JOE'S MESSAGE.
After breakfast the following morning, Elizabeth was summoned to the
reception-hall where Joe Ratowsky awaited her. He stood twisting his hat
about as she entered. The expansive smile which covered his swarthy face
was not so much one of goodwill as embarrassment. He stood in the center
of the room so that by no possible chance could he touch any article of
furniture. Joe was no coward. He had performed heroic parts when mobs of
miners and the militia, during the big strikes, met in conflict. But the
thought of sitting down on chairs upholstered in satin of dainty colors
made the cold chills run up and down his spine.
It was cruel in Elizabeth to shake his hand so long and so vigorously,
even though she was glad to see him. And it was worse than cruel to keep
pushing easy chairs before him and insisting upon him sitting down.
Elizabeth insisted, and in desperation Joe took a letter from his pocket
and thrust it before her.
"Mees-ter Hobart, he write--he write heap--b'gosh."
"He isn't sick, Joe, is he?"
"Sick!" Joe grunted his disgust at the thought of anyone being sick. "He
well, so well--he get fat, b'gosh, so fat, Meester O'Day, he look like
pole he come long Meester Hobart, b'gosh."
Joe nodded his head vigorously, a habit he had of emphasizing any
statement he wished to make particularly strong. Elizabeth could not
restrain a smile at the comparison.
"Is mother well, too, Joe?" Joe nodded vigorously while he wiped his
brow.
"She well like the tivil, b'gosh. Yes, b'gosh, she so well as that."
"Well, then, Joe, why is it they do not wish me to go home?"
Joe flung out his hand as though what he was about to say was a mere
trifle, not worthy her consideration.
"The miner--not so glad, b'gosh. They no work--no--no work. They say they
tear up railroad, b'gosh. Meester Hobart, he say, 'No tear up road.' Joe
Ratowsky, he say, 'No tear up road.' All time keep watch so no tear up
road. You not come. Mebbe no road, mebbe all right, b'gosh."
"A strike, Joe? Do you mean the miners threaten to destroy the road?" He
nodded.
"No strike now, b'gosh. Colowski, he say, 'Strike.' Then all say,
'Strike.' Joe Ratowsky, he give him one between his eyes like this." He
doubled up his fist, showing how peace had been restored. "He no say
strike then. He crawl off. He no come round for day and day."
"Did they go back to work then?" Elizabeth was excited. All her life she
had heard of the horrors of a prolonged strike. From childhood she had a
dim recollection of someone taking her from her warm bed, and running
across fields, seeking safety miles away. As in a dream, she could hear
the roar of hoarse voices and see the flickering torches of the mob.
Joe shook his head slowly. "No, b'gosh. They mad like the tivil. They go
back some day, so many tollars, every day for work. No more," shaking his
head in negation, "No, no more, b'gosh."
Elizabeth grew anxious. She seized Mr. Ratowsky's coat sleeve.
"But, Joe, tell me truly, is my father in danger? They won't hurt him?"
"B'gosh, no. He safe like anything. They no mad like the tivil at him.
Emery they mad at."
"Is Mr. Emery there?" Again Joe shook his head. "Meester Emery, he go over
ocean. He no come back, mebbe so long till summer. When he come back, the
miners so mad they treat him like the tivil, b'gosh."
This Mr. Emery, of whom he spoke, was one of the operators of the
soft-coal region; a man who visited the miners once in a dozen years and
of whom his workmen knew little.
Joe had evidently been instructed how much to tell Elizabeth in regard to
the trouble. Being assured that her father was not in danger, her mind
turned toward the letter, her eyes following her thoughts.
"I go back quick. I tell Meester Hobart you look well like everything." He
shook his head vigorously to assure her how fine a message he would carry.
"I will, b'gosh," he repeated.
He made his way to the door, keeping his eyes upon the chairs and tables
in his path. He sighed with relief when he had passed them, and saw a line
of retreat open before him. He continued to repeat the message he would
carry to her father.
"Grow so tall likes nothing. He will be so glad like the tivil. I tells
him so. Yes, he will, b'gosh." These were his parting words as the door
closed upon him.
The greater number of the girls in the dormitory hall had packed or were
packing their trunks. The hallway was obstructed with baggage of all
descriptions, awaiting the coming of Jimmy Jordan and his train of
helpers.
Mary Wilson was to leave Exeter immediately after lunch. She had begun her
preparations before breakfast. Elizabeth, taking it for granted that their
rooms would yet be in confusion, went down to the window-seat where she
and Nora had sat the night before, in order to read her letter in quiet.
There was nothing unusual in it--nothing to startle her, at least; the
home news was told with her father's usual buoyant spirit. If he were
harassed or annoyed, his letter writing did not show it. It was not until
all the bright little bits of home life had been related that he mentioned
the trouble at the mines--just a little local trouble, nothing general.
Both her mother and he thought it best that she should not go up the
mountain railroad this time of year. There was nothing at all to alarm
her. She was to spend her holidays with any one of the girls whom Dr.
Morgan advised. It was difficult on account of the snow to get the mails
through. She must not be anxious if her accustomed letter did not arrive
on time.
As was her habit with home letters, Elizabeth read and re-read it. She was
slipping it back into its envelope when Landis and Min appeared. Both were
dressed for traveling. They stopped to enquire of Elizabeth when she
expected to leave Exeter, being surprised to see her sitting there in her
school dress when the others were either packing or already leaving. She
told them the possibility of her remaining at the Hall for the holiday
season. At this Landis wrinkled her brow in perplexity, and pondered
awhile in deep thought.
"I was trying to see my way clear to ask you to go with me to The
Beeches--my home, so called because of the magnificent trees which grow
near our residence. But I do not see how I can manage it now. I do wish I
had known about this sooner. I might have been able to arrange matters
somehow. I do not like the idea of your being here alone. Exeter is dull
with the girls gone. It's really unbearable. But I have arranged to go
home with Min until the day before Christmas. We always have a big family
party for that day, and our home is filled. I suppose we could tuck you in
somewhere--if you do not object to the third floor."
"Oh, do not think of it, I beg you," began Elizabeth hurriedly. Somehow
Exeter without company seemed better to her than The Beeches with Landis.
"I would not for the world cause you any inconvenience. Besides, the
matter is in the hands of Dr. Morgan. I must do as she decides."
"Well, I hope she will see fit to send you off somewhere. Come to think of
it, I do believe I could not let you have even a third floor room. Our
cook always takes the privilege of asking in some of her relations, and
that leaves no space unfilled. I wish it were otherwise."
"You are kind to think of it. But I could not go in any event. I must go
back to my room now. Mary is deep in her packing and will need me. When do
you leave?"
"Not until afternoon. But we are going into the city. Shall we see you
before we leave?"
"I think not."
Good-byes were said, and Elizabeth went to her room. She was disappointed
at not being able to go home, but had no fear of a possible strike, or any
danger to her father. Joe Ratowsky had reassured her, and besides her
faith in her own father made her confident. There was no question in her
mind about his being popular with the miners. He had been not only their
superintendent, but physician, friend and banker.
Having packed her trunk so full that the lid would not close, Mary was
jumping up and down on it when Elizabeth entered. She hailed her with an
exclamation of delight. "I'm so glad you weigh something! Come, sit on my
trunk while I turn the key. I can get the lid down, but it springs open
the instant I get off, and I cannot stand up there and turn the key at the
same time. I have been bouncing on it for the last half-hour."
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright from her strenuous efforts.
Elizabeth did as requested. The trunk closed with a snap.
"And now," asked Mary, "when do you begin to pack? I suppose your Polish
friend brought you news from home. I hurried to get my belongings out of
the way that you might begin."
"Not until next June," was the reply. Then sitting down on the trunk
beside Mary, she related the messages which Joe had brought, and the
advice which her father's letter contained.
Mary listened without comment until the story was finished. Then she
tossed back her hair, and without a word hurried to the door, flung it
open with a great disregard for the amount of noise she was making and
began hauling in Elizabeth's trunk.
"You have just three hours to pack, dress, eat and get down to the
station," she said, unbuckling straps and removing trays as she spoke.
"But--"
"Don't stop to talk or ask questions, or say you can't." Mary stopped long
enough to stamp her foot in order to emphasize her words. "You're going
home with me. We'll talk it over afterward. We haven't time now. I'll hear
the objections to-morrow. Put on your duds, and I'll pack, while you get
yourself ready."
"But you--"
"I'm ready except my coat and hat." She was carrying Elizabeth's clothes
from the wardrobe, and placing them in the trunk. Elizabeth did as she was
told without questioning further. She was only too glad to be taken
possession of, for the thought of Exeter Hall without the girls had not
been pleasant.
The trunk was packed and her dressing about completed when Nora O'Day
entered. She was dressed in a handsome traveling suit, the product of a
city importer. As usual, she carried her lithe, slender body proudly, as
though no one was quite her equal. Elizabeth understood the girl now and
knew that her defiant attitude was assumed.
"I've come in to say goodbye. I haven't a minute. The cab is waiting for
me." She shook hands with Mary. Then turned to embrace Elizabeth. There
was a great deal of affection in her manner toward this new friend. "We
were talking last night of mother's theses. I put some together for you to
take with you to read. I really think you will enjoy them. I know you will
be careful of them. I mean to keep them all and some day read them over."
She kissed Elizabeth again, and with a hurried goodbye was gone.
Elizabeth appreciated this remembrance more than a gift of greater money
value. Nora cherished these papers the most of all her possessions, and
she gave her best when she confided them to Elizabeth. Slipping them into
the tray of the trunk, she turned to the mirror to arrange her collar. At
last turning to Mary, she said, "There, I'm clothed and in my right mind,
and we yet have half an hour. Now we must report to Dr. Morgan."
"You are evidently clothed," was the response, "but I'm not sure about the
right mind. Don't you remember that Dr. Morgan does not return until
to-night? By that time we will be home. I'll speak to Miss Brosius as we
go down to lunch. She's the high-monkey-monk here when our Ph. D. is
roaming. We have no time to waste. Jordan will see to the trunks and
tickets. He always does. Put on your wraps. We'll eat our lunch with them
on. It is no use coming back up-stairs. There are but few of the girls
left. We'll bid them goodbye down-stairs."
It was not until then that Elizabeth had time to think about going to
Mary's home. Then she stopped and suddenly put the question: "Perhaps your
mother will not want me, Mary. She--"
"Come on! Of course, she'll want you. She is always glad to have company.
She would not be pleased if I came home and left you here alone."
"But it might inconvenience her," she began again.
"Nothing ever inconveniences my mother. She won't allow it to. The only
trouble we have is that our girls take sudden notions to go off and marry,
and sometimes we do not have anyone to do the work. I think Fanny intended
being married during the holidays. If she does, you and I will have a
position as dishwasher. Can you wash dishes?"
"Yes; I always do at home."
"Well, we may have to do it. But we will have a good time. When the
servants take to themselves wings we all help, and such fun as we do have!
A little matter like that never inconveniences mother. Once during court
week, our only hotel burned. There was a big case on before father, and he
brought all the witnesses and lawyers home. They were there three days.
Mother seemed to think it was a joke." Then with a look at Elizabeth, she
added with conviction, "A little bit of a girl like _you_ could not
inconvenience _her_."
The Wilson home was at Windburne, a two hours' ride from Exeter with a
change of cars at Ridgway.
It was extremely cold when the girls left the Hall, but before they
reached Ridgway the mercury had gone several degrees lower.
The road to Windburne from the Ridgway junction is a local affair, narrow
gauge, with little rocking cars in which a tall person could scarcely
stand upright. Windburne is the county-seat and consequently a place of
importance, but Ridgway has little traffic and the roads intersecting
there take no pains to make close connections.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the girls reached the junction,
a bleak little place with a low-roofed station, black and dirty. A hotel
stood at the corner--a rough saloon. An engine with a coach usually waited
on this narrow gauge track, but this afternoon there was none. Before she
entered the waiting-room Miss Wilson looked about, expressing her surprise
at the condition of affairs.
"The worst is yet to come," cried a voice back of them. The girls turned
to discover the ticket agent, just about to leave for home.
"The narrow gauge is storm-stayed. You will not be able to go through
to-night."
"Then we'll turn about and go to Exeter."
"Not to-night. The last train pulled out just before No. 10 came in.
There's a hotel over there--"
"Yes, we _smelled_ it," said Elizabeth seriously.
He laughed, and inquired where they were going. Then he suggested a plan.
The hotel was not a suitable place in which to spend the night, and they
could not return to Exeter; but he would find for them a trustworthy
driver who would take them safely to Windburne.
There was no choice. Mary accepted his offer. The girls stayed in the
dingy waiting-room until he returned with a sleigh, horses and driver.
"This man will take you there safely," he said, with a nod toward the
driver. "He knows the road and knows, too, how to handle horses to get the
most out of them." He assisted the girls into the sleigh, tucking the
robes well about them. A moment later, they were speeding along the
country road. The sleighing was fine but the wind had a clear sweep over
the bare fields, and it had grown much colder. They began to shiver in
spite of their heavy wraps.
"We are over half-way there," encouraged Mary. "The farmhouse we have just
passed is six miles from Ridgway. I know the roads about here. This is
beautiful in summer time. Landis Stoner lives in the last farmhouse along
this road. After we pass there, we won't see another for five miles, and
when we do it will be Windburne. There, you can catch a glimpse of the
place now."
"Couldn't we stop and get warm?" asked Elizabeth, her teeth chattering.
"My feet are numb!"
"Yes; perhaps it would be better. We'll get Mrs. Stoner to heat bricks for
our feet. She's very hospitable, and will make us comfortable." She leaned
over to speak to the driver, requesting him to stop at the Stoner place.
Elizabeth was too cold to look about her as they entered the house. She
was conscious only that an immense beech was stretching its bare boughs
before the doorway, then someone was leading her to an easy chair,
removing her wraps and rubbing her hands to make them warm. In a few
minutes she was herself. Mrs. Stoner had brought them hot coffee, and was
now putting bricks into the fireplace.
Elizabeth looked upon her in surprise. This was not the style of woman she
had pictured in her mind as Landis' mother. She was a faded, slender
little body, mild and gentle in manner and voice. One felt that she was
refined and had devoted the best of her life to serving others. She was
dressed in a plain dark calico, which had seen better days, yet its
absolute cleanliness and the band of white at her throat gave her an air
of being well-dressed.
The room, evidently the best in the house, was homey and comfortable.
There was an open fireplace big enough to accommodate a four-foot log, a
bright rag carpet, and some wooden rockers with easy cushions. The windows
had white sash curtains. In one were pots of blooming geraniums.
"I have never been at Exeter," Mrs. Stoner said. "Of course, I have heard
of it all my life. As a young girl, I used to dream what a fine thing it
would be to go there to school. But it was not to be. Landis, however, is
having that privilege, and I am very thankful. Miss Rice--you have met
her; every one hereabouts has--thinks that every girl should have a little
more than they get in public schools. She's made it possible for Landis to
go."
Their hostess then brought out some pictures Landis had sent home--kodak
views of the girls, their rooms, and the campus.
"You see," she added with a smile, "although I have never been at Exeter,
I know it well. Landis writes of the teachers and her girl friends until I
feel I know them thoroughly."
As the mother continued, her pale face lighting up, Elizabeth saw Landis
in a different light. The girl was evidently devoted to her mother, if one
could judge from the numerous letters and the many little souvenirs from
school displayed.
"It was dull for Landis here," she continued. "There is no company for
miles, and only her father and I at home. She did not want to leave us.
But I told her we were used to the quiet and were company for each other.
I miss her, of course, but it would have been selfish to have kept her
here. She must live her own life and have her own experiences, and I can't
expect her to be satisfied with what satisfies me."
The hot coffee had made them comfortable; the bricks in the grate were
hot, and the time had come to start. Solicitous of their welfare, Mrs.
Stoner brought extra wraps, warming them at the open fire, then securely
pinning them about the girls. She came to see them off and Elizabeth, with
a sudden impulse, kissed her warmly.
When they were safely in the sleigh again and speeding over the frozen
roads, she turned to Mary with the explanation: "Do you know, she's really
homesick to see Landis? I couldn't help kissing her; she's so gentle and
sweet that I could easily love her."
She turned her head to catch a last glimpse and to wave farewell to the
little woman standing in the doorway of the humble home which Landis had
called "The Beeches."