SQUIRE PERKINS.
Of all the queer families in the mountains, not one, surely, equalled
that of Squire Perkins, a real down-east Yankee, whose house was not
more than a mile west of Malden's Mill, on the Frost Creek road. A
little weazened old man, who, while he had always been staunch to his
political creed, and had been Republican supervisor of the town ever
since people could remember, yet had drifted religiously till he was
now a typical Spiritualist. The neighbor boys who used to go past his
house evenings and see him with the "Truth Seeker" in his hands,
wandering among the trees and gazing blankly into space, often took
him for a genuine ghost.
His wife was quite unlike him. She was born in a house-boat on the
Pearl River near Canton, and, with hair plaited down her forehead and
cheeks, slanting eyes and wooden shoes and a silk robe, had landed at
San Francisco when it was still a heterogeneous trading-post, and had
come up with the miners to prattle "pigeon English," and cook, as it
turned out, for Squire Perkins. When other women came--Americans from
the States--the old man married her. Long since she had adopted
American ways and had joined the Methodist church, and not one of the
neighbors, who always sent for Squire Perkins' wife in time of
trouble, thought less of her because she was a Chinese woman.
The long, white cottage, with its vine-covered walls, its
"hen-and-chicken" bordered walks, and its old gnarled apple tree
hugging the left side next to the stone chimney, became a still
queerer place when Widow Smith, a tall, straight, firm, black-eyed,
dark-skinned Indian woman, the descendant of a long line of natives of
these hills, but withal a refined, womanly old lady, came to board
with Squire Perkins and his wife. Widow Smith was a Presbyterian of
the straitest sort. The Squire's was surely a home of many races and
many creeds.
It was at this house that one Tuesday evening the Methodist class met,
and Andy Malden came and confessed Christ, and all Grizzly county was
startled thereby. It was here that Job often rode up on Bess beside
the kitchen window where Aunty Perkins was making rice cakes, and
heard her say: "Job, heap good, allee samee angel cake. Have some.
Melican boy have no mother. Old Chinawoman, she take care of him."
And she kept her word. She won the boy's heart, till he found himself
more than once going with his troubles down to Aunty Perkins', who
always ended her motherly advice with, "Be heap good, Job, heap good.
The Lord lub the motherless boy. 'He will never fail nor forslake
thee.'"
It was here that Jane also stole with her heart burdens to the
strange, great-hearted woman who mothered the whole county. It was
here she was going one hot July afternoon, as, with blackberry pail on
her arm, she walked slowly down Sugar Pine Hill, thinking of the day
when she had first met Job on that very road. Her black hair was
smoothly braided down her back, she wore a light muslin dress tied
with a red sash, low shoes took the place of the tan and dust of other
days, a neat starched sun-bonnet enfolded her face now showing traces
of womanhood near at hand. As she turned the bend of the road, Job
stood there leaning on the fence with a far-away look. It was he who
was startled this time, as he dropped his elbows and hastened to lift
his faded sombrero. It was the most natural thing in the world for
him to walk slowly down the lane with her toward the Mill Road. The
July sun was hot, so they kept on the shady side of the way.
Job thought enough of the girl to make him reserved. He wanted to tell
her that she was first in all his prayers, and that up in his room he
had the plans drawn for a cabin over on the corner of the ranch where
she should stand in the doorway and look for his coming. Thrice he
started to open his heart, then he shrank back abashed; talked of the
cows and how the calves grew; told her Bess was lame--couldn't ride
her this week; said that was a pretty fine sermon the parson preached
last Sunday--and turned homeward; while Jane looked after him with
wondering eyes and felt a great ache in her heart as she thought:
"It's no use; he don't care for me!"
She had barely passed the mill and the whiz of its machinery lulled
into a murmur that mingled with the brook along the well-shaded road,
when she heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and, mounted on an old
white nag, Dan rode up to her side with:
"Hello, Jane! Get on and ride!"
Jane blushed. A year ago she would have done it; why not now, even if
she was big? No one would see her. Dan was awfully good to ask her;
Job wouldn't do it. So up she climbed on the saddle behind him, and
Dan walked the horse as they chatted away in the most easy fashion.
She was longing to talk of religion to Dan; she felt he needed it. But
one thing was sure--Dan was sober nowadays; he had actually improved.
He was trying now to talk of love; for he was really beginning to feel
that, not only because he had made a bet to do so and defeat Job, but
because he did care, he should some day claim Jane Reed as his own.
Neither succeeded in getting the conversation just where they wanted
it before Squire Perkins' apple orchard came into view, and Dan was
obliged to halt his old nag by the horse-block built out from the
white fence and assist Jane to alight.
She actually stood there till Aunty Perkins called: "Gal lost one
ting. Come lite in. All gone." At which Jane blushed and went in,
though all Mrs. Perkins' words could not drive out of her mind the Job
she loved and the Dan whom she wished she could love. How comely she
looked as she stood in the doorway at twilight! Any one might have
been proud of her.