THE NUTTING PARTY
Peter Junior made no attempt the next day to speak further to his
father about his plans. It seemed to him better that he should wait
until his wise mother had talked the matter over with the Elder.
Although he put in most of the day at the studio, painting, he saw
very little of Betty and thought she was avoiding him out of girlish
coquetry, but she was only very busy. Martha was coming home and
everything must be as clean as wax. Martha was such a tidy housekeeper
that she would see the least lack and set to work to remedy it, and
that Betty could not abide. In these days Martha's coming marked a
semimonthly event in the home, for since completing her course at the
high school she had been teaching in the city. Bertrand would return
with her, and then all would have to be talked over,--just what he had
decided to do, and why.
In the evening a surprise awaited the whole household, for Martha
came, accompanied not only by her father, but also by a young
professor in the same school where she taught. Mary Ballard greeted
him most kindly, but she felt things were happening too rapidly in her
family. Jamie and Bobby watched the young man covertly yet eagerly,
taking note of his every movement and intonation. Was he one to be
emulated or avoided? Only little Janey was quite unabashed by him, and
this lightened his embarrassment greatly and helped him to the ease
of manner he strove to establish.
She led him out to the sweet-apple tree, and introduced him to the
calf and the bantams, and invited him to go with them nutting the next
day. "We're all going in a great, big picnic wagon. Everybody's going
and we'll have just lots of fun." And he accepted, provided she would
sit beside him all the way.
Bobby decided at this point that he also would befriend the young man.
"If you're going to sit beside her all the way, you'll have to be
lively. She never sits in one place more than two minutes. You'll have
to sit on papa's other knee for a while, and then you'll have to sit
on Peter Junior's."
"That will be interesting, anyway. Who's Peter Junior?"
"Oh, he's a man. He comes to see us a lot."
"He's the son of Elder Craigmile," explained Martha.
"Is he going, too, Betty?"
"Yes. The whole crowd are going. It will be fun. I'm glad now it
rained Thursday, for the Deans didn't want to postpone it till
to-morrow, and then, when it rained, Mrs. Dean said it would be too
wet to try to have it yesterday; and now we have you. I wanted all the
time to wait until you came home."
That night, when Martha went to their room, Betty followed her, and
after closing the door tightly she threw her arms around her sister's
neck.
"Oh, Martha, Martha, dear! Tell me all about him. Why didn't you let
us know? I came near having on my old blue gingham. What if I had?
He's awfully nice looking. Is he in love with you? Tell me all about
it. Does he make love to you? Oh, Martha! It's so romantic for you to
have a lover!"
"Hush, Betty, some one will hear you. Of course he doesn't make love
to me!"
"Why?"
"I wouldn't let him."
"Martha! Why not? Do you think it's bad to let a young man make love
to you?"
"Betty! You mustn't talk so loud. Everything sounds so through this
house. It would mortify me to death."
"What would mortify you to death: to have him make love to you or to
have someone hear me?"
"Betty, dear!"
"Well, tell me all about him--please! Why did he come out with you?"
"You shouldn't always be thinking about love-making--and--such things,
Betty, dear. He just came out in the most natural way, just because
he--he loves the country, and he was talking to me about it one day
and said he'd like to come out some Friday with me--just about asked
me to invite him. So when father called at the school yesterday for
me, I introduced them, and he said the same thing to father, and of
course father invited him over again, and--and--so he's here. That's
all there is to it."
"I bet it isn't. How long have you known him?"
"Why, ever since I've been in the school, naturally."
"What does he teach?"
"He has higher Latin and beginners' Greek, and then he has charge of
the main room when the principal goes out."
Betty pondered a little, sitting on the floor in front of her sister.
"You have such a lovely way of doing your hair. Is that the way to do
hair nowadays--with two long curls hanging down from one side of the
coil? You wind one side around the back knot, and then you pin the
other up and let the ends hang down in two long curls, don't you? I'm
going to try mine that way; may I?"
"Of course, darling! I'll help you."
"What's his name, Martha? I couldn't quite catch it, and I did not
want to let him know I thought it queer, so wouldn't ask over."
"His name is Lucien Thurbyfil. It's not so queer, Betty."
"Oh, you pronounce it T'urbyfil, just as if there were no 'h' in it.
You know I thought father said Mr. Tubfull--or something like that,
when he introduced him to mother, and that was why mother looked at
him in such an odd way."
The two girls laughed merrily. "Betty, what if you hadn't been a dear,
and had called him that! And he's so very correct!"
"Oh, is he? Then I'll try it to-morrow and we'll see what he'll do."
"Don't you dare! I'd be so ashamed I'd sink right through the floor.
He'd think we'd been making fun of him."
"Then I'll wait until we are out in the woods, for I'd hate to have
you make a hole in the floor by sinking through it."
"Betty! You'll be good to-morrow, won't you, dear?"
"Good? Am I not always good? Didn't I scrub and bake and put flowers
all over the ugly what-not in the corner of the parlor, and get the
grease spot out of the dining room rug that Jamie stepped butter
into--and all for you--without any thought of any Mr. Tubfull or any
one but you? All day long I've been doing it."
"Of course you did, and it was perfectly sweet; and the flowers and
mother looked so dear--and Janey's hands were clean--I looked to see.
You know usually they are so dirty. I knew you'd been busy; but Betty,
dear, you won't be mischievous to-morrow, will you? He's our guest,
you know, and you never were bashful, not as much as you really ought
to be, and we can't treat strangers just as we do--well--people we
have always known, like Peter Junior. They wouldn't understand it."
But the admonition seemed to be lost, for Betty's thoughts were
wandering from the point. "Hasn't he ever--ever--made love to you?"
Martha was washing her face and neck at the washstand in the corner,
and now she turned a face very rosy, possibly with scrubbing, and
threw water over her naughty little sister. "Well, hasn't he ever put
his arm around you or--or anything?"
"I wouldn't let a man do that."
"Not if you were engaged?"
"Of course not! That wouldn't be a nice way to do."
"Shouldn't you let a man kiss you or--or--put his arm around you--or
anything--even when he's trying to get engaged to you?"
"Of course not, Betty, dear. You're asking very silly questions. I'm
going to bed."
"Well, but they do in books. He did in 'Jane Eyre,' don't you
remember? And she was proud of it--and pretended not to be--and very
much touched, and treasured his every look in her heart. And in the
books they always kiss their lovers. How can Mr. Thurbyfil ever be
your lover, if you never let him even put his arm around you?"
"Betty, Betty, come to bed. He isn't my lover and he doesn't want to
be and we aren't in books, and you are getting too old to be so
silly."
Then Betty slowly disrobed and bathed her sweet limbs and at last
crept in beside her sister. Surely she had not done right. She had let
Peter Junior put his arm around her and kiss her, and that even before
they were engaged; and all yesterday afternoon he had held her hand
whenever she came near, and he had followed her about and had kissed
her a great many times. Her cheeks burned with shame in the darkness,
not that she had allowed this, but that she had not been as bashful as
she ought. But how could she be bashful without pretending?
"Martha," she said at last, "you are so sweet and pretty, if I were
Mr. Thurbyfil, I'd put my arm around you anyway, and make love to
you."
Then Martha drew Betty close and gave her a sleepy kiss. "No you
wouldn't, dear," she murmured, and soon the two were peacefully
sleeping, Betty's troubles quite forgotten. Still, when morning came,
she did not confide to her sister anything about Peter Junior, and she
even whispered to her mother not to mention a word of the affair to
any one.
At breakfast Jamie and Bobby were turbulent with delight. All outings
were a joy to them, no matter how often they came. Martha was neat and
rosy and gay. Lucien Thurbyfil wanted to help her by wiping the
dishes, but she sent him out to the sweet-apple tree with a basket,
enjoining him to bring only the mellow ones. "Be sure to get enough.
We're all going, father and mother and all."
"It's very nice of your people to make room for me on the wagon."
"And it's nice of you to go."
"I see Peter Junior. He's coming," shouted Bobby, from the top of the
sweet-apple tree.
"Who does he go with?" asked Martha.
"With us. He always does," said Betty. "I wonder why his mother and
the Elder never go out for any fun, the way you and father do!"
"The Elder always has to be at the bank, I suppose," said Mary
Ballard, "and she wouldn't go without him. Did you put in the salt and
pepper for the eggs, dear?"
"Yes, mother. I'm glad father isn't a banker."
"It takes a man of more ability than I to be a banker," said Bertrand,
laughing, albeit with concealed pride.
"We don't care if it does, Dad," said Jamie, patronizingly. "When I
get through the high school, I'm going to hire out to the bank." He
seized the lunch basket and marched manfully out to the wagon.
"I thought Peter Junior always went with Clara Dean. He did when I
left," said Martha, in a low voice to Betty, as they filled bottles
with raspberry shrub, and with cream for the coffee. "Did you tie
strings on the spoons, dear? They'll get mixed with the Walters' if
you don't. You remember theirs are just like ours."
"Oh, I forgot. Why, he likes Clara a lot, of course, but I guess they
just naturally expected him to go with us. They and the Walters have
a wagon together, anyway, and they wouldn't have room. We have one all
to ourselves. Hello, Peter Junior! Mr. Thurbyfil, this is Mr.
Junior."
"Happy to meet you, Mr. Junior," said the correct Mr. Thurbyfil. The
boys laughed uproariously, and the rest all smiled, except Betty, who
was grave and really seemed somewhat embarrassed.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Mr. Thurbyfil, this is Mr. Craigmile," said Martha. "You introduced
him as Mr. Junior, Betty."
"I didn't! Well, that's because I'm bashful. Come on, everybody,
mother's in." So they all climbed into the wagon and began to find
their places.
"Oh, father, have you the matches? The bottles are on the kitchen
table," exclaimed Martha.
"Don't get down, Mr. Ballard," said Lucien. "I'll get them. It would
never do to forget the bottles. Now, where's the little girl who was
to ride beside me?" and Janey crawled across the hay and settled
herself at her new friend's side. "Now I think we are beautifully
arranged," for Martha was on his other side.
"Very well, we're off," and Bertrand gathered up the reins and they
started.
"There they are. There's the other wagon," shouted Bobby. "We ought to
have a flag to wave."
Then Lucien, the correct, startled the party by putting his two
fingers in his mouth and whistling shrilly.
"They have such a load I wish Clara could ride with us," said Betty.
"Peter Junior, won't you get out and fetch her?"
So they all stopped and there were greetings and introductions and
much laughing and joking, and Peter Junior obediently helped Clara
Dean down and into the Ballards' wagon.
"Clara, Mr. Thurbyfil can whistle as loud as a train, through his
fingers, he can. Do it, Mr. Thurbyfil," said Bobby.
"Oh, I can do that," said Peter Junior, not to be outdone by the
stranger, and they all tried it. Bertrand and his wife, settled
comfortably on the high seat in front, had their own pleasure together
and paid no heed to the noisy crew behind them.
What a day! Autumn leaves and hazy distances, soft breezes and
sunlight, and miles of level road skirting woods and open fields where
the pumpkins lay yellow among the shocks of corn, and where the fence
corners were filled with flaming sumac, with goldenrod and purple
asters adding their softer coloring.
It was a good eight miles to Carter's woods, but they bordered the
river where the bluffs were not so high, and it would be possible to
build a fire on the river bank with perfect safety. Bertrand had
brought roasting ears from his patch of sweet corn, and as soon as
they arrived at their chosen grove, he and Mary leisurely turned their
attention to the preparing of the lunch with Mrs. Dean and Mrs.
Walters, leaving to the young people the gathering of the nuts.
Mrs. Dean, a slight, wiry woman, who acted and talked easily and
unceasingly, spread out a fresh linen cloth and laid a stone on each
corner to hold it down, and then looked into each lunch basket in
turn, to acquaint herself with its contents.
"I see you brought cake and cookies and jam, Mrs. Ballard, besides all
the corn and cream--you always do too much, and all your own work to
look after, too. Well, I brought a lot of ham sandwiches and that
brown bread your husband likes so much. I always feel so proud when
Mr. Ballard praises anything I do; he's so clever it makes me feel as
if I were really able to do something. And you're so clever too. I
don't know how it is some folks seem to have all the brains, and then
there's others--good enough--but there! As I tell Mr. Dean, you can't
tell why it is. Now where are the spoons? Every one brings their own,
of course; yes, here are yours, Mrs. Walters. It's good of you to
think of that sweet corn, Mr. Ballard.--Oh, he's gone away; well,
anyway, we're having a lot more than we can eat, and all so good and
tempting. I hope Mr. Dean won't overeat himself; he's just a boy at a
picnic, I always have to remind him--How?"
"Did you bring the cups for the coffee?" It was Mrs. Walters who
interrupted the flow of Mrs. Dean's eloquence. She was portly and
inclined to brevity, which made her a good companion for Mrs. Dean.
"I had such a time with my jell this summer, and now this fall my
grape jell's just as bad. This is all running over the glasses. There,
I'll set it on this paper. I do hate to see a clean cloth all spotted
with jell, even if it is a picnic when people think it doesn't make
any difference. I see Martha has a friend. Well, that's nice. I wish
Clara cared more for company; but, there, as I tell Mr. Dean--Oh, yes!
the cups. Clara, where are the cups? Oh, she's gone. Well, I'm sure
they're in that willow basket. I told Clara to pack towels around them
good. I do hate to see cups all nicked up; yes, here they are. It's
good of you to always tend the coffee, Mrs. Walters; you know just how
to make it. I tell Mr. Dean nobody ever makes coffee like you can at a
picnic. Now, if it's ready, I think everything else is; well, it soon
will be with such a fire, and the corn's not done, anyway. Do you
think the sun'll get round so as to shine on the table? I see it's
creeping this way pretty fast, and they're all so scattered over the
woods there's no telling when we will get every one here to eat. I see
another tablecloth in your basket, Mrs. Ballard. If you'll be good
enough to just hold that corner, we can cover everything up good, so,
and then I'll walk about a bit and call them all together." And the
kindly lady stepped briskly off through the woods, still talking,
while Mrs. Ballard and Mrs. Walters sat themselves down in the shade
and quietly watched the coffee and chatted.
It was past the noon hour, and the air was drowsy and still. The
voices and laughter of the nut gatherers came back to them from the
deeper woods in the distance, and the crackling of the fire where
Bertrand attended to the roasting of the corn near by, and the gentle
sound of the lapping water on the river bank came to them out of the
stillness.
"I wonder if Mr. Walters tied the horses good!" said his wife. "Seems
as if one's got loose. Don't you hear a horse galloping?"
"They're all there eating," said Mary, rising and looking about. "Some
one's coming, away off there over the bluff; see?"
"I wonder, now! My, but he rides well. He must be coming here. I hope
there's nothing the matter. It looks like--it might be Peter Junior,
only he's here already."
"It's--it's--no, it can't be--it is! It's--Bertrand, Bertrand! Why,
it's Richard!" cried Mary Ballard, as the horseman came toward them,
loping smoothly along under the trees, now in the sunlight and now in
the shadow. He leaped from the saddle, and, throwing the rein over a
knotted limb, walked rapidly toward them, holding out a hand to each,
as Bertrand and Mary hurried forward.
"I couldn't let you good folks have one of these fine old times
without me."
"Why, when did you come? Oh, Richard! It's good to see you again,"
said Mary.
"I came this morning. I went up to my uncle's and then to your house
and found you all away, and learned that you were here and my twin
with you, so here I am. How are the children? All grown up?"
"Almost. Come and sit down and give an account of yourself to Mary,
while I try to get hold of the rest," said Bertrand.
"Mrs. Dean has gone for them, father. Mrs. Walters, the coffee's all
right; come and sit down here and let's visit until the others come.
You remember Richard Kildene, Mrs. Walters?"
"Since he was a baby, but it's been so long since I've seen you,
Richard. I don't believe I'd have known you unless for your likeness
to Peter Junior. You look stronger than he now. Redder and browner."
"I ought to. I've been in the open air and sun for weeks. I'm only
here now by chance."
"A happy chance for us, Richard. Where have you been of late?" asked
Bertrand.
"Out on the plains--riding and keeping a gang of men under control,
for the most part, and pushing the work as rapidly as possible." He
tossed back his hair with the old movement Mary remembered so well.
"Tell me about the children, Martha and Betty; both grown up? Or still
ready to play with a comrade?"
"They're all here to-day. Martha's teaching in the city, but Betty's
at home helping me, as always. The boys are getting such big fellows,
and little Janey's as sweet as all the rest."
"There! That's Betty's laugh, I know. I'd recognize it if I heard it
out on the plains. I have, sometimes--when a homesick fit gets hold of
me out under the stars, when the noise of the camp has subsided. A
good deal of that work is done by the very refuse of humanity, you
know, a mighty tough lot."
"And you like that sort of thing, Richard?" asked Mary. "I thought
when you went to your people in Scotland, you might be leading a very
different kind of life by now."
"I thought so, too, then; but I guess for some reasons this is best.
Still, I couldn't resist stealing a couple of days to run up here and
see you all. I got off a carload of supplies yesterday from Chicago,
and then I wired back to the end of the line that I'd be two days
later myself. No wonder I followed you out here. I couldn't afford to
waste the precious hours. I say! That's Betty again! I'll find them
and say you're hungry, shall I?"
"Oh, they're coming now. I see Martha's pink dress, and there's Betty
in green over there."
But Richard was gone, striding over the fallen leaves toward the spot
of green which was Betty's gingham dress. And Betty, spying him,
forgot she was grown up. She ran toward him with outstretched arms,
as of old--only--just as he reached her, she drew back and a wave of
red suffused her face. She gave him one hand instead of both, and
called to Peter Junior to hurry.
"Well, Betty Ballard! I can't jump you along now over stocks and
stones as I used to. And here's everybody! Why, Jamie, what a great
man you are! I'll have to take you back with me to help build the new
road. And here's Bobby; and this little girl--I wonder if she
remembers me well enough to give me a kiss? I have nobody to kiss me
now, when I come back. That's right. That's what Betty used to do.
Why, hello! here's Clara Dean, and who's this? John Walters? So you're
a man, too! Mr. Dean, how are you? And Mrs. Dean! You don't grow any
older anyway, so I'll walk with you. Wait until I've pounded this old
chap a minute. Why didn't I write I was coming? Man, I didn't know it
myself. I'm under orders nowadays. To get here at all I had to steal
time. So you're graduated from a crutch to a cane? Good!"
Every one exclaimed at once, while Richard talked right on, until they
reached the riverside where the lunch was spread; and then the babble
was complete.
That night, as they all drove home in the moonlight, Richard tied his
horse to the rear of the Ballards' wagon and rode home seated on the
hay with the rest. He placed himself where Betty sat on his right, and
the two boys crowded as close to him as possible on his left. Little
Janey, cuddled at Betty's side, was soon fast asleep with her head in
her sister's lap, while Lucien Thurbyfil was well pleased to have
Martha in the corner to himself. Peter Junior sat near Betty and
listened with interest to his cousin, who entertained them all with
tales of the plains and the Indians, and the game that supplied them
with many a fine meal in camp.
"Say, did you ever see a real herd of wild buffalo just tearing over
the ground and kicking up a great dust and stampeding and everything?"
said Jamie.
"Oh, yes. And if you are out there all alone on your pony, you'd
better keep away from in front of them, too, or you'd be trampled to
death in a jiffy."
"What's stampeding?" said Bobby.
So Richard explained it, and much more that elicited long breaths of
interest. He told them of the miles and miles of land without a single
tree or hill, and only a sea of grass as far as the eye could reach,
as level as Lake Michigan, and far vaster. And how the great railway
was now approaching the desert, and how he had seen the bones of men
and cattle and horses bleaching white, lying beside their broken-down
wagons half buried in the drifting sand. He told them how the trail
that such people had made with so much difficulty stretched far, far
away into the desert along the very route, for the most part, that the
railroad was taking, and answered their questions so interestingly
that the boys were sorry when they reached home at last and they had
to bid good-night to Peter Junior's fascinating cousin, Richard.