AMY PAYS A BUSINESS CALL.
At about the same moment, on a "Saturday-half" in November, Amy Kaye and
Gwendolyn Jones left each her own home to visit that of the other. They
met on the slope of "Bareacre" and paused for mutual greetings.
"How do? I was just going up to your house," said Gwendolyn, turning her
back to the wind that just then blew strongly.
"Good afternoon. Were you? And I was going to yours."
"My! How cold it is. Winter'll be here before we know it. Makes a body
think about her clothes. That's why I was coming. I thought, maybe,
you'd like to go shopping with me."
"You're forgetting, I fancy, that I told you I never did that. I
shouldn't know how to shop, nor scarcely what it means," laughed Amy.
"That's what me and ma was saying. You seem such a little girl, yet
'Bony' says you're 'most as old as I am."
"But I don't feel old, do you? I wish I might never grow a day older,
except that if I do I may be more useful to my people."
"Won't you go, then?"
"Maybe, if you will do something for me, too. I'm not on the road to buy
anything, but to sell. I thought that you might know of somebody who
would like a burro. Do you?"
"I'd like one myself, first-rate, only I'm saving for a wheel. I'm
buying it on the instalment plan. I pay a dollar a week, and after I get
my winter things I'll pay more. Do you ride?"
"Nothing so fine as a bicycle; just either Pepita or Balaam."
"It's awful hard to have to walk everywhere, and the good thing about a
wheel is that it don't have to eat."
"And the bad thing about a burro is that it does."
"Are you in earnest? Do you want to sell it?"
"No; I don't _want_ to at all, but I'm going to if I can. Do you know
anybody who really might buy Pepit?"
"Guess I do. Guess the 'Supe' would."
"The 'Supe'--Mr. Metcalf?"
"Yes; I heard him say he'd like to get such a pair of mules or donkeys,
or whatever they are, for his children. He's got a slew of them, and he
gets 'em every conceivable thing. I wouldn't wonder if he did, if you
was to ask him."
"Will he be at the mill to-day?"
"No; he's at his house, I guess. The mill's shut up, only the watchman
there. The 'Supe' don't hang around there himself so much since the new
'boss' came."
"Maybe his house would be out of your way. If you'll tell me how to find
it, I can go by myself. I wouldn't like to give you trouble."
"Oh, 'twouldn't be a mite. I'd like it. There'd be time enough afterward
for Mis' Hackett's. She keeps open till near midnight, Saturdays. She
gets lots of the mill trade, and she'd like to have it all. But
Wallburg's far nicer. Don't you love Wallburg?"
"I was never there except once, when father had a guest from town. Then
mother sent for a carriage, and they took their friend to see the city.
Hallam and I rode our burros, but we were very tired when it was over.
Even then we passed through the residence streets only."
"Pshaw! It's where the stores are that I like. I always wish I was made
of money when I'm in a store. They do have such lovely things."
"Doesn't your mother buy your clothes?"
"My mother? _My mother?_ Well, I guess not. The idea! If a girl earns
her own money and pays for all she has, I guess she's a right to pick
'em out. Don't you?"
"Why--yes. I suppose she has a right, if her mother allows. But I should
think it would be very trying to select one's own things. I should be
so afraid I wouldn't choose correctly, and not please her taste."
"My land! What if you didn't? It's you that has to wear them, isn't it?
Have a piece of this gum. It's a new sort. Mis' Hackett keeps it and
charges two cents a stick. Other kinds are only one cent, but this is
prime."
Gwendolyn was kind-hearted. She was also very vain. She felt that it was
a fine thing to be acquainted with "aristocratics" like the Kayes; yet
in her heart she was rather ashamed of Amy's plain attire, the
simplicity of which seemed to Gwendolyn a proof of Mrs. Kaye's
incapacity to "shop"; and its being white--though of soft warm wool--of
her want of taste. She supposed, also, that any girl who could, would
buy gum, and decided that her new acquaintance must be very poor indeed.
"Take it. I can get plenty more. I earn real good wages now."
"Do you?" asked Amy, so wistfully that the other was confirmed in her
opinion of the poverty.
"I should think you would like to work in the mill, wouldn't you? If
your folks have lost their money, it would seem real handy to have a
little coming in."
"Yes, it would, indeed. But I couldn't do it."
"Why not? You're strong enough, I guess, if you aren't so big."
"Yes, I'm strong and well. But father has forbidden me to think of it."
"Pshaw! He'd come round. If you want to do it, I _would_; and once you
were settled he wouldn't care, or he couldn't help himself, anyway. He's
kind of queer, isn't he? I've heard that."
"Queer? Yes; just as queer as a splendid gentleman like him must always
seem to common people," flashed the daughter, all the more disturbed
because she realized that there had been once, if not now, just a little
truth in the suggestion.
"Pshaw! I didn't mean to make you mad. O' course, I hadn't ought to have
spoke so about your own father. I s'pose I'd be mad, too, if anybody
said things about pa. They do, sometimes, or about ma, their naming us
children by fancy names, as they did. You see, they're English, pa and
ma are, and so they named us after English aristocratics. Ma's a master
hand for reading novels, too, and she gets notions out of them. We take
the _Four Hundred Story Paper_, and the _Happy Evening Gazette_. Do you
take them?"
"No; I never heard of them."
"My land! you didn't? Ain't that queer? Why, they're splendid. They have
five serial stories running all the time. As fast as one is finished
another is commenced. Umm, they're awful exciting. You can't hardly wait
from week to week to get the new instalments. Trouble is, ma says, we'd
ought to each of us have a copy, we're so crazy to get hold of it when
it comes. Some of the girls take fashion papers, and we lend them
'round. Some lend, I mean. Some are stingy, and won't. They have
patterns in them. You can get some of the patterns free, and some cost
ten or fifteen cents. Say, how do you like my dress?"
Amy looked critically at her companion's attire. She admired it far less
than Gwendolyn had her own simple frock, and she found the question
difficult to answer without giving offence. She compromised by saying:--
"Your mother must be very industrious to have made it, with all the
housework and the children."
"If you ain't the greenest girl I know! My mother couldn't make a dress
like this to save her life."
"O--oh!" stammered Amy.
"Indeed, she couldn't. This was made by a dressmaker. The best one in
Ardsley, too. She charged me five dollars, and ma said it was too much.
I think it was, myself, but what can you do? You must look right, you
know; if you don't the girls will make fun of you, and the boys won't
take you any place. Is there any boy you like, much?"
"Why, of course; though I know only three. Is this the way, around the
corner?"
"Three? Who're they?"
"Hallam, and Fayette, and William Gladstone. Doesn't the mill village
look cosy? The cunning little houses with their porches and gardens and
neat palings. Such a lot of folks living together should have good
times, I think."
"Oh, they do; prime. That's the 'Supe's' house, that big one, upon that
little hill. That whole row belongs to the different 'bosses,'--of the
setting room, the weavers, and the rest. The 'Supe' is real nice, I
think, though some say he's stuck up. He was a poor boy, once,--as poor
as a church mouse. Say, don't you feel sort of afraid to call on him,
after all?"
"Why? No, indeed. Afraid? Why should I?"
"Oh, because."
Amy laughed and hastened forward. Nothing more was said until they
reached the door, shadowed by vines from which not even yet all the
leaves had fallen. The whole place had a sheltered, homelike appearance,
which spoke well for the taste and kindliness of its owners.
"Yes; Mr. Metcalf is in. Would you like to see him? Ah, Gwendolyn, is it
you? Walk in." Yet even Amy noticed that the maid's manner in welcoming
her companion was less cordial than in welcoming herself. She concluded
that there might be some truth in the assertion of this family
considering themselves rather better than their neighbors.
They were ushered into a cheery sitting room, which seemed also a sort
of library, for there were bookcases around the walls, and a table was
spread with the current literature of the day. The room was small by
comparison with those to which Amy had been accustomed, but what it
lacked in size it made up for in comfort. A coal fire glowed on the
hearth, a bird sang in its cage before the window, and about the floor
were scattered the playthings that told that it was the resort of
children.
The girls were not kept waiting. Mr. Metcalf entered almost at once,
nodded kindly to Gwendolyn, and cordially extended his hand to Amy.
"I am very pleased to see you, Miss Amy. Sit nearer the fire, for it's
right cold to-day."
"Thank you, but I'm not cold, and I don't wish to detain you. Gwendolyn
tells me that it is your holiday, too, and that you go to Wallburg."
Mr. Metcalf glanced across at the other girl, who bridled and simpered
as she adjusted her hat and settled her skirts.
"She goes there herself, I fear, rather too much. Eh, Gwendolyn?"
"I go when I please," answered the mill girl, pertly. She resented
something in the tone of her superintendent, feeling that out of work
hours he had no authority over her.
"Oh, of course. By the way, there's the stage just ready for the other
end of the village. Do you see it, Miss Amy? The shop mistress, Mrs.
Hackett, sends one over every Saturday afternoon to carry our folks
free to her place of business. She's an enterprising person, but,
unfortunately, as soon as she had adopted this plan, two other merchants
of the town set up rival stages also. It's very funny, sometimes, to see
the respective drivers' efforts to secure passengers, and therefore
custom."
At the mention of stages, Gwendolyn rose and looked through the window.
Then she turned toward Amy like a person in great haste.
"Tell the 'Supe' what you came for, Amy, so we can get a ride
over,--that is, if you want to go shopping with me after all."
But poor Amy could not reply just then. It had come over her with a rush
what her errand really meant to her, and she was wholly indifferent to
the charms of a stage or even "shopping."
"Don't wait for me, please,--that is, of course, I will keep my word,
but--"
"All right, then, some other day. I'll be up to see how you made out,
and if Mr. Metcalf don't want it maybe I'll hear of somebody else who
does. By, by. Good day, sir," and off she tore, banging the door and
shouting loudly to the driver of Mrs. Hackett's stage.
Mr. Metcalf watched her in silence till she had climbed the steps at the
rear of the omnibus, and then he remarked:--
"That girl has so much sense that she ought to have more."
"That's a doubtful compliment, isn't it?" asked Amy, smiling.
"I suppose so, though it's quite true. She is warmhearted, generous to a
fault, and as silly as they make them. However, she has given me the
pleasure of seeing you to-day, and I hope that you will tell me how I
can be of use to you. From Gwendolyn's words I judge that you came upon
some special errand."
"Yes; I came to ask if you would like to buy my white burro."
"Ah, you are tired of her? I mean you wish to sell her? Has she been
misbehaving or interfering with 'Bony' again?"
"No, she has been very, very good, and I don't at all wish to part with
her; but I want some money very badly, and that is the only thing--the
only way I could get it."
"I am very glad you came to me. Ever since I made Miss Pepita's
acquaintance, that day at the mill, I've wished I could find another
like her for my little Nanette. How much do you ask for the burro?"
"I don't ask anything. That is, I don't know how much she is worth."
"I think you told me that she was a gift to you?"
"Yes, from my uncle in California."
"Hmm, I've heard of him," commented the gentleman, briefly. "Now, I am
almost as much in the dark in regard to the value of such animals as
you are, but, at a rough estimate, I will offer you fifty dollars. Then
I will make inquiries, and if I find I have named too small a price, I
will add the balance. Is that satisfactory?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. Thank you. I--I shall be glad to have Pepita in such a
nice place."
At home Amy had spoken to none save Cleena about this intention of hers,
and that good creature had sighed and wiped her eyes, but had not
uttered one word of protest. The girl sighed, too, now, and the
superintendent felt it would be kind to cut the matter short.
"When can I send for her?"
"Oh, at--at any time, I suppose. Or, if you don't mind, I'd like to ride
her here myself. Just once more."
Mr. Metcalf looked at his watch.
"In a few moments John will be passing by Bareacre on his way to the
other village. You might drive up with him and ride her down here
afterward. There will be ample time before dark, and you must tell your
people not to be anxious, should there be any delay."
"Very well; and maybe Hallam, my brother, will come, also. Though he
hasn't been told yet, and might not--"
"Very well. Excuse me for a moment. I will speak to John."
He did not add, nor Amy reflect, that it was a very long and roundabout
way to reach "the other village," by passing over rough and steep
Bareacre hill; but John was willing enough to take it, when he was told
who was to be his companion on the route. He had liked Amy from the
first, and had grown to know her fairly well during his time of helping
the Kaye household to settle.
"All right, boss. Sorry the little thing is to give up her donkey. She
set a powerful store by it, I 'low. Well, all ready? How do, Miss Amy?
So me an' you're going to take a trip together, eh? Then I can find out
for myself how the well is doing. Don't see much of 'Bony' since your
folks took him in hand. Giddap, there, Jinny! Here we go!"
To pass the time agreeably John talked of everything which he imagined
might be of interest to the silent girl beside him, but he elicited few
replies, and had the stream of his words flow, for once, without
interruption. Yet it seemed a very, very slow ride to Amy, and when it
came to an end, she scarcely waited to thank John for his "lift" before
she sped to the shed where Pepita was tied, and shutting the door behind
her, threw her arms around the neck of the gentle beast, to cry as
freely as she pleased.
"Bray! Br-a-ay! Ah-umph! Ah-u-umph!" inquired the burro, turning her
head around as far as she could by reason of Amy's embrace.
"Oh, you darling, you dear old darling. Don't talk to me. Don't look at
me as if you thought I had no heart. Do you think I don't love you,
that I will sell you, Pepit'? But--it must be. It must be. Better you
than Balaam, and even he--"
"Ah-umph! A-ah-umph! Br-r-r-ay! Bray-bray-bray! B-r-a-y-a-u-m-p-h!!"
protested Balaam, with great haste and emphasis; and this sound was an
added pang in the heart of the unhappy Amy, who felt that she was not
only breaking her own heart by this separation, but the hearts of this
four-footed pair as well.
Then she heard a sound along the frozen ground, and instantly she lifted
her head, pulled her Tam over her eyes to hide the traces of tears, and
called out, gayly:--
"Is that you, Hal dear? What do you think? You and I are to ride down to
Mr. Metcalf's, right away now. Is Fayette in the house? I want him to
help me groom Pepita to 'the Queen's taste,' as he says. Halloo to him,
for me, please."
But instead of that the brother hobbled into the shed and asked:--
"Why should we go there? I don't want to. I've no fondness for paying
visits."
"But you must go this time, Hal. You really, really must. I'll tell you
why, by and by."