IN THE OLD HOME.
After one o'clock on the afternoon before Christmas was a mill holiday;
and while the great looms were silent, those who usually toiled at them
took their way into Wallburg city to do their Christmas shopping. Though
a few, indeed, were able to satisfy their needs at the local stores, and
among these, for once, was Gwendolyn. She had come up the knoll after
dinner hour, to invite Amy's presence at the gift buying, and concluded
her invitation by saying:--
"Even if you won't get anything yourself, you might come and look at the
pretty things. It's surprising how many you find you can pick out in a
few minutes. They've the loveliest dolls there 't I'm going to get for
Beatrice and Belinda. Victoria's so big she's outgrown doll--"
Cleena could hold her tongue no longer.
"Toys, is it, alanna! Better be shoes for their feet; an' as for Queen
Victory an' her dolls, more's the shame to you as sets her the example
o' growin' up before her time. Vases for the mother, is it? An' she
after patchin' the sheets off her bed. Pardon unasked advice, which
same is unsavory, belike, an' get the makin' of a new pair. That's
sense, so it is."
It was sense. As such it commended itself to Gwendolyn, during her walk
to the village, and bore results for the comfort of her family; for
though she did run in debt to make her Christmas gifts, at least she now
altered her usual habit completely, and for each member of the household
provided some article of use. Even Mrs. Hackett paused in her busy
attendance upon the crowd of customers to remark:--
"Well, now, Gwen, that's a good plan. I guess your folks will be proud
of what you're giving them this year. Yes, I'm more 'n willing to trust
you for 'em. A girl that'll spend her money as you are, isn't going to
cheat me in the long run. Yes, the wagon'll be going out late to-night
and will fetch 'em all for you. Flannel and sheeting and such are a
mighty sight heavier to carry than notions. But say, I'll put in a
little candy for the youngsters, seeing they're disappointed of their
dolls."
Meanwhile, up at "Charity House," Amy had drawn Cleena into a corner to
discuss their own plans, and especially to ask concerning a proposed
trip to the city, by her father, and immediately after the holidays.
"You know, Goodsoul, that he hasn't been there alone in a long time. Is
it safe for him to go now? If he should have one of his attacks, what
would happen? Should Hallam go with him? and--worst of all--how can we
spare the money?"
"Faith, Miss Amy, I'd leave the master be. It's the fine sense he's
gettin' the now. It would hearten the mistress could she see how he does
be pickin' up. Always that gentle I d' know, as if the sorrow had been a
broom sweepin' his soul all free of the moilder an' muss was in it long
by. Only yesternight, whilst I was just washin' off me table afore
layin' me cloth, into the kitchen he steps an' sits himself down by the
door, lookin' out toward Fairacres. It was as soft as summer, like it is
this eve, but faith! a 'green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.'"
The very word made them both silent for a moment, and then Amy
resumed:--
"Father has packed up a half a dozen or more of his small canvases,
studies of heads most of them are, I believe, and all are unframed. What
do you suppose he means to do with them?"
"Sell them. What for no?"
"But mother never liked to have him. These are all pictures he did long
ago."
"The quicker they'll go off the hand then."
"Do you approve?"
"With all me heart."
Amy dropped her face on her palms and considered the matter. Even with
her habit of dealing with facts rather than fancies, she still found
life a most perplexing and complex affair. The only help she gained
toward understanding it was that clew taught her by her mother of
matching the days and the events as one matches a fascinating puzzle.
Out of this thought she spoke at last, though quite to the bewilderment
of honest Cleena.
"It seems as if our losing all that belonged to us were making us
sturdier folks, improving us all. Mother needed no improvement, so she
hadn't to face the battle long. Well, one thing I know, she would be
glad for us all, and some way I feel her very near to-day. Only, if I
could just talk with her and ask her things."
"Sure ye can, me colleen. I mind it's no far to the land where she's
gone. But about the money. See here; how got I this?"
And Cleena whipped out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and
unfolded it with utmost care. In this were a number of silver pieces,
from half-dollars to dimes, and added together made the "smart decent
sum" of five dollars and fifteen cents.
"Why, Cleena! Where? I thought all ours was spent as soon as earned."
"Where? An' I to be mendin' a few clothes for me neighbors. Even that
man John fetches me a blouse now an' again, to put in a fresh pair o'
sleeves or set on a button that's missin'. Sure, ye didn't think Cleena
was one would be leavin' her childer bring in all the wage. Only--" and
the good creature's fine face clouded dismally.
Amy's arms were around the other's neck, and her soft cheek pressed
against the shoulder that had borne so many burdens for her and hers.
"Only what, you darling Scrubbub?"
"Only I was mindin' to buy a few trinkets for you an' Master Hal. 'Tis
Christmas comes but once a year, an' sure me heart should give good
cheer--"
"Cleena, Cleena! A poet! What next?"
"Arrah musha, no! Not one o' them sort. But it's in the air, belike.
Christmastide do set the blood running hitherty-which. So they say in
old Ireland. It's this way, me darling. Gifts for you an' Hal--or the
trip to town for the master. Which, says you? For here's the silver will
pay either one, an' it's you an' him shall decide."
"Then it's decided already. At least, I'm sure Hallam will so agree when
he comes in. You know he's stopped at Mr. Metcalf's to see some books on
designing. Hallam thinks that either he might learn to do it or that
perhaps even father might give some odd moments to it, though I don't
know as he would hardly dare propose it. The idea was Mr. Metcalf's, and
he hasn't much 'sentiment' about him. He said that if there was any way
in which father could make a living, he would be happier if so employed.
It sounded dreadful to me at first, and then it seemed just sensible."
"That last it was, and so I b'lieve the master'll say himself. But
child, child, you do be gettin' too sober notions into your bonny head.
Oh, for that Balaam the spalpeen stole! But since ye can't ride, why
then it's aye ye must walk. Either way, get into the open. There's not
many such a day 'twixt now and Easter. Away with ye! Haven't I me pastry
to make an' to-morrow Christmas? Go where ye've no thought, an' let the
spirit carry ye. Then there'll be rest. But be home by nightfall, mind."
"Cleena, you dear, the kindest, truest, best woman left in this world!"
"Indeed, that's sweet decent speech, me dear; but seein' your 'world's'
no bigger nor Ardsley township, I 'low I'll not be over set up by that
same. Run away, child, run away!"
"Cleena, you're watching down the road. Why? Why?--I demand; and you
talk of pastry, the which hasn't been in 'Charity House' since we came
to it, save and except that dried apple pie sent in by Mrs. Jones."
"Ugh!" cried Cleena, making a face of contempt. "The match o' that good
soul's pastry for hardness an' toughness isn't found this side of the
Red Sea."
"Cleena, is that old John coming here to-day? Is it _he_ you are
watching for?"
"Why for no? If a man's more nor his share an' nobody to cook it, why
shouldn't he be a bringin' it up an' lettin' a body fix it eatable?
Sure, it's John himself. Ye're too sharp in the wits, an' I don't mind
tellin' ye; it's all charity, Miss Amy. Him livin' by his lone an'
gettin' boardin'-house truck. If he says to me, says he, 'Shall I fetch
the furnishin' o' the best Christmas dinner ever cooked an' you be after
preparin' it,' says he, 'only givin' me one plateful beside your nice
kitchen fire,' says he, could I tell the man no, and me a good
Christian? Ye know better, Miss Amy. Think o' the master, an' Master
Hal, to-morrow comes. What's the good o' John, then, but to find food
for me folks? Run along!"
Mr. Kaye had already gone off for one of his long tramps, over the
fields and through the woods, to which he was now much given. He had
taken such, at first, to subdue the restlessness which followed upon his
wife's death, and as some sort of break in his unutterable loneliness.
But nature had helped him more than he had dreamed; and to the pure air,
the physical fatigue, and consequent sound sleep was due much of the
cure of his mental illness that all who knew him now noticed.
So there was nobody who needed Amy just then, and she set off from
"Charity House" at a brisk pace, resolved, as Cleena had advised, to
forget all worry and labor, and "just have one good, jolly time."
She took the road upward toward the woods behind Fairacres, meaning to
gather a bunch of late ferns for the decoration of the morrow's dinner
table, since Cleena promised it should be a feast day, after all.
Before she quite realized it even, she had deflected from her course,
remembering just then a certain glen in the grounds of her old home
where rare ferns grew to prodigious size, and where no cold of winter
seemed to harm them. Then once upon the familiar path every step was
suggestive of some bygone outing, and led her to explore farther and
still farther.
"Ah, the frost-bleached maiden-hair. Nowhere else does it last like
this. It's almost as white as edelweiss, and far more graceful. I must
put that in my basket, if nothing else." So she pulled it gently and
with infinite care, lest she should break the delicate fronds that had
outlasted their season by so long. Then there were others, dainty green
and still fragrant, which she gathered eagerly; with here and there a
bit of crimson-berried vine, or a patch of velvet moss.
Always she kept to the depth of the little ravine, through which ran a
tiny, babbling brook. This had long ago been named "Merrywater," nor had
it ever seemed gayer and more winsome than then. It was like reunion
with some old beloved playmate, and Amy forgot everything but the
present enjoyment as she stooped and dabbled in the water here and
there. Sometimes she came to the fantastic little bridges which Hallam
had used to lie upon the bank and construct out of the roots and pebbles
she brought him. Where these had fallen into decay she repaired them;
and at one time was busily endeavoring to force a grapevine into place
when she heard a sound that made her pause in her task and spring to her
feet.
"Ah-umph! A-h-u-m-ph! A-H-U-M-P-H!!!"
"Pepita! No--Balaam! Balaam, Balaam--Balaam!"
She was off up the bank in another instant. The sound was from the old
stable, so dear, so familiar to her. As she ran she caught up here and
there great tufts of sweet grass, such as had been neglected by the
mowers, but were dear to donkey appetites.
"Oh, the precious! The blessed little beast! Won't Hallam be glad! Won't
this be a Christmas gift indeed, to bring him back his own pet! How glad
I am I took this way to walk, and how queer it is that he should be back
in his very own old home. Is it so queer, though? Wouldn't I come, too,
if I were just a burro and were set free to follow my own will? I can
hardly wait to reach him."
In a moment she had done so, and had filled the manger with the still
luscious grass, while climbing upon its front she had thrown her arms
about the animal's neck and was assuring him, as she might a human
being, that he had been sadly missed and would be most welcome home.
On his part the burro was fortunately silent, though his great, dark
eyes looked volumes of affection, and he laid his big ears gently back
to be out of Amy's way, while she caressed him. She smoothed his
forelock, ran her fingers through his mane, patted his shaggy head, and
told him that his "big velvet lips were the softest things on earth."
"Ahem!"
This remark, if such it could be called, fell upon Amy's ears so
suddenly that she half tumbled backward from her perch upon the manger,
and just saved herself by springing lightly down, or she thought it was
lightly, until she wheeled and faced the intruder.
None other than Archibald Wingate, making a horrible grimace, and
holding up one of his pudgy feet as if he were in great pain.
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't know it was your foot, or you were
you--I thought it was only the hay on the floor."
"Ugh! Great goodness! Umm. If you ever have the gout, young woman, you
will understand how it feels to have anybody jump down full force upon
your toes. Ouch! O dear! O dear!"
Amy had never been accustomed to seeing people make ado over physical
suffering. She did not understand this man before her, and a thrill of
distress ran through her own frame, like the touch of an electric
battery.
"Oh, I am so sorry! I wouldn't have done it for anything if I had known.
Can't I do something now to help you? Let me rub it or--or--lead you.
You look--" In spite of her good intentions, the horrible contortions
by which Mr. Wingate's countenance expressed his feelings affected her
sense of the ridiculous, and she smiled. As instantly ashamed of the
smile, she buried her face in her hands, and waited what would come
next.
"Huh! Yes, you look sorry, of course you do, laughing at an old man
after you've nearly broken his foot in two. Hmm. You're a sorry lot, the
whole of you; yes, you are! O-oh!" Yet he, too, and in spite of himself,
laughed; but it was at his own pitiful joke about his kinsmen being a
"sorry lot."
Fortunately, Amy did not understand a jest of this nature, but she was
swift to see the brightening of his face. She put her hand on his arm,
and tried to draw his hand within her own.
"Maybe it won't be so bad. Lean on me, and I'll help you to a seat or to
the house. And thank you, thank you so much for putting Balaam in the
stable, and taking such good care of him. If Hal had known, he wouldn't
have worried so about the little beast. He's been so tenderly cared for,
we couldn't bear to think of him as off in the open fields with nobody
but Fayette."
Mr. Wingate said not a word. He simply ceased groaning and grimacing,
and he slipped his arm through Amy's, while a curious expression settled
on his face. He did not lean at all heavily upon her, however, and he
merely glanced toward the burro as the pair walked to the stable door.
Then the animal thought it time to protest. Amy had brought him fresh
grass, but she had dropped it all outside his manger, where he could not
reach it. This was aggravation in the extreme. More than that, whenever,
in the old days, she had been afflicted with one of these outbursts of
affection, there had generally been a lump of sugar connected with it.
To lose affection, hay, and sugar, all in one unhappy moment, was too
much even for donkey patience.
"AH-UMPH! H-umph! A-h-u-m-p-h!"
"Whew! he's split my ears open. Plague take the beast!" cried Mr.
Wingate, hurrying forward, and now stepping with suspicious freedom from
lameness.
Amy hurried, too, wondering at his sudden recovery. "Oh, do you dislike
his talk? I love it. I always laugh when I hear it, it is so absurd, and
Pepita's was even funnier. She had a feminine note, so to speak, and she
whined like a spoiled baby."
"What do you know about spoiled babies?"
"Why--nothing--only William Gladstone, he's a trifle self-willed, I
think."
"William Gladstone! What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Are you
all crazy together?"
"Not the English statesman, certainly. Just Mrs. Jones's youngest son.
And I don't think we're crazy."
"I think you are, the whole lot. Well, will you come into the house
with me? How did you know the donkey was here? Who told you?"
"He told me," laughed Amy. "Yes, I'll go in if you wish, if I can help
you."
"How did he tell you?"
"I was gathering these ferns in the glen, and I heard him bray. See,
aren't they beautiful? They're for the table to-morrow. The prettiest
ferns in all Fairacres grow along the banks of 'Merrywater.'"
"Yes, I know. I used to gather them when I was a child. My grandmother
liked them, though she called them plain 'brakes.' So you're not afraid
to trespass, then? And you're able to have a dinner-party even so soon
after--and with all the pretended devotion. But Cuthbert--"
Amy's hand went up to her kinsman's lips. It was a habit of hers,
sometimes playfully sometimes earnestly used, to ward off anything she
did not wish another to say to her, and she had done it before she
thought; but having so done she would not withdraw her silent protest.
This man should never say, nor would she ever hear, a word against her
father. Of that she was determined, even though she must be rude to
prevent.
For a moment Archibald Wingate resented the girl's correction. Then, as
her hand dropped to her side and her gaze to the ground, he spoke:--
"You are right. I had no business to so speak. I honor you for your
filial loyalty and--Come into the house. I have something I wish to
discuss with you. So you want to thank me for taking care of Balaam, do
you? You may feel differently after you have heard what I have to say.
Oh, you did give me a twinge, I tell you!"
"Would it relieve the pain if I bathed the foot for you? Or is there
anybody else to do it?"
"Would you do that for _me_?"
"Certainly."
"Ring that bell."
Amy obeyed. It was the familiar one which summoned, or had summoned,
Cleena from her kitchen.
A man answered the call.
"Marshall, have a foot-bath brought in here. This young lady is going to
dress my foot for me. For once there'll be no blundering heavy-handed
servant to hurt me."
Over and over and over Amy washed and soothed the red, misshapen foot.
The repugnance she had felt to touching it had all vanished when she saw
how acute must have been the old man's suffering and his now evident
relief.
"I thought you made a big fuss. Now I don't see how you walk about at
all."
"I walk on my will," answered he, grimly. "You're a good girl; yes, you
are. You're a real Kaye. Our women were all good nurses and
tender-handed. It's a pity--such a pity!"
Amy thought the prodigious sigh that moved his mighty breast was for
his own distress, and echoed his regret sincerely. "Yes; it is a pity.
It seems to me it should be cured. I wish it could."
"So do I. Say, little woman, suppose you and I try to cure it."
Amy looked up. She had been speaking simply of his disease. She now saw
that he had not been thinking of that at all. For the moment, while she
so gently manipulated the swollen ankle and bound it with the lotions
Marshall handed her, he had been quite comfortable, and the keen twinkle
in his eye set her thinking. Was it the family feud he wished might be
healed? He, who was the very foundation and cause of it?
[Illustration: "SHE SO GENTLY MANIPULATED THE SWOLLEN ANKLE AND BOUND IT
WITH THE LOTION."]
She caught his hand in both hers, eagerly.
"Do you mean that we might live at peace; in love, as kinsfolk should?
Now--this peace day--when the Christ child comes? Is it that?"
But Marshall made a little motion which might be warning or contempt.
The old man's face hardened again.
"What are you asking? Look, you've wet my cuffs! Your hands just out of
hot water and all liniment!"
"Never mind your cuffs. _Look out for your heart._ You're a poor, lonely
old fellow, and I'm sorry for you."
Before he knew what she was about, Amy had thrown her arms about her
cousin's neck and imprinted a kiss--somewhere. It didn't much matter
that it landed squarely on the tip of his pudgy nose. Archibald Wingate
was so little in the habit of receiving kisses that he might easily have
imagined this was quite the customary place for their bestowal.