THE FINDING OF THE MONEY
In this instance the Little Red Hen was Luna. As always when possible
she had seated herself by Dorothy, who shared none of that repugnance
which some of the others, especially Helena, felt toward the
unfortunate. She had been cleanly if plainly clothed when she arrived
at Deerhurst, but the changes which had been made in her attire
pleased her by their bright colors and finer quality.
The waif always rebelled when Dinah or Norah sought to dress her in
the gray gown she had originally worn or to put her hair into a snug
knot. She clung to the cardinal-hued frock that Dorothy had given her
and pulled out the pins with which her attendants tried to confine her
white curls. In this respect she was like a spoiled child and she
always carried her point--as spoiled children usually do.
Thus to-night: To the old nurse it had seemed wise that the witless
one should go to her bed, instead of into that gay scene at the barn.
Luna had decided otherwise. Commonly so drowsy and willing to sleep
anywhere and anyhow, she was this night wide awake. Nothing could
persuade her to stay indoors, nothing that is, short of actual force
and, of course, such would never be tried. For there was infinite
pity in the hearts of most at Deerhurst, and a general feeling that
nothing they could do could possibly make up to her for the
intelligence she had never possessed. Also, they were all sorry for
her homelessness, as well as full of wonder concerning it. The
indifferent manner in which she had been left uncalled for seemed to
prove that she had been gotten rid of for a purpose. Those who had
lost her evidently did not wish to find her again. Yet, there was
still a mystery in the matter; and one which Mrs. Calvert, coming
fresh upon it, was naturally resolved to discover. The poor thing was
perfectly at home at Deerhurst now, and judging by her habitual smile,
as happy as such an one could be. But though the mistress of the
mansion felt that her household had done right in sheltering the
wanderer and in allowing her to partake of all their festivities, she
did not at all intend to give a permanent home to this stranger. She
could not. Her own plans were for far different things; and since she
had, at last, been so fortunate as to bestow the twins in their
legitimate home, she meant to find the same for Luna.
So the guest who was both child and woman had carried her point and
was one in the ring of story-tellers. She paid no heed to what was
going on but amused herself with folding and unfolding her red skirt;
or in smoothing the fanciful silk in which Dorothy appeared as a belle
of long ago.
The pair were sitting on a pile of hay, leaning against a higher one,
and Dorothy had been absorbed in listening to the composite story and
wondering what she should add to it. Her head was bent toward Luna and
she dreamily watched the movements of her neighbor's tiny wrinkled
hands. Suddenly she became aware that there was a method in their
action; that they were half-pulling out, half-thrusting back,
something from the fastening of the scarlet blouse.
This something was green; it was paper; it was prized by its
possessor, for each time Dorothy moved, Luna thrust her treasures back
out of sight and smiled her meaningless smile into the face above her.
But Dorothy ceased to move at all, and the dreaminess left her gaze,
which had now become breathlessly alert and strained.
She watched her opportunity and when again Luna drew her plaything
from her blouse, Dorothy snatched it from her and sprang to her feet,
crying:
"The money is found! The money is found! My lost one hundred dollars!"
Strangely enough Luna neither protested nor noticed her loss. The
drowsiness that often came upon her, like a flash, did so now and she
sank back against her hay-support, sound asleep.
All crowded about Dorothy, excited, incredulous, delighted, sorely
puzzled.
"Could Luna have stolen it, that foolish one?"
"But she wasn't in the house the night it was lost. Don't you
remember? It was then that Dolly found her out by the pond. It
couldn't have been she!"
"Do you suppose it blew out of the window and she picked it up?"
"It couldn't. The window wasn't opened. It stormed, you know."
Such were the questions and answering speculations that followed
Dorothy's exclamation, as the lads and lassies found this real drama
far more absorbing than the composite tale had been.
Mrs. Calvert and Mr. Seth alone said nothing, but they watched with
tender anxiety to see Dorothy's next action. That it satisfied them
was evident, from the smiles of approval gathering on their faces and
the joyous nodding of the gray heads. Their girl hadn't disappointed
them--she was their precious Dorothy still.
She had gone straight to where old Ephraim and his cronies now sat in
a distant part of the barn, enjoying their share of the good things
Alfy and Danny had provided, and kneeling down beside him had laid the
roll of money on his knee. Then audibly enough for all to hear, she
said:
"Dear Ephraim, forgive me, if you can. This is the money I lost, the
ten crisp ten-dollar bills. Count them and see."
"No, no, li'l Missy! No, no. An' fo' de lan', doan you-all kneel to a
pore ole niggah lak me! Fo' de lan', Missy, whe'-all's yo' pride an'
mannehs?"
Her posture so distressed him that she rose and said, turning to her
friends that all might hear:
"It was I, and I alone, who put that money out of sight. I remember
now as clearly as if it were this minute. That red frock was the one I
wore that night when Luna came. There is a rip in it, between the
lining and the outside of the waist. It was an oversight of the
maker's, I suppose, that left it so, but I never mended it, because it
made such a handy pocket, and there was no other. I remember plain.
When the crash came I gathered up the money and thrust it into that
place. Instinct told me it was something to be cared for, I guess,
because I'm sure I didn't stop to think. Then when I went to bed I
must have been too excited to remember about it and left it there. The
next day I gave that frock to Luna and she has worn it ever since. How
long before she found the 'pocket' and what was in it, she can't tell
us. We've heard the 'help' say how quickly she noticed when money was
around and I suppose she's been afraid we'd take it from her; although
she didn't resent it just now when I did. Oh! I am so ashamed of
myself, so ashamed!"
Nobody spoke for a moment, till Ephraim rose and taking his fiddle
solemnly played the Doxology. That wasn't speaking, either, in a
sense; but it told plainer than words the gratitude of the simple old
man that the shadow on his character was banished forever.
Seth Winters nodded his own gray head in understanding of the negro's
sentiment, while Dorothy sped with the bills to lay them in her Aunt
Betty's lap, and to hide her mortified countenance upon the lady's
shoulder. Thence it was presently lifted, when Mrs. Calvert said:
"Now the lost is found, I'd like to inquire what shall be done with
it? It'll never seem just like other money to me or to my forgetful
darling here. Let's put it to vote. Here's my notebook, Dolly; tear
out a few leaves and give a scrap of the paper to each. Pass the
pencil along with them and let each write what she or he thinks the
most beneficent use for this restored one hundred dollars."
So it was done; even those among the servants grouped inside the great
doors, having their share of the evening's sport, even among these
those who could write put down their wish.
Then Jim Barlow collected the ballots and sorted them; and Seth
Winters's face shone with delight when it proved the majority had
voted:
"For the old man at St. Michael's."
So at once they made him take the money in charge; and it made all
glad to hear him say:
"That will keep the poor old chap in comfort for many a day," for he
would not damp their joy by his own knowledge that Hiram Bowen's days
could not be "many," though he meant that they should be the most
comfortable of all that pain-tormented life.
"Well, our rainy day has proved a blessed one! Also, the storm is over
and to-morrow should bring us fair weather for--the County Fair! All
in favor of going say Aye!" cried the Master.
The rafters rang again and again, and they moved doorwards, regretful
for the fun just past yet eager for that to come; while there was not
a young heart there but inwardly resolved never again to harbor
suspicion of evil in others, but to keep faith in the goodness of
humanity.
Meanwhile, what had this rainy day seen at Heartsease Farm? Where the
twins of evil names had been left to their new life, and their
maternal grandfather had so coolly turned his back upon them, while
they satisfied their material little souls with such cookies as they
had never tasted before.
Dorcas let them alone till they had devoured more than she felt was
good for them, and until Ananias turning from the table demanded:
"Gimme a drink."
"Gimme a drink!" echoed his mate; and the old lady thought it was
wonderful to hear them speak so plainly, or even that they could speak
at all. But she also felt that discipline should begin at once; and
though not given to embellishment of language she realized that their
"plain speech" was not exactly that of the Friends.
"Thee tell me thy name, first. Then thee shall drink."
"A-n an, a, ana, n-i ni, a-s as, Ananias."
"S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, r-a ra," glibly repeated the girl, almost
tripping over her brother in her eagerness to outdo him.
Dorcas Sands paled with horror. Such names as these! Forced upon the
innocent babes of her Rose! It was incredible!
Then, in an instant, the meekness, the downtroddenness of the woman
vanished. Her mission in life was not finished! Her sons had gone out
from her home and her daughter was dead, but here were those who were
dearer than all because they were "brands" to be saved from the
burning.
"Hear me, Rose's Babies! Thee is Benjamin, and a truth-teller; and
thee is Ruth. Let me never hear either say otherwise than as I said.
Now come. There is the bench and there the basin. The first child that
is clean shall have the first drink--but no quarreling. Birthright
Friends are gentle and well mannered. Forget it not."
The sternness of mild people is usually impressive. The twins found it
so. For the rest of that day, either because of the novelty of their
surroundings or their difficulty in mastering--without blows--the
spelling of their new names, they behaved with exceptionable
demureness; and when, in some fear their grandmother dispatched
Benjamin to Oliver's office to announce dinner, the miller fairly
stared to hear the midget say:
"Thee is to come to dinner, Oliver. Dorcas says so. Thee is to make
haste because there is lamb and it soon cools. Dorcas says the lamb
had wool once and that thee has the wool. Give it to me; Oliver. B-e-n
ben, j-a ja, m-i-n min, Benjamin. That's who I am now and I'm to have
anything I want on this Heartsease Farm because I'm Rose's baby. The
Dorcas woman says so. Oliver, _did thee know Rose?_"
This was the "plain speech" with a vengeance! The miller could
scarcely credit his own ears and doubting them used his eyes to the
greater advantage. What he saw was a bonny little face, from which
looked out a pair of fearless eyes; and a crown of yellow hair that
made a touch of sunlight in that dark room. "Did he know Rose?"
For the first time in many a day he remembered that he _had_ known
Rose; not as a rebellious daughter gone astray from the safe fold of
Quakerdom, but as a dutiful innocent little one whom he had loved.
Rising at last after a prolonged inspection of his grandson, an
inspection returned in kind with the unwinking stare of childhood, he
took the boy's hand and said:
"Very well, Benjamin, I will go with thee to dinner."
"But the wool? Can I have that? If I had that I could wrap it around
Sap--I mean R-u ru, t-h thuh, Ruth, when it's cold at night and Him's
off messagin'."
"Yes, yes. Thee can have anything if thee'll keep still while we ask
blessing."
The face of Dorcas glowed with a holy light. Never had that silent
grace been more earnestly felt than on that dark day when the coming
of "Rose's babies" had wrought such a happy effect on her husband's
sorrowful mood. True she also was sorrowful, though in less degree
than he; but now she believed with all her heart that this one
righteous thing he had done--this allowing of the orphans to come
home--would in some way heal that sorrow, or end it in happiness for
all.
All afternoon she busied herself in making ready for the permanent
comfort of her new-found "blessings." She hunted up in the attic the
long disused trundle-bed of her children; foraged in long-locked
cupboards for the tiny sheets and quilts; dragged out of hiding a
small chest of drawers and bestowed the twins' belongings therein,
bemoaning meanwhile the worldliness that had selected such fanciful
garments as a trio of young girls had done. However, there was plenty
of good material somewhere about the house. A cast-off coat of
Oliver's would make more than one suit for Benjamin; while for little
Ruth, already the darling of her grandmother's soul, there were ample
pieces of her own gowns to clothe her modestly and well.
"To-morrow will be the Fifth day, and of course, though he seems so
indifferent we shall all go to meeting. And when the neighbors ask:
'Whose children has thee found?' I shall just say 'Rosie's babies.'
Then let them gaze and gossip as they will. I, Dorcas, will not heed.
There will be peace at Heartsease now Rosie has come home--in the dear
forms of her children."
Thus thought the tender Friend, sitting and sewing diligently upon
such little garments as her fingers had not touched for so long a
time; but the "peace" upon which she counted seemed at that moment a
doubtful thing.
The day had worn itself out, and the miller had tired of indoors and
his own thoughts. From the distant living-room he had been conscious
of a strange sound--the prattle of childish voices and the gentle
responses of his wife. His heart had been softened, all unknown to
himself even, by a sorrow so recent it absorbed all his thought and
kept him wakeful with anxiety; yet it was rather pleasant to reflect,
in that gloomy afternoon, that he had given poor Dorcas her wish.
Those twins would be a great trouble and little satisfaction. They
were as much Bowen as Sands; still Dorcas had been good and patient,
and he was glad he had let her have her wish.
Ah! hum! The clouds were lifting. He wondered where those children
were. He began to wonder with more interest than he had felt during
all that endless week, what his workmen were doing. Maybe he would
feel better, more like himself, if he went out to the barn and looked
about. By this time the cows should be in the night-pasture, waiting
to be milked, those which were not now in the stalls of the County
Fair.
That Fair! He would have hated it had he not been a Friend and known
the sinfulness of hatred. But there were cattle lowing--it sounded as
if something were wrong. Habit resumed its sway, and with anxiety over
his cherished stock now re-awakened, he passed swiftly out.
"Oliver, thee has forgotten thy goloshes!" called his thoughtful
spouse, but he paid her no heed, though commonly most careful to guard
against his rheumatism.
"Who left that gate open? Who drove that cow--her calf--Child! is thee
possessed?"
Mrs. Betty Calvert was a true prophet--the twins had certainly waked
their grandsire up a bit! The explanation was simple, the disaster
great. They had tired of the quiet living-room and had also stolen out
of doors. Animals never frightened them and they were immediately
captivated by the goodly herd of cattle in the pasture. To open the
gate was easy; easy, too, to let free from its small shed a crying
calf. Between one cow and the calf there seemed a close interest.
"We oughtn't ha' did that! That big cow'll eat that little cow up. See
Sapphi--Ruth, see them stairs? Let's drive the little cow up the stair
past the big wagons and keep it all safe and nice," suggested
Benjamin.
So they did; much to the surprise of the calf who bounded up the
stairs readily enough, kicking its heels and cavorting in a most
entrancing fashion; but when they tried to bar the big cow from
following, she rushed past them and also ascended the stairs in a
swift, lumbering manner. The relationship between the big and little
cow now dawned even upon their limited intelligence, though there
still remained the fear that the one would devour the other.
Then the twins turned and gazed upon one another, anxiety upon their
faces; till spying the master of the premises most rapidly approaching
they rushed to meet him, exclaiming:
"The little cow's all safe but how will we get the big cow down?"
How, indeed! Oliver Sands was too angry to speak. For well he knew
that it would require the efforts of all his force of helpers to drive
that valuable Jersey down the stairs she had not hesitated to go up
when driven by maternal love.
With one majestic wave of his hand the miller dismissed his
grandchildren to the house and Dorcas; but so long and so hard he
labored to lure that imprisoned quadruped from his carriage-loft,
that, weary, he went early to bed and slept as he had not for nights.
So, in that it seemed his "waking up" had proved a blessing.