HOLLIS FARM
Clayton was an easy-going, prosperous old town which, in the
enthusiasm of youth, had started to climb the long hill to the north,
but growing indolent with age, had decided instead to go around.
Main street, broad and shady under an unbroken arch of maple boughs,
was flanked on each side by "Back street," the generic term applied to
all the parallel streets. The short cross-streets were designated by
the most direct method: "the street by the Baptist church," "the
street by Dr. Fenton's," "the street going out to Judge Hollis's," or
"the street where Mr. Moseley used to live." In the heart of the town
was the square, with the gray, weather-beaten court-house, the new and
formidable jail, the post-office and church.
For twenty years Dr. Fenton's old high-seated buggy had jogged over
the same daily course. It started at nine o'clock and passed with
never-varying regularity up one street and down another. When any one
was ill a sentinel was placed at the gate to hail the doctor, who was
as sure to pass as the passenger-train. It was a familiar joke in
Clayton that the buggy had a regular track, and that the wheels always
ran in the same rut. Once, when Carter Nelson had taken too much
egg-nog and his aunt thought he had spinal meningitis, the usual route
had been reversed, and again when the blacksmith's triplets were born.
But these were especial occasions. It was a matter for investigation
when the doctor's buggy went over the bridge before noon.
"Anybody sick out this way?" asked the miller.
The doctor stopped the buggy to explain.
He was a short, fat man dressed in a suit of Confederate gray. The
hand that held the reins was minus two fingers, his willing
contribution to the Lost Cause, which was still to him the great
catastrophe of all history. His whole personality was a bristling
arsenal of prejudices. When he spoke it was in quick, short volleys,
in a voice that seemed to come from the depths of a megaphone.
"Strange boy sick at Judge Hollis's. How's trade?"
"Fair to middlin'," answered the miller. "Do you reckon that there boy
has got anything ketchin'?"
"Catching?" repeated the doctor savagely. "What if he has?" he
demanded. "Two epidemics of typhoid, two of yellow fever, and one of
smallpox--that's my record, sir!"
"Looks like my children will ketch a fly-bite," said the miller,
apologetically.
A little farther on the doctor was stopped again--this time by a
maiden in a pink-and-white gingham, with a mass of light curls
bobbing about her face.
"Dad!" she called as she scrambled over the fence. "Where you g-going,
dad?"
The doctor flapped the lines nervously and tried to escape, but she
pursued him madly. Catching up with the buggy, she pulled herself up
on the springs and thrust an impudent, laughing face through the
window at the back.
"Annette," scolded her father, "aren't you ashamed? Fourteen years
old, and a tomboy! Get down!"
"Where you g-going, dad?" she stammered, unabashed.
"To Judge Hollis's. Get down this minute!"
"What for?"
"Somebody's sick. Get down, I say!"
Instead of getting down, she got in, coming straight through the small
window, and arriving in a tangle of pink and white at his side.
The doctor heaved a prodigious sigh. As a colonel of the Confederacy
he had exacted strict discipline and unquestioning obedience, but he
now found himself ignominiously reduced to the ranks, and another
Fenton in command.
At Hollis Farm the judge met them at the gate. He was large and
loose-jointed, with the frame of a Titan and the smile of a child. He
wore a long, loose dressing-gown and a pair of slippers elaborately
embroidered in green roses. His big, irregular features were softened
by an expression of indulgent interest toward the world at large.
"Good morning, doctor. Howdy, Nettie. How are you all this morning?"
"Who's sick?" growled the doctor as he hitched his horse to the fence.
"It's a stray lad, doctor; my old cook, Melvy, played the good
Samaritan and picked him up off the road last night. She brought him
to me this morning. He's out of his head with a fever."
"Where'd he come from?" asked the doctor.
"Mrs. Hollis says he was peddling goods up at Main street and the
bridge last night."
"Which one is he?" demanded Annette, eagerly, as she emerged from the
buggy. "Is he g-good-looking, with blue eyes and light hair? Or is he
b-black and ugly and sort of cross-eyed?"
The judge peered over his glasses quizzically. "Thinking about the
boys, as usual! Now I want to know what business you have noticing the
color of a peddler's eyes?"
Annette blushed, but she stood her ground. "All the g-girls noticed
him. He wasn't an ordinary peddler. He was just as smart and f-funny
as could be."
"Well, he isn't smart and funny now," said the judge, with a grim
laugh.
The two men passed up the long avenue and into the house. At the door
they were met by Mrs. Hollis, whose small angular person breathed
protest. Her black hair was arranged in symmetrical bands which were
drawn tightly back from a straight part. When she talked, a
gold-capped tooth was disclosed on each side of her mouth, giving rise
to the judge's joke that one was capped to keep the other company,
since Mrs. Hollis's sense of order and regularity rebelled against one
eye-tooth of one color and the other of another.
"Good morning, doctor," she said shortly; "there's the door-mat. No,
don't put your hat there; I'll take it. Isn't this a pretty business
for Melvy to come bringing a sick tramp up here--on general
cleaning-day, too?"
"Aren't all days cleaning-days to you, Sue?" asked the judge,
playfully.
"When you are in the house," she answered sharply. Then she turned to
the doctor, who was starting up the stairs:
"If this boy is in for a long spell, I want him moved somewhere. I
can't have my carpets run over and my whole house smelling like a
hospital."
"Now, Susan," remonstrated the judge, gently, "we can't turn the lad
out. We've got room and to spare. If he's got the fever, he'll have
to stay."
"We'll see, we'll see," said the doctor.
But when he tiptoed down from the room above there was no question
about it.
"Very sick boy," he said, rubbing his hand over his bald head. "If he
gets better, I might take him over to Mrs. Meech's; he can't be moved
now."
"Mrs. Meech!" cried Mrs. Hollis, in fine scorn. "Do you think I would
let him go to that dirty house--and with this fever, too? Why, Mrs.
Meech's front curtains haven't been washed since Christmas! She and
the preacher and Martha all sit around with their noses in books, and
never even know that the water-spout is leaking and the porch needs
mopping! You can't tell me anything about the Meeches!"
Neither of the men tried to do so; they stood silent in the doorway,
looking very grave.
"For mercy sake! what is that in the front lot?" exclaimed Mrs.
Hollis.
The doctor had an uncomfortable premonition, which was promptly
verified. One of the judge's friskiest colts was circling madly about
the driveway, while astride of it, in triumph, sat Annette, her dress
ripped at the belt, her hair flying.
"If she don't need a woman's hand!" exclaimed Mrs. Hollis. "I could
manage her all right."
The doctor looked from Mrs. Hollis, with her firm, close-shut mouth,
to the flying figure on the lawn.
"Perhaps," he said, lifting his brows; but he put the odds on Annette.
That night, when Aunt Melvy brought the lamp into the sitting-room,
she waited nervously near Mrs. Hollis's chair.
"Miss Sue," she ventured presently, "is de cunjers comin' out?"
"The what?"
"De cunjers what dat pore chile's got. I done tried all de spells I
knowed, but look lak dey didn't do no good."
"He has the fever," said Mrs. Hollis; "and it means a long spell of
nursing and bother for me."
The judge stirred uncomfortably. "Now, Sue," he remonstrated, "you
needn't take a bit of bother. Melvy will see to him by day, and I will
look after him at night."
Mrs. Hollis bit her lip and heroically refrained from expressing her
mind.
"He's a mighty purty chile," said Aunt Melvy, tentatively.
"He's a common tramp," said Mrs. Hollis.
After supper, arranging a tray with a snowy napkin and a steaming bowl
of broth, Mrs. Hollis went up to the sick-room. Her first step had
been to have the patient bathed and combed and made presentable for
the occupancy of the guest-chamber. It had been with rebellion of
spirit that she placed him there, but the judge had taken one of those
infrequent stands which she knew it was useless to resist. She put the
tray on a table near the big four-poster bed, and leaned over to look
at the sleeper.
Sandy lay quiet among the pillows, his fair hair tumbled, his lips
parted. As the light fell on his flushed face he stirred.
"Here's your supper," said Mrs. Hollis, her voice softening in spite
of herself. He was younger than she had thought. She slipped her arm
under the pillow and raised his head.
"You must eat," she said kindly.
He looked at her vacantly, then a momentary consciousness flitted over
his face, a vague realization that he was being cared for. He put up a
hot hand and gently touched her cheek; then, rallying all his
strength, he smiled away his debt of gratitude. It was over in a
moment, and he sank back unconscious.
[Illustration: "He smiled away his debt of gratitude"]
Through the dreary hours of the night Mrs. Hollis sat by the bed,
nursing him with the aching tenderness that only a childless woman can
know. Below, in the depths of a big feather-bed, the judge slept in
peaceful unconcern, disturbing the silence by a series of long, loud,
and unmelodious snores.