CONCERNING SEVERAL MATTERS
"O Jim! I feel so--so guilty! Just as if I had done something dreadfully
wrong!" cried troubled Dorothy C. to her faithful if jealous friend, as
they were driving homeward again. The reins were in his hands this time
and he held them with an ease which left everything to the old horse
itself, and which would have surprised the girl had room been left in
her mind for any smaller surprises after that great one of Mrs. Cecil's
question.
"Don't see why," returned practical Jim. His own satisfaction was great,
just then, for he had seen Herbert Montaigne driving homeward on his
brand-new horse-rake, brilliant in red paint and purchased by that
extravagant youth expressly for the Skyrie "Bee." Herbert had forsaken
that laborious festivity, soon after the departure of Mrs. Calvert and
Dorothy; but not till after he had also finished all the raking there
had been for him to do. Much of the ground was so overrun with bushes
and brambles that only hand-rakes were available, and to the more
difficult task of these the lad did not aspire.
Now, at ease with his own conscience and at peace with all the world, he
drove by the gates of Deerhurst whistling his merriest, and bent upon
ending his rarely useful day by a row upon the river. He even caught a
glimpse of Dorothy sitting in the farm wagon waiting for Jim to "make
himself tidy after his gardening," as his mistress had directed; and had
called out some bit of nonsense to her which she was too absorbed in
thought to notice.
"That's all right. Needn't answer if she doesn't wish! I'll see her
to-morrow and get her to go on that picnic at the camp. One picnic paves
the way to another--that's easy! I don't feel now any great longing even
for planked shad--such a dinner I ate! But that's one good thing about a
dinner, little Kit! Take a few hours off and you'll be ready for the
next one! Good thing my top-lofty sister 'took a notion' to sweet Dolly!
That's going to make things lots easier for my scheme, 'but I'll 'bide
a wee' before I spring it on the Pater. Eh, little Kit? Aren't you a
beauty? and--good luck! You're just the thing to take her, to-morrow.
She told me, to-day, they hadn't a single cat. '_Not a single cat!_' In
a tone of regular heartbreak, she said it, Kit! That's why I heard you
squalling by the roadside and picked you up. Somebody dropped you,
didn't he? Somebody a deal richer in cats than Dorothy C. Why, little
Kit, I heard a workman telling the other day how he found a bag of
kittens, a whole bag of them, 'lost' by somebody as heartless as your
own late owner, probably, but far less wise. For the bag was a potato
sack and it had the owner's name stamped in full on it. Must have lost
it out the back of a wagon, the workman thought. Anyway, next day he
gathered up all the stray cats and kittens he could find and in the dead
of night--the dead of night, little Kit! when all dire deeds are
done!--he carried the replenished sack back and left it on the 'loser's'
doorstep. Good for that workman! but, query. What became of the cats?
Never mind, Kitty, I know what will become of you, and your fate will
be the happiest possible. Get up there, Slowpoke!" finished the lad,
thrusting the tiny kitten he had found astray on the road into his
blouse, and urging the work horse forward. In any case it is probable he
would have picked up the lost kitten and given it a home in his father's
barn, but it suited well with Dorothy's pathetic regret that he should
have found it.
"You 'don't see why,' Jim Barlow, I feel so worried over what Mrs.
Calvert asked? Then you're stupider than I thought. She is so kind, she
found and saved me--after you, of course--and she is so old and lonely.
I'd love to live with her if--if there were two of me. Already she looks
to me to do little things for her that nobody else seems to think she
wants, and to do them without her asking. I love her. Seems if she was
sort of my folks--_my own folks_ that I must have had sometime. We like
the same things. She adores Dickens, so do I. She loves outdoors, so do
I. She--But there, it's no use! I can't go to live with her and leave
father John and mother Martha. It would break their hearts and mine,
too! Oh! dear! I wish she hadn't asked me; then I wouldn't have had to
say 'No,' and see her beautiful old face lose all its lovely brightness.
When I think how old she is, how it's but a little while she'll need
me--Why, then my heart breaks in two the other way! O Jim! Isn't life a
terrible, terrible perplexity?" demanded this small maid to whom "life"
was, indeed, just showing its realities.
Jim listened silently, but it wouldn't have flattered her to know that
it was her ready flow of language and the rather long words she used
which mainly impressed him. To his practical mind it was simply
impossible for any right-minded girl to forsake those who had cared for
her all her life, in order to gratify the whim of an old lady whom she
had known but a short time. Nor did it enter the thoughts of either of
these young folks that the material advantages offered to Dorothy would
be very great. It was only a question of happiness; the happiness of the
Chesters or that of Mrs. Cecil.
As they left Deerhurst behind them and still Jim had answered nothing
except that provoking "Don't see why," Dorothy lost her patience.
"Jim Barlow, have you lost your tongue? I think--I think you're horribly
unsympathetic!" she cried, flashing a glance upon him that was meant for
anger, yet ended in surprise at his actually smiling countenance. "I
don't see anything funny in this business, if you do! What are you
laughing at?"
Now he looked at her, his face radiant with the fun of his own thoughts,
and replied:
"Lots o' things. Fust off, Dorothy, will you correct me every time I use
bad language?"
"Bad--language! Swearing, you mean? Why, Jim, I never heard you, not
once. Huh! If I did I reckon I _would_ correct you, so quick 'twould
make you dizzy!"
"Pshaw! I don't mean that, silly thing! I mean--Dorothy, I want to talk
like other folks: like Mis' Calvert----"
"Then begin to call her 'Mrs.'"
"Mrs. Calvert," answered Jim, obediently. "To you and her and Mr.
Chester, talkin'----"
"Talking, Jim. Don't clip the g's off your words!"
He half-frowned, then laughed. She was almost too ready with her
corrections. But he went on:
"I'm studyin'--studying--every night, as long as I dast----"
"Dare, you mean."
Poor Jim gasped and retorted:
"Well, dare, then, if you say so. D-a-r-e! and be done with it! Mis', I
mean Mrs., Calvert has give orders----"
"Given orders, boy."
"Shut up! I mean she's told the old man and woman that keeps----"
"Who keep!"
"That keeps the gate and lives in the lodge an' I live with 'em, if you
want to know the hull kit an' boodle of the story, she's give 'em orders
I can't have no light lit after half-past ten o'clock, 'cause I'll spile
my eyes an' break down my strength--Pshaw! as if a feller could, just
a-studyin', when he's so powerful bent on't as I be! But, you know I
know I don't talk quite the same as them 'at knows better an' has had
more book l'arnin'," explained the young student, hopelessly relapsing
into the truck-farm vernacular.
"Yes, Jim, I do know that you know, as you so tellingly put it. I've
seen you flush more than once when you've noticed the difference in
speech, and I'll help you all I can. I don't know much myself. I'm only
a girl, not far along in her own education, but I'll do what I can;
only, Jim Barlow, don't you go and get offended when I set you right. If
you do you shall go on 'wallowing in your ignorance,' as I've read
somewhere. Now, that's enough 'correction' for once. Tell me the other
'lots of things' you were laughing at."
"Sure! The first one, how we're goin' to get ahead of that old Quaker
miller. Mis'--Mrs.--Calvert's planned the hull--whole--business. She
don't like him none. She stopped me an' told me things, a few. She 'lows
he's got some scheme or other, 'at ain't no good to your folks,
a-lettin' good money on a wore-out farm like Skyrie. There's more in his
doin's than has come to light yet. That's what she says. Even his
sellin' your ma that jumpin' cow was a low-down, ornery trick. An' that
bull calf--no more use to such as you-all 'an a white elephant, she
says. Less; 'cause I s'pose a body'd _could sell_ a elephant, if they
was put to it. Say, Dorothy. They's a-goin' to be a circus come to
Newburgh bime-by. The pictures of it is all along the fences an' walls;
an', say--I'm earnin' wages now, real good ones. I told Mis', Mrs.,
Calvert 't I didn't think I ought to take any money off her, 'cause
she's give--given--me all these new clothes an' treats me so like a
prince; but she laughed an' said how 'twas in the Bible that 'a laborer
is worthy of his hire' and she'd be a poor sort of Christian that didn't
at least try to live up to her Bible. Say, Dorothy, she's even give me
one for myself! Fact. She give it an' says she, she says: 'James, if you
make that the rule of your heart and life, you can't help being a
gentleman, 'at you aspire to be, as well as a good man.' Then she
fetched out another book, big--Why, Dorothy! So big it's real heavy to
lift! An' she called that one a 'Shakespeare.' The name was printed on
it plain; an' she said the man what wrote it more years ago 'an I can
half-tell, had 'done the thinkin' for half--the world, or more,' she
said. And how 'if I'd use them two books constant an' apply 'em to my
own life I'd never need be ashamed an' I could hold up my head in even
the wisest company.' Say, Dorothy! Mis' Calvert knows a powerful lot,
seems if!"
"Well, she ought. She's lived a powerful long time."
"An' I've been thinkin' things over. I don't believe I _will_ try to be
President, like we planned. Lookin' into that Shakespeare feller's book
I 'low I'd ruther write one like it, instead."
"O Jim! That's too delightful! I must tell father that. I must! _You_, a
new _Shakespeare_! Why, boy, he's the wisest writer ever lived. I'm only
just being allowed to read a little bit of him, old as I am. My father
picks out the best parts of the best dramas and we often read them
together, evenings. But--What are the other things you thought about,
and made you laugh? That circus, too; shall you go to it, Jim? Did you
ever go to one?"
"Never. _Never._ But I'm just sufferin' to go. Say, Dorothy? If I can
get all my work done, an' Mrs. Calvert she don't think it's sinful waste
o' good money, an' your folks'll let you, an' it don't come on to rain
but turns out a real nice day, an' I can get the loan of Mrs. Calvert's
oldest horse an' rig--'cause I wouldn't dast--dare--to ask for a young
one--an' I felt as if I could take care of you in such a terrible crowd
as Ephraim says they always is to circuses, would you, will you, go with
me?"
In spite of herself Dorothy could not help laughing. Yet there was
something almost pathetic in the face of this poor youth, possessing a
small sum of money for the first time, beset by the caution which had
hedged his humble, dependent life, yet daring--actually daring, of his
own volition--to be generous! Generous of that which Miranda Stott had
taught him was the very best thing in the world--money! Of himself, his
strength, his unselfishness and devotion,--all so much higher than that
"money,"--he had always been most lavish; and remembering this, with a
sympathy wise beyond her years, Dorothy speedily hushed her laughter and
answered eagerly:
"Indeed, I will, you dear, care-taking, cautious boy, and thank you
heartily. I love a circus. Father John used to take mother Martha and me
to one once every summer. Why, what a perfectly wild and giddy creature
I shall be! To a circus with you, a camp-picnic with Herbert and
Helena, and this splendid farmers' 'Bee'--Hurray!"
Jim's countenance fell. "I didn't know 'bout that other picnic," said
he. "When's it comin' off? And what is a picnic, anyway?"
"You'll see when we get home to Skyrie. A picnic is the jolliest thing
there is--except a circus. _Except a circus._ When it's to come off I
don't know, but when it does I mean you shall be in it, too, Jim Barlow.
Yet you haven't finished about poor, dear Mr. Oliver Sands. You have
wandered all over the face of the earth, as my teacher used to complain
I did in writing my compositions. I didn't stick to my subject. You
haven't stuck to yours, the Quaker man. Finish him up, for we're almost
at Skyrie now."
Comforted by her ranking of a circus as something infinitely more
delightful than even a rich boy's picnic, and because the fields of
Skyrie were, indeed, now in view, Jim resumed concerning the gentleman
in question:
"Dorothy, that calf o' yours won't never be no good. The man give him to
you, all right, an' 'peared amazin' generous. But--he cal'lated on
gettin' back more'n his money's worth. He'd tried to sell old Hannah
time an' again, so Mrs. Calvert was told, an' couldn't, 'count of her
being so hard to keep track of. He didn't dast to sell without the calf
alongside, for if he did the critter's so tearin' lively she'd 'a' got
back home to his farm 'fore he did, drive as fast as he might. But what
he planned was: your ma take the calf for a gift an' she'd have to send
to his mill to get feed an' stuff for to raise it on. To keep both cow
an' calf would cost--I don't know how much, but enough to suit him all
right. 'Tother side the matter, his side, you did get Hannah cheap.
She's good breed, her milk'll make nice butter----"
"It does! Splendid, perfectly splendid! Mrs. Smith showed mother how to
manage and it all came back to her, for she had only, as father says,
'mislaid her knowledge' and she makes all the butter we need. Not all we
want--We could eat pounds and pounds! But it takes a good many quarts of
milk to make a pound of butter, I've learned; and an awful lot of what
father calls 'circular exercise' to make the 'butter come.' Mother
bought one of those churns that you turn around and around, I mean a
dasher around and around inside the churn--I get my talk mixed up,
sometimes--and it takes an hour, maybe, to turn and turn. Worse than
freezing ice cream in a 'ten-minute' freezer, like we had in Baltimore,
yet had to work all morning to get it frozen ready for Sunday dinner.
Mother thinks a dash-churn, stand and flap the dasher straight up and
down till your arms and legs give out, is the best kind. But the
around-and-around is the modern sort; so, of course, she got that. If
Daisy-Jewel and Piggy-Wig didn't need so much milk themselves there'd be
more for us. And somehow, you don't make me feel very nice toward Mr.
Oliver Sands."
"Say, Dorothy. Mis' Calvert's notion is for you to sell Daisy an' buy a
horse. Will you, if you get a chance?"
"Simple Simon! A horse is worth lots and lots more than a calf! was that
what she meant when she said a calf might turn into a colt? A colt is a
horse, after all. A little horse. Well, maybe she was right. I might
sell a little calf and get a little colt. But who in the world would
buy? Besides, despite all the trouble she makes, mother wouldn't part
with that pretty, écru-colored cow, and Hannah will not be separated
from Daisy-Jewel. I mean Daisy-Jewel will not be separated from Hannah.
Even a man, Mr. Oliver Sands, said that would be 'cruel.' You don't want
to have me cruel, do you, Jim Barlow?"
"Shucks! Hannah won't mourn for no calf, longer 'n a couple of hours,
'less she's different from any cow I ever see, light-complected or
otherwise. As for that jumpin' notion o' hern; I'll fix her! I've been
layin' out to do it, ever since I heard she done it, but somehow I
didn't get the chance."
"You didn't get the chance because you never take it. I don't think it's
right, Jim Barlow, for you to work every minute of daylight, fearing you
won't do all your horrid 'duty' to your employer, then study all night
to make yourself 'fit for your friends,' as you told me. Maybe, some of
your friends might like to see you, now and then, before you _are_
'fit,'" returned Dorothy, and with that they came to the gate of Skyrie
and drove over the path to the barn, the path, or driveway, which that
very morning had been overgrown and hidden with grass and weeds, but
now lay hard and clean as if just newly made.
"Pshaw! Somebody's been busy, I declare!" cried Jim, admiringly, and
leaped out to tie Mr. Smith's "nag" in a comfortable shady place. He did
not offer to help Dorothy alight, nor did she either wait for or expect
this courtesy; but seeing mother Martha in the kitchen, ran to her with
an account of her brief outing.
The housemistress had slipped away from the few women guests left
remaining in the field where dinner had been served. Most of them had
already left for home, their part in the day's proceedings having been
well finished, and each a busy farmwife who had snatched a half-day from
her own crowding tasks to help the "Bee" along.
She had made many acquaintances, she was glad to know them. She "liked
folks better than scenery," as she had once complained to her husband,
during a fit of homesickness for "dear old Baltimore"; but she was very
tired. The excitement of this unexpected visitation, and the varying
emotions of the day had strangely wearied her. Besides, deep down in her
heart--as in father John's--lay a feeling of wounded pride. She had
been very happy, for a time, she had found herself the center of much
kindly attention: and yet--she wished that the need for such attention
had not existed. So she was glad now of the privacy of her kitchen
whither none would intrude; and into which Dorothy ran, full of talk and
eager above all things to tell of that astonishing offer of Mrs.
Calvert's to re-adopt her.
But something stopped the words on her lips. She could not herself have
explained why she refrained from speaking, unless it were that weary,
fretful expression of Mrs. Chester's face. So, instead of bestowing
confidences, she merely said:
"Mother dear, do come upstairs to your own pretty room and lie down.
It's grown terribly warm this afternoon and you look so tired. I'll shut
the blinds and make it all dark and cool; then I'll find father John and
see if he needs me too. Come, mother, come."
With a sudden burst of affection, such as rarely came from Mrs. Chester,
that lady caught the girl in her arms and kissed her fondly, saying:
"You are my good angel, Dolly darling! You are the brightness of my
life. Don't ever let anybody else steal you away from me, will you? I
couldn't live without you, now--and here."
Dorothy's breath came quick and sharp. How odd this was, to have her
mother touch upon that very subject lying uppermost in her own heart!
Could she and Mrs. Calvert have been discussing her in this way? Well,
at least, she now knew that she had been wholly right. The reluctant
"No" she had given Mrs. Betty was the only word to say.