THE FLIGHT.
NEITHER Gladys nor Snip came into the barn immediately after their
return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the
message with which she had been entrusted, and Seth was left alone to
turn over in his mind all that Aunt Hannah had said.
A very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he
believed to be his duty and his inclination.
It seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain
in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew
full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding
place.
As the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to
accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left New
York was first told; and once Aunt Hannah was aware that he had
transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain
she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon.
He believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly
cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love,
and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. So long as she could
only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him
kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was
worthy of confidence.
“I’ll come back when I’m a man, an’ then she’ll have to believe I
didn’t mean to do anything so terrible bad when I passed the lead
nickel,” he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution
just made. “It would be mighty nice to live here, an’ what a good time
Snip could have!”
Then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind;
but the thought of going away from that charming home—which might
have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit
money—leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long
day, brought the tears to his eyes again.
“I’ll have to take the poor little man with me, an’ it’ll come mighty
rough on him!” he said with a sob. “I reckon he thinks this kind of
fun, when he can chase butterflies an’ birds to his heart’s content,
is goin’ to last, an’ he’ll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave;
but I couldn’t get along without him!”
Gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was
well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy
frame of mind.
She and Snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim
in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing Seth that
he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm.
“If you jump like that I shall begin to think you are as nervous as
Aunt Hannah,” she cried with a merry laugh. “She insists that between
Snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober
down very suddenly; but do you know, Seth, that I’ve lived here with
no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if
some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy.
I had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the
neighborhood, which isn’t saying very much, in view of the fact that
the two Dean boys and Malvinia Stubbs are the only people of
nearabout my age in this section of the country.”
“I believe Snip thinks as much of you as you do of him,” Seth replied
gloomily. “I never knew him to make friends with any one before; but
perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease
him. If I wasn’t mighty mean, he’d stay here all the time.”
“Of course he’ll stay,” Gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the
air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. “Aunt Hannah and I have
arranged it without so much as asking your permission. You two are to
live here; Snip’s work is to enjoy himself with me, while you’re to
make a garden, the like of which won’t be seen this side of New York.
What do you think of settling down to being a farmer?”
“I’d like it mighty well, but it can’t be done.” And Seth gazed out
through the open door, not daring to meet Miss Gladys’ startled gaze.
“Wait till you’ve talked with Aunt Hannah,” she exclaimed after the
first burst of surprise had passed. “We’ve fixed everything, an’
you’ll find that there isn’t a word for you to say.”
“I have talked with her,” Seth replied gloomily. “We’d both love to
stay mighty well, but we can’t.”
“I’d like to know why”; and now Gladys was on her feet, looking
sternly at the sorrowful guest. “Neither you nor Snip have got a home,
an’ here’s one with the best woman who ever lived—that much I know to
a certainty.”
“I believe you, but it can’t be done.” And the boy walked to the other
side of the barn as if to end the conversation.
Gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and
petulance, and then, taking Snip in her arms, she walked straight into
the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever.
During the remainder of the forenoon neither Aunt Hannah, Gladys, nor
Snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to
dinner.
Seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done,
and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table
in obedience to Aunt Hannah’s instructions.
This time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. Not
having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks
crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her Heavenly
Father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them,
inclining his heart to the right path.
Aunt Hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to Seth
each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he
knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins.
Perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer
why he left New York, Seth would have told her everything; but no word
was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end
he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him
for having passed the counterfeit money.
Nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he
should become a member of the household; but Gladys gave the outlines
of a journey she proposed making with Snip that afternoon, and the
heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return
until nightfall.
Then Aunt Hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a
small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a
garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task.
Therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at
the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in
his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very
night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing.
Immediately after the meal had been brought to a close Seth went out
with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden.
When she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the
task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be
concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he
must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to
bring himself to confess why he and Snip were fugitives.
Some of the neighbors called upon Aunt Hannah that afternoon,
therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described
what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking
land behind the barn; and he knew that Gladys and Snip would not
return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him
to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table.
His hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the
unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his
ability before sunset, and then Aunt Hannah found time to inspect the
result of his toil.
“I declare you have done as well as any man I could have hired, an’ a
good deal better than some!” she exclaimed, and a flush of joy
overspread Seth’s face as he arose with difficulty from the grass
where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. “William Dean
tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked
as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. You have turned it
up till it is the same as ploughed, an’ we’ll have a famous garden,
even though it is a bit late in the season.”
“I’m glad you like it,” the boy replied. “Of course I could do such
work quicker after I’d tried my hand at it two or three times.”
“I didn’t expect you’d more than half finish it in one day, an’ now
there’s nothing to be done but put in the seeds. We’ll see to that in
the morning. I must go after White-Face now, or we shall have a late
supper. Have you seen anything of Gladys?”
“She hasn’t been here. Say, why can’t I get the cow?”
“I suppose you might, for she’s gentle as a kitten; but you must be
tired.”
“I reckon it won’t hurt me to walk from here to the pasture.” And Seth
started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform
yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that Aunt Hannah
would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself
willing to do whatsoever came in his way.
It did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous
beast of a cow; but since Gladys had done so he advanced without any
great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she
willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns.
He led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and
then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at
his own bravery.
“Is there anything more for me to do?” he asked, as Aunt Hannah came
out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin
pail.
“You’ve earned a rest, my dear,” the little woman said cheerily. “Sit
down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every
one who has done a good day’s work. We poor people can have what rich
folks can’t, or don’t, which amounts to much the same thing.”
Seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the
threshold of the “tie-up” watching the little woman force out the big
streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to
successfully perform the same task was strong upon him.
“Don’t you think I could do that?” he asked timidly.
“I dare say you might, my child; there isn’t much of a knack to it.”
“Would you be willin’ to let me try?”
“Of course you shall,” and Aunt Hannah got up quickly from the stool.
“Be gentle, and you’ll have no trouble.”
Seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a
thin stream of the foaming fluid, although White-Face did not appear
well pleased with his experiments.
Then Aunt Hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished
Seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as Gladys
and Snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon’s frolic.
Bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal,
and again Aunt Hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret
satisfaction.
While they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of
authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips:
“You are to stay here until morning, Seth, and then we will have
another talk. I’m an old-fashioned old maid, an’ believe in early to
bed an’ early to rise, therefore we don’t light lamp or candle in the
summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. You
are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have
finished supper I guess you’ll be glad to lie down, for spading up a
piece of grass land isn’t easy work.”
Understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire
without delay, Seth took Snip in his arms immediately the meal had
come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to
his room:
“You’ve been mighty good to us, Miss—Aunt Hannah, an’ I hope we’ll
have a chance to pay you back some day.”
“You’ve done that this afternoon,” Gladys cried laughingly. “Aunt
Hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went
away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. All hands,
including Snip, will have a share in the planting, and I wouldn’t be
surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such
work.”
Seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind
to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as
soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind
lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed Aunt Hannah as she led the
way to the room above the kitchen.
“You won’t forget to say your prayers,” she said, kissing him
good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and Seth shook
his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done
such a thing.
After undressing, and when Snip had been provided with a comfortable
bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, Seth attempted to do as he had
promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. There was in his
heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to
either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially:
“I hope Aunt Hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as
she deserves, for she’s a dandy, if there ever was one!”
Then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up
to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings.
Never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly!
There were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed
in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the
fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on.
Snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master.
The chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a
little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of
leaving the Morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master
would remain there all their lives.
Weary, as Seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his
eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not
indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he
might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates.
Perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but
the temptation of getting into such a bed as Aunt Hannah had provided
for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he
be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of
dreamland.
It is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe Seth’s
condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was
great. More than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell
Aunt Hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that
by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all
possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting
her friendship.
To his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story,
and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest
to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene.
Then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open;
and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary
to get out of bed.
Crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out
over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured
to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the
knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. And then, such a
revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done
by taking Snip in his arms. The dog was sleeping soundly, and Seth
whispered in a voice which was far from being steady:
“It’s too bad, old man; but we can’t help ourselves. You’ll be sorry
not to see Gladys when you wake; but you won’t feel half so bad as I
shall, ’cause I know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin’
another place like this.”
Then he opened the door softly, still holding Snip in his arms.
Not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and
listened intently.
It was as if he and Snip were the only occupants of the house. Seth
had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but
it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since Aunt Hannah bade
him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the
flight at once.
With his hand on Snip’s head as a means of preventing the dog from
growling in case any unusual sound was heard, Seth began the descent
of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost
caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until
it seemed certain both Aunt Hannah and Gladys must be aroused.
In trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the
stair-rail, squeezing Snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and
Seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the
house had been alarmed.
He was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that
any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the
silence was as profound as before he began to descend.
Never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it
seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more
than half-way down.
The descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world,
and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring
to breathe.
Once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling
sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the
fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door.
The key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and
the door swung open with never a creak.
The moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood
irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why
he had been forced to come away from New York; and as he turned his
head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him.
He saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form
advancing. A cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped
out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder
restrained him.
“Where are you going, my child?” a kindly voice asked; and he knew
that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than Aunt
Hannah.
Seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his
knees trembled beneath him. He had been discovered while seemingly
prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized
in what way his actions might be misconstrued.
“Where are you going, Seth dear?”
“I wasn’t—I had to run away, Aunt Hannah, an’ that’s the truth of
it!” he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue.
“Why didn’t you tell me at supper-time?”
“I was afraid you and Gladys would try to stop me, an’ perhaps I
couldn’t stick to what I’d agreed on.”
“Do you really want to leave us, Seth?”
“Indeed I don’t, Aunt Hannah! I’d give anything in this world if I
could stay, for this is the very nicest place I ever was in. Oh,
indeed, I don’t want to go away!”
“Then why not stay?”
“I can’t! I can’t, ’cause I’d have to tell——”
Seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in Snip’s silky
hair.
“Is it because you can’t tell me why you left the city?” And the
little woman laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder with a motion not
unlike a caress.
Seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak.
“Then go right back to bed. You shall stay here, my dear, until the
time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile I will not
believe you have been guilty of any wickedness.”