THE LITTLE TOWN OF BAUER
MARY was the only one to whom the change of plans made a vital
difference. She had built such lovely dream-castles of their winter in
San Antonio that it was hard to see them destroyed at one breath.
"Of course it's the only thing to do," she said, in a mournful aside to
Norman, "but did you ever dream that there was a dish of rare, delicious
fruit set down in front of you, so tempting that you could hardly wait
to taste it, and just as you put out your hand it was suddenly snatched
away? That's the way I feel about leaving here. And I've dreamed of
getting letters, too; big, fat letters, that were somehow going to
change my whole life for the better, and then just as I started to read
them I always woke up, and so never found out the secret that would make
such a change in my fortunes."
"Maybe it won't be so bad after all," encouraged Norman. "Maybe we can
have a boat. There's a creek running through the town and the Barnaby
ranch is only seven miles out in the country. We'll see them often."
Mary wanted to wail out, "Oh, it isn't boats, and ranches, and old
people I want! It's girls, and boys, and something doing! Being in the
heart of things, as we would be if we could only stay here in this
beautiful old city!"
The wail found no voice, however, for even in the midst of her
disappointment Mary remembered Jack, and could not let him feel that
this change in their plans meant any sacrifice for her. Besides, she had
to acknowledge that the creek and the ranch _did_ hold out some
compensations, and she was deeply grateful to these two kind old people
who had come to their rescue in such cordial, neighborly fashion. Mr.
Barnaby had been called into the family council also, and had spent the
evening with them discussing prices and prospects.
Even Norman was impressed by their offers of assistance, and spoke of it
as he sat slowly unlacing his shoes after they had gone. Mary was in the
next room, repacking her trunk, for it had been decided that she and
Norman were to go to Bauer on the early accommodation train when the
Barnabys left for home. The door between the rooms was still open, and
she heard him say, thoughtfully:
"What do you suppose makes them so rattling good to us when we're just
strangers?"
Jack laughed and quoted, teasingly:
"'What makes the lamb love Mary so?'
The eager children cry.
'Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,'
The teacher did reply."
"Aw, talk sense!" was Norman's disgusted answer. "I don't know what you
mean by that."
An understanding smile flashed between Jack and his mother, who had
stayed to help him prepare for the night, and she answered for him.
"Jack only means that we get just what we give in this world, dear. From
the days of Solomon it's been a proverb that the man who would have
friends 'must show himself friendly.' And that's what you and Mary did
the first night you met the Barnabys. You made them feel that you found
them genuinely interesting, and that awakened a liking for you."
"But anybody'd find that old man interesting," Norman explained,
gravely. "You never heard such Indian stories as he can tell,--true
ones that he's been in himself,--and hunting--Gee! you ought to hear
him! I bid to sit next to him going up on the train."
"You're welcome to him!" called Mary. "I'll take Mrs. B." Then she came
to the doorway, a pile of folded garments in her hands. "I declare,
she's just an old dear! She's thought of so many ways to save us expense
since she found out that we have to economize. She even offered to have
our two extra trunks checked on their tickets. They only brought
suit-cases. So we'll have no extra baggage to pay for."
The sun was shining next morning, and although the chill of the Norther
was still in the air, the rain-washed plazas were greener than ever, and
new roses were opening to take the places of the old ones that the storm
had beaten off the day before. Mary's spirits seemed to have passed
through the same freshening process, for there was no trace of tears or
regrets on the bright face that greeted her travelling companions.
The only morning train was an accommodation, which carried much freight
and took its own time for the journey. This happened to be a day when it
was four hours on the road, but none of the little party felt that time
dragged. Ordinarily, Mary would have enjoyed keeping close to the old
ranchman, as Norman did, hopping off the car every time they stopped on
a side-track, to investigate everything along the way,--the lime works,
the rock quarry, the station where the mail was put off for the soldiers
who were camped at the Government reservation for target practise. Even
the little oil-burning engine would have been of as much interest to her
as it was to Norman, had she not been so busily occupied otherwise.
As they wound higher and higher into the hills she looked out now and
then with a quick exclamation of pleasure at the view, but for the most
part she was "visiting" with Mrs. Barnaby, as that good soul expressed
it. Their acquaintance took long strides forward that morning. Part of
the time Mary chattered along just as if her listener had been one of
the Warwick Hall girls, and part of the time she listened to elderly
views and confidences with the seeming sympathy of middle age. A bit of
personal history from one called out a corresponding scrap from the
other, and they had exchanged views on many subjects, ranging from young
turkeys to unhappy marriages, when the porter passed through the train
calling, "Bauer! All out for Bauer!"
Mrs. Barnaby glanced out the window, saying in surprise, "I had no idea
we were so near home!" Then she gave Mary's sleeve an affectionate
little pat with her plump hand, exclaiming cordially, "I declare, it's
been a real treat to have you along." And Mary, as she helped Mrs.
Barnaby struggle into her coat, responded, "Well, I've enjoyed every
inch of the way. Somehow you make me feel that you're just my age or I'm
just yours,--I don't know which. You can't imagine how 'little and lorn'
I feel at the thought of leaving you."
"Oh, but I'm not going to leave you until you're safely settled," was
the comforting assurance. "James has some business at the court-house
that will keep him in town for an hour or so. As soon as we drop him
there I'll drive around with you to make arrangements about the cottage.
There's Pedro now."
They were on the platform by this time, and she indicated by a nod the
slim young Mexican who had driven the carriage from the ranch to meet
them. It was a roomy, old-fashioned carriage drawn by two big gray
mules, with much shining nickel-plating on their stout black harness.
The station was half a mile away from the village, and as they swung
down the sunny white road towards it, at a rapid gait, both Norman and
Mary looked out eagerly at the place that was to be their home for a
whole long winter, and maybe more.
From a distance it looked almost like a toy village, with its red roofs,
blue barns and flashing windmills nestled against the background of
misty hills. Low mountain peaks rose here and there on the far horizon
beyond.
"This is distinctly a German village, you know," explained Mrs. Barnaby,
as they passed a group of little flaxen-haired Teutons on the roadside,
who were calling to each other and their dog in a tongue which Mary
could not understand.
"Bauer was settled by an old German count and a baron or two, who came
over here with their families and followers. They made it as much like a
corner of the Fatherland as they could, and their descendants still
cling to their language and customs. They don't want any disturbing,
aggressive Americans in their midst, so they never call on new-comers,
and never return their visits if any of them try to make the advances.
They will welcome you to their shops, but not to their homes. Even the
English and Scotch people who have owned the out-lying ranches as long
as they have owned the town are looked upon as aliens and strangers, in
a way."
[Illustration: "MARY WARE in TEXAS"
"A dashing girl in khaki and a cowboy hat astride of a fiery little
mustang"]
Mary gave an exclamation of dismay. "Texas certainly is full of
surprises," she said, in a disappointed tone. "One thinks of it as being
young and crude, and with the proverbial hospitality of a new country.
I've always thought of it as having the latch-string out for everybody."
"Oh, _Texas_ has," Mrs. Barnaby hastened to assure her. "Its doors are
wide open, and its welcome corresponds to its size, the biggest in the
Union. But Bauer is different. It has a few families who will not look
on you with suspicion. The old couple who own the cottage which I hope
to get for you will be good neighbors, and if you were to live here a
long time there are others who would be friendly. Then there are several
American families who have found a foothold in the town, and as I said,
English-speaking people on the ranches hereabout. They are cultured,
refined people, interesting to know, but strangers coming here rarely
make their acquaintance. You see we have so many transients coming for
their health, staying just a few weeks or months and going on
again--it's hardly to be expected we'd--"
Her sentence was interrupted by a dashing girl in khaki and a cowboy
hat, astride a fiery little mustang. She rode past the carriage, calling
out a greeting as she passed. Norman turned around exclaiming, "Did you
see that? A cartridge belt around her waist and a six-shooter in her
holster! That's the wild West for you."
"That's the sheriff's daughter," explained Mrs. Barnaby. "She's his
deputy, and meets the trains when it's necessary and he's out of town."
"I'd like to know her," said Mary. "I'm glad that there's something to
give one the kind of a thrill you naturally expect to have out here. I
was beginning to have such a foreign, far-away feeling, seeing all these
picturesque little German gardens with old women weeding in them. We can
imagine we are abroad this winter in Cologne or Pottsdam or Bingen on
the Rhine. Oh, _oh!_ How quaint and dear!"
The exclamation escaped her as the gray mules stopped at the gate of an
old garden, over whose stone walls arched a row of great pecan trees. A
straight path ran from the gate to the kitchen door, stiffly bordered by
coxcombs and princes' feather, while on each side chrysanthemums and
roses and a host of old-fashioned autumn flowers made the little plot a
tangle of colors and sweet smells. There were some bee-hives under the
bare peach trees, and at one side beyond them, a small vineyard where
the mockingbirds still sang noisily although the grapes had all been
gathered and pressed into wine. An old man with a flowing white beard
and a high black hat sat on a bench by the kitchen door placidly smoking
a long pipe.
"That's Mr. Metz," said Mrs. Barnaby, preparing to alight. "Come in with
me."
"It's all just like one of the pictures in Joyce's studio," commented
Mary, as they followed the straight walk to the door, "and this is just
like one of those lovely old-master, Dutch interiors," she added, in a
whisper, as Mr. Metz ushered them into the big, clean kitchen, where his
wife sat knitting.
On the deep window-sill a cat lay asleep in the sun beside a pot of
glowing red geraniums, and there was such an air of cleanliness and
thrift and repose about the room that Mary could not help exclaiming
aloud over it. As she glanced around with admiring glances her bright
face showed its appreciation also, and Mrs. Metz watched it shrewdly
while she talked with Mrs. Barnaby, in English so broken as to be almost
unintelligible.
What the old woman saw must have satisfied her, for she accepted Mrs.
Barnaby's offer after a very short parley with her husband in German,
and when they rose to go she bade them wait while she made a stiff
little nosegay for each of them, culled from her garden borders and
edged with strong-smelling mint. In the center of Mary's was one of her
handsomest coxcombs. Mrs. Barnaby smiled meaningly when she saw it, and
when they had climbed back into the carriage, said in a pleased tone,
"That shows that she has weighed you in the balance and is satisfied
with the result. You'll get along famously with her, I'm sure, and we'll
soon have you settled now, in fine shape."
An hour later Mary stood on the threshold of the cottage she had rented,
with the keys of possession in her hand. Thanks to Mrs. Barnaby and the
rapid gait of the gray mules, much had been accomplished in that time.
The groceries they had ordered were already piled on the table in the
kitchen. A load of wood was on its way. The new mattresses they had
bought at the furniture shop (kept by the undertaker of the village)
were promised for delivery early in the afternoon, and they had been
introduced at each place as friends of the Barnabys, who were to be
charged home prices, and not the ones usually asked of strangers. Mrs.
Barnaby was what she called plain-spoken, and although she made a jest
of her demands they carried weight.
Their trunks, three of which contained bedclothes and dishes, stood on
the front gallery waiting to be unpacked. Inside, the house looked as
clean as soapsuds and fresh paint could make it. Mrs. Metz herself had
attended to the scrubbing after the last tenant left. But Mary decided
that she would feel more comfortable, moving in after strangers, if she
should give the furniture a personal washing before they began to use
it. While Norman built a fire in the kitchen stove, she unlocked one of
the trunks and changed her travelling suit for a gingham dress and
apron.
"Let's eat picnic fashion," called Norman, "and unpack afterward. It's
nearly one o'clock, and I'm too hungry to wait. I've found a cup I can
boil some eggs in, and if we don't use any dishes we won't have any to
wash afterwards."
"That's a bright suggestion," Mary called back. "We haven't any time to
lose if we are to get everything ready for mamma and Jack by to-morrow
afternoon."
When she came dancing out into the kitchen a few minutes later Norman
had already begun his luncheon, and was walking around with a cheese
sandwich in one hand and a pickle in the other, investigating the
premises while he ate. Mary followed his example, and wandered from the
open doorway to the open windows, looking at the view from each, and
exclaiming over each new discovery. The house was on a slight knoll with
a wide cotton-field stretching down between it and the little village.
From this distance it looked more than ever like a toy village, against
the background of low hills.
"You ought to see it from the top of the windmill," said Norman. "I
climbed up while you and Mrs. Barnaby were talking so long at the gate.
I'm glad we've got a windmill. It'll save me a lot of pumping, and it
makes such a fine watch-tower. You ought to see how far you can look
across the country. You can see the creek. It's just a little way back
of our place."
"I'm going up this minute!" answered Mary. Slipping her unfinished
sandwiches into her apron pocket, she ran out to the windmill and began
to swing herself from one cross-piece of the tower to another, as
lightly as Norman had done.
"It's perfectly lovely!" she called back from the top. "I'd like to perch
up here all afternoon if there wasn't so much to do. I'm going to come up
here often. It gives you such a high-up-above-all-your-earthly-ills
feeling! There's St. Peter's," she called, "over at the south end of
town. I recognize the little stone belfry. What do you suppose that
square tower is at the other end of town?"
Norman came out and climbed half-way up the windmill, swinging there
below her by one arm, as he slowly munched a ginger-snap.
"Oh, that," he said, as he looked in the direction which she pointed.
"That's the Sisters' school. I asked Pedro this morning. It's the
Academy of the Holy Angels."
Mary's face glowed as she shook back the hair which the wind kept
blowing into her eyes. "That's perfectly fascinating!" she declared.
"There's something beautiful to me in the thought that the little town
we've come to lies between two such guardians. It's a good omen, and I'm
not sorry now that we had to come."
She stayed perched on the windmill, enjoying the view and eating her
sandwiches until Norman called her that the wash-water was boiling over
on the stove. Then she climbed nimbly down and started towards the
kitchen door. The kitchen was in an ell of the house, and from its front
window she could see the road which ran in front of the house. Just
across it, half hidden by a row of bushy umbrella trees, stood two
little blue cottages. They were within easy calling distance, and the
voices of half a dozen children at play came cheerfully across to her.
Although they spoke in a foreign tongue the chatter gave her a sense of
companionship.
"Norman," she suddenly suggested, "let's stay here to-night, instead of
going to the boarding-house as mamma and Mrs. Barnaby arranged. I'm not
afraid with neighbors so near, and I'm sure mamma wouldn't care if she
could see how quiet and peaceful it is here. We'd be saving
considerable--a night's lodging for two, and we can make this real
comfortable and homey by bedtime."
With the promise of hot biscuit and honey for supper Norman agreed to
her plan. He was to call at the boarding-house and cancel the
arrangements Mrs. Barnaby had made for them, when he went for the milk
which Mr. Metz had promised to sell them. It was from the Metz bee-hives
they were to have the honey, too. She had engaged it as a special treat
for Jack.
Under her direction Norman fell to work making a kitchen cabinet out of
two old boxes, while she scrubbed away at the chairs and tables.
"Isn't it funny the way history repeats itself?" she remarked. "This
makes me think of the time that Joyce and Jack had getting settled in
the Wigwam. I felt so defrauded then because I couldn't have a hand in
it, and this seems a sort of compensation for what I missed then."
The exercise seemed to loosen her tongue, for as she worked she went on,
"I'm truly glad that I can enjoy both the top and bottom crusts of
things. Nobody, I am sure, could have squeezed more pleasure out of this
last week than I did. I fairly revelled in all the luxuries we had as
Mr. Robeson's guests. It comes so easy to be waited on and to be the
fine lady. And on the other hand, it is a real joy to be working this
way, blacking stoves and filling lamps and making things look spick and
span. I can spend like a lord and I can skimp like a scrubwoman, and I
really don't know which I enjoy most."
She did not attempt to put any finishing touches to the house that day,
but left such things as the hanging of curtains and the few pictures
they had brought until next morning. But before she stopped everything
was shining, her room was ready for the night, and a cot was made up for
Norman in the room which he was to share with Jack. Later, while she
waited for the biscuits to bake and for him to come home with the milk
and honey, she wrote a letter to Joyce. She did not take time to go to
the bottom of her trunk for writing material, but emptying the sugar
from a large paper sack, cut it into several square sheets. With a big
tin pan turned bottom upwards in her lap for a desk, she hastily
scribbled the events of the day with a lead-pencil, which she sharpened
with the carving-knife.
Joyce has that letter yet. It was scribbled in the most careless,
commonplace way, just as Mary would have told it had they been together;
but Joyce, who could read her little sister like a book, read between
the lines and divined the disappointments she had conquered, and saw the
courage it took to make the most of every amusing incident in such a
cheery way, while she touched only lightly on the serious ones.
"We had a visitor a little while ago," wrote Mary, in closing. "The
Reverend Paul Rochester came to call, and where, of all awkward
impossible places, do you suppose he found me? Up on the windmill
tower. I had gone up again to watch the sunset,--for just a minute. The
glow on the roofs of the town and the hills beyond was so lovely! If
Norman had had any sense he would have ignored my high perch. He was
splitting kindling by the back door, making such a noise that we could
not hear Mr. Rochester's knock at the front door, so he came around.
"Mrs. Barnaby had stopped at the rectory on her way home to tell them
about our coming to town, and Mrs. Rochester thought that we were all
here, and that we would be so busy getting settled that we wouldn't have
much time to cook things for an invalid, and she had sent the most
tempting basketful of good things you ever saw. There was orange
gelatine and charlotte russe, and some delicious nut sandwiches. The
rector had walked all the way up here and carried the basket himself.
You know I've always stood in awe of clergymen. At first this one seemed
fully as dignified and reverend as all the others, and I nearly fell off
my perch with embarrassment when he looked up and saw me hanging there
like a monkey on a stick. But the next moment we both laughed, and he
seemed almost as young and boyish as Jack.
"I scuttled down in a hurry, I assure you. He only stayed a minute, just
long enough to deliver the basket and his wife's message, but you've no
idea how that little incident changed the whole atmosphere. I'd been
looking down the white road that leads from our place into the town,
thinking how lonely and foreign everything was, and how hard it would be
to live all winter in a place where nobody wanted to be neighborly, and
where the only people we knew were slightly old like the Barnabys or
awfully old like the Metzes, and then Mr. Rochester appeared, young and
so nice-looking and with a jolly twinkle in his eyes that makes you
forget the clerical cut of his clothes.
"His wife must be young, too, or she couldn't be married to him, and she
must be dear or she wouldn't have sent such a dainty, altogether
charming basket with her message of greeting. You've no idea how their
cordial welcome changed everything. Now as I look through the open door
at the same road leading to the town, it doesn't look lonely and foreign
any more. It makes me think of a verse that dear old Grandmother Ware
taught me once. You remember how she used to take us up in her lap and
make us spell the words out to her from her big Bible with the terrible
pictures. '_The crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways
shall be made smooth!_'
"Well, grandmother's verse is coming true. It was all so crooked and
uncertain and rough yesterday. But now everything is being smoothed out
for us so beautifully. I have just looked out to see if Norman is
coming. I can hear him whistling away down the road.
"I wish you, with your artist's eye for effect, could see the little
town now, spread out below the hills in the twilight, with the windmills
silhouetted against the sky. At one end is the little stone belfry of
St. Peter's, at the other the square gray tower of the Academy of the
Holy Angels; and just between, swinging low over the hills in the faint
afterglow, the pale golden crescent of the new moon. After all, it's a
good old world, Joyce, and I 'feel it in my bones' that little old Bauer
is going to bring us some great good that shall make us thankful always
for having come. In some way, I am sure, all our '_rough ways shall be
made smooth_.'"