’s attention to the exclusion of conversation until
we had entered the house. Then, as she set out a substantial
lunch—afternoon tea, she termed it—we began to get acquainted.
Mrs. Holiday’s home was in Cheyenne, but her husband owned this large
stock ranch, which led them to make frequent visits to Sydney.
As evening approached, she declared her intention of driving into town
after Dan and keeping the two of us as long as our business permitted us
to remain in the neighbourhood. Leaving me to devour a tableful of
newspapers and late magazines, the first I had seen in months, she sped
away with her frisky team and returned with Dan, who had grown quite
accustomed to my peculiar way of making myself at home in unusual
places. As they drove into the yard, Mr. Holiday rode in from the range
and we all were soon on a most friendly footing.
Mr. Adams had already left a couple of sign orders with Dan to put up
the next morning, but instead of going into town with him to resume my
interrupted labours as a pedler, I decided to take a day off to wash and
mend our clothing and incidentally starch my crumpled courage by an
interchange of confidences with my hostess, who possessed a peculiarly
invigorating temperament.
Her early years had been full of privations and severe struggles to gain
an education. She had become a high school teacher, but her health
failed, forcing her to seek the high altitudes of the Rockies. Here she
had met and married Mr. Holiday, a well-to-do cattle man, and they had
built a home in Cheyenne. One child—a girl—was born to them, but she had
died some two years previously. Since her death the mother had been
almost mad with loneliness, finding her chief consolation in mothering
the calves and colts and other young creatures of the range.
She was greatly interested in the history of our experiences, and as I
was telling her the story of Mandy of the corn fields, she suddenly
leaned forward with sparkling eyes.
“Give me the address of that Mrs. Cummings. I’m going back there and if
she is half the gritty little heroine that you make her out to be, I’ll
bring her home with me and see that she gets the best education that
money can buy. Maybe I’ll take one or two of the other children, too.”
“But ... but maybe their mother will object,” I faltered.
“It won’t do her a bit of good if she does,” Mrs. Holiday replied
firmly. “I always get what I go after. You know, when I saw you beside
the road yesterday, I felt impelled to take you home with me. I believe
in that kind of instinct—intuition—fate—call it what you will. That
little Mandy will be my girl. I can teach her so much. It will be like
renewing my youth. Of course, she’ll go to school in Cheyenne, too, and
later to college if she likes. Oh, I’ll get her—rest assured of that.
It’s mostly a question of money, anyway.”
I handed over the address without another word. Yes, it would be largely
a question of money with that drunken father and ignorant mother, and it
would be a wonderful opportunity for Mandy.
The workings of fate are marvellous to contemplate. If that old harridan
of a woman had not ordered me from her house, I would not have wandered
out into the country and met Mrs. Holiday. Then Mandy would not have had
her chance. Thus, the harridan woman is clearly seen to be but an
instrument of a benign Providence. Should she be censured for an act
that results in so much good? I put the question to my companion, who
laughed as I told her the story.
“You were unfortunate in that you began operations in the fashionable
quarter of our fair city. I know the woman you describe. She is the
shining light of local clubdom, the greatest society leader here. She
would be highly insulted at the idea of serving as an instrument of
Fate. Why, she would not be the servant of the Almighty himself—if she
can’t boss the job, she won’t play.”
“It must be rather hard on the maid,” I observed.
“Well, she’s notorious for the way she handles her servants. She gets
these green foreigners fresh from the old country, and keeps them penned
in her kitchen so long as they will endure it. They are taught to cook
and wash and all that, but she pays next to nothing, and does her best
to prevent their learning decent English or mingling with their kind.
She is a fine person to talk of swindling ignorant foreigners. A worse
exploiter of unfortunate servant girls it would be difficult to find.
“But to-morrow I’ll take you into another part of town, over where the
human people live, and probably you will do quite well.”
She was a good prophet, for I have succeeded in clearing nearly five
dollars during the last few days. It will be with keen regret that I
leave my newfound friend to-morrow morning and take the road again with
the California outfit.