_The White Farm. Evening._
TIMOTHY, LADY GAY, AND RAGS PROVE FAITHFUL TO EACH OTHER.
Samantha went into the sitting-room and told the whole story to Miss
Avilda; told it simply and plainly, for she was not given to arabesques
in language, and then waited for a response.
"Well, what do you advise doin'?" asked Miss Cummins nervously.
"I don't feel comp'tent to advise, Vilda; the house ain't mine, nor yet
the beds that's in it, nor the victuals in the butt'ry; but as a
professin' Christian and member of the Orthodox Church in good and
reg'lar standin' you can't turn 'em ou'doors when it's comin' on dark
and they ain't got no place to sleep."
"Plenty of good Orthodox folks turned their backs on Martha when she was
in trouble."
"There may be Orthodox hogs, for all I know," replied the blunt
Samantha, who frequently called spades shovels in her search after
absolute truth of statement, "but that ain't no reason why we should
copy after 'em 's I know of."
"I don't propose to take in two strange children and saddle myself with
'em for days, or weeks, perhaps," said Miss Cummins coldly, "but I tell
you what I will do. Supposing we send the boy over to Squire Bean's.
It's near hayin' time, and he may take him in to help round and do
chores. Then we'll tell him before he goes that we'll keep the baby as
long as he gets a chance to work anywheres near. That will give us a
chance to look round for some place for 'em and find out whether they've
told us the truth."
"And if Squire Bean won't take him?" asked Samantha, with as much cold
indifference as she could assume.
"Well, I suppose there's nothing for it but he must come back here and
sleep. I'll go out and tell him so,--I declare I feel as weak as if I'd
had a spell of sickness!"
Timothy bore the news better than Samantha had feared. Squire Bean's
farm did not look so very far away; his heart was at rest about Gay and
he felt that he could find a shelter for himself somewhere.
"Now, how'll the baby act when she wakes up and finds you're gone?"
inquired Miss Vilda anxiously, as Timothy took his hat and bent down to
kiss the sleeping child.
"Well, I don't know exactly," answered Timothy, "because she's always
had me, you see. But I guess she'll be all right, now that she knows you
a little, and if I can see her every day. She never cries except once in
a long while when she gets mad; and if you're careful how you behave,
she'll hardly ever get mad at you."
"Well I vow!" exclaimed Miss Vilda with a grim glance at Samantha, "I
guess she'd better do the behavin'."
So Timothy was shown the way across the fields to Squire Bean's.
Samantha accompanied him to the back gate, where she gave him three
doughnuts and a sneaking kiss, watching him out of sight under the
pretense of taking the towels and napkins off the grass.
It was nearly nine o'clock and quite dark when Timothy stole again to
the little gate of the White Farm. The feet that had traveled so
courageously over the mile walk to Squire Bean's had come back again
slowly and wearily; for it is one thing to be shod with the sandals of
hope, and quite another to tread upon the leaden soles of
disappointment.
He leaned upon the white picket gate listening to the chirp of the frogs
and looking at the fireflies as they hung their gleaming lamps here and
there in the tall grass. Then he crept round to the side door, to
implore the kind offices of the mediator before he entered the presence
of the judge whom he assumed to be sitting in awful state somewhere in
the front part of the house. He lifted the latch noiselessly and
entered. Oh horror! Miss Avilda herself was sprinkling clothes at the
great table on one side of the room. There was a moment of silence.
"He wouldn't have me," said Timothy simply, "he said I wasn't big enough
yet. I offered him Gay, too, but he didn't want her either, and if you
please, I would rather sleep on the sofa so as not to be any more
trouble."
"You won't do any such thing," responded Miss Vilda briskly. "You've
got a royal welcome this time sure, and I guess you can earn your
lodging fast enough. You hear that?" and she opened the door that led
into the upper part of the house.
A piercing shriek floated down into the kitchen, and another on the
heels of that, and then another. Every drop of blood in Timothy's spare
body rushed to his pale grave face. "Is she being whipped?" he
whispered, with set lips.
"No; she needs it bad enough, but we ain't savages. She's only got the
pretty temper that matches her hair, just as you said. I guess we
haven't been behavin' to suit her."
"Can I go up? She'll stop in a minute when she sees me. She never went
to bed without me before, and truly, truly, she's not a cross baby!"
"Come right along and welcome; just so long as she has to stay you're
invited to visit with her. Land sakes! the neighbors will think we're
killin' pigs!" and Miss Vilda started upstairs to show Timothy the way.
Gay was sitting up in bed and the faithful Samantha Ann was seated
beside her with a lapful of useless bribes,--apples, seed-cakes, an
illustrated Bible, a thermometer, an ear of red corn, and a large
stuffed green bird, the glory of the "keeping room" mantelpiece.
But a whole aviary of highly colored songsters would not have assuaged
Gay's woe at that moment. Every effort at conciliation was met with the
one plaint: "I want my Timfy! I want my Timfy!"
At the first sight of the beloved form, Gay flung the sacred bird into
the furthest corner of the room and burst into a wild sob of delight, as
she threw herself into Timothy's loving arms.
Fifteen minutes later peace had descended on the troubled homestead, and
Samantha went into the sitting-room and threw herself into the depths of
the high-backed rocker. "Land o' liberty! perhaps I ain't het-up!" she
ejaculated, as she wiped the sweat of honest toil from her brow and
fanned herself vigorously with her apron. "I tell you what, at five
o'clock I was dreadful sorry I hadn't took Dave Milliken, but now I'm
plaguey glad I didn't! Still" (and here she tried to smooth the green
bird's ruffled plumage and restore him to his perch under the revered
glass case), "still, children will be children."
"Some of 'em's considerable more like wild cats," said Miss Avilda
briefly.
"You just go upstairs now, and see if you find anything that looks like
wild cats; but 't any rate, wild cats or tame cats, we would n't dass
turn 'em ou'doors this time o' night for fear of flyin' in the face of
Providence. If it's a stint He's set us, I don't see but we've got to
work it out somehow."
"I'd rather have some other stint."
"To be sure!" retorted Samantha vigorously. "I never see anybody yet
that didn't want to pick out her own stint; but mebbe if we got just the
one we wanted it wouldn't be no stint! Land o' liberty, what's that!"
There was a crash of falling tin pans, and Samantha flew to investigate
the cause. About ten minutes later she returned, more heated than ever,
and threw herself for the second time into the high-backed rocker.
"That dog's been givin' me a chase, I can tell you! He clawed and
scratched so in the shed that I put him in the wood-house; and he went
and clim' up on that carpenter's bench, and pitched out that little
winder at the top, and fell on to the milk-pan shelf and scattered every
last one of 'em, and then upsot all my cans of termatter plants. But I
couldn't find him, high nor low. All to once I see by the dirt on the
floor that he'd squirmed himself through the skeeter-nettin' door int'
the house, and then I surmised where he was. Sure enough, I crep'
upstairs and there he was, layin' between the two children as snug as
you please. He was snorin' like a pirate when I found him, but when I
stood over the bed with a candle I could see 't his wicked little eyes
was wide open, and he was jest makin' b'lieve sleep in hopes I'd leave
him where he was. Well, I yanked him out quicker 'n scat, 'n' locked him
in the old chicken house, so I guess he'll stay out, now. For folks that
claim to be no blood relation, I declare him 'n' the boy 'n' the baby
beats anything I ever come across for bein' fond of one 'nother!"
There were dreams at the White Farm that night. Timothy went to sleep
with a prayer on his lips; a prayer that God would excuse him for
speaking of Martha's doorplate, and a most imploring postscript to the
effect that God would please make Miss Vilda into a mother for Gay;
thinking as he floated off into the land of Nod, "It'll be awful hard
work, but I don't suppose He cares how hard 't is!"
Lady Gay dreamed of driving beautiful white horses beside sparkling
waters ... and through flowery meadows ... And great green birds perched
on all the trees and flew towards her as if to peck the cherries of her
lips ... but when she tried to beat them off they all turned into
Timothys and she hugged them close to her heart ...
Rags' visions were gloomy, for he knew not whether the Lady with the
Firm Hand would free him from his prison in the morning, or whether he
was there for all time ... But there were intervals of bliss when his
fancies took a brighter turn ... when Hope smiled ... and he bit the
white cat's tail ... and chased the infant turkeys ... and found sweet,
juicy, delicious bones in unexpected places ... and even inhaled, in
exquisite anticipation, the fragrance of one particularly succulent bone
that he had hidden under Miss Vilda's bed.
Sleep carried Samantha so many years back into the past that she heard
the blithe din of carpenters hammering and sawing on a little house
that was to be hers, his, _theirs_. ... And as she watched them, with
all sorts of maidenly hopes about the home that was to be ... some one
stole up behind and caught her at it, and she ran away blushing ... and
some one followed her ... and they watched the carpenters together. ...
Somebody else lived in the little house now, and Samantha never blushed
any more, but that part was mercifully hidden in the dream.
Miss Vilda's slumber was troubled. She seemed to be walking through
peaceful meadows, brown with autumn, when all at once there rose in the
path steep hills and rocky mountains ... She felt too tired and too old
to climb, but there was nothing else to be done ... And just as she
began the toilsome ascent, a little child appeared, and catching her
helplessly by the skirts implored to be taken with her ... And she
refused and went on alone ... but, miracle of miracles, when she reached
the crest of the first hill the child was there before her, still
beseeching to be carried ... And again she refused, and again she
wearily climbed the heights alone, always meeting the child when she
reached their summits, and always enacting the same scene.... At last
she cried in despair, "Ask me no more, for I have not even strength
enough for my own needs!" ... And the child said, "I will help you;" and
straightway crept into her arms and nestled there as one who would not
be denied ... and she took up her burden and walked.... And as she
climbed the weight grew lighter and lighter, till at length the clinging
arms seemed to give her peace and strength ... and when she neared the
crest of the highest mountain she felt new life throbbing in her veins
and new hopes stirring in her heart, and she remembered no more the pain
and weariness of her journey.... And all at once a bright angel appeared
to her and traced the letters of a word upon her forehead and took the
child from her arms and disappeared.... And the angel had the lovely
smile and sad eyes of Martha ... and the word she traced on Miss Vilda's
forehead was "Inasmuch"!