ON THE ROAD TO SOUTH MEADOW
For a moment the group in the kitchen at Skyrie were dismayed by Jim
Barlow's sudden departure and the escape of the dogs. Then Dorothy, who
knew him best, declared:
"He'll catch them. Course. Jim always can do what he wants to do;
and--shall we never, never, have our breakfast? Why, Alfaretta, you
thoughtful girl! Why didn't I know enough to do that myself? Not leave
it to you, the 'company'!"
Mrs. Chester turned back from the doorway, where she had been trying to
follow the dogs' movements, and saw that their guest had quietly
possessed herself of a colander from the closet and had hulled the
berries into it; and that she was now holding it over the little sink
and gently rinsing the fruit with cold water.
The housemistress smiled her prompt approval, though she somewhat
marveled at this stranger's assured manner, which made her as much at
home in another's house as in her own.
"Why, Alfaretta, how kind! Thank you very much. How fragrant those wild
berries are! You must have a good mother to have been taught such
helpful ways."
"Yes, ma'am. She's smarter'n lightnin', ma is. She's a terrible worker,
too, and pa he says she tires him out she's so driv' all the time. Do
you sugar your strawberries in the dish? or let folks do it theirselves,
like Mis' Judge Satterlee does? She's one the 'ristocratics lives
up-mounting here and a real nice woman, even if she is rich. Pa he says
no rich folks can be nice. He says everybody'd ought to have just the
same lot of money and no difference. But ma says 't if pa had all the
money there was he'd get rid of it quicker'n you could say Jack
Robinson. She says if 'twas all divided just the same 'twouldn't be no
time at all 'fore it would all get round again to the same hands had it
first. She says the smart ones 'd get it and the lazy ones 'd lose
it--Claretta Babcock! Wipe your nose. Ma put a nice clean rag in your
pocket, and come to breakfast. It's ready, ain't it, Mis' Chester?"
The greatly amused Mr. Chester had taken a chair by the window and drawn
Dorothy to his side; whence, without offering her own services, she had
watched the proceedings of mother Martha and Alfaretta. The one had
carefully unpacked the basket which Jim had brought, and found it
contained not only some fine fruit but a jar of honey, a pan of "hot
bread"--without which no southern breakfast is considered complete--and
half a boiled ham. For a moment, as the mistress of Skyrie surveyed
these more substantial offerings she was inclined to resent them. A bit
of fruit--that was one thing; but, poor though she might be, she had not
yet arrived at the point of being grateful for "cold victuals"!
Yet she was almost as promptly ashamed of the feeling and remembered a
saying of her wiser husband's: "It takes more grace to accept a favor
than to bestow one." Besides, with these three hungry visiting children,
the addition to her pantry stores would be very timely.
"Such a breakfast as this is! I never laughed so much at any meal in my
life!" cried Dorothy, at last finding a chance to edge in a word of her
own between Alfaretta's incessant chatterings. "But, Alfaretta, do they
always call you by your whole, full name?"
"No, they don't. Most the time I'm just Alfy, or Sis. Baretta she's
mostly just Retty; and Clary's Clary. Saves time, that way; though ma
says no use having high-soundin' names without using 'em, so she never
clips us herself. Pa he does. He says life's too short and he ain't got
time to roll his tongue 'round so much. But ma she tells him 't a man 't
never does anything else might as well talk big words as little ones. Pa
he's a Nanarchist. Ever see one? They're awful queer-lookin'; least pa
is, an' I s'pose the rest is just like him. His hair's real red and he
never combs it. He'd disdain to! And he's got the longest, thickest
whiskers of anybody in Riverside, Upper or Lower, or Newburgh either.
He's terrible proud of his whiskers, but ma don't like 'em. She says
they catch dirt and take away all his ambition. She says if he'd cut 'em
off and look more like other men she'd be real proud of him, he's such
a good talker. Ma says I'm just like him, that way," naïvely concluded
this entertaining young person, who saw no reason why her own family
affairs should not become public property. Then without waiting for her
hostess to set her the example she coolly pushed back from the table,
announcing with satisfaction: "I'm done: and I've et real hearty too.
Where's your dishpan at, Mis' Chester? I'll wash up for you, then we can
all go outdoors and look 'round. I s'pose you've been down to the gold
mine, ain't you?"
"Gold mine? Is there one on these premises? Why, that's the very thing
we need!" laughed father John, working his chair backward from leg to
leg and taking the crutches Dorothy brought him. Even yet she could not
keep the look of pity from her brown eyes whenever she saw the once
active postman depend upon these awkward, "wooden feet," as he jestingly
called them.
But he had become quite familiar with them now, and managed to get about
the old farm with real alacrity, and had already laid many ingenious
plans for working it. He had a hopeful, sunny nature, and never looked
upon the dark side of things if he could help it. As he often told his
wife, she "could do enough of that for both of them:" and though he had
now fallen upon dark days he looked for every ray of sunshine that might
brighten them.
Not the least of these was the safe return of his adopted daughter, and
with her at hand he felt that even his lameness was a mere trifle and
not at all a bar to his success. Succeed he would--he must! There was no
other thing left possible. What if his feet had failed him? Was he not
still a man, with a clear head and infinite patience? Besides, as he
quoted to Martha: "God never shuts one door but He opens another."
Now as he rose to go outdoors with Dorothy he remembered the letter Jim
Barlow had brought him. Letter? It appeared rather like some legal
document, with its big envelope and the direction written upon it:
"_Important._ Not to be opened until after my death, unless I personally
direct otherwise. (Signed), Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert." The
envelope was addressed to himself, by his own full name, and "in case
of his death," to his wife, also by her full title. The date of a few
days previous had been placed in an upper corner, and the whole matter
was, evidently, one of deliberate consideration.
Calling Mrs. Chester aside he showed it to her and they both realized
that they had received some sort of trust, to be sacredly guarded: but
why should such have been intrusted to them--mere humble acquaintances
of the great lady who had bestowed it? and where could it be most safely
kept?
After a moment's pondering mother Martha's face lost its perplexity and,
taking the paper from her husband's hand, she whispered:
"I know! I've just thought of a place nobody would ever suspect. I'll
hide it and tell you--show and when----"
Then all at once they perceived the too bright eyes of Alfaretta Babcock
fixed upon them with a curiosity that nothing escaped. In their interest
concerning the letter they had forgotten her, busy at her task in the
rear of the room, and the others had already gone out of doors; yet even
in the one brief glimpse she caught of that long, yellow envelope, she
knew its every detail. Of course, she was too far away to distinguish
the words written upon it, but she could have described to a nicety
where each line was placed and its length. Nor did she hesitate to
disclose her knowledge, as she exclaimed:
"My! That was a big letter that 'hero' boy brought, wasn't it? Have you
read it yet? Ain't you going to? Pshaw! I'd like to know what it's all
about. I would so, real well. Ma she likes to hear letters read, too,
and once we got one from my aunt who lives out west. My aunt is my pa's
sister, an' she wanted him to move out there an' make a man of himself;
but ma she said he couldn't do that no matter what part of the country
he lived in, so he might's well stay where he was, where she was raised
and folks 'round knew _she_ was the right sort if _he_ wasn't. So we
stayed: but ma she carried that letter round a-showin' it to folks till
it got all wore to rags, and Diary got it in her mouth an' nigh choked
to death, tryin' to swaller it. So that was the end o' that!" concluded
Miss Babcock, giving her dishcloth a wring and an airy flirt, which
would have annoyed the careful housemistress had she been there to see.
However, at the very beginning of Alfaretta's present harangue, she had
perceived that it would be a lengthy one and had slipped away without
explaining to her husband where she would put the letter. Mr. Chester
also drew himself up on his crutches and swung across the floor and out
of doors. Alfaretta's gossip, which had at first amused him, now bored
him, and he was ashamed for her that she had so little respect for her
parents as to relate their differences to strangers. Unconsciously, he
put into his usual friendly manner a new sternness: but this had no
further effect upon the talkative girl than to make her probe her memory
for something more interesting. Following him through the doorway she
laid her hand on his shoulder and begged:
"Say, Mr. Chester, let me fetch that big wheel-chair o' yours an' let me
roll you down through the south medder to the mine. To where it's
covered, I mean. I can do it first-rate. I'm as strong as strong! See my
arms? That comes from helpin' ma with the wash. Once I done it all
alone and Mis' Judge Satterlee she said 'twas 'most as good as ma 'd
have done. Do let me, Mr. Chester! I'd admire to!"
The ex-postman looked around and whistled. There was no use in trying to
oppose or frown upon this amazing little maid, whose round face was the
embodiment of good-nature, and whose desire to help anybody and
everybody was so sincere. Besides, there was in her expression an
absence of that "pity" which hurt his pride, even when seen upon his
darling Dorothy's own face. She seemed to accept his crutches and
rolling chair as quite in the natural order of things, like her own
sturdy bare feet and her big red arms.
"Well, my lass, certainly you are kindness itself. I thought I had
hobbled over nearly the whole of this little farm, but I chanced upon no
'mine' of any sort, though if there's one existing I'd mightily like to
find it. But I don't think you could roll me very far on this rough
ground. Wheel-chairs are better fitted to smooth floors and pavements
than rocky fields."
Alfaretta paid no attention to his objection, except to spin the chair
out from its corner of the kitchen, or living-room, and to place it
ready for his use. She was as full of delight and curiosity concerning
this helpful article as over every other new thing she saw, and promptly
expressed herself thus:
"I'm as proud as Punch to be let handle such an elegant chair. My heart!
Ain't them leather cushions soft as chicken feathers! And the wheels go
round easy as fallin' off a log. I'd admire to be lame myself if I could
be rid around in such a sort o' carriage as this. Must have cost a pile
of money. How much was it, Mr. Chester?"
"I don't know. It was a gift from my old comrades at the post-office:
but don't, child, don't 'admire' to possess anything so terrible as this
helplessness of mine! With your young healthful body you are rich beyond
measure."
For the first time she saw an expression of gloom and almost despair
cloud the cheerful face of her new acquaintance, and though she thought
him very silly to consider health as good as wealth she did not say so;
but with real gentleness helped him to swing his crippled body into the
chair and set off at a swift pace across the field.
All the others had preceded them; even Mrs. Chester having joined the
group, determined not to lose sight of her Dorothy again, even for a few
moments: and also resolved that, for once, she would forego her usual
industry and make a happy holiday.
For a time all went well. The ground near the house was not so very
rough and the slope southward was a gentle one. The chair rolled easily
enough and, for a wonder, Alfaretta's tongue was still. Not since he had
arrived at Skyrie had father John had so comfortable a chance to look
over the land; and whatever gloom he had for a moment shown soon gave
way before the beauty of the day and the delight of feasting his eyes
upon Dorothy's trim little figure, skipping along before him.
Presently she came running back to join him and with her own hand beside
Alfy's, on the handle of his chair, to start that talkative body on a
fresh topic.
"Tell us about the ghost Jim Barlow said 'haunts' dear Skyrie, Alfy,
please. You've heard of it, too, course."
"Heard? I should say I had! Why, everybody knows _that_, an' I can't
scarce believe you don't yourself. Pshaw! Then maybe you wouldn't have
moved up-mounting if you had ha' known. When she heard you was comin' ma
she said how 't you must be real brave folks. She wouldn't live here if
you'd give her the hull farm. _I--I seen--it once--myself!_" concluded
Alfaretta, dropping her voice to an awestruck whisper and thrusting her
head forward to peer into father John's face and see if he believed her.
He laughed and Dorothy clapped her hands, demanding:
"What was he like? Was it a 'he' or a lady 'haunt'? How perfectly
romantic and delightful! Tell, tell, quick!"
Alfaretta's face assumed a look of great solemnity and a shiver of real
fear ran over her. These new people might laugh at the Skyrie ghost, but
to her it was no laughing matter. Indeed, she had such a dread of the
subject that it had been the one her loquacious tongue had abjured,
leaving it to the newcomer, Jim Barlow, to introduce it. But now--Well!
If they wanted to hear about the dreadful thing it might be wise to
gratify them.
"He's a--'he.' Everybody says that who's seen 'him,'" began the
narrator, still in an unnaturally subdued tone.
"Good enough!" ejaculated Mr. Chester, gayly, entering into the spirit
of fun he saw shining on Dorothy's face, and glad indeed that his
impressionable child did not take this statement seriously. "Good
enough! He'll be company for me, for I greatly miss men companions."
"I guess you won't like _him_ for no companion, Mr. Chester. Why, the
very place he stays the most is in--_that very--room you--come out of to
your breakfast_--where you stay, too!" cried Alfaretta, impressively.
"But other times he lives in the gold mine."
Father John looked back at Dorothy and merrily quoted a verse--slightly
altered to fit the occasion:
"I never saw a Skyrie Ghost,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow
I'd rather see than be one."
Dorothy as merrily and promptly joined in this remodeled ditty of the
"Purple Cow," but they were destined never to complete it; because,
absorbed in her own relation and astonished at their light treatment of
it, Alfaretta ceased to observe the smoothness or roughness of their
path and inadvertently propelled the wheel-chair into a wide, open
ditch, whose edge was veiled by a luxurious growth of weeds.
An instant later the wheels were uppermost, the two girls had been
projected upon them, and poor father John buried beneath the whole.