BAD NEWS FROM BURNSIDE.
"Yes, it is to be 'Charity House' now," said Salome Kaye, with that
quiet decision of hers which, as Amy described it, "Never makes any
fuss, and never wobbles."
"That's the best and the worst about mother. She never says 'yes' when
she means 'no,' and she never says either till it's all settled. I
remember how, when I was little, I used to ask, 'Is it decided?' and
when she answered, 'Yes, it's decided,' I gave up teasing. Mountains
might crush, but never move her."
"So it's 'Charity House' forever and a day. The trouble with you,
mother, is that all you say--or the little you say--always means
something. 'Charity House' is, I suppose, just as full of meaning as
everything else. Isn't it? Let me guess. It's 'Charity' because cousin
Archibald lets us live here for what he calls a 'starvation rent.'
That's the meanest kind of 'Charity,' and it's a lie, too."
"Hallam!"
"But, mother, it is. I've heard these people talk, and they all say that
the old curmudgeon--"
"Hallam, thee is proving that a 'Charity House' is the very sort of
home thee needed."
"Well, motherkin, it's true. He is curmudgeon-y. He's tried for years to
get a tenant for this property, and not even the mill folks would touch
it. He took advantage of us and made us think we were getting a great
deal for nothing."
"Are we not? Look about thee."
"Of course, it's big enough."
"What a curious place it is," said Amy; "like a box that eggs come in.
See, this is it," and she rapidly sketched upon a paper the diagram.
"Two partitions run this way, north and south, and two run at right
angles. That's three rooms deep on each floor, look at it from any point
of view. Each room is as like its neighbor as its twin. Hmm, I didn't
realize it, but there are eighteen rooms if we count the halls and the
'black hole.'"
"Almost as large as 'Fairacres,' thee sees."
"It's not so bad, if it weren't so fearfully bare," remarked Hallam,
examining Amy's sketch. "But it's queer."
The entrance hall was the middle front room of the old building. From
this a flight of stairs ran up and ended in "the middle room" above,
with a narrow flight behind into the attic. The upper middle room was
therefore an open space, from the sides of which a narrow gallery had
been reserved to surround the well-like opening of the stairway. Next
the stairs the gallery was furnished with a strong plain railing, to
prevent the accident of falling into the "well," and all the bedrooms
had doors opening upon it.
This upper space was dark, save when the bedroom doors were open and
gave it light. So, also, was the room below; and beneath this, still,
was the "black hole," the extension of a cellar under the kitchen.
Whatever the original purpose of this "hole," which received no light
nor ventilation except through the kitchen cellar, it was now the terror
and despair of Cleena's cleanly soul. She had wasted many good candles
in trying, by their light, to sweeten and make wholesome this damp,
miserable place. But despite all it remained almost as she found it.
"The pit of original sin," Hallam named it, advising her to give over
the task of purification. "You've sprinkled pounds of chloride, splashed
whitewash galore, swept and scrubbed and worn yourself out, and it's
hopeless. Well, I never heard that any of the Ingrahams died of
pestilence bred down there, so I fancy it won't hurt us."
"Faith, it shan't that. I'll keep the front cellar door open into it
incessant, an' I'll--"
"Waste your substance in lime. Don't, Goodsoul. But it's on my mind as
it is on yours. If I were as strong as I wish, I'd turn rabbit and
burrow galleries out from the middle vault under the middle rooms each
side of the house. That would give light and air and keep everything
dry."
Neither Cleena nor Hallam noticed that Fayette had been a close listener
to this conversation, nor heard the muttered exclamation:--
"I'll do it! Huckleberries! I'll s'prise 'em!"
This had been some days before Amy drew the diagram of the house, which
she now tossed into the waste-basket. From that it was rescued by the
half-wit and treasured carefully; for to the purpose formed in his mind
it would prove a great help.
"But go on, mother dear. What's the other sort of charity you mean?"
"That by all the advantages which we have had over these new neighbors
we should be helpful to them. We possess nothing of our own, absolutely,
not even our better training and--"
"Arrah musha! Sure the pullet was bad enough, but this baby'll be me
death! An' me steppin' me great foot--There, there, darlin'. Cry no
more, cry no more!"
The interruption was Cleena, and the cause "Sir" William Gladstone.
"Again, Goodsoul," jeered Amy.
"Again is it? An' me goin' down that hill betimes this mornin' to remind
me neighbor as how it wasn't necessary to send all the childer up here
to wonst. Not _all_!"
One of the first things which Cleena had made Fayette do was cut and
smooth a path from the door of "Charity House" to that of the cottage
below. She foresaw that there would be frequent errands to and fro, and
the loose stones, with the tangle of running blackberry vines, were
dangerous to life and limb. Then, because Hallam's lameness was also in
her mind, she had persuaded the mill boy to add a row of driven stakes
with rope strung along their tops.
"But never at all has Master Hal, for whom it was made, gone down or up
by that same. Me fathers, what's a body to do!"
"We're living in 'Charity,' Goodsoul. And I've observed that, look out
of window when I will, there's always a yellow headed Jones-let
ascending to us by the easy road you've fixed. Belinda, the small, is
apt to lead the way. She likes it up here. She likes it very much."
"Hmm, that's what the mother be's sayin'. But is that any reason at all,
avick, why they should be let?"
"Mrs. Jones thinks it is. She feels that we are flattered by the
preference her offspring show for our society; but between ourselves,
Cleena, I think it's more raisin-bread than affection. You made a dire
mistake in beginning to feed them."
"An' isn't it I that knows it? Now, this baby--"
"Yes, that baby. What's happened to him? He's spotted white and black,
like a coach-dog. What's he licking from his fingers?"
"It's spoilin' the bakin' o' bread is he the day. Takin' the coals from
the bucket, each by each, an' pressin' them deep in that beautiful
dough. Will I wash his face, eh? Never a wash I wash, but home to his
mother he goes the same as he is. If the sight does not shame her, I'd
know."
"I'll take him, Cleena, and I'll bring back the milk for the day."
So with her pail in one hand and the other guiding the still uncertain
steps of William Gladstone, Amy started.
"It's a pity, Sir William, it really is a pity that you ever learned how
to climb. You've progressed so alarmingly. First time you tried it you
could only stumble and fall backward. Now--you hitch along famously.
Heigho! here's Victoria. All the high personages of Merrie England are
honoring us 'the day.' Well, Victoria Regina, what's the errand now?"
"Nothing, only thought I'd tell you about that old Quaker man you like."
"Everybody likes. What about him?"
"He's gone away. Ma says he won't never live to come back again."
"Victoria--Jones, what are you saying?"
"That Mr. Quaker Burn, up Clove way, had been took to Ne' York."
"I guess you're mistaken. We would have heard about it if it were so.
Now, if you please, though, I should like Master Gladstone to be 'took'
home. If you'll hold his other hand we'll get him there the quicker."
"I guess I'll go up and set a spell; you take him," remarked Victoria,
and turned to ascend the slope.
Amy sighed: "Something must be done to stop this!" Then she lifted her
eyes and scanned the white dusty road which circled Bareacre knoll, and
across which lay the Jones's cottage. A wagon was driving leisurely
along this highway, and it had a most familiar appearance. A moment's
watching showed it to belong to the Clove Farm, and it was Adam Burn's
"hired man" who was driving in it. Her heart sank. What if Victoria had
spoken the truth?
So she hurried her young charge to his home, and waiting only to have
her pail filled with the milk, ran back to intercept the approaching
vehicle.
"Good morning, Israel. How's dear old Adam?"
"Only the Lord knows. Sarah Jane's got him."
"She hasn't! Don't tell me!"
"But she has, though."
"Where?"
"York."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Why?"
"Same old story. If she hadn't gone to Europe, she'd had him last year.
I knew how 'twould be when she come home this summer an' begun to send
him the letters. She's the powerfulest hand to do her duty that ever
was. Everything else has to give way."
Amy's hand trembled so that her milk began to trickle over the sides of
her pail.
"That's what it meant, then, that dear, precious old fellow. He knew he
was going to leave us, that First Day we spent at the farm. That was why
his words in the meeting-house were so like a farewell. It is too bad!
It must have broken his heart."
"No, it didn't. He didn't want to go, not a mite; but there wasn't no
heart-break, _not in sight_. If there was, he kept it hid. But he went
all round the place, into every shed and building, pointing out things
that should be done, and being most particular about the flowers and
garden. He told me to take care of everything just as if he was coming
back to-morrow. But he'll never. He'll never."
"Israel, you shall not say that! He must come back!"
"Oh, he'll come, of course, one way: that's feet foremost. He's a sight
feebler 'n he ever let on, an' this riotous livin' at York, what with
balls and parties and wine suppers, he won't last long. They'll kill him
out of hand amongst 'em."
"Oh, Israel, the idea of Adam Burn at 'balls and parties and wine
suppers,' when he's so simple and sweet and abstemious. I don't believe
he ever tasted wine during all his pure, beautiful life. I'm not
worrying about that. It's the leaving the things he loved will hurt him
so. Why couldn't Sarah Jane have left him in peace? O dear! O dear! This
will be a fresh sorrow for mother."
"So I suppose. For all of us, too. It's going to be lonesome for me, I
reckon. Though Mis' Boggs won't have so much to do. She wants to give up
the job, an' go live with our son, Jim. But Sarah Jane told us to stay,
an' so we'll have to."
"Is this dreadful woman who's spirited Adam away any kin to _you_?"
"Course not. But you needn't laugh. You don't know that lady. She's
masterful, and she's rich--'rich as Croesus,'--and don't know what to
do with her money. When the old man was lookin' around an' chargin' me
'bout things, she broke in with: 'Oh, don't worry, father-in-law. The
trumpery stuff isn't worth so much thought. I'm not a relic hunter, and
let it go,' says she. Then he reminds her that he wanted it kept right
for--Whew! I near let the secret out, didn't I? He told me he wrote you
a letter. He gave it to you, didn't he? Well, if you'll carry the
message for me, I won't climb 'Spite' hill this morning. There's a few
things to fetch up in the open wagon, and I'll see your folks about
hauling that muck. Good-by. The spirit's taken clean out of me.
Twenty-five years me and him has lived together, and to part sudden like
this. Twenty-five years by the clock, and a better man than him never
trod the footstool."
With that Israel brought the mare around, and giving a mournful nod of
his head drove dejectedly away.
Amy flew up the hill. She paid little heed now to the spilling of the
milk, for she began to realize in all its force the calamity which had
befallen them; and she burst into her mother's sitting room flushed and
indignant, demanding:--
"What right had Sarah Jane to take him away?"
Mrs. Kaye's heart sank. She understood what this hysterical question
implied. It had been a contingency long foreboded by her, though against
its justice she could find nothing to say.
"Every right, dear. She is his son's widow. She is acting, no doubt, as
she thinks her husband would wish."
"But he didn't want to go."
"She probably felt he was too old to live alone, without relatives.
Indeed, I know that she would have taken him long ago, if she had been
living in this country herself. As soon as she came home she has
attended to her--her duty, as she sees it. As I suppose, anybody would
see it, who was indifferent whether he went or stayed. I hope, though,
that she'll bring him back to Burnside in the spring."
"Do you know her, mother?"
"Not well. When we were both younger I used to see her sometimes. She
was never very fond of Burnside, however. It was too quiet for her. She
is a wealthy woman, who likes to do a great deal of good. She is at the
head of many charitable associations, and she has always had wonderful
executive ability."
"Does that mean being what Israel called 'masterful'?"
"About the same thing."
"Will she be good to our dear Adam?"
"Certainly. She will see that he has every comfort possible. He will,
doubtless, have a servant especially appointed to wait upon and care for
him, and he will be made to share in all the enjoyments of the house.
She believes that it is the duty of all to live actively in the world
and do good aggressively, so to speak. But Adam is so old and feeble, he
has passed his days in such simplicity, I can feel what a change for him
it will be. Still, if he were to fall seriously ill, he would be better
off at his daughter-in-law's than here. Ah, yes. I suppose it is for the
best--for him. For us--well, it will be hard to think of Burnside
without his gracious presence. He was my parents' oldest, closest
friend, as he has been mine."
Mrs. Kaye rose, folded up her mending, and left the room. "I must tell
Cuthbert," she remarked, as if to herself, and her face was very sad.
When Amy found her brother and told him the news his comment was:--
"That's a bad business for us, girlie."
"Of course. Don't you suppose I feel it?"
"As long as Adam Burn was near, mother would never have been allowed to
really suffer for anything. I mean that he would have managed to keep an
eye upon her and have helped us out, till we could help ourselves. Do
you know where that letter is he gave you? Have you read it? I should
think this might be that 'right time' of which he spoke."
"The letter? In my other dress pocket. I'll get it."
But when she had searched not only in her pockets but in every other
possible place, the letter could not be found; and though Mrs. Kaye
assured them that there was probably very little of importance in it,
her children could not help imagining something quite to the contrary;
and to learn the unread message became the great desire of their hearts.
"Well, in any case, we have what he said to you, Hal, about soul growth
and that."
"Humph! Such talk is all well enough, but how is it going to help when
we reach our last dollar? Did you ever think, Amy, seriously think how
we are going to live? Just where our actual bread and butter is to come
from?"
"No. Why, no, not really."
"Then it's high time you did."