John Harrington was a woman-hater, or thought that he was, which
amounts to the same thing. He was forty-five and, having been handsome
in his youth, was a fine-looking man still. He had a remarkably good
farm and was a remarkably good farmer. He also had a garden which was
the pride and delight of his heart or, at least, it was before Mrs.
Hayden's pigs got into it.
Sarah King, Harrington's aunt and housekeeper, was deaf and crabbed,
and very few visitors ever came to the house. This suited Harrington.
He was a good citizen and did his duty by the community, but his bump
of sociability was undeveloped. He was also a contented man, looking
after his farm, improving his stock, and experimenting with new bulbs
in undisturbed serenity. This, however, was all too good to last. A
man is bound to have some troubles in this life, and Harrington's were
near their beginning when Perry Hayden bought the adjoining farm from
the heirs of Shakespeare Ely, deceased, and moved in.
To be sure, Perry Hayden, poor fellow, did not bother Harrington much,
for he died of pneumonia a month after he came there, but his widow
carried on the farm with the assistance of a lank hired boy. Her own
children, Charles and Theodore, commonly known as Bobbles and Ted,
were as yet little more than babies.
The real trouble began when Mary Hayden's pigs, fourteen in number and
of half-grown voracity, got into Harrington's garden. A railing, a fir
grove, and an apple orchard separated the two establishments, but
these failed to keep the pigs within bounds.
Harrington had just got his garden planted for the season, and to go
out one morning and find a horde of enterprising porkers rooting about
in it was, to put it mildly, trying. He was angry, but as it was a
first offence he drove the pigs out with tolerable calmness, mended
the fence, and spent the rest of the day repairing damages.
Three days later the pigs got in again. Harrington relieved his mind
by some scathing reflections on women who tried to run farms. Then he
sent Mordecai, his hired man, over to the Hayden place to ask Mrs.
Hayden if she would be kind enough to keep her pigs out of his garden.
Mrs. Hayden sent back word that she was very sorry and would not let
it occur again. Nobody, not even John Harrington, could doubt that she
meant what she said. But she had reckoned without the pigs. They had
not forgotten the flavour of Egyptian fleshpots as represented by the
succulent young shoots in the Harrington domains. A week later
Mordecai came in and told Harrington that "them notorious pigs" were
in his garden again.
There is a limit to everyone's patience. Harrington left Mordecai to
drive them out, while he put on his hat and stalked over to the
Haydens' place. Ted and Bobbles were playing at marbles in the lane
and ran when they saw him coming. He got close up to the little low
house among the apple trees before Mordecai appeared in the yard,
driving the pigs around the barn. Mrs. Hayden was sitting on her
doorstep, paring her dinner potatoes, and stood up hastily when she
saw her visitor.
Harrington had never seen his neighbour at close quarters before. Now
he could not help seeing that she was a very pretty little woman, with
wistful, dark blue eyes and an appealing expression. Mary Hayden had
been next to a beauty in her girlhood, and she had a good deal of her
bloom left yet, although hard work and worry were doing their best to
rob her of it. But John Harrington was an angry man and did not care
whether the woman in question was pretty or not. Her pigs had rooted
up his garden--that fact filled his mind.
"Mrs. Hayden, those pigs of yours have been in my garden again. I
simply can't put up with this any longer. Why in the name of reason
don't you look after your animals better? If I find them in again I'll
set my dog on them, I give you fair warning."
A faint colour had crept into Mary Hayden's soft, milky-white cheeks
during this tirade, and her voice trembled as she said, "I'm very
sorry, Mr. Harrington. I suppose Bobbles forgot to shut the gate of
their pen again this morning. He is so forgetful."
"I'd lengthen his memory, then, if I were you," returned Harrington
grimly, supposing that Bobbles was the hired man. "I'm not going to
have my garden ruined just because he happens to be forgetful. I am
speaking my mind plainly, madam. If you can't keep your stock from
being a nuisance to other people you ought not to try to run a farm at
all."
Then did Mrs. Hayden sit down upon the doorstep and burst into tears.
Harrington felt, as Sarah King would have expressed it, "every which
way at once." Here was a nice mess! What a nuisance women were--worse
than the pigs!
"Oh, don't cry, Mrs. Hayden," he said awkwardly. "I didn't mean--well,
I suppose I spoke too strongly. Of course I know you didn't mean to
let the pigs in. There, do stop crying! I beg your pardon if I've hurt
your feelings."
"Oh, it isn't that," sobbed Mrs. Hayden, wiping away her tears. "It's
only--I've tried so hard--and everything seems to go wrong. I make
such mistakes. As for your garden, sir. I'll pay for the damage my
pigs have done if you'll let me know what it comes to."
She sobbed again and caught her breath like a grieved child.
Harrington felt like a brute. He had a queer notion that if he put his
arm around her and told her not to worry over things women were not
created to attend to he would be expressing his feelings better than
in any other way. But of course he couldn't do that. Instead, he
muttered that the damage didn't amount to much after all, and he hoped
she wouldn't mind what he said, and then he got himself away and
strode through the orchard like a man in a desperate hurry.
Mordecai had gone home and the pigs were not to be seen, but a chubby
little face peeped at him from between two scrub, bloom-white cherry
trees.
"G'way, you bad man!" said Bobbles vindictively. "G'way! You made my
mommer cry--I saw you. I'm only Bobbles now, but when I grow up I'll
be Charles Henry Hayden and you won't dare to make my mommer cry
then."
Harrington smiled grimly. "So you're the lad who forgets to shut the
pigpen gate, are you? Come out here and let me see you. Who is in
there with you?"
"Ted is. He's littler than me. But I won't come out. I don't like you.
G'way home."
Harrington obeyed. He went home and to work in his garden. But work as
hard as he would, he could not forget Mary Hayden's grieved face.
"I was a brute!" he thought. "Why couldn't I have mentioned the matter
gently? I daresay she has enough to trouble her. Confound those pigs!"
* * * * *
After that there was a time of calm. Evidently something had been done
to Bobbles' memory or perhaps Mrs. Hayden attended to the gate
herself. At all events the pigs were not seen and Harrington's garden
blossomed like the rose. But Harrington himself was in a bad state.
For one thing, wherever he looked he saw the mental picture of his
neighbour's tired, sweet face and the tears in her blue eyes. The
original he never saw, which only made matters worse. He wondered what
opinion she had of him and decided that she must think him a cross old
bear. This worried him. He wished the pigs would break in again so
that he might have a chance to show how forbearing he could be.
One day he gathered a nice mess of tender young greens and sent them
over to Mrs. Hayden by Mordecai. At first he had thought of sending
her some flowers, but that seemed silly, and besides, Mordecai and
flowers were incongruous. Mrs. Hayden sent back a very pretty message
of thanks, whereat Harrington looked radiant and Mordecai, who could
see through a stone wall as well as most people, went out to the barn
and chuckled.
"Ef the little widder hain't caught him! Who'd a-thought it?"
The next day one adventurous pig found its way alone into the
Harrington garden. Harrington saw it get in and at the same moment he
saw Mrs. Hayden running through her orchard. She was in his yard by
the time he got out.
Her sunbonnet had fallen back and some loose tendrils of her auburn
hair were curling around her forehead. Her cheeks were so pink and her
eyes so bright from running that she looked almost girlish.
"Oh, Mr. Harrington," she said breathlessly, "that pet pig of Bobbles'
is in your garden again. He only got in this minute. I saw him coming
and I ran right after him."
"He's there, all right," said Harrington cheerfully, "but I'll get him
out in a jiffy. Don't tire yourself. Won't you go into the house and
rest while I drive him around?"
Mrs. Hayden, however, was determined to help and they both went around
to the garden, set the gate open, and tried to drive the pig out. But
Harrington was not thinking about pigs, and Mrs. Hayden did not know
quite so much about driving them as Mordecai did; as a consequence
they did not make much headway. In her excitement Mrs. Hayden ran over
beds and whatever came in her way, and Harrington, in order to keep
near her, ran after her. Between them they spoiled things about as
much as a whole drove of pigs would have done.
But at last the pig grew tired of the fun, bolted out of the gate, and
ran across the yard to his own place. Mrs. Hayden followed slowly and
Harrington walked beside her.
"Those pigs are all to be shut up tomorrow," she said. "Hiram has been
fixing up a place for them in his spare moments and it is ready at
last."
"Oh, I wouldn't," said Harrington hastily. "It isn't good for pigs to
be shut up so young. You'd better let them run a while yet."
"No," said Mrs. Hayden decidedly. "They have almost worried me to
death already. In they go tomorrow."
They were at the lane gate now, and Harrington had to open it and let
her pass through. He felt quite desperate as he watched her trip up
through the rows of apple trees, her blue gingham skirt brushing the
lush grasses where a lacy tangle of sunbeams and shadows lay. Bobbles
and Ted came running to meet her and the three, hand in hand,
disappeared from sight.
Harrington went back to the house, feeling that life was flat, stale,
and unprofitable. That evening at the tea table he caught himself
wondering what it would be like to see Mary Hayden sitting at his
table in place of Sarah King, with Bobbles and Ted on either hand.
Then he found out what was the matter with him. He was in love,
fathoms deep, with the blue-eyed widow!
Presumably the pigs were shut up the next day, for Harrington's garden
was invaded no more. He stood it for a week and then surrendered at
discretion. He filled a basket with early strawberries and went across
to the Hayden place, boldly enough to all appearance, but with his
heart thumping like any schoolboy's.
The front door stood hospitably open, flanked by rows of defiant red
and yellow hollyhocks. Harrington paused on the step, with his hand
outstretched to knock. Somewhere inside he heard a low sobbing.
Forgetting all about knocking, he stepped softly in and walked to the
door of the little sitting-room. Bobbles was standing behind him in
the middle of the kitchen but Harrington did not see him. He was
looking at Mary Hayden, who was sitting by the table in the room with
her arms flung out over it and her head bowed on them. She was crying
softly in a hopeless fashion.
Harrington put down his strawberries. "Mary!" he exclaimed.
Mrs. Hayden straightened herself up with a start and looked at him,
her lips quivering and her eyes full of tears.
"What is the matter?" said Harrington anxiously. "Is anything wrong?"
"Oh, nothing much," Said Mrs. Hayden, trying to recover herself. "Yes,
there is too. But it is very foolish of me to be going on like this. I
didn't know anyone was near. And I was feeling so discouraged. The
colt broke his leg in the swamp pasture today and Hiram had to shoot
him. It was Ted's colt. But there, there is no use in crying over it."
And by way of proving this, the poor, tired, overburdened little woman
began to cry again. She was past caring whether Harrington saw her or
not.
The woman-hater was so distressed that he forgot to be nervous. He sat
down and put his arm around her and spoke out what was in his mind
without further parley.
"Don't cry, Mary. Listen to me. You were never meant to run a farm and
be killed with worry. You ought to be looked after and petted. I want
you to marry me and then everything will be all right. I've loved you
ever since that day I came over here and made you cry. Do you think
you can like me a little, Mary?"
It may be that Mrs. Hayden was not very much surprised, because
Harrington's face had been like an open book the day they chased the
pig out of the garden together. As for what she said, perhaps Bobbles,
who was surreptitiously gorging himself on Harrington's strawberries,
may tell you, but I certainly shall not.
The little brown house among the apple trees is shut up now and the
boundary fence belongs to ancient history. Sarah King has gone also
and Mrs. John Harrington reigns royally in her place. Bobbles and Ted
have a small, blue-eyed, much-spoiled sister, and there is a pig on
the estate who may die of old age, but will never meet his doom
otherwise. It is Bobbles' pig and one of the famous fourteen.
Mordecai still shambles around and worships Mrs. Harrington. The
garden is the same as of yore, but the house is a different place and
Harrington is a different man. And Mordecai will tell you with a
chuckle, "It was them notorious pigs as did it all."
Why Not Ask Miss Price?
Frances Allen came in from the post office and laid an open letter on
the table beside her mother, who was making mincemeat. Alma Allen
looked up from the cake she was frosting to ask, "What is the matter?
You look as if your letter contained unwelcome news, Fan."
"So it does. It is from Aunt Clara, to say she cannot come. She has
received a telegram that her sister-in-law is very ill and she must go
to her at once."
Mrs. Allen looked regretful, and Alma cast her spoon away with a
tragic air.
"That is too bad. I feel as if our celebration were spoiled. But I
suppose it can't be helped."
"No," agreed Frances, sitting down and beginning to peel apples. "So
there is no use in lamenting, or I would certainly sit down and cry, I
feel so disappointed."
"Is Uncle Frank coming?"
"Yes, Aunt Clara says he will come down from Stellarton if Mrs. King
does not get worse. So that will leave just one vacant place. We must
invite someone to fill it up. Who shall it be?"
Both girls looked rather puzzled. Mrs. Allen smiled a quiet little
smile all to herself and went on chopping suet. She had handed the
Thanksgiving dinner over to Frances and Alma this year. They were to
attend to all the preparations and invite all the guests. But although
they had made or planned several innovations in the dinner itself,
they had made no change in the usual list of guests.
"It must just be the time-honoured family affair," Frances had
declared. "If we begin inviting other folks, there is no knowing when
to draw the line. We can't have more than fourteen, and some of our
friends would be sure to feel slighted."
So the same old list it was. But now Aunt Clara--dear, jolly Aunt
Clara, whom everybody in the connection loved and admired--could not
come, and her place must be filled.
"We can't invite the new minister, because we would have to have his
sister, too," said Frances. "And there is no reason for asking any one
of our girl chums more than another."
"Mother, you will have to help us out," said Alma. "Can't you suggest
a substitute guest?"
Mrs. Allen looked down at the two bright, girlish faces turned up to
her and said slowly, "I think I can, but I am not sure my choice will
please you. Why not ask Miss Price?"
Miss Price! They had never thought of her! She was the pale,
timid-looking little teacher in the primary department of the
Hazelwood school.
"Miss Price?" repeated Frances slowly. "Why, Mother, we hardly know
her. She is dreadfully dull and quiet, I think."
"And so shy," said Alma. "Why, at the Wards' party the other night she
looked startled to death if anyone spoke to her. I believe she would
be frightened to come here for Thanksgiving."
"She is a very lonely little creature," said Mrs. Allen gently, "and
doesn't seem to have anyone belonging to her. I think she would be
very glad to get an invitation to spend Thanksgiving elsewhere than in
that cheerless little boarding-house where she lives."
"Of course, if you would like to have her, Mother, we will ask her,"
said Frances.
"No, girls," said Mrs. Allen seriously. "You must not ask Miss Price
on my account, if you do not feel prepared to make her welcome for her
own sake. I had hoped that your own kind hearts might have prompted
you to extend a little Thanksgiving cheer in a truly Thanksgiving
spirit to a lonely, hard-working girl whose life I do not think is a
happy one. But there, I shall not preach. This is your dinner, and you
must please yourselves as to your guests."
Frances and Alma had both flushed, and they now remained silent for a
few minutes. Then Frances sprang up and threw her arms around her
mother.
"You're right, Mother dear, as you always are, and we are very selfish
girls. We will ask Miss Price and try to give her a nice time. I'll go
down this very evening and see her."
* * * * *
In the grey twilight of the chilly autumn evening Bertha Price walked
home to her boarding-house, her pale little face paler, and her grey
eyes sadder than ever, in the fading light. Only two days until
Thanksgiving--but there would be no real Thanksgiving for her. Why,
she asked herself rebelliously, when there seemed so much love in the
world, was she denied her share?
Her landlady met her in the hall.
"Miss Allen is in the parlour, Miss Price. She wants to see you."
Bertha went into the parlour somewhat reluctantly. She had met Frances
Allen only once or twice and she was secretly almost afraid of the
handsome, vivacious girl who was so different from herself.
"I am sorry you have had to wait, Miss Allen," she said shyly. "I went
to see a pupil of mine who is ill and I was kept later than I
expected."
"My errand won't take very long," said Frances brightly. "Mother wants
you to spend Thanksgiving Day with us, Miss Price, if you have no
other engagement. We will have a few other guests, but nobody outside
our own family except Mr. Seeley, who is the law partner and intimate
friend of my brother Ernest in town. You'll come, won't you?"
"Oh, thank you, yes," said Bertha, in pleased surprise. "I shall be
very glad to go. Why, it is so nice to think of it. I expected my
Thanksgiving Day to be lonely and sad--not a bit Thanksgivingy."
"We shall expect you then," said Frances, with a cordial little
hand-squeeze. "Come early in the morning, and we will have a real
friendly, pleasant day."
That night Frances said to her mother and sister, "You never saw such
a transfigured face as Miss Price's when I asked her up. She looked
positively pretty--such a lovely pink came out on her cheeks and her
eyes shone like stars. She reminded me so much of somebody I've seen,
but I can't think who it is. I'm so glad we've asked her here for
Thanksgiving!"
* * * * *
Thanksgiving came, as bright and beautiful as a day could be, and the
Allens' guests came with it. Bertha Price was among them, paler and
shyer than ever. Ernest Allen and his friend, Maxwell Seeley, came out
from town on the morning train.
After all the necessary introductions had been made, Frances flew to
the kitchen.
"I've found out who it is Miss Price reminds me of," she said, as she
bustled about the range. "It's Max Seeley. You needn't laugh, Al. It's
a fact. I noticed it the minute I introduced them. He's plump and
prosperous and she's pinched and pale, but there's a resemblance
nevertheless. Look for yourself and see if it isn't so."
Back in the big, cheery parlour the Thanksgiving guests were amusing
themselves in various ways. Max Seeley had given an odd little start
when he was introduced to Miss Price, and as soon as possible he
followed her to the corner where she had taken refuge. Ernest Allen
was out in the kitchen talking to his sisters, the "uncles and cousins
and aunts" were all chattering to each other, and Mr. Seeley and Miss
Price were quite unnoticed.
"You will excuse me, won't you, Miss Price, if I ask you something
about yourself?" he said eagerly. "The truth is, you look so
strikingly like someone I used to know that I feel sure you must be
related to her. I do not think I have any relatives of your name. Have
you any of mine?"
Bertha flushed, hesitated for an instant, then said frankly, "No, I do
not think so. But I may as well tell you that Price is not my real
name and I do not know what it is, although I think it begins with S.
I believe that my parents died when I was about three years old, and I
was then taken to an orphan asylum. The next year I was taken from
there and adopted by Mrs. Price. She was very kind to me and treated
me as her own daughter. I had a happy home with her, although we were
poor. Mrs. Price wished me to bear her name, and I did so. She never
told me my true surname, perhaps she did not know it. She died when I
was sixteen, and since then I have been quite alone in the world. That
is all I know about myself."
Max Seeley was plainly excited.
"Why do you think your real name begins with S?" he asked.
"I have a watch which belonged to my mother, with the monogram 'B.S.'
on the case. It was left with the matron of the asylum and she gave it
to Mrs. Price for me. Here it is."
Max Seeley almost snatched the old-fashioned little silver watch, from
her hand and opened the case. An exclamation escaped him as he pointed
to some scratches on the inner side. They looked like the initials
M.A.S.
"Let me tell my story now," he said. "My name is Maxwell Seeley. My
father died when I was seven years old, and my mother a year later. My
little sister, Bertha, then three years old, and I were left quite
alone and very poor. We had no relatives. I was adopted by a
well-to-do old bachelor, who had known my father. My sister was taken
to an orphan asylum in a city some distance away. I was very much
attached to her and grieved bitterly over our parting. My adopted
father was very kind to me and gave me a good education. I did not
forget my sister, and as soon as I could I went to the asylum. I found
that she had been taken away long before, and I could not even
discover who had adopted her, for the original building, with all its
records, had been destroyed by fire two years previous to my visit. I
never could find any clue to her whereabouts, and long since gave up
all hope of finding her. But I have found her at last. You are Bertha
Seeley, my little sister!"
"Oh--can it be possible!"
"More than possible--it is certain. You are the image of my mother, as
I remember her, and as an old daguerreotype I have pictures her. And
this is her watch--see, I scratched my own initials on the case one
day. There is no doubt in the world. Oh, Bertha, are you half as glad
as I am?"
"Glad!"
Bertha's eyes were shining like stars. She tried to smile, but burst
into tears instead and her head went down on her brother's shoulder.
By this time everybody in the room was staring at the extraordinary
tableau, and Ernest, coming through the hall, gave a whistle of
astonishment that brought the two in the corner back to a sense of
their surroundings.
"I haven't suddenly gone crazy, Ernest, old fellow," smiled Max.
"Ladies and gentlemen all, this little school-ma'am was introduced to
you as Miss Price, but that was a mistake. Let me introduce her again
as Miss Bertha Seeley, my long-lost and newly-found sister."
Well they had an amazing time then, of course. They laughed and
questioned and explained until the dinner was in imminent danger of
getting stone-cold on the dining-room table. Luckily, Alma and Frances
remembered it just in the nick of time, and they all got out, somehow,
and into their places. It was a splendid dinner, but I believe that
Maxwell and Bertha Seeley didn't know what they were eating, any more
than if it had been sawdust. However, the rest of the guests made up
for that, and did full justice to the girls' cookery.
In the afternoon they all went to church, and at least two hearts were
truly and devoutly thankful that day.
When the dusk came, Ernest and Maxwell had to catch the last train for
town, and the other guests went home, with the exception of Bertha,
who was to stay all night. Just as soon as her resignation could be
effected, she was to join her brother.
"Meanwhile, I'll see about getting a house to put you in," said Max.
"No more boarding out for me, Ernest. You may consider me as a family
man henceforth."
Frances and Alma talked it all over before they went to sleep that
night.
"Just think," said Frances, "if we hadn't asked her here today she
might never have found her brother! It's all Mother's doing, bless
her! Things do happen like a storybook sometimes, don't they, Al? And
didn't I tell you they looked alike?"