THE blossoms had fallen in showers of fragrant pink and white petals
from the wide-spreading boughs of the Preston orchards and already
Peg Morrison’s dreams of a great harvest were beginning to show faint
promise of fulfilment in long lines of slender green onion shoots; yet
Barbara found herself still waiting the summons of her unknown master.
Her little trunk, locked and strapped, stood in the closet of her
chamber; her shabby travelling cloak, hat, and gloves lay ready for
instant use. Each morning she dressed Jimmy, brushed his yellow curls,
and saw him off to school with smiles and kisses, not knowing whether
he would find her upon his return; and each evening she lavished upon
the little boy the hungry affection hoarded for a lonelier night in
some distant city.
“You love me more’n you used to, don’t you, Barb’ra?” the child asked,
puzzled by the look in her eyes. “You kiss me kind o’ hard.”
“I always loved you with all my heart, Jimmy,” she answered. “I
couldn’t love you any more.”
“An’ I love you, Barb’ra,” declared the little boy, “I love you more’n
anybody. But,” he added darkly, “I ’spise that Miss Cottle wiv all my
insides an’ all my outsides. Make her go ’way, Barb’ra.”
“Miss Cottle is a good woman, Jimmy,” the girl told him seriously. “She
would take care of you if—I should be obliged to go away.”
The child flung himself upon her with an inarticulate cry of protest.
“You wouldn’t go away an’ leave me, would you, Barb’ra?”
“I shouldn’t want to, precious; but—something—might—happen. You will be
a good boy, won’t you, Jimmy? I want you to try and—love Miss Cottle.”
The child considered this difficult undertaking in grieved silence for
a minute. Then he manfully swallowed something that arose in his throat
and threatened to choke him.
“I—guess I’ll be pretty good, Barb’ra,” he quavered, “if you want t’
go off an’ take a trip. She said you wanted to take a trip; but I told
her you wouldn’t go anywhere an’ leave me. You wouldn’t, would you,
Barb’ra?”
“Not unless I was forced to,” murmured Barbara, “for your sake, Jimmy;
for your sake!”
She winked back the tears, smiling resolutely.
“Anyway, we won’t cross any bridges till we get to them, precious.”
“That’s in my book of Vallable Inf’mation,” Jimmy said proudly. “I
copied it out o’ Peg’s. You have to get to bridges b’fore you cross
’em; you can’t get over any other way. I told that to Peg, ’n’ he
said it was a Vallable Inf’mation, ’n’ he wrote it down in his book
in red ink. We tell each other things to write down. I like Peg, an’
he likes me; but we don’t love Miss Cottle. Peg says, in his opinion,
she’s an ornary female, even if she can spell. Peg says spellin’ ain’t
everythin’.”
As the days passed, this particular bridge of Barbara’s own building
loomed large in the landscape of her every day, always retreating
mirage-like into the misty horizon of her to-morrow.
Martha Cottle was of the opinion that it was a mighty queer
performance; she discussed the subject with Barbara with ever-recurring
interest and poignancy in the intervals of her work. Miss Cottle was
a woman bent upon an excruciating cleanliness and order, and the
immaculate back steps and the painfully scoured kitchen floor uprose as
altars upon which she daily offered oblations and sacrifices of all the
gentler amenities of life.
“That young one,” as she began to call Jimmy, together with Peg
Morrison, appeared to vie with one another in wanton profanation of
these hallowed precincts.
“It’s enough,” the worthy spinster assured Barbara, her nose and eyes
reddened with animosity, “to make a saint mad clear through. Once
you’re out of the house for good I’ll see to it that they wipe their
feet _before they eat_.”
The veiled threat in the last words was not lost on Mr. Morrison. “Me
an’ the Cap’n hes et our victuals together more’n once in the loft t’
the barn,” he observed placidly. “‘N’ we kin do it ag’in on a pinch. I
kin cook ’s well ’s some others I c’d name, an’ I will, if necessary.”
Barbara, with one foot on her bridge of passage, strove to reconcile
these opposing forces.
“Miss Cottle,” she assured Peg, “is really a very conscientious woman.
She’ll keep everything clean and comfortable for you and Jimmy.”
“You bet she’s conscientious, Miss Barb’ry,” acquiesced the old
man dryly. “So’s a skunk. Y’ reelly can’t beat them animals fer a
conscientious pufformance of their duty, es they see it. But it ain’t
what you’d call reelly pleasant fer the dog.”
“But you’ll try, won’t you, Peg, to get along with Miss Cottle?”
implored Barbara. “If she should leave you after I’m gone, I can’t
think what Jimmy would do.”
“Now, Miss Barb’ry, don’t you worry none. Me an’ the Cap’n an’ Marthy
Cottle ’ll git along like three kittens in a basket. You bet we will.
I’ll kind o’ humor her, come muddy weather; an’ I’ll see t’ it that
she don’t aggravate the Cap’n beyond what he can make out t’ bear.
Mebbe it’ll stren’then his char’cter t’ put up with her ways. Viewed in
th’ light of a Vallable Inf’mation I shouldn’t wonder if both me an’
the Cap’n ’ud git consid’able profit out o’ the experience, even ef
we ain’t exac’ly hankerin’ fer it. Meanwhile the onions is comin’ on
famous, likewise the apples. I never see a finer crop o’ young fruit
set.”
To await the slow unfoldment of events, cultivating the while the
cardinal virtues of tranquillity and faith is the task set before each
human being; but there are times when the lesson becomes poignantly
difficult. As one who awaits the coming of a delayed train endures the
unfruitful minutes with scant patience, so Barbara lingered on the
verge of her unknown experience, alternately dreading and longing for
the summons which would put an end to the painful suspense. She found
the days speeding by, gathering themselves into weeks, and the weeks,
in their turn, rolling themselves up into months.
“I guess you’ve said to me about all there is to be said on the subject
of this house and the care of that child,” Miss Cottle observed in
tones of exasperation. “I’d never have come when I did if I hadn’t
supposed you were going right off. I didn’t bargain to be your hired
girl.”
And David Whitcomb, who had taken up his quarters in the village inn
with the avowed intention of “having it out” with the owner and arbiter
of Barbara’s future, expressed himself with still greater frankness on
the subject.
“Has it occurred to you,” he asked Barbara, “that perhaps you’ll not be
sent for at all?”
The two were sitting in the long, sweet twilight of a June evening,
on the narrow, old-fashioned porch. The giant locusts in front of the
house were in full bloom and the clouds of fragrance from their pendant
white clusters mingled with the odorous breath of the honeysuckles.
There was a whir of humming-bird moths among the vines, and a
song-sparrow intent upon feeding her young ones while the daylight
lasted darted in and out with anxious glances of her bright eyes.
“Hush!” warned Barbara, wincing. “Don’t let Jimmy hear you speak of my
going.”
“Pooh!” said David; “the little beggar knows all about it. Did you
suppose he didn’t?”
Barbara looked at him indignantly.
“Did you tell him?”
“No; but I daresay the Cottle person has. Besides, the auction is town
talk. Everybody is wondering, and some are saying—— Do you want me to
tell you what old Hewett asked me to-night?”
Barbara’s face, burning with shamed crimson, was turned away from his.
“No,” she said frigidly. “I don’t want to hear it.”
David passed his fingers through his thick, curling hair, with an
impatient gesture.
“I am sorry I spoke of it, Barbara,” he said seriously; “but the fact
is, whether you know it or not, you’ve been placed in a very unpleasant
position.”
He waited for her to speak; but she was obstinately silent, her eyes
fixed on Jimmy, who was helping Peg load a wheelbarrow with the dried
grass left in the wake of the lawnmower.
“You are,”—pursued David, “—or think you are—unable to move hand or
foot for five years. Meanwhile you are waiting, waiting for a summons
which may never come. Barbara, is there anyone you know who would be
likely to—who might wish to help you, and who has taken this singular
way to do it?”
She flashed a look of startled inquiry at him.
“The idea of the auction was your own—though how you came by it, I
can’t understand—and it succeeded perfectly, as far as the price paid
in money was concerned; but you’re likely to pay it out in something
more valuable than money. You’ve grown thin and pale, Barbara; you’re
being worn out with this infernal suspense. Now, I think it’s time we
tracked your purchaser to earth; or else—look at me, Barbara! Why not
marry me, and defy the fellow, whoever he is?”
“It wouldn’t be honorable,” she objected. “I’ve accepted the money.”
“But if we paid it back?” he urged.
“How can I pay it back, if—I don’t know who it is?”
David tipped his chair against the house with an impatient thud.
“See here,” he said strongly, “I’m going to find out who the person is,
either with or without your permission. You’d like to know, I suppose?”
She hesitated, evading his eyes.
“I think I’d rather wait,” she said reluctantly. “Besides, you couldn’t
find out.”
He watched her steadily for a minute, while she set half a dozen hasty
stitches in the long ruffle she was hemming. Then he deliberately put
his hand over hers.
“It’s too dark to sew,” he objected, “and I can’t talk to you when your
eyes are glued to that piece of cloth.”
Barbara folded up her work with quick motions of her slim brown
fingers. Then she raised her eyes to his.
“Well?” she said interrogatively.
“It isn’t anything new, Barbara,” he said. “Just the same old request.
When will you marry me, dear?”
“I’ve told you, David, over and over. I can’t make any promises
till—till——”
He frowned and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“I know,” he interrupted quickly. “But why object on the score of that
absurd contract? Why, Barbara, I’ll go with you and work for nothing.
Two slaves will be better than one. I’m a husky chap, capable of
trundling the lawnmower, shaking down the furnace, shovelling snow,
or any little job of the sort. Don’t you think your widower would
appreciate my free services?”
Barbara refused to smile.
“Why,” she asked, “should you suppose it is a man?”
“A sad mixture of pronouns,” he objected. “‘It’ might, as you suggest,
as well be a widow or an old maid. But why ’its’ waste of money and
valuable service? That is what I shall set myself to find out. But
we’ll be married first, and then I’ll be in a position to defy him,
her, or it, as the case may be. And if no one ever shows up, as I half
believe—— Barbara, look at me!”
She obeyed, a mutinous pucker between her fine dark brows.
“There is no use,” she murmured, “of your talking that way. I consider
myself bound; and I cannot——”
His face softened as he looked at her.
“Poor little girl,” he murmured, “it’s pretty rough sledding for you,
and has been all along. But I’d like to ask you one thing. Has any
other man asked you to marry him since I went away?”
Her eyes fled into the distance.
“Will you tell me who it was?”
Still she was dumb, struggling to escape the sudden turmoil of her
thoughts.
“Why,” she stammered at last, “should you ask?”
“Is it a case of ’how happy could I be with either, were the other fair
charmer away?’” he demanded, a wrathful crimson rising to his bronzed
cheeks. “You’ve played fast and loose with me always, Barbara, first it
was the brat and——”
He checked himself with an effort.
“Then you won’t tell me?” he said sulkily.
“It—was nothing,” she stammered. “I didn’t——”
“You didn’t accept him,” he finished for her. “That’s evident. Well,
we’ll call it square if you’ll say to me, ‘David, I love you, and I’ll
marry you as soon as we can straighten out this—what shall we call
it?—this previous engagement.’ Will you say that, Barbara? Will you?”
She trembled, shrinking into herself under the fire of his gaze.
“I haven’t told you yet—what you asked.”
“Never mind that. Come, don’t put me off again!”
She looked at him, her eyes clouded with doubt and pain.
“You don’t trust me, Barbara. I see that,” he said bitterly.
“You—must make me—trust you,” she murmured, after a difficult silence.
“I don’t know why—I can’t say—yes. But—I can’t—yet.”
“I know,” he said roughly. “You’re half in love with the other man.
Damn him!”
He sprang to his feet, upsetting his chair.
“No—no!” she denied breathlessly. “It isn’t that. I refused him
because”—her voice trailed off in a whisper—“I remembered you, David.”
He caught her in his arms with a triumphant laugh.
“You can’t escape me now, after that admission,” he told her. “You
shall marry me, sweetheart; no one shall prevent it.”
She yielded to his eyes, his arms, his eager lips with a sense of
mingled relief and terror.
“We must not speak of it, David,” she warned him, “nor—take too much
for granted, till after we have found out about the contract. We may
have to wait till——”
“Oh, damn the contract!” cried David exuberantly. “I’ll find that
fellow Smith and make him tell me all he knows. I’ll fix it up,
sweetheart; you’ll see!”
Jimmy’s rollicking laugh floated across the lawn. Peg Morrison had
stacked the last wheelbarrow with the sweet lawn grass, topped it with
the little boy, and was trundling his load toward the house with great
pretence of exhaustion.
“Now’t I’ve got you aboard, Cap’n,” Barbara heard him saying, “it’s all
I c’n make out. You’re turrible big an’ hefty.”
“You won’t ask me to leave him, David?” murmured Barbara. “I couldn’t
do that; unless—” she added with quick remembrance—“I am forced to.”
“Little beggar!” quoth David good-humoredly; “he’s always been a
dangerous rival of mine. But I’ll take him for a side partner this
time, Barbara. How’ll that suit you?”
He turned and crushed her roughly in his arms.
“I’ve waited long enough,” he said, “now let everybody and everything
get out of my way; I’m going to marry you within the month,” and
stopped the words of protest on her lips with his kisses.
That same evening Martha Cottle wandered forth under the soft light
of the rosy evening. She was dressed in a full-skirted gown of lilac
calico, sprigged with white, and starched to rustling stiffness; over
it flowed the wide expanse of a freshly ironed white apron. The labors
of the day were concluded and Miss Cottle felt herself attuned to the
soft influences of the hour. So when she chanced to come upon Peleg
Morrison reposing himself in a battered wooden chair tipped against the
barn door, she addressed him in terms of surprising amity.
“It’s a real pleasant evening,” observed Miss Cottle, with an agreeable
smile.
“Yes, ma’am, it sure is,” replied Peg, in kind. In deference to the
lady he shook the ashes out of his pipe, and rose from his chair.
“I suppose you and I’ll soon be left in charge here,” continued Miss
Cottle, sighing. “For my part, I dr-read the responsibility.”
“Hes—Miss Barb’ry heard f’om——”
“No; not that I know of. And I call it strange—very str-range. Don’t
you, Mr. Morrison?”
Peg removed his hat and thoughtfully fumbled the scanty locks behind
his ears.
“‘Tis kind o’ queer; that’s so,” he agreed.
Miss Cottle bent forward, her lean features quivering with emotion.
“And to cap the climax,” she said, “the girl’s gone and engaged herself
to be married.”
“Who? Not Miss Barb’ry?”
Miss Cottle nodded confirmation.
“To that young Whitcomb fellow,” she concluded acidly.
Mr. Morrison resumed his hat, pulling it low over his eyes. From this
familiar shelter he viewed his informant cautiously.
“Did she—did Miss Barb’ry tell you? Mebbe she wouldn’t care to hev me
know.”
“She didn’t choose to make a confidant of me,” the spinster said,
tossing her head. “I chanced to be passing through the hall, and
I—overheard ’em—spooning.”
Mr. Morrison coughed deprecatingly.
“It’s a vallable idee,” he said slowly, “not t’ hear what you ain’t
meant t’ hear. Young Whitcomb—huh? Wall! Wall!”