unusual opportunity pleased her. Billy would never let chances pass him
by as they had passed his poor father. Kate's behavior was always a
reflection of Billy's, and there now came a lull. But Sidney did not
relax her vigilance in the least, and still sat immovable on the tub
with the broom resting on her shoulder like a sentinel's bayonet. The
children, more than ever wondering, though silently, did not return to
their game, but clung to the shelter of the cherry tree, excitedly
peering round it in growing wonder at their mother's unaccountable
conduct. The little group now made a singular spectacle, one so very
singular indeed, that no neighbor could think of passing without
inquiry. Fortunately, however, no one went along the big road for
several minutes. Meantime Sidney, sitting bolt upright and rigid on the
tub, with her back to the house, and with her eye on the children, and
the broom over her shoulder, ready for action, followed with her keen
ears everything going on in the room. She heard the deep tones of the
young man's dominant voice, and the soft murmur of Doris's shy replies.
She knew by the sounds when the two young people went out of the house
to look at the morning-glories, although the vines were on the other
side of the house and quite out of her sight. Thence she traced them
with intent listening, though she could not hear what they said, to the
trellis over the garden gate, now richly hung with the mauve beauty and
sweetness of the virgin's-bower. And then into the garden among the
sunflowers and hollyhocks and columbine and larkspur and heartsease and
the riot of June roses, common enough, yet gay and sweet as the rarest.
Sidney could tell just where they paused as they wandered about the
little garden; now they were looking at the sweet-williams, now at the
spice-pinks, and now they were bending over the bunch of bleeding-heart,
with its delicate waxen sprays of pink and white hearts--strung in rows
like a coquette's cruel trophies. To Sidney, thus keenly, alertly
keeping track, everything seemed going well; Billy and Kate too now
moved quietly as though to return to their game of mumble-peg, so that,
almost reassured, she was about to lower the broom, when she was
disturbed by hearing her name called.
She sprang up, motioning with the broom, signalling the children to be
still, and turned to see the doctor's wife leaning over the fence, and
beckoning to her.
"What on earth is the matter?" asked that lady. "I've been watching you
from my porch--"
She broke off, falling silent, at an energetic, imperative gesture from
Sidney, and she moved along down the line of the fence, farther away
from the garden, in response to Sidney's mysterious signals.
"Hush. Speak low," said Sidney, bending over the fence and speaking
herself in a hoarse whisper, "Doris has got a _beau_!"
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Alexander under her breath, but not
as yet much enlightened as to the cause of the extraordinary
manoeuvres which she had witnessed. "And who is it?"
"Old lady Gordon's grandson," said Sidney, trying vainly to keep the
triumphant note out of her voice.
The doctor's wife involuntary pursed up her mouth; had she been a man,
she certainly would have whistled. "Indeed!" was all she found to say.
"And why _not_?" Sidney flashed out, replying to the look rather than to
the word. "_Why_ not--I ask you, Jane _Alexander_? I have never gone
around bragging about Doris's pretty looks and ladylike ways, which
goodness knows she owes to the Lord and to Miss Judy, not to me; but if
there's another girl in this whole Pennyroyal Region that can hold a
candle to her--"
"Mercy sakes alive," gasped the doctor's wife. "What's the use of your
going on like that to me, Sidney? You know as well as I do what the
doctor and I have always thought of Doris."
But Sidney, aroused as only a slight--whether real or supposed--to a
favorite child can arouse the most calmly philosophical mother, might
have said a good deal more in support of Doris's smartness and sweet
disposition--these and other things were in truth on the very tip of her
tongue, when, fortunately for the doctor's wife, a sudden noise drew
their attention toward the roof of the house. Uncle Watty had at last
succeeded, after much difficulty and several unheard shouts, in getting
his head out of the garret window close to the chimney, and, now
catching sight of Sidney, he indignantly demanded to know why he could
not open his door, and peremptorily ordered her to come at once and let
him out. She went flying over nearer to the window and in a low-toned
diplomatic parley persuaded him to wait a few minutes, finally even
inducing him to take in his head until she could come. It was only a
momentary interruption, but it gave Mrs. Alexander time to think, and,
when Sidney returned to the fence, still holding herself with cold,
resentful dignity, the doctor's wife was ready with a softening
proposition inviting Kate and Billy to go home with her to help gather
cherries on the shares.
"Very well," said Sidney, shortly. She was not by any means entirely
placated, but she never rejected a good bargain merely on account of
some private feeling. "There's no need, though, for them to go out
through the front gate. They can just as well get through this hole in
the fence. It's big enough if they squeeze tight," she added, still on
guard.
She gave the children an assistant shove which carried them through the
narrow space of the broken board, hushing them to continued silence by
making a hissing sound through her teeth.
"There!" she exclaimed, under her breath, when the two trembling,
bewildered culprits stood beside the doctor's wife in the big road,
casting curious glances from their mother to the house. "Now, Jane, see
that they whistle every minute of the time they are in the cherry tree;
or I won't have a cherry and you won't have many, and these children
will be drawn into double bow-knots. Mind now--don't let 'em stop
whistling for a single minute."
Mrs. Alexander nodded understandingly as she took the children by the
hand to lead them away; nevertheless, Sidney thought it best to make
sure by giving the broom a last threatening flourish. Then she returned
to her post on the tub, facing the house, however, during the rest of
the hour through which she faithfully fulfilled sentinel duty.
XVI
THE SHOCK AND THE FRIGHT
The children thus flown like birds out of a cage, Sidney managed to get
Uncle Watty down the stairs and off to his seat before the store door,
all unobserved by the young couple, who were so absorbed in the
bleeding-heart, so enchanted under the virgin's-bower, so enthralled by
the heartsease. When at last Lynn Gordon himself was gone, Doris found
her mother quietly at work in the kitchen, and saw no trace of the
heroic measures which she had resorted to. Doris asked timidly why she
had not come in while the visitor was there, feeling instinctively that
this was what Miss Judy would have done. But Sidney answered quite
promptly and conclusively that she was too busy to waste her time
thinking of strange young men, so that Doris was more than ever abashed,
and turned silently back to her sewing and to her thoughts.
Sidney now directed her own attention to the bumblebees. She went to the
front gate and called Tom Watson's black boy, her strong, clear,
fearless voice ringing out suddenly on the morning stillness. She had
already hired him to come by promising to mend his Sunday jacket; if he
would help her get rid of the bumblebees' nest. He accordingly appeared
at once in answer to her call, which reached him in his master's stable,
and he carried his fishing-rod in his hand, this also being a part of
the bargain. He handed Sidney the rod, and taking from her a piece of
rope, which she held in readiness, he went up the rough logs at the
corner of the house, and ran over the roof as swiftly and as surely as
any simian ancestors could have scampered through the green heights of
the tropical forests. He let the rope down within Sidney's reach. She,
meantime, had fetched a jug of boiling water from the kitchen, and when
she had tied this uncorked vessel to the end of the rope, he drew it up
again till the jug came close under the eaves and immediately below the
dangerous bunch of gray gauze; whereupon he made the rope fast to one of
the curling boards of the mossy roof, all according to Sidney's
direction. This done, he sped over the roof again on his hands and knees
and hastened down the wall for safety, knowing what was to come. Sidney
barely gave him time to drop from the corner logs to the ground, and
then, grasping the fishing-pole firmly in her strong hands, she gave the
edge of the roof a sharp, quick blow. The bumblebees flew out in an
angry cloud, but Sidney, the dauntless, stood at her post. She struck
the roof another sharp, quick blow--and another, tap-tap-tap, like some
gigantic and most industrious flicker. And forthwith the bumblebees
began to go zip-zip-zip--straight into the steaming mouth of the crater.
It was a short shrift, and, after it, a simple matter to punch down the
nest itself with the fishing pole when the last bumblebee was drowned.
That ended Sidney's interest in the programme, but the negro boy was
still curious, so that he took the jug into the middle of the big road
to pour out its contents, and he was much gratified, with the cruelty of
his age and sex, to find something like a quart of boiled bumblebees.
Sidney, free now from pressing domestic affairs, bustled into the room
where Doris sat undisturbed, singing softly over her sewing.
"I must go by Tom Watson's the first thing," Sidney said, putting on her
bonnet, settling her ball of yarn under her left arm, and beginning to
knit. "Anne seems to be at the end of her row, poor soul. I don't
believe that Tom notices anybody's coming or going. I'm sure he doesn't
mine. He just sits there with his awful eyes wandering up and down the
big road. But if it comforts Anne the least bit to have me go, I'm
perfectly willing to keep on trying. Anyway, I'll look in there a moment
before starting out on my regular round."
"I hope you can get home early," said Doris, shyly. "Mr. Gordon spoke of
coming again to-day, in the cool of the evening, to look at the
moonflowers."
Sidney stopped suddenly in the middle of the floor, just as she had done
earlier in the morning, and looked at Doris without making an immediate
reply. She took off her bonnet and shook her hair down, twisting it up
again with extreme tightness.
"Well! I reckon he, or anybody else, can look at the moonflowers just
the same whether I'm here or not," she said, dryly, settling the huge
horn comb with emphasis. Putting on her bonnet, she began to make her
knitting-needles fly, as she moved toward the door.
"Please, ma'am," pleaded Doris, bashfully. She was smiling, yet quite in
earnest, in her request.
"I'll be here in plenty of time," replied Sidney, diplomatically.
She went straight across to the doctor's house, and, calling its
mistress to the gate, asked in a low voice if she would be so neighborly
as to keep Billy and Kate until bedtime, or until she herself came by
for them. Mrs. Alexander was surprised; she had never before known
Sidney to ask, or even to accept, any help in the care of her children.
She had always been scrupulously careful to avoid troubling any one with
them. For this reason the doctor's wife agreed readily enough to keep
Kate and Billy all night, if so doing would oblige Sidney in the
slightest. She would have said the same at any time, but she was
especially glad to get such an early opportunity to make up the
misunderstanding of an hour or two before. So far as she knew, Sidney
never had actually fallen out with any one; but Mrs. Alexander had
nevertheless no wish to risk such a calamity, knowing full well how dull
life in Oldfield would be without a daily chat with Sidney. And then,
above all, she really liked and admired and respected her. So that,
altogether, she was quite warm and even cordial in her willingness to
keep Kate and Billy. She told Sidney that the doctor was away on one of
his long trips, and that it would be company to have the children; the
obligation would be wholly on her side.
Sidney then went on down the big road well content, her knitting-needles
flying faster and faster, as they always were under any unusual stress
of thought. She nodded to Anne Watson, calling out as she hurried by,
that she would come back to see Tom as soon as she could go to the store
to speak to Uncle Watty. She found the old man sitting in his accustomed
place on the goods-box at the shady side of the store door. She paused
close beside him, fanning herself with her bonnet, after she had taken
it off to let down and twist up her hair. For she knew very well that
all the tact and art at her command would be needed to persuade Uncle
Watty not to come home to supper, and to stay at the store--open and
shut--till bedtime. Uncle Watty was never the one to give up his own
wishes, if he could help it, or to sacrifice his supper without a
struggle.
"But you can have a real good, comfortable supper right here," urged
Sidney, lowering her voice, so that Mr. Pettus and his one customer
might not hear. "You're mighty fond of cheese and crackers. I'll see
that you have as much of both as you can eat." She hesitated, and then,
seeing that she was to be pushed to the limit of her resources, and
knowing from long experience that Uncle Watty would exact the full pound
of flesh, she added; "And I'll tell Mr. Pettus to give you a glass of
apple toddy, too, real strong and piping hot!"
"Till the court-house clock strikes nine, then, and not a minute later,"
growled Uncle Watty.
Sidney was quite satisfied. She was used to getting what she wanted
under difficulties. It always made her happy to succeed at all, and it
never made her bitter to fail, even after much trying--this real village
philosopher. How invincible she was that June day! How her
knitting-needles flashed in the sunlight, flying ever faster and faster!
And yet, full as her thoughts were of her own affairs, she did not
forget or neglect Tom Watson. Indeed, not one of the day's regular
engagements was forgotten or slighted or over-looked. She talked also as
usual about almost everything under the shining sun; but her thoughts
were always of the moonflowers and of Doris and of old lady Gordon's
grandson.
At sundown she went to take supper with Miss Pettus, an agreement to
that effect having been entered into upon the day of the truce. But she
said as soon as she entered the house, that she must leave immediately
after supper, as it was absolutely necessary for her to see Miss Judy
before going to bed that night. Miss Pettus, whose curiosity was
excessive, did not ask what she must see Miss Judy about. No one ever
asked Sidney questions about her own private affairs, freely as
everybody always questioned her about public matters. This may perhaps
have been one of the secrets of her memorable success. Miss Pettus was
merely a little miffed to see how absent-minded Sidney was. What was the
use of having cream muffins when Sidney hardly noticed what she was
eating! Then when Sidney asked to be allowed to leave the basket--which
had been well filled for the children and Uncle Watty--till she came for
it the next morning, this was such an unheard-of request that Miss
Pettus's curiosity could hardly be held in leash; yet Sidney went her
way without saying a word in explanation.
Dusk was already falling, and the gathering clouds in the west hastened
the gloaming. Sidney passed her own house, taking care to walk on the
other side of the big road, but she could make out Doris's slim white
figure moving among the flowers, and she also recognized the tall, dark
form near by, notwithstanding the dim light. The murmur of the gay young
voices, too, musically melted into the scented stillness. Sidney did not
know that she was smiling as she listened, and went on wondering what
they were talking about. And she did not ask herself why she was glad
that the honeysuckle smelt so sweet that night, and that so many of the
great white moths were fluttering among the moonflowers.
She found Miss Judy sitting in the passage with Miss Sophia, as they
were always to be found at that time on a warm evening. They were
talking to each other as usual; that is to say, Miss Judy was talking of
Becky, and Miss Sophia was listening, with the never-flagging interest
and complete content which they ever found in one another's conversation
and society. Nevertheless, they were heartily pleased to greet Sidney,
and Miss Judy was particularly gratified by her coming in just at that
moment. The little lady had seen Lynn Gordon passing up the big road
early in the morning, and--quite in a quiver--had asked Miss Sophia if
she thought he was on the way to call on Doris. Of course, she did not
dream of asking Sidney anything about it, but she knew that she would
tell her without being asked, in the event that he had gone to see
Doris. And Sidney did tell her at once, since the telling was precisely
what she had come for--that, and a consultation concerning such future
steps as Miss Judy might think must needs be taken. Miss Judy hung upon
every prosaic word, coloring it with her own romantic fancy, blushing
rosily in the sheltering dimness of the passage, glowing with the new
warmth which was fast gathering around her gentle heart. It was a bit of
a disappointment that Sidney did not say what the young gentleman
himself had said, or what he did or how he looked while with the dear,
dear child. Miss Judy almost asked, she wanted so much to know
everything there was to tell. It did not occur to her that Sidney had
not been present. It did not occur to Sidney that she could have
been--much less that she should have been. So utterly unlike were these
two good, honest women, who were giving their whole minds to the
happiness and welfare of the girl whom they both loved with their whole
hearts. Most of all Miss Judy was longing to know whether Lynn had said
anything of making another call. She could tell a good deal from that,
she thought guiltily, feeling herself a very Machiavelli. Yet she
hesitated to ask. It might possibly seem a little indelicate, a little
inconsiderate of Doris, in case the young gentleman had not named
another time.
"I don't think it will rain before morning," she said, observing
Sidney's glance at the clouds. "Young Mr. Gordon does seem real
friendly," she went on tentatively. "Perhaps he will come
again--sometime."
"He's there now--twice to-day!" said Sidney, triumphantly. With the
training of her profession she had awaited the most impressive moment
for this crowning announcement.
Miss Judy was stunned; there was a tremor of alarm in her voice when she
spoke, after a momentary silence of frightened bewilderment. "Do you
mean to say, Sidney, that Mr. Gordon is at your house--with Doris
now--to-night?"
Sidney nodded coolly, trying not to show the complacency which she could
not help feeling. "Yes. I saw him in the garden with Doris as I came
down the big road--on the other side."
Miss Judy tried to think for a space. Then she said, delicately but
uneasily, "Are you quite sure that Uncle Watty and the children
will--will know how to do the honors?"
"Well, they can't do any harm! I've taken care that they couldn't.
They're not there--not a blessed one of 'em! The children are over at
the doctor's. Uncle Watty is down at the store, and he'll stay there,
too, till bedtime--open or shut!"
As Sidney thus told what she had done, she tossed her yellow head,
giving free rein to what she honestly felt to be just pride.
Miss Judy sprang up with a smothered scream. "Sidney _Wendall_! _Do_ you
mean to tell me that you have left Doris--that poor, poor child--to
receive a perfect stranger entirely alone? Oh--oh--we must run to her.
What will he think now? The other was bad enough, but this can never be
made right! Run!"
She sank back in the chair, pressing her hand to her heart, which was
fluttering, as it always fluttered under agitation, like some winged
thing trying to escape, as perhaps it was.
"You go--don't wait for me," she gasped. "I'll--explain and--and--beg
your pardon--when I get my breath. Go--go--_go_!"
Sidney had risen in blank amazement, which swiftly changed to high
dudgeon under Miss Judy's incoherent reproaches. From the agitated
outburst to the breathless close she had not the vaguest comprehension
of the cause of Miss Judy's excitement and distress. But she saw that
they were serious, and her anger vanished forthwith. She had long since
fallen into the habit of doing whatever Miss Judy wished, even when she
could not understand; no matter whether it agreed with her own views or
not, and wholly regardless of her own stalwart opinion of that little
lady's fastidious ideas, which she thought of as Miss Judy's "pernickety
notions." In anything and everything concerning Doris, especially,
Sidney always gave way at once without an instant's demur, and she did
so now, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered from her amazement to
comprehend what it was that Miss Judy wished her to do. Her good humor,
too, came back quickly; it was never absent long, and she cheerfully
started toward home without more urging. She went at once, stepping out
of Miss Judy's sight with long, swinging strides, but soon slacking her
pace, unconsciously smiling now as she sauntered. A woman who has been
married is apt to smile at an unmarried woman's views of love and
courtship and kindred matters. Sidney stood ready to defer to Miss Judy
in most things, humbly conscious of her own ignorance and honestly
willing at all times to confess it. When, however, it came to
men-folks--laughing silently, Sidney loitered on up the big road,
knitting much faster than she walked, for her needles flew just as
swiftly and surely in the darkness as in the light.
Miss Judy shed a few gentle tears in the gloom of the passage. Her first
distinct feeling was acute distress for the child of her heart. Then it
was a cruel personal disappointment to have her plans for Doris's social
advancement so shockingly upset. But presently Miss Judy's cheerful
spirits began to rally; the tea might perhaps still place Doris properly
before old lady Gordon's grandson, but it would be much harder now,
owing to Sidney's distressing thoughtlessness.
"Yet she is not so much to blame, after all, poor thing," said Miss
Judy, wiping her eyes, as her heart began to beat more naturally.
"Sidney was not brought up as we were; we are bound in fairness to
consider that, sister Sophia," pleaded Miss Judy, as if fearing that
Miss Sophia might be too hard on Sidney.
Miss Sophia straightened up and opened her eyes, surprised to find
Sidney gone; but she responded as usual with firm promptness. Indeed,
when she had thus responded several times, more and more decidedly, as
Miss Judy went on arguing with herself and thinking that she was
discussing the situation with Miss Sophia, the former came gradually to
feel that all would yet be well with Doris--as Miss Sophia believed and
said.
The storm-clouds piled higher and blacker, and the lightning flashes lit
them now and then; but Miss Judy, looking out the open door of the
passage, said that she thought the cloud-bank lay too far south for them
to get a shower, that it had drifted too far away from the rain quarter.
The darkness deepened fast, however. Sudden gusts of wind stirred the
dust of the big road, and set little columns of it whirling along the
darkening highway; but there was still nothing to disturb the little
sisters, sitting peacefully, contented, close together in their low
rocking-chairs. Miss Judy was now chirruping quite like herself, and
Miss Sophia listening and nodding alternately in happy content. Nearly
asleep, she did not hear the soft rustle of Miss Judy's bombazine skirt
as it slipped off in the darkness.
"You don't mind, do you, sister Sophia?" said Miss Judy, feeling,
nevertheless, bound to apologize in respect for her sister. "It's too
dark for any one passing to see. And it does make the back breadths so
shiny to sit on them, no matter how lightly you try to sit down," she
added, as if she could sit any other way, dear little atom of humanity!
Nine o'clock was their bedtime, winter and summer, although it must be
said that Miss Sophia was always perfectly willing to go to bed earlier.
That night they arose, as they always did, on the solemn, lonesome
stroke of the court-house clock, and turned up their little
rocking-chairs side by side, with the seats to the wall, tilting them so
that the cat could not make a bed of the patchwork cushions, and thus be
tempted from her plain duty of attending to the mice in the garret and
the rats in the kitchen. The chairs being thus settled, as if for the
saying of their prayers all night, Miss Judy bent down, and, taking both
hands, rolled the cannon-ball out of the hollow which it had worn in the
daytime, and sent it rumbling into the hollow which it had worn in the
night-time. Shutting the door, she then dropped the wooden bar across it
as a mere matter of routine propriety, and, after this was done, the
little sisters began to undress with their backs to one another. When
they were at last quite ready to retire, when Miss Sophia was in bed and
Miss Judy was on the point of ascending by means of the chair, before
blowing out the candle, there was some polite discussion and a good deal
of hesitation whether or not to close the window at the foot of the bed.
The ultimate decision was to leave it open, Miss Judy thinking this best
on account of the night's being so warm, and the clouds having drifted
so far round that there appeared little likelihood of rain before
morning; and Miss Sophia's thinking that she thought as Miss Judy did,
in this as in everything else. The window was accordingly left open, and
this final question being settled, the little sisters laid themselves
down side by side, and bade one another a formal good night, and wished
one another pleasant dreams, and were soon sleeping the sleep of gentle
innocence and of sweet peace with the whole world.