A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
That night’s experience was one Posey never forgot. The road she had
chosen she was now on for the first time; where it led to she had no
idea; all she knew about it was that it would take her away from Mrs.
Hagood, and in the direction where she thought there would be least
danger of her being looked for. But once fairly started she hurried on,
her one thought and anxiety to put all the distance possible between
herself and Horsham before her absence was discovered.
But what it cost her to do this! To her excited fancy the commonest
objects—innocent stumps, wayside bushes, fence-corner shadows—took
on in the weird light grotesque shapes that filled her with fear and
trembling. If she had a stretch of lonely woods to pass through she ran
till the beating of her own heart fairly startled her. Was she out of
sight of houses, she would quicken her steps and almost fly. When a
house came in sight she walked more slowly; to be near people, even if
they knew nothing of her, was something, and the barking of a dog was
always a welcome sound. When she heard it she knew there was something
living and awake, which lessened a little her feeling that she was a
sort of wandering spirit, driven on and on in a dim world where, save
for the uncanny night birds, nothing was astir but herself. Yes, Posey
was afraid, at times desperately afraid, but she felt that every step
was taking her farther from Mrs. Hagood, and for the sake of that she
was willing both to dare much and to endure much.
By and by, however, signs of the coming morning began to appear. First
a faint line of light along the eastern sky, then lights were seen
gleaming here and there in farmhouse windows, and curls of smoke rising
from chimneys, in token that the world was rousing to the new day; once
across the fields she heard a loud hearty voice calling, “Coo-boss,
coo-boss,” to the cows in some out-of-sight pasture, and again she
caught a distant glimpse of some boys with bags on their shoulders,
evidently off for an early nutting expedition. Gradually these signs of
life multiplied, the clouds grew more rosy, the trees, no longer vague,
dark masses, showed their brilliant hues of red and gold; wayside
objects lost their dim and spectral look; all the world was waking into
the crisp brightness of a clear, fresh, autumn morning, sweet with the
fruity smell of ripened orchards, and rich with the soft mellowness of
the long summer time.
With everything around her new and strange Posey had no idea how far
she had come. This she did know, that the bundle and basket she carried
were all the time growing heavier, that her aching feet dragged more
and more slowly, and that she was so tired she could go only a little
way without stopping to rest.
The sun was now well up, and as Posey paused she looked around the
unfamiliar landscape. What she saw was a stretch of level, low-lying
fields which merged into a wooded swamp—a thick tangle of trees and
bushes whose dark line spread out as far as her eye could follow.
Beyond the swamp, and at no great distance, rose a steep range of
wooded hills; solid masses of gayly tinted colors they appeared that
morning, following with gentle curves the windings of the swamp; and
crowning the highest of these hills, rising above the trees, lifted the
white spire of a church, its gilted weather-vane glittering in the sun.
Before her the white road lifted in a long upward swell that made her
sigh with the thought of climbing it, and shut in her view to the flat
around. But one house was near—a tall gaunt house of weather-beaten
red, standing on a slight knoll a little back from the road, with a
single tree, a tall and sombre pine, beside it, and all the green
paper curtains that shaded its front windows drawn closely down. A
dreary house it was in Posey’s eyes, and the people who lived in it
she thought must grow so tired of looking out on those flat pastures,
tufted with hillocks of coarse, marshy grass, and the swamp with its
bordering fringe of dead, grey bushes.
But it may be that to her eyes the fairest view would have taken on
something of her desolate mood. In the sand that now made the road,
her steps dragged heavier and more slowly, but save for brief pauses to
rest she dared not stop. She was not far enough away. Oh, no, not yet.
Mrs. Hagood might be hunting her even then, was the thought hurrying
her on. She was hungry, too, with the crisp air, and her exertion, for
all the hearty lunch she had taken at starting; but she was afraid to
make any inroad on the contents of her basket, for when once that was
gone she had no idea how or where she would get anything more. It would
be dreadful to keep feeling so faint and hungry, and was there anybody
anywhere, she wondered, who would pity her enough to give her something
to eat, or take her in when it came night again? Or would she have to
go on and on, till she fell down somewhere and died? And a slow trickle
of tears ran down her cheeks at the foreboding. This was a hard world,
she bitterly felt, for girls who had no homes. If God was good why
didn’t He make homes, real homes, for all of them? She was sure she
would if she were God, and especially one for poor Posey Sharpe.
A little stream, its course marked by fringing reeds and rushes, wound
its way through the fields and crossed the road a little way before
her, spanned there by a wooden bridge with high, close sides, overhung
at each end by clumps of willows which formed a thick green screen.
Slowly and wearily Posey stumbled up the slight ascent leading to the
bridge; she had taken but a few steps when a loose board rattled under
her tread, and a moment later she started with a little cry as the face
of a boy suddenly appeared around a side at the farther end.
His eyes also grew wide with surprise, and it was no wonder, for a
strange little figure it was which met his gaze. Her shoes were white
with dust, her hat was jammed to one side, her cape was all askew, her
gingham bundle hung limply from one arm, and in the other hand was the
basket, from which she had lost her handkerchief that at first had
covered it. This basket with the saucer pumpkin pie on top, was what
first caught the boy’s notice, and he called out in a half bargaining,
half jesting tone, “Any extra pies you want to trade for tinware this
morning?” Then as he saw the tear-stains on her cheeks, into which the
dust had settled in grimy streaks, and her swollen, overflowing eyes,
he quickly swung himself around onto the bridge, asking, “What is it;
what’s the matter?”
Now notice was of all things what Posey most dreaded, and as the
morning was still early few people were yet stirring, so till now she
had not attracted attention. For one thing she had been careful not to
do so; since daylight she had crept carefully by the few houses she
had passed, as much in the shadow of the fences as possible; and once
when she saw a wagon coming, with people and trunks, as if for some
railroad station, she had hidden behind a clump of bushes till they
were gone by. For her great fear was that some one would send word to
Mrs. Hagood, or even return her by force, and every hour but added to
her fierce determination never to go back—never!
Of course she knew that she would be seen and questioned. “And I must
have something ready to say,” had been her thought. “Yes, I know, when
any one asks me where I am going, I shall tell them that my Aunt Mary
is sick and has sent for me. I know it’s a lie, and I hate liars, but
I can’t tell the truth, and if I had an Aunt Mary and she was sick I’m
sure she’d send for me,” and with this she had salved her conscience.
But now as she heard the friendly tone, and looked into the frank
boyish face, with honest, merry blue eyes, and a kindly expression
under the sunburn and freckles, she forgot all her prudent plans in a
longing for the sympathy that spoke in his tone, and lifting her eyes
to his she answered simply, “I’m running away.”
He gave a slight whistle of surprise, “Running away? What are you doing
that for?”
By this time Posey had come close to him, and putting her bundle and
basket down on the abutting stone work of the bridge, she rolled up
her sleeve and showed her arm, across which ran a number of angry red
welts. “And they’re worse here,” she said, putting her hand up to her
shoulders.
“My!” he exclaimed, his tone full of mingled sympathy and indignation.
“Whatever did you do that your mother whipped you like that?”
“She wasn’t my mother,” was the vehement reply, all Posey’s sense of
outraged suffering breaking out afresh. “She was only the woman who
took me from the Refuge in Cleveland; she made me work from morning
till night, and scolded me the whole time; she was the crossest woman
you ever saw, and she wouldn’t let me go to school after she had
promised at the Refuge that I should. And she was mad and whipped me
that way because I told her that she was a mean, wicked liar, just as
she was.” Her eyes flashed with the remembrance.
“Haven’t you anybody of your own?” he asked.
She shook her head. “My mother and father both died when I was a little
bit of a girl.” Then with a piteous little cry, “I don’t see why my
mother couldn’t have lived or I have died, too!” and overcome with a
mingling of weariness, nervous excitement, and emotion, Posey dropped
down beside her bundle, and hiding her face in it burst into a passion
of sobs.
“There, there,” and as he spoke there was a shake in his own voice, and
a moisture in his own eyes. “Don’t cry so, don’t. I’m awfully sorry
for you. I’ve lost my father and mother, too, and I know how tough it
is on a fellow, though Uncle John and everybody have been good to me.”
By this time Posey had succeeded in checking her sobs, and in answer to
his questions she poured out her whole story, ending with her flight.
“You’re a regular brick,” he exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm as she
finished, “to start off that way, alone in the night. I’d like to see
my cousin Emma or Fannie doing anything of that sort, and they both
bigger than you are; but my, they hardly dare to look out of doors
alone after it comes dark! Won’t I have something to tell them, though,
when I go home? And I don’t blame you for running away, either, though
to be sure,” he added impartially, “it might have been better if you
had kept out of a row.”
“Yes, it would,” Posey admitted meekly.
“But now that you have done it,” he asked in a practical tone, and with
a business-like clearness, “what are you going to do?”
“I—I don’t know,” answered Posey, realizing suddenly and with
confusion, how very vague her ideas were, and what a wild undertaking
hers was. “I didn’t know—I thought—I hoped—that I might find
somebody—somewhere, who would let me live with them. I can wash
dishes, and iron, and sweep, and churn, and bake apple pies and
ginger-cake—Mrs. Hagood taught me—and do lots of things about the
house,” sadly feeling that her list was after all but a short one.
“I would try _so_ hard to suit. Don’t you think I could find such a
place?” and she looked in his face appealingly.
“I should think so,” he answered after a moment’s pause. For with
all his boyishness there was about him a certain thoughtfulness
and readiness of decision, which led Posey to regard him with an
instinctive trust and reliance. “At any rate,” he added, “you might
try; I don’t think of anything better just now that you could do.”
All this time there had been a frequent splashing and stamping down
below them in the creek, and several times the boy had looked over the
side of the bridge to call, “Whoa, there, whoa,” or “Stand steady,
Billy.” “Let’s see,” he went on, “you’re about eight miles from Horsham
now,—you must have clipped it pretty lively, but you look awful
tuckered, and I don’t believe you could make another eight miles.”
“I—I’m afraid not,” Posey sadly agreed, for having once stopped it
seemed to her that she never could start on again.
“And as you’re running away I suppose you want to get as far away as
you can?”
“Yes, indeed, I do.”
“Well, then, I guess I will give you a lift. Of course you don’t know
me, but my name’s Ben Pancost, and I’m a tin peddler,” the last with an
air of business-like pride.
“You don’t look old enough to be a tin peddler,” was Posey’s comment.
“All I ever saw were old men with hook noses.”
“I was fifteen last March. I guess Mr. Bruce thinks that will do, at
any rate I’ve been on one of his wagons all summer. I stayed last night
at that house,” indicating by a jerk of his thumb the red house on the
knoll, “and this morning one of the wagon tires seemed loose, so I
drove into the creek to let Billy drink, and swell up the wheel. You
saw my red cart as you came along, didn’t you?”
“No; the willows must have hid it. I didn’t know that there was anybody
anywhere near, that was why I was scared when you looked around the
corner of the bridge. And, oh, it’s so good of you to let me ride!”
But Ben had a boy’s horror of thanks. “I guess by this time the wheel
is soaked,” he hastened to say, “so I’ll drive out of the creek and
then this train will be ready to pull out.”
An hour before Posey would hardly have believed that she could ever
again feel like laughing. But there was something so infectious in the
cheery good humor, the ready self-confidence, and above all the hearty
sympathy of her new friend, that she laughed gayly at his merry tone
and twinkling eyes, as, swinging around the corner of the bridge, he
jumped down, and soon the stout bay horse and red cart came into view
at the opposite end of the bridge—such a cart as she had more than once
seen that summer, with great sacks of rags piled high on its top, and
a fringe of old rubber boots dangling around the bottom.
While Ben was making sure that everything was in good order and
securely fastened before he started, Posey ran down to the clear water
and wetting her handkerchief washed her face and hands, straightened
her hat and cape, and made herself look as tidy as she could. Her
spirits had even risen so high that sitting down on the grassy bank she
ventured into her lunch, and fancying that she saw Ben give another
glance at the pie, as a slight expression of her overflowing gratitude
she held it out to him, urging, “Do take it. I know it’s good, for Mrs.
Hagood always makes such nice pumpkin pies.”
Ben looked at the tempting delicacy with a true boy’s appetite. “I’ll
tell you what I will do,” drawing out his pocketknife, “I’ll cut it
in two and eat one half if you will the other. No, I sha’n’t take the
whole of it. Besides, I’ve read of people breaking bread together as
a pledge of friendship; well, we’ll break this pie together as our
pledge.”
“You see,” he continued as he wiped away the last flaky crumb, “the
potatoes this morning were warmed over, the pork was warmed over, the
coffee was warmed over, and it was a sort of a warmed-over breakfast
generally. But then I oughtn’t to complain, for Billy and I had our
lodging and breakfast, and I only had to give a tin dipper, a quart
basin, and two pie tins for it all. That’s why I stop at houses instead
of hotels when I can, the women, mostly, will take tinware for pay, and
as there’s a profit on it, why, that makes my expenses that much the
less for Mr. Bruce.”
As he helped Posey to the high seat, and mounting beside her gathered
up the lines and chirruped to the horse, she gave a start. “Why, you
are going back the way I came.”
“Only a little way. The road bends so you didn’t notice where the one
you were on came into this, but I’ll show you the place; Horsham is
south, and I’m going west; then after a little I shall turn north, for
I’ve quite a circuit to make to-day.”