PROPOUNDING A RIDDLE.
“Ginger! If Bon hasn’t dropped them oysters down kerflump!” cried
Robert, picking up the brown paper parcel and laying it on his
mother’s lap. Then he plunged one pudgy hand deep in the corner of his
pocket, where the hole had been pinned together, and produced four
silver quarters. “Hi! there, Motherkin! See _them_?” and he cast a
supercilious glance about upon the spectators, as if pitying the envy
which must thrill their breasts.
“I see, dear. But go and make your excuses to Mr. Benton. I have had
none to make for you.”
Robert immediately crossed to the master’s side and explained: “I
couldn’t come ter school to-day, sir, ’cause my sister had ter go an’
sell some chrysms on the Avenue, an’ I didn’t like ter let her go
alone. It ain’t nice fer girls to go ter places alone, my mother says.”
When the child had reached this point in his disclosures Isabelle
rose rather hurriedly and left the room by the same door which had
covered Bonny’s exit.
[Illustration: HE CAST A SUPERCILIOUS GLANCE ABOUT HIM.]
“Well, my boy. If you have a valid reason for your absence we will have
to see about getting you excused. But there has been too much of this
truanting, and we have resolved to put a stop to it. We have not quite
the authority which the public school teachers have, else we should
not be so troubled. An examination for promotion is to be held next
week, and I felt that Robert had no time to lose if he wished to go
forward with his class. Besides, he had promised to assist me a little
in preparing for an evening entertainment in aid of the school, and I
depended on him. He was to have been a little ‘Red Cross Knight,’ but
owing to his absence I was obliged to give his place to another boy.”
Five minutes later both the Professor and Mr. Benton had departed,
and Bonny immediately reappeared. “Mother! don’t look at me so
grieved. I am bad, I know; as bad as I can be. But I don’t mean it,
and I really felt as if I were doing something very praiseworthy when
I set out on my adventures this morning. I was in quite a glow of
self-righteousness. I was, indeed!”
“How about the glow now, my child?” asked the mother, gently stroking
the flushed face resting on her knee.
“It’s gone. But--but this remains;” and she counted out the contents of
her little purse, which amounted to about ten dollars. “That isn’t so
very bad, though it’s about one fourth of what I anticipated bringing
home. As it is, nine dollars of this came from one person.”
“Beatrice! Not from Mr. Brook, I hope!”
“No, Motherkin. But _will_ you forgive me? I’ll never do so again. I
promise you. And I’ve so much to tell. I can’t wait till I tell it, yet
it doesn’t come easy with that sort of a wall of displeasure and sorrow
between us. Please take your bad girl back, down deep into the happy
place in your heart again, Mother darling! I hate to feel unhappy! I
do, awfully!”
Her whimsical entreaty covered a regret so sincere that Mrs. Beckwith
understood, and stooping kissed very tenderly the tumbled curls of her
energetic daughter. There was a trace of tears in her own eyes as she
lifted her head, but there was no further word of blame or repentance
between them; yet Beatrice never forgot that hour, nor did she ever
again test any scheme, no matter how brilliant its promise, without
taking her mother into confidence first.
“Well, then, that’s settled and done with. I feel better, very much
better. And Robert is not to be blamed at all. Nor am I, even, for
part of my badness. I forgot that. Mr. Brook has part of the blame. He
claims it, and I’m sure I’m willing he should enjoy it.”
“My daughter, have you been to see Mr. Brook?”
“Yes,’m, I have. I’ve dined with him. At the Astor House. In a private
parlor. But that wasn’t the beginning of the story. You should let
people begin at the beginning, Mother dear.”
“Begin at the beginning, Beatrice.”
The recital was given, amid the comments and illustrations of the
youngest Beckwith; no details were omitted, and it ended with the
question: “If this good friend of our grandfather’s finds some place
that we could live in the country, would you go, Mother?”
“For my own part, I should be glad to go. But your education, the
different careers which may be open to you here, my children, these
must be considered first. All the young people are leaving the country
places and flocking to the towns, if we are to believe the articles we
read. If those who have been born and reared in the country cannot
make a decent livelihood there, how can we expect to do so?”
“Well, you see, Motherkin! we’re all geniuses! That’s the theory we are
living on now; and a genius can do what no less gifted mortal can! But
all jesting aside, Mr. Brook agrees with the doctor that your health
would be a great deal better in a country place than here; and I’ll
risk the rest of the question for that great gain. So should you, if
you love us.”
“Well, well, dearie. The question is not to be met to-night. But those
oysters you brought in and dropped so disdainfully upon the floor will
taste very nicely to us who have _not_ dined at the Astor House upon
roast turkey and other good things galore. Would you object to broiling
me a few?”
After all, the day ended merrily. The Beckwiths had a faculty of
making mirth out of trifles, and it kept them all from growing sour
or cross-grained over the inevitable hardnesses of their lot in life.
Roland brought out his banjo and forgot the day’s hopeless search for
a new situation in the picking up of a melody that had caught his ear.
Belle worked hard to make a realistic “study” of chrysanthemums from
the two or three which Beatrice had left behind her that morning on
her mother’s kitchen table. Mrs. Beckwith “outlined” a pattern against
the next day’s finer embroidering; Robert played at jack-straws till
he had “beaten himself” a satisfying number of times; while Beatrice
moved everywhere about the little home, putting away scattered papers
and books, dusting carefully each nook and corner, and finally sitting
down to peruse a cook-book in the hope of finding some desirable dish
for the next day’s dinner which would cost next to nothing in the
concocting.
A busy week followed, busy for all save Roland, and yet even for him,
though his labors were without apparent result; and then the postman
brought the letter which all except Bonny had nearly forgotten, the
letter that Mr. Brook was to write after consultation with his sister,
Miss Joanna.
It was “Humpty-Dumpty” who received the communication from the
messenger and flew upstairs with it, crying out: “I bet this is the
country letter! I bet it’s Mr. Brook has found a home for us an’ a
horse! Read it, won’t you, Motherkin, quick?”
“It is very brief, my dears; but it contains an invitation for Roland
to go up and see Mr. Brook at his own home. He writes that there are
some things much better discussed in person than by mail, and unless
he hears to the contrary he will send a carriage to meet my son at the
railway station nearest his house on Thursday--why, that is to-morrow!
He adds that he trusts the meeting will not be fruitless of good to all
concerned, else he would not suggest it. Well, well.”
“‘Well’ means ‘yes,’ doesn’t it?” demanded Bonny, eagerly.
“I wonder how much it will cost!” remarked Roland, reflectively.
“No matter, sir. We’ll write another poem on somebody’s medicine and
earn the price of the trip, maybe! Anyway, there is the chrysanthemum
money which my mother has punished me by refusing to touch; you shall
take that. Then Mr. Brook can feel that he has paid your way and will
have no scruples about that matter. In his heart of hearts, the dear
old gentleman has been worried over it, I know, just as well as if I
had heard him say: ‘But, Joanna, they are so poor! What if he goes to
the expense for nothing!’ and she has comforted him by saying: ‘Never
mind, Chidly dear, we will make it up to them in some way. The young
man must come, of course.’ You see how it is, don’t you, Motherkin?”
“I see that, among you, you would wheedle the foolish old Motherkin
into letting all of you sacrifice your own best interests because
you happen to think a country life is best for her!” answered Mrs.
Beckwith, smiling fondly upon them all. “But Roland must go. No
matter if we could afford it even less than by Bonny’s exploit we are
fortunately able, it would be a rudeness not to accept the invitation.
Yet, Roland, remember; it is no light task you are undertaking, and you
must not bring back rose-colored reports unless the facts will bear
them out; that is, I want you to look at everything with practical
eyes.”
“I’ll try, Mother. But my opinion cannot decide the question.”
“Your opinion may soon have to decide all family matters, my son,”
answered Mrs. Beckwith, with a gravity that woke a sudden terror in
their loving hearts.
But Bonny would have none of this! Trouble--sorrow--should not come
to them, not such sorrow as her mother’s tone suggested; and with the
swift rebellion of her hopeful nature she turned upon her brother
playfully. “Yes, my Laureate. Just take the poetical part of you off
and give it to me. I’ll lock it safely up in my own bureau till you
return. And, see; here’s the money! Oh, Bob! don’t you wish you were
the big brother instead of the little one? Think of seeing your friend
Mr. Dolloway again!”
Three days later Roland had made his journey and returned; and the
first glance Bonny gave to his face set her heart to beating gayly.
“Oh! I see it’s good news you bring, Laureate! You needn’t try to look
so solemn, you’re so happy you could dance!” which was the one thing
Roland never attempted to do.
“Here he is, Motherkin! And he _is_ rose-colored, though he tries not
to be.”
“Ah, my son! We have missed you greatly. But did you have a pleasant
time?”
“Mother, it’s delightful! It is. Just the plain, common-sense side of
it is too good to be true. It is all so much better than we any of us
dreamed that I hardly know how to begin.”
“I know, Roland!” interposed Robert. “Begin as we like stories to do:
‘Once upon a time.’”
“All right, little chap. ‘Once upon a time’ there was an old gentleman
that had a great deal of money, much more than he needed himself,
and he liked to do good with it. He was a peculiar old gentleman,
too. He didn’t believe in the actual giving away of this money, as
we sometimes give to the street beggars; but he would help those who
wanted to help themselves. He said that was the Lord’s own way, and he
certainly could not improve upon it. So all his life long he has been
putting tumble-down people on their feet, and educating ignorant ones,
and building little homes for homeless folks, who generally plucked up
courage enough to earn the cost of the homes themselves at last. All
which the splendid old fellow didn’t tell me himself; but I found out
by asking more questions of everybody I met than even Bob could ask in
the same length of time.”
“You couldn’t!” said Robert, indignantly.
“I did, small sir. I’ll prove it by anybody who saw me while I was in
New Windsor town! Well, sure enough, when I got to the station there
was a cosey carriage waiting for me, and in it, not just the servant I
had expected to see, but Mr. Brook and the sweetest-faced old lady I
ever saw.”
“Roland! _Did_--you go and take that poetry-side out of my drawer
before you started?” asked Bonny, pathetically.
“No, miss. This is plain, unvarnished fact. Miss Brook is like her
brother, only--more so! She looks like him, with a little smaller
features and a bonnet on. She wears white curls each side her face,
and her bonnet is big enough to cover her head, and she had on a
soft-colored old shawl; India, I think she called it. She is very
decided and quick, but not harsh. It is only that her mind seems to go
as fast as Bonny’s does, though more wisely.”
“Thanks. Next chapter, please,” remarked the object of comparison,
slipping her arm within her brother’s.
“Well, I will skip the rest, for a minute, and hurry to the ‘plan.’
Mr. Brook has a house he would like to rent us. It stands on the
land adjoining his own place, and was owned by some city people who
got dissatisfied and left. He bought it partly as an investment, and
partly to prevent undesirable persons coming to live there. It is
old and picturesque, but it is in good order. It has a revolutionary
history,--that is, the west side has; the eastern half is more modern.
It stands almost upon the river bank, though on a bluff above it, and
the orchard slopes quite down to the water. The rent is two hundred
dollars a year, which is one hundred less than we pay now. It seemed
to me that there was more room in it than we needed, but Mr. Brook
said he thought not. And Bob’s friend, Dolloway, who went through the
house with us, remarked: ‘I should think you’d be glad to have room
enough to swing a cat in for once!’ and I concluded that it might be
pleasant. The house is partly furnished; that is, there are curtains
of some sort at the windows, and matting on the floors. There are
closets everywhere, and one room is just as General Somebody used it.
I declare, I was ashamed to find my history so rusty, for the whole
locality is historic. And-- Oh, Mother, I do hope you will think
favorably of it!”
“The main question is earning our living there; that is, if I can bring
myself to take you away from your schools.”
“We talked that all over. There are ten acres with the house. There is
also a little greenhouse, where Mr. Brook thinks we could raise early
vegetables and flowers for market. Miss Brook says that you could do
your embroidery there as well as here, and that if it seemed best the
girls could come into the city for their lessons once or twice a week.
They said we ought to keep one cow and a horse, and they had a plan by
which we could make the horse pay for its keep; that is, if we were
willing to work.”
“Are you, my dears? Remember it is not congenial work, nothing to do
with books and music and art. But I was brought up in the country
myself, and I know that the only way to get a living out of land is,
as my guardian used to say, ‘dig it out.’ It seems strange for us,
with our ignorance, to go back and attempt to do what the real country
people have given up as a failure. I am more than doubtful about our
success.”
“Mother, I never knew you to be so undecided about anything! I have
always felt you knew long beforehand just what was best; don’t let us
think of this thing at all if it troubles you,” said Isabelle, gently.
“There was never so much at stake before, my dear. But I will waver no
longer. Let us each make the most of our last winter in the city, and
in the spring we will go to New Windsor. Now, my Beatrice, if that soup
of yours is ready we will have our dinner.”
They rose promptly, but soberly. Even Bonny could not shake off the
influence of her mother’s thoughtful words, though she tried to jest
as usual, and began to sing a gay little melody that Belle liked,
till Roland interrupted her by saying: “Oh, I forgot; here is a little
letter for you, from Mr. Brook,” and gave her an unsealed envelope.
“For me? How nice! But--how queer! Listen to this, all of you!”
MY DEAR MISS BEATRICE,--The name of the place where I hope you will
live, is The Lindens, from the trees which surround it. You will find
your fortune in those trees if you search for it. I leave your quick
wit to solve the riddle.
Faithfully Yours,
PHILIPSE CHIDLY BROOK.