AN UNFORTUNATE AFFAIR
But nothing so dire had happened. Crossing the grassy stretch before the
cottage Dorothy had caught sight of Jim Barlow's familiar figure, coming
along the tree-bordered lane which led to Deerhurst, and had hurried to
meet him. The shrubbery hid her from view of Mrs. Chester and the
Babcock girls, and for a moment mother Martha's heart sank with the same
dread she had known while her beloved child had been absent from her.
"Kidnapped!" If Alfaretta had tried she couldn't have hit upon a more
terrifying word to her hearer.
"O Jim! Did ever anybody see such a beautiful, beau-ti-ful spot as this?
Let me hold Peter's chain--the darling dog! No, he won't get away from
me! I shan't let him. You can lead Ponce--but why did you bring them?
Did Mrs. Calvert know? How do you like Deerhurst? Are you going to be
happy there? Shall you have a chance to study some? Must you work in the
garden all the time? Oh! I want to know everything all at once and you
are so slow to talk! But, Jim dear, just stop a minute and look--look!
Isn't our new home lots prettier than the little brick house where we
used to live--77 Brown Street, Baltimore! Do stop and look--please do!"
Obedient Jim did pause, for this small maid could always compel him to
her will, though he felt he was half-disobedient to his real mistress,
Mrs. Cecil, in doing so. She had sent him with a basket of fruit from
her own fine garden for the family at Skyrie and had bidden him take the
Great Danes along to give them their morning exercise. They were wild
with delight over the outing, and their vigorous gambols not only
threatened to upset the basket hung on his arm but made him caution:
"Look out, Dorothy Chester! That there dog'll get away, an' then what'll
happen?"
"Why--he'll get away, silly! You just said so yourself! But I won't let
him--Quiet, Peter, bad dog! Down, sir, down! No, I'm not one bit afraid
of you now, even if once you did nearly kill me and scared me out of my
senses! O Jim! I'm so happy--so happy! Almost too happy to live. If my
precious father were only well! That's the one thing isn't just
perfect."
In her joy Dorothy gave her tall friend a rapturous pat on the shoulder,
and though a swift flush rose to his sunburned cheek he shook off her
caress as he would the touch of a troublesome insect. In his eyes this
little maid whom he had rescued from her imprisonment on Mrs. Stott's
truck-farm was the most wonderful of human beings, with her dainty,
graceful ways and her lovely, mobile face. All the same--she was a girl,
and for girls, as such, James Barlow had a boyish contempt.
But she did not resent his action, indeed scarcely noticed it as,
whirling about to suit her movements to those of Peter, she still
pointed to her new home:
"They say the man who built that house was queer, but seems to me he was
very wise. All of stone, so, it looks almost like a big rock and part
of the mountain itself. Such cute little, tiny-paned windows! Such a
funny stairway going up to the second floor on the outside! There's a
little one inside--so narrow and twisted, Jim, that even I can hardly
walk straight up it but have to go sidewise. Then the back of the house
is even with the ground. I mean that the biggest, best room of all,
which is father John's, opens right on the garden. Two stories and a
cellar in front, only a wee low story behind! Like a piece of the
hillside it's on. Then the vines! Did you ever see such beauties? Oh! I
love it, I love it, already, and I've only been here one night. What
will it be when I've lived a long time there!"
"Huh! You'll get sick enough of it--'fore long too. S'pose you hain't
heard it's _haunted_--but I have, an' 'tis!"
"Jim Barlow! How ridiculous and--how delightful! What sort of a 'haunt'
is it? Masculine, feminine, or neuter?" demanded Dorothy C., clapping
her hands.
"Look out! Don't you let go that dog! You hold him tight, I tell you!"
returned the lad, as her sudden action loosened the chain attached to
Peter's collar. But she caught it again, deftly, and faced her friend,
vexed that she saw in his face no answering enthusiasm to her own over
the "loveliness" of Skyrie cottage.
"I haven't let go--yet, Master 'Fraid-cat! And you _shall_ say my home
is pretty!" she protested, imperatively. "Say it quick, too, 'cause I
haven't had my breakfast and I have company waiting to eat it with me.
Say it, Jim, say it!"
The boy laughed. He was very happy himself, that sunshiny morning, and
felt more at ease than he had done for many days, because, at last, he
was once more clad in blouse and overalls and knew that he had a busy
day of congenial work before him. True, these working garments were new
and of the best quality, provided by his new employer, but like in cut
and comfort to those he had always worn. His feet alone bothered him,
for a barefooted person could not be permitted about Deerhurst and his
shoes were stiff and troublesome. Now there's nothing more trying to
one's temper than feet which "hurt," and it was physical discomfort
mostly that made the lad's tongue sharp and his mood unsympathetic; and
thus goaded to an enthusiasm he did not feel he retorted:
"Well, it's purty enough, then, but that ruff must leak like a sieve."
"It's all mossy green on one side----"
"Where the shingles is rotten."
"And the dear little window-panes are like an old-fashioned picture!"
"A right smart of 'em is cracked or burst entirely."
"O Jim! How very unromantic you are! But you cannot say but that the
vines are beautiful!"
"I've heard they're fust-class for givin' folks the rheumatiz."
Dorothy's enthusiasm ebbed. Rheumatism was the one malady that sometimes
affected mother Martha's health. But she was not to be dashed by
forebodings, and pointing to the garden declared:
"You cannot say a thing against our garden, anyway. Think of all that
room for roses and posies and everything nice!"
"Garden? I call it a reg'lar weed-patch."
Dorothy heaved a sigh which seemed to come from her very shoes.
"You're--you're perfectly horrid, Jim Barlow. But I heard you say, once,
while we were working on that truck-farm, that the thing you most longed
for--after your education--was to own land. Look yonder, all that
ground, inside those big stone walls, is ours, _ours_! Mr. Barlow.
Behold and envy! Even on that untilled land flowers grow. See them?"
"Pshaw! Them's mullein. Ain't no surer sign o' poor soil than a passel
o' mullein stalks. Stuns and mullein--Your pa's got a job ahead of him!
Now I'm goin' on. I was told to give this basket to Mis' Chester and
this note I've got in my jumper pocket to Mr. I'd ruther you'd take 'em,
only I was _told_; and we've stood here foolin' so long, I've got to
hurry like lightnin'. Take care that dog!"
With that Jim set his aching feet once more in the path of duty and
Dorothy C. marched along beside him, her head held high in disdain but
with a twinkle in her eye and mischief in her heart. Jim didn't like
girls! Well, there was Alfaretta Babcock waiting for him, and he should
be made to go through a formal introduction in punishment for his want
of sympathy! She managed that he should precede her through the narrow
doorway, into the very presence of the unknown, and chuckled in delight
over his sudden, awkward pause, his flustered manner, and his attempt to
back out of the little kitchen.
Mrs. Chester had gone up the stairs, to help her husband around the
corner of the house and down the slope to the kitchen where breakfast
was waiting and the three Misses Babcock with it. They sat in a row on
the old lounge, their pink sunbonnets folded upon their blue-print laps,
alert with the novelty of their situation and for "what next."
"Miss Alfaretta Babcock--Mr. James Barlow, of Baltimore. The Misses
Baretta and Claretta Babcock--Mr. Barlow," announced Dorothy with
perfect gravity, yet anticipating a funny, awkward scene. But she was
unprepared for what really did happen, as Alfaretta promptly left the
lounge, swept a most remarkable courtesy before the bashful lad, and
seizing both his hands--dog-chain and all--in her own plump ones,
exclaimed:
"Oh! Ain't I glad I come! You're the 'hero' that Mis' Judge Satterlee
calls you! I meant to get to know you, soon's ever I could, but this
beats the Dutch! I saw you in Mis' Calvert's carriage, last night all
dressed up, and I was scared of you, but I ain't now. You might be just
Matthew, or Mark, or Luke, though you're too tall for John. He's my
littlest brother. Pshaw! To think any plain kind of a boy, same's them,
could be a 'hero.' Ain't that queer? Did you come to breakfast, too? You
fetched yours in a basket, didn't you? I would, too, but ma she hadn't
nothing nice cooked up, and she was sort of scared offerin' city folks
country victuals. My! Here comes Mis' Chester and her man. Won't they be
tickled to see you!"
For a moment, after Alfaretta seized him, Jim looked full as flustered
as Dorothy had desired: then all his awkwardness vanished before the
hearty good will of the girl and he found himself shaking her hands with
a warmth of cordiality equaling her own. She was as honest and
simple-natured as himself, and instead of being amused by their meeting
Dorothy soon felt something much nearer envy of Alfaretta's power to
win liking and confidence.
Then she saw through the window father John limping down the path on his
crutches, and hurried out to meet him; also to ask of the housemistress:
"Isn't there something I can do to help? How can we feed so many people?
for, mother dear, Jim's come, too!"
"Oh! that's all right, deary. I cooked a lot of stuff, yesterday; made a
feast for your homecoming. We'll have to use for breakfast what was
meant for dinner. I was dismayed by those children coming, but I'm more
than glad to have that boy here. We all owe him much, Dolly darling;"
and mother Martha caught her restored child in a grateful embrace.
Poor Jim was far more ill at ease in the presence of Mr. and Mrs.
Chester than he had been with Alfaretta: fidgeting under their thanks
and praises, which they had vainly tried to express during their brief
interview of the night before, and honestly astonished that anybody
should make such ado over so trifling a matter.
"'Twan't nothin'. Not a mite. Anybody'd ha' felt sorry for a girl was
coaxed away from her folks, that-a-way. Pshaw! Don't! No. I've had my
breakfast a'ready. I couldn't. Mis' Calvert, the old lady, she sent me
to fetch this basket o' garden sass to Mis' Chester: an' this letter was
for you, sir. I was to give it to you an' nobody elst. I'm obleeged to
ye, ma'am, but I couldn't. I couldn't, nohow. I'm--I'm chock-full!"
With this rather inelegant refusal, Jim turned his back on the
neatly-spread table and fled through the doorway, dragging Ponce with
him, overturning the too curious Claretta upon the floor, and making a
vain effort to loosen Peter's chain from the arm of the chair where
Dorothy had hastily fastened it.
The result was disaster. Both dogs jerked themselves free and gayly
dashed forward toward the road leading down the mountain to the villages
at its foot, instead of that leafy lane which would have brought them
home to their own kennel. Their long chains dangled behind them, or
whirled from side to side, catching in wayside obstructions, but in no
wise hindering their mad rush.
Scarcely less mad was poor Jim's speed following in pursuit, and the day
that had begun so joyously for him was destined to end in gloom. Only
the week previous there had been an alarm of "mad dog" in the twin
villages, "Upper" and "Lower" Riverside, and local authority was keen to
corral any unmuzzled canines; and when these formidable Great Danes of
Mrs. Calvert tore wildly through the street, people hastily retreated
indoors, while the two constables with pistols, joined by a few brave
citizens, gave Peter and Ponce a race for their lives.
To them it was all fun. Never, in their city restricted career, had they
dreamed of such wide stretches over which to exercise their mighty
limbs; and, heretofore, during their summer stays at Deerhurst they had
been closely kept within bounds. They were so big that many people were
frightened by that mere fact of size and it had been useless for their
doting mistress to assure her neighbors that:
"They are as gentle as kittens unless they are interfered with. They
always recognize the difference between honest persons and tramps."
The argument was not convincing. Even a "tramp" might be honest and, in
any case, would certainly object to being bitten; therefore the
beautiful creatures had lived their days out at the end of a chain and
now, for the first, tasted the sweets of liberty.
The affair ended by the dogs escaping and finally making their way home
almost unobserved, very weary, and reposing with an air of great
innocence before their kennel door, where Ephraim the colored coachman
discovered them and ejaculated in great surprise:
"Fo' de lan' o' love! How come dese yeah dogs done gone got dey chains
broke? 'Peahs lak somebody gwine a spite my Miss Betty fo' keepin' 'em,
anyhow. Mebbe"--here Ephraim's black face turned a shade
paler--"mebbe--somepin's gwine to happen! Dere sholy is! Mebbe--mebbe
some dem burgaleers I'se heerd of gwine--gwine----"
Visions of disasters too dire to be put into words cut short the old
man's speech, and hastily fetching pieces of rope he proceeded to
refasten the dogs to the kennel staples, and was much surprised that
they submitted so quietly. Then, being as wise as he was faithful, he
resolved to say nothing, at present, to the lady of Deerhurst about this
incident, reflecting that:
"My Miss Betty she ain' sca'ed o' nobody, burgaleers er nothin'. Ef ol'
Eph done tol' her erbout dis yeah succumstance she's boun' to set up de
whole endurin' night a-lookin' out fo' trouble, wid dat dere
pistol-volver in her han's, all ready fo' to shoot de fust creachah puts
foot on groun'. Lak's not shoot de wrong one too. She's done got a
pow'ful quick tempah, my Miss Betty has, same's all my Somerset family
had, bein' fust quality folks lak dey was. No, suh! Dere's times fo' to
talk an' dere's times fo' to keep yo' mouf shut. Dis yeah's one dem
times, shuah ernuf."
So, fully satisfied which of these "times" the present chanced to be,
the old coachman departed stableward to attend upon his beloved bays and
to make ready for his mistress's morning drive.
Meanwhile, on the street of Lower Riverside, Jim Barlow had come to
fresh grief. In his frantic chase of the runaway dogs he had almost
caught up with Ponce, who suddenly darted into an open doorway of the
post-office just as a gentleman emerged from it, carrying a pile of
letters and papers just arrived in the early mail. A collision of the
three was inevitable, and Ponce was the only one who came out from it
intact.
With outstretched arms, believing that he had already captured one of
the Great Danes, poor Jim threw himself headlong upon the gentleman, who
staggered under the unexpected blow and fell backward upon the floor,
with the lad atop. In the ensuing struggle to rise they forgot the dog,
the animal rushing out of doors again as swiftly as he had rushed
within.
Instantly there was great commotion. The postmaster hurried to the
rescue, as did the crowd of other persons awaiting the distribution of
the mail; but the assaulted gentleman proved as agile as he was furious
and, as he gained his own feet, Jim found himself being shaken till he
lost his balance again and went down at the stranger's side.
"You unmannerly lubber! How dare you? I say, how dare you knock me down
like that? Set your dog on me, would you? Do you know who I am?"
The lad was slow to anger, but once roused could be as furious as the
other. His natural impulse was greater than his knowledge of the world,
and his answer was to send a telling blow into the gentleman's face.
This was "assault" in truth, and oddly enough seemed to restore the
victim to perfect coolness. With a bow he accepted the return of the
eyeglasses which had been knocked from his nose during the mêlée and
turned to the perturbed postmaster, saying:
"Mr. Spence, where is the nearest justice of the peace?"
"Why--why, Mr. Montaigne, sir, I think he----"
"Simmons is out of town. He and Squire Randall have both gone to
Newburgh on that big case, you know," interposed a bystander.
"Sure enough. Well then, Mr. Montaigne, the nearest justice available
this morning is Seth Winters, the blacksmith, up-mountain. Right near
your own place, sir, you know."
"Thanks. Do you know this boy?"
"Never saw him before," answered Mr. Spence. Then, as Jim started to
make his way outward through the crowd, he laid a firmly detaining hand
upon his shoulder and forced him to remain or again resort to violence.
"But I'll find out, sir, if you wish."
"Do so, please. Or I presume a constable can do that for me. As for you,
young ruffian--we shall meet again."
With that the gentleman flicked off some of the dust which had lodged
upon his fine clothing, again carefully readjusted his glasses, and
stepped out to the smart little trap awaiting his convenience.
Everything about the equipage and his own appearance betokened wealth,
as well as did the almost servile attentions of his fellow townsmen;
though one old man to whom he was a stranger inquired:
"That the fellow who's built that fine house on the Heights, beyond
Deerhurst?"
Mr. Spence wheeled about and demanded in surprise:
"What? _you_ here, Winters? And don't you know your own mountain
neighbors? Did you see the whole affair?"
"I do not know that gentleman, though, of course, I do know his
employees, who have brought his horses to me to be shod. Nor do I call
anybody a 'neighbor' till I've found him such. The accident of living
side by side can't make neighbors. My paper, please? We're going to have
a glorious day."
It was noticeable that while the roughly clad old man was speaking, the
excited voices of the others in the office had quieted entirely, and
that as he received his weekly paper--his "one extravagance"--they also
remembered and attended to the business which had brought them there.
As Mr. Winters left the place he laid his hand upon Jim's shoulder and
said:
"Come with me, my lad. Our roads lie together."
The boy glanced into the rugged yet benignant face turned toward him and
saw something in it which calmed his own anger; and without a word he
turned and followed.
"Goodness! If the young simpleton hasn't gone off with the Squire of his
own accord!" remarked one they had left behind.
But untutored Jim Barlow knew nothing of law or "justices." All he knew
was that he had looked into the eyes of a friend and trusted him.