MORE PECULIAR VISITORS
"Barnaby Rudge! Fiddlesticks! That ain't his name nor nothing like it.
He's Peter Piper. He's out the poorhouse or something. He ain't like
other folks. He's crazy, or silly-witted, or somethin'. How-de-do,
Peter?" said Alfaretta, as Dorothy, closely followed by the little
Babcocks and the "apparition" himself, dashed down into the dust-clouded
dairy where Mrs. Chester stood still, gazing in bewilderment at the
demolished dog-churn.
Anybody might have easily been startled by the appearance of the
unfortunate creature who had, also, come into the cellar; especially a
girl whose head was already filled with the image of another storied
"natural," as Dorothy's was. He was tall and gaunt, with an unnaturally
white face and a mass of hair almost as white in color, though not from
age. His narrow, receding forehead was topped by a hat bestowed upon
him by some parading political band of the autumn previous, and was gay
with red cock feathers and a glittering buckle polished to the last
degree. His clothing was also, in part, that of a parader: a
brilliant-hued coat worn over his ordinary faded suit of denim. In one
hand he carried the same burnt-out torch bestowed upon him with his hat,
and by the other he led a cow that might once have been a calf. He did
not speak, though he evidently heard and understood Alfaretta's
greeting, for he turned his protruding eyes from Dorothy to her and
answered by a foolish smile.
"Why, Peter Piper, what you bringin' old Brindle up here for? Who told
you to?"
Again Peter grinned and answered nothing, but he turned his gaze from
Alfaretta to Mr. Chester, who had come to the window above, and stared
until the gentleman fidgeted and broke the spell by saying:
"Good-afternoon, lad. 'Peter Piper,' are you? Well, I'm glad to see
you;" then added in a voice only Dorothy, who had run in to stand beside
him, could overhear. "Wonder if he's any relation to the man who
pricked his fingers picking pickled peppers!"
"Looks as if he might be, doesn't he? Only, Dad, I feel so sorry for
him."
"Oh! I'm sorry for him, too. I am sincerely. But--I'm a trifle sorry for
myself, as well. I wonder--is this the beginning of things! What a power
the press certainly is, if one little advertisement--Why, Martha,
Martha! Come up here, please! Come right away."
Mrs. Chester promptly obeyed, surprised by the mingled mirth and
vexation expressed by her husband's face. And came not only Martha but
the trio of Babcocks, behind her. At which father John frowned and
observed:
"I was speaking to Mrs. Chester."
"Yes, I heard you," answered Alfaretta, coolly: at which all the
Chesters laughed, and she joined heartily in, not dreaming that what her
host afterwards called her "perfect ease of manner" was the cause of the
fun.
"Well, John, what is it? You seemed to want me."
"My dear, I always do. Never more than now when I wish you to tell
me--Did you rewrite that advertisement sent to the local newspaper
yesterday?"
"Rewrite it? No, indeed. Why should I? You understand such things better
than I. So I just sealed it, with money inside to pay--By the way, there
should be considerable change due us. I don't believe one advertisement
in a country paper would cost a whole dollar: do you?"
Mr. Chester laughed now in earnest.
"No, I do not. Not that I sent, anyway. Martha, why didn't you look? Why
didn't you? My dear, you wanted it brief and I made it so. But if such
brevity brings such an answer, so soon, why--it will fairly rain cows
before we're many hours older. Cows! _And_ horses! _And_ pigs! But worst
of all, I've made the new Skyrie folks ridiculous in the eyes of their
future townsmen."
"Tell it, John. Tell it exactly as you wrote it."
So he did; and though the lady was dismayed she couldn't help smiling
under her frown, and it was a momentary relief to hear Alfaretta calmly
explaining:
"That there cow don't belong to nobody. All her folks are dead. I mean
all the folks she belonged to. She's a regular pest, ma says, an'
'twould be a real kindness to kill her. But nobody won't. She's too old
for beef, or the butcher would; and she makes out to get her livin'
without botherin' nobody _much_. She goes onto folkses' lawns an'
nibbles till she's driv' off--summer times an' in winter, why 'most
anybody 't has a barnyard and fodder give her a little. Pa he says she's
a relict of a glorious past and is due her keep from a--a kermune--ity
she's kep' in hot water as many years as she has. Ma she says she can
recollect that old Brindle ever since she was a little girl, an' that
cow has got more folks into lawsuits than any other creatur', beast or
human, in Riverside villages--Upper or Lower.
"Last one took her in an' done for her was Seth Winters, that lives
up-mounting here, an' goes by the name o' 'Learned Blacksmith.' He's
another crank; but ma she says he's a practical Nanarchist, 'cause he
lives up to his idees. He's rich, or he was; but he's give his money
away an' just lives in his old shop an' the woods, same as poor folks.
He treats Peter Piper same as he does old Brindle. Keeps 'em both to his
place, if they want to stay; an' don't hinder 'em none when they clear
out. Pa an' him both say how 'freedom' is the 'herintage' of every
livin' thing, an' they both take it. Ma she says there's consid'able
difference in their ways, though; 'cause Seth he works, constant, an' pa
he never does a stroke. Say, Peter, did Seth Winters send you an'
Brindle up here?"
Peter did not answer. As if the question had roused some unsettled
matter in his clouded mind, he frowned, studied the earth at his feet,
and slowly walked away. A pitiable object in the sunset of that fair
summer day, with his bedraggled scarlet feathers, and his scarlet
leather uniform that must have been uncomfortably burdensome in the
heat.
But Brindle tarried behind and foraged for her supper by nibbling the
grass from the overgrown dooryard.
Suddenly, remembered Alfaretta:
"Ma she said I was to come home in time to get the cows in from pasture
and milk 'em. She 'lowed she wouldn't get back up-mounting till real
dark: 'cause she was goin' to stop all along the road, and get all the
news she could an' tell what she knows, back. Ma she's a powerful hand
to know what's doin', 'round. So, Baretta Babcock! Claretta Babcock! Put
your toes together; even now, an' make your manners pretty, like I
showed you teacher learned _me_, and say good-by."
With that the amusing girl drew herself up to her tallest, squared her
own bare feet upon a seam of the carpet, and bent her body forward with
the stiffest of bows. Then she took a hand of each little sister, and
said--with more courtesy than some better trained children might have
shown:
"I've had a real nice visit, Mis' Chester, an' I enjoyed my victuals.
I'll come again an' you must let Dorothy C. come to my house. I'm sorry
I tipped Mr. Chester into the ditch an' that I couldn't done more toward
cleanin' up that cellar that I did. Good-night. I hope you'll all have
nice dreams. Too bad Peter Piper went off mad, but he'll get over it.
Good-night. Come, children, come."
So the three Babcocks departed, and the silence which succeeded her
deluge of words was soothing to her hosts beyond expression. They sat
long on the west veranda of the little cottage, resting and delighting
in the beauty of nature and in the presence of each other. Then Dorothy
slipped away and after a little absence returned with a tray of bread
and butter, a big pitcher of milk, and the jar of honey Mrs. Calvert had
sent.
"Bread and honey! Fare fit for a prince!" cried father John, as the food
appeared. "And princes, indeed, we are to be able to sit and feast upon
it with all this glorious prospect spread out before us."
He seemed to have entirely recovered from the shock of his fall and on
his fine face was a look of deep content. He had suffered much and he
must still so suffer--both pain of body and of mind. Poverty was his,
and worse--it was the lot of his dear ones, also. To live at all, he
must run in debt; and to his uprightness debt seemed little less than a
crime.
However, the present was theirs. They had no immediate needs; there was
food for the morrow, and more; and leaning back in the old rocker Martha
brought for him, he let his fancy picture what Skyrie should be--"Some
time, 'when my ship comes in'! Meanwhile--Sing to us, Dolly darling! I
hear a whip-poor-will away off somewhere in the distance, and it's too
mournful a sound for my mood. Sing the gayest, merriest songs you know;
and, Martha dear, please do let Dorothy bring another rocker for
yourself. Don't sit on that hard bench, but just indulge yourself in
comfort for once."
When they were quite settled again Dorothy sang; and in listening to her
clear young voice both her parents felt their spirits soothed till they
almost forgot all care. Indeed, it seemed a scene upon which nothing
sordid nor evil would dare enter; yet, just as the singer uttered the
last note of her father's beloved "Annie Laurie," there sounded upon the
stone pathway below a heavy footstep and, immediately thereafter, an
impatient pounding upon the kitchen door.
Since their arrival at Skyrie none of their few visitors had called so
late in the day as this, and it was with a real foreboding that Mrs.
Chester rose and went to answer the summons. At a nod from her father,
Dorothy followed the housemistress and saw, standing on the threshold,
a rather rough-looking man, whose impatience suddenly gave place to
hesitation at sight of the pair before him.
"Good-evening," said Martha, politely, though still surprised. Then, as
he did not at once reply and she remembered the absurd advertisement in
the _Local_, she asked: "Did you come to see about work, or selling us a
horse, or anything?"
"H'm'm. A--Ahem. No, ma'am. 'Twasn't no horse errand brought me, this
time, though I might admit I _be_ ruther in the horse-trade myself,
being's I keep livery in Lower village. 'Twas a dog--a couple of
dogs--sent me away up-mounting, this time o' day, a-foot, too, 'cause
all my critters have been out so long they wasn't fit to ride nor drive,
neither. Been two summer-boarder picnics, to-day, an' that took 'em.
'Shoemakers go barefoot,' is the old sayin', and might as well be 't
liverymen use shanks-mares. I----"
By this time the housemistress had perceived that though the man was
rough in appearance he was not unkindly in manner and that he was
reluctant to disclose his errand. Also, if he had walked up the
mountain he must be tired, indeed; so she fetched a chair and offered
it, but only to have the courtesy declined:
"Thank ye, ma'am, but I--I guess you won't care to have me sit when I've
told my job. 'Tain't to say a pleasant one but--Well, I'm the constable
of Lower Riverside, and I've come to serve this summonses on that there
little girl o' yourn. You must see to it that she's on hand at Seth
Winterses' blacksmith shop an' justice's office, to-morrow morning at
ten o'clock sharp. Here, ma'am, is the writ of subpoeny 't calls for
her to be a witness in a case of assault an' battery. Leastwise, to
bein' known to the critters what assaulted and battered."
Before Mrs. Chester could really comprehend what he was saying or doing,
the man had thrust a paper into her hand, and had vanished. He had never
performed an official act of which he was more ashamed; nor can words
properly express her amazement.