“I CONGRATULATE ye, ma’am, on the success o’ your idee,” Thomas Bellows
said, when an hour later he handed to Barbara the roll of bills from
which he had complacently peeled off his own tidy commission. “This
’ere ’ll pay off the lien on your prop’ty, I take it, an’ leave you a
pretty good nest-egg besides.”
“Who,” said Barbara, her face pale and troubled, “bought—me?”
“W’y, as t’ that,” confessed the auctioneer, “I can’t tell you
exactly. I was asked to hand you this ’ere letter. It contains further
perticklers, I persoom.”
He produced a thick square envelope bearing her name and address in
type-written characters.
“You was to stay right here on call, I was asked t’ inform you. No,
ma’am; it wa’n’t any o’ them folks that wrote t’ you beforehand. A man,
name of Smith; said he was the agent of the party as bid you in. You’re
to stay right here till called for.”
Barbara had opened the envelope and was scanning the few lines of
type-writing in the middle of the large square sheet.
“Miss Barbara Preston [she read] will hold herself in readiness to
enter upon the term of her service, previously understood to be five
years. It is impossible, at the present instant, for the writer to
state when the call will come; but the term of service will be
reckoned from this eighteenth day of May, 19——. Miss Preston’s duties
will comprise the conduct of a home, and the care and guardianship of
a little child.”
There was also enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope, containing a
paper drawn up in legal form, binding one Barbara Preston, spinster,
for and in consideration of the sum of four thousand dollars (herein
acknowledged), to a term of continuous service, beginning on the
eighteenth day of May, 19— and terminating on the same day of the month
in the year 19—. The document was duly witnessed and bore, in lieu of
signature, the imprint of a seal, with a device of crossed battle-axes
and the single word _Invictus_.
“You’re t’ sign right here,” said Mr. Bellows, indicating with his
blunt forefinger the space below the seal. “Me an’ Peg Morrison ’ll
witness the signature. I told him to wait outside, in case the’ was
papers to sign. I’ll see to forwardin’ it for you. Le’ me see that
there envelope; likely it’ll shed a little light on th’ identity o’ the
party.”
But the envelope bore merely the number of a post-office box, in a
distant city.
Mr. Bellows scratched his head and squinted his eyes into puzzled slits
as he surveyed this unsatisfactory bit of evidence from every possible
angle.
“Wall, I don’t know,” he burst out at length, “es I’d trust that
proposition teetotally, if it wasn’t fer the references. The man as
bid ye in satisfied me the party he was representin’ was O.K. es t’
character an’ intentions.”
He glanced shrewdly at the girl; but Barbara asked no questions. She
was beginning to realize that while the shackles which had bound her
to Jarvis were about to be loosed, this unknown master of her future
had forged a new and perhaps heavier fetter. But her composed features
betrayed nothing while she wrote her name clearly—Barbara Allen
Preston—below the red seal, with its short but significant motto.
Thomas Bellows went away after a little, taking with him the contract,
duly signed, sealed, and ready to deliver, and Barbara, left quite
alone in the disordered house, quietly locked the money away in a
drawer of her desk.
She turned to find Peg Morrison staring at her with eyes full of grief
and consternation.
“Miss Barb’ry,” he began, “why in creation didn’t ye tell me what you
was goin’ t’ do? Sellin’ yourself—sellin’ your own flesh an’ blood,
like you was an Aferc’n slave! What d’you s’pose your folks ’d a
said t’ what took place in this ’ere house t’-day—huh? I’ll bet your
grandmother Preston ’d think you’d gone crazy. Where be you goin’? What
you goin’ t’ do with th’ Cap’n? Whar do I come in in this ’ere deal?
Them’s questions ’at I want answered right now. I’ve a notion,” he
added darkly, “that you be kind o’ cracked. ’N’ I don’t wonder at it
much.”
Barbara was putting the furniture in place, straightening the rugs,
and otherwise restoring to its wonted order the scene of the recent
auction. Her cheeks and lips were bright with color; her eyes sparkled
as she faced the old man.
“You are entirely mistaken, Peg,” she said impatiently. “Just listen,
will you? If I had waited a few days longer we should have been sold
out under the hammer—farm, house, furniture, stock. Now we shan’t be.
Do you understand? This very day I’m going to settle with the Honorable
Stephen Jarvis [her red lips curled a little over the words], and I’ll
pay Abe Hewett, too, and all the others. Oh! I’m glad I did it—glad!
Jimmy will have the farm, and there’ll be plenty left to fix the
fences, and buy the fertilizers we need and mend the broken roof and
maybe paint the house. Don’t you see, Peg, what a splendid thing it
will be?”
“But where are you goin’, Miss Barb-ry?” The old man’s voice held the
sound of tears. “An’ who’s goin’ to take care o’ the Cap’n?”
Barbara compressed her lips sternly.
“I don’t know where I shall go,” she said, “but wherever I am I can
write to—to Jimmy; and Peg, I want you to stay, just as you have; only
I shall pay you good wages. I shall pay up all that I owe you, too,
and——”
“Will I hev charge o’ the Cap’n?” inquired the old man anxiously. “Five
years is a long time, Miss Barb’ry, he’ll be—l’ me see. W’y, the Cap’n
’ll be ’leven years old time you’re at liberty.”
Barbara drew her fine dark brows together.
“I’ve engaged Martha Cottle to come here and keep house and take care
of Jimmy,” she said. “She’s coming this afternoon.”
Mr. Morrison’s jaw dropped.
“Marthy Cottle!” he ejaculated. “W’y, that female—she don’t know no
more ’bout little boys ’an—’an a Holstein steer. She’s an old maid
schoolmarm, cut an’ dried.”
“She can help Jimmy with his lessons,” Barbara said doggedly. “She’s
good and honest, and she’ll do her best to——”
“Gosh!” murmured the old man, shaking his head. “She’ll do her best,
mebbe, but—wall, I’ll do what I kin fer the Cap’n t’—keep him f’om
gittin’ too awful lonesome an’ discouraged. Marthy Cottle! Huh! We’ll
hev t’ make out the best we kin after you’re gone. Does—the Cap’n
know—hev you tol’ him you’re a-goin leave him?”
“No,” said Barbara, in a harsh voice. “I haven’t, and I don’t intend
to, either. I—I’ll leave word. I—couldn’t, Peg.”
Her young voice broke in an irrepressible sob.
“Don’t you feel bad, Miss Barb’ry,” the old man essayed to comfort her.
“You meant it fer the best, I know you did, Miss Barb’ry. An’ mebbe
it’ll turn out all right. I wouldn’t cross no bridges till I got to
’em, ef I was you. I s’pose,” he went on, his shrewd eyes on her face,
“‘at you seen young Dave Whitcomb this mornin’—him ’at used to teach
school in th’ village?”
Barbara’s face whitened.
“You don’t mean——” she faltered.
“Dave was here t’ the auction,” pursued Mr. Morrison. “I heerd him put
in two or three big bids on ye. He was ready to pass out his entire
pile t’—save ye f’om bein’ took away; I’ll say that much fer Dave.”
He turned, with his hand on the door.
“I didn’t hev nothin’ when it come t’ biddin’,” he groaned. “I might
’a’ saved m’ breath t’ cool m’ porridge. But I’d ’a’ give the best fi’
years off’n m’ life t’ ’a’ kep’ ye right here at home, where ye b’long.
I swan I would, Miss Barb’ry.”
“I know you would, Peg,” Barbara said gently. Her eyes, the beautiful
clear eyes of her father in his first unspoiled youth, were misty with
tears, but she smiled bravely. “Five years isn’t long,” she reminded
him. “It’ll soon be over. And you can raise five crops of those
wonderful onions while I’m gone.”
Stephen Jarvis was at home and alone in his library that afternoon when
Barbara asked to see him. It might even have been inferred that he
expected her; but if he did, he made no sign. His manner was cool and
calm, quite in keeping with the business of the hour, as he took pains
to explain to her a number of details connected with the accumulated
interest upon interest, delinquent tax accounts, and other matters
pertaining to the estate which Barbara, in her poverty, had been forced
to ignore.
“I can pay it all,” she said to him, the fruit of her triumph sweet
upon her lips. “That is why I am here—to pay—everything I owe.”
He looked at her quietly.
“You are doubtless to be congratulated upon the success of your
scheme,” he said. “I hear you realized quite a handsome sum on the sale
of——” he hesitated for the fraction of a minute—“your future.”
“It will be only five years,” Barbara said defiantly. “I shall be glad
to work—hard, for Jimmy.”
“When,” he asked, “do you expect to leave town?”
“To-day, to-morrow—I cannot tell. I am ready to go now.”
“To be gone five years,” he said thoughtfully. “Very well; we will
finish this business at once. Let me advise you to attend to your taxes
promptly hereafter; and if——”
“Thank you,” interrupted Barbara haughtily. “I shall be able, I am
sure, to meet all obligations in the future. The farm may be worthless,
worn out, but it will pay for itself.”
He did not appear to have heard her last words. He was busily arranging
various papers. And presently he handed her the cancelled bond and
mortgage, and the receipted tax bills, all neatly arranged. In return
she counted out to him, with fingers which trembled in spite of
herself, the crisp bills for which she had sold her youth.
“There!” she said rather breathlessly. “Is that all?”
“All,” he repeated quietly. “And it is all quite right. Thank you.”
She looked at him uncertainly. His head was bent, his eyes fixed upon
the pile of rustling bank-notes which she had just pushed toward him.
A sudden unreasoning sense of dismay fell upon the girl, shadowing the
triumph in her face. She made swift retreat toward the door, casting a
half-frightened backward look at the sombre figure behind the desk.
He did not lift his eyes from their unseeing contemplation of the
money, even when the jarring sound of the hard-shut door told him she
was gone.
Left quite alone Stephen Jarvis slowly folded the notes, sealed them
securely in a stout envelope and locked them in his safe.