DEATH OF GASTON.
"Feed me, curry me, ride me, and love me," ran the legend on the card
that hung from Skatta's bridle, and Dolly fulfilled it to the letter.
A special stall was given to Skatta--not in the stable where Suke and
Dapple and Bill, and the horses of the guests of the tavern, were kept,
but in a corner of the clean, well-kept cow-barn, where was also a
closet in which to lock up her saddle and bridle, of which closet Dolly
had the key.
Every morning Dolly put on her "groom's dress"--an old _delaine_ set
aside for that purpose--gave Skatta her hay and oats, led her to water,
and then curried and brushed her till every hair was straight and
shiny, and her mane as wavy and glossy as Dolly's own.
Every day, too, except when it stormed, she obeyed the third injunction
and rode her. The pretty Shetland, with Dolly on her back and the
faithful Gaston by her side, became a familiar object to all that
country-side, and rare were the occasions when Ned and old Bill did
not form a part of the cavalcade. As they dashed by, Ned raising his
cap gallantly and Dolly waving a kiss from her finger-tips, the old
aunties breathed a simultaneous "Bless the children!" Not infrequently
they reined up their horses by the broad, flat door-stone which lay
at the entrance of "The Hut"--for that was the name of the somewhat
primitive building wherein the aunties dwelt. The latch-string was
always out, literally, for these two, for The Hut, built of plank and
unshingled, looked like a log-cabin, and had a primitive latch-string,
as it should.
Dolly found these old aunties delightfully "jolly," as, you remember,
Ned said she would, though the adjective "jolly" could be consistently
applied to only one, and that one Aunt Debby. Aunt Debby was a
plump, cushiony, dumpling of a woman, all the way of a bigness, with
sparkling black eyes and a broad, ever-smiling mouth. She was the one
who took the "heft" of the scrubbing and cooking, while Nanny did the
"puttering." Poor Aunt Patty, palsy-stricken for many years, could only
do a little knitting, and even this became sadly tangled in her shaking
hands, and it was a part of Nanny's puttering to disentangle her yarn
and pick up the numberless dropped stitches. So Aunt Patty, under
Nanny's supervision, was able to knit a couple of pair of stockings a
year, the doing of which was a great comfort to her.
Nanny was a singularly appropriate name for the simple-hearted,
childlike woman who bore it. With her gentle absent-mindedness, she was
a never-failing source of amusement to Debby. She was always putting
on her things upside down and wrong side out, and going off to meeting
without any bonnet. Once she started without bonnet or "front"--the
front being the indispensable old lady's "bang" of those days--and Aunt
Debby, following her, laughed so at Nanny's absurd appearance in her
best black-silk gown, with muslin kerchief crossed placidly over her
bosom, and her short white hair her only head-covering, that she came
near not catching her at all, and Nanny was barely saved the scandal of
entering the meeting-house with uncovered head.
Aunt Debby herself, on ordinary occasions, wore a green calash--a
queer head-gear, which looked like a chaise-top and shut up like an
accordeon. This calash could be pulled over the face at will by means
of a ribbon fastened to the front.
"You favor y'r gre't-gran'ma, my dear," said Aunt Debby to Dolly one
morning, as they drew rein at her door--"now don't she, Nanny?--y'r
gre't-gran'ma Marchant. She's light-c'mplected like Dorothea Williams
was, an' she's got the same high way o' carryin' her head--uppish,
some folks said, but I never did. 'F there ever _was_ a good, kind
woman 'twas Dorothea Williams, 'n she never set up t' be better 'n her
neighbors, t' my way o' thinkin'. I remember, 's if 'twas yisterday,
seein' her come out bride. She 'n Cyrus Marchant were a proper han'som'
couple;" and Aunt Debby's twinkling black eyes took on a retrospective
look.
"Oh, do you remember my great-grandma Marchant?" exclaimed Dolly, to
whom a great-grandmamma seemed very far away indeed.
"Ay, lassie, an' she waur a braw leddy an' a bonnie. Her een were like
the stars o' a simmer's night, soft and bright," said Debby, who often
betrayed her Scotch descent by her speech, especially when going back
into the past; but she always shook herself after it with a laugh, as
now.
"Eh, my dear old mither! her Scotch tongue cleaves to me yet," she
said. "Yes, dearie, I remember her well, and she was a brave leddy as
well as a bonnie. D' y' mind, Nanny, the time she brought home the
robber's ho's'?--leastways we thought 'twas a robber's ho's', for he
never come for it, as an honest man would."
"Yes; it was a fearfu' happenin' for so young a lassie, but the Lord
takes care o' his own," was Nanny's reply.
Dolly's eyes opened wide in expectant wonder. "Oh, tell me all about
it, Aunt Debby. I never even heard of it before;" and she dropped the
reins on Skatta's neck and leaned eagerly forward.
"'Twas the year afore she was merried to y'r gre't-gran'ther, Cyrus
Marchant," said Aunt Debby, bringing her little flax-wheel out on
the broad, flat door-stone, and seating herself beside it, so that
not a moment should be lost. "She'd gone over t' Triphammer f'r a
matter o' ten pounds or so th't Squire Elderkin was owin' t' y'r
gre't-gre't-gran'ther Williams. 'Twas a part o' Dorothea's dowry, an'
was goin' t' buy her weddin'-gown, which Cap'en Nehemiah Higgins had
jest brought home from Chainy--a white satin covered with lilies o' th'
valley in shinin' siller. I saw her merried 'n that same gown, an' she
looked like a lily o' th' valley hersel'; an' when she died, a matter
o' three years a'ter, Cyrus Marchant said she sh'd be buried 'n that
weddin'-gown, an' go down t' th' grave as a bride; an' buried in it
she waur, an' she looked like a pure lily o' th' valley as she lay in
her coffin, wi' her babby on her breast. An' y'r gre't-gran'ther went
a-moanin' all his days, an' never merried ag'in.
"But this ain't tellin' you about the robber's ho's'," said Aunt Debby,
briskly, giving a vigorous twirl to the wheel with her foot. "I'm
a chatterin' old woman, that's what I am. Well, as I was a-sayin',
she'd gone down t' Triphammer f' the siller, an' was a-comin' home,
an' in th' woods betwixt here 'n there--or that _was_ 'twixt here 'n
there, f'r it's a' gone lang syne--a horseman came canterin' up, an'
stopped an' spoke t' Dorothea, tryin' t' be p'lite; but Dorothea said
she mistrusted him th' minute she set eyes on him. Seems sometimes
's though the Lord's angels did watch over his'n to warn 'em. An' he
talked about the exc'llent good crops, an' had she heard how Silas
Sweet's ship was lost last year 'n th' Chainy seas an' him just got
home, an' how Colonel Sturtevant's best cow 'd died, an' other things,
t' make Dorothea think he wa'n't no stranger 'n them parts, 'n she
needn't be afeard o' him. But th' more th' crittur talked, th' more
Dorothea mistrusted him; tho' she wa'n't afeard, not she, f'r she had
a high sperit, an' was only a-castin' about 'n her mind how she c'd
git rid o' him; an' then he said 'twas a lonesome bit o' woods f'r a
young leddy t' ride through alone in, 'n 'twas well f'r her t' have his
comp'ny; 'n jest then his saddle-girt' loosed 'n slipped, 'n he jumped
off t' fix it, callin' t' Dorothea t' wait a minute. An' while he was
a-stoopin' t' tighten th' girt', Dorothea see a big pistol stickin'
out o' the bosom o' his ruffled shirt, an' quick as a flash she struck
his ho's' with her ridin'-whip, an' giv' the word t' Sunset, her own
ho's', an' off they both went, knockin' over th' villain in th' dirt,
though he scrambled up 'n fired off his pistol at 'em jest as they were
goin' out o' sight 'n a turn o' the road, an' Dorothea heard th' bullet
whiz close by, an' it clipped off a bit o' Sunset's ear. But that only
made 'em go faster; an' when Dorothea got home, her father said if
nobody didn't come f'r th' ho's' it sh'd be hers, an' what was in th'
saddle-bags sh'd be hers. An' nobody never did come f'r th' ho's',
an' in the saddle-bags was two hundred pounds in gowd an' siller, and
Dorothea had th' biggest dowry 'f any girl in Byfield."
"Ned!" spoke Dolly.
They had been riding for some time in a silence rather unusual for
these two. They had left Aunt Debby's, and were on their way to Hemlock
Island to see the coal-pits.
"Well?" answered Ned. "I've been wondering what you were thinking
about, Dolly."
"Oh, ever so many things," said Dolly, rousing herself and starting up
Skatta, who had been ambling slowly along, into a brisk trot--"ever
so many things--Skipper Joe's stories, and the Little Madam, and what
Aunt Debby just told us about Great-grandma Marchant; and I've been
wondering why books about people can't be just as interesting. Now,
you know, Ned, 'Robinson Crusoe' is, and so's 'Robin's Journal,' but
history's just stupid."
"Well, I s'pose _that's_ history," replied Ned. "I heard Dr. Stone say,
the other day, we were making history all the time, we Americans; an'
that's the way we make it, I s'pose."
"The interesting parts never get into the history-books, then," said
Dolly.
"That's so," replied Ned, emphatically, who had just begun Greek
history, and hated it, though he liked Homer. He had found a copy of
Chapman's Homer in an old chest in the secret chamber of the tavern,
and had read it with great relish. He had never told Dolly about the
book, nor about the secret chamber: he was keeping them for her.
As I said, they were on their way to Hemlock Island--to that part of
it where the coal-pits were. It was a mid-October day. A blue mist
lay along the horizon. The golden-rod had faded, but the purple asters
still bloomed by the way-side, and the oak and hickory were rich in
crimson and gold. Great heaps of apples lay in the orchards, and the
yellow pumpkins were piled in the corners of the cornfields. Their way
lay through the fields--a well-defined roadway, but with numberless
bars to let down.
"Say, Dolly," exclaimed Ned at last, impatient at having to dismount
every other thing to let down bars, "let's leap 'em. Old Bill can do
it, and I'll teach Skatta. Just look!" and giving old Bill a touch with
the whip, he cleared the four-railed fence, and came down on the other
side as lightly as a bird.
"Oh!" cried Dolly, admiringly. "Do you think Skatta could do that?"
"Uncle Malcolm wrote she was trained, and a saddle-horse isn't well
trained if he can't leap a fence," replied Ned, as if he knew. "But
you'd better try one rail first. You ar'n't afraid?" he asked.
"Afraid? not I!" answered Dolly, with a gay laugh. "Didn't Aunt Debby
say I carried my head high like Great-grandma Marchant? and she wasn't
afraid;" and she brought Skatta in front of the one rail, Ned having
carefully removed the others.
With a slight leap Skatta went over, and as she came down on the other
side she tossed her head, as who should say, "What a _bagatelle_ is
that for a horse!"
"She's used to it," pronounced Ned; "and you did first-rate, too,
Dolly; you didn't bounce a mite. Now we'll try two rails."
Skatta went over two rails, and Dolly pronounced it "as good as flying;
and I sha'n't envy the birds any more after this, Ned." Then the three
rails were tried, then the four, and Skatta proved the quality of her
training by going over without a balk, and after that there was no more
dismounting to let down bars.
As they rode in among the coal-pits, Skatta gave a terrified snort
and began to back. She did not like the smoke, and the fire that was
belching out from a hole in one of the pits frightened her.
"So, so, Skatta," said Dolly, patting her soothingly; "don't be a
goose! it's only a coal-pit." And using a little judicious coaxing, she
got her past the flaming pit to the farther side, where the smoke was
less dense. As she passed the man who was tending the blazing pit, he
looked up. It was an evil glance that he cast upon the two from under
his ragged, dirty cap.
"What a dreadful man! Who is he, Ned?" asked Dolly, in a whisper,
bringing Skatta up close to old Bill.
"I'm sure I don't know. A man always looks horrid, anyway, when he's
coaling. 'Zekle can tell you, I guess, if you want to know. Why,
Dolly?"
"Seems as if I'd seen him before, Ned;" and Dolly shivered slightly.
This was not Dolly's first visit to the coal-pits. She had watched with
great interest the whole process, from the building to the firing of
the pits. Some of them were now almost ready to be coaled.
"They're dewin' fust-rate, mostly," said 'Zekle; "but that feller's
makin' a mess o' his'n," indicating with a nod the man with the evil
eye.
"Who is he?" asked Dolly.
"I d'no who he _is_, but I know he don't know nothin' 'bout tendin' a
pit," replied 'Zekle. "He come here 'n wanted work, 'n said he knowed
all 'bout coalin'. But he might 's well quit. Here, you!" he called
out to the man, who turned surlily. "We don't care to keep _you_ any
longer. Y're jest sp'ilin' that pit. Burnt up more coal now 'n y're
wuth."
The man threw down his hoe, turned upon his heel, and, before 'Zekle
had time to speak again, disappeared into the thick woods that closely
encircled the clearing where the pits were.
"Wa'al," said 'Zekle, "'f he hadn't b'en 'n sech a 'tarnal hurry I'd
a-gi'n him a quarter, tho' he ain't 'arned a red cent." (Cents were
cents in those days, not nickels, and _were_ red.)
Dolly and Ned took dinner in one of the cabins. This had been
understood at the tavern when they left that morning. 'Zekle made
coffee, and broiled pickerel fresh from Wintuxet Lake. This gypsy-like
lunch was highly relished by Dolly. The potatoes were roasted in the
ashes; and though much of the smoke which was expected to pass out
through a hole in the roof lingered in the cabin, by keeping in a
strong draught near the door it was endurable.
How cosey those cabins did look, to be sure, with their bunks filled
with straw and their very primitive stone fireplaces!
"Coaling must be great fun," remarked Dolly, as she devoured a section
of one of Thankful's plummy mince-pies.
"I guess you'd think so 'f you 's here once in a storm," said Ned,
who in the past had entertained similar views of the delights of
charcoal-making, and had been permitted by his mother to test them.
"Door shut tight t' keep out wind and rain, cabin chock-full o' smoke,
water pouring in through the cracks, straw sopping wet, an' old shanty
shaking 's if 't might blow away any minute. Oh yes, it's great fun!"
he concluded, ironically.
They lingered for some time about the pits, and then went down to the
lake. Here they found the remains of a raft, built by Ned the preceding
summer, in conjunction with several other boys. This they launched, and
paddled about, barely escaping a ducking, and so it was well into the
afternoon before they started for home.
Dolly had well fulfilled the injunction laid upon her by Aunt Anna to
watch over the Little Madam. Rarely a day had passed since that time
that she had not gone once at least to the vine-covered cottage. Ned
often went with her, but not always; and Dolly, leaving Skatta to
nibble the grass by the gate, would go in to nod and smile and talk as
well as she could with the Little Madam over her boxes of mignonette,
her bees, and her quaint embroidery; to cultivate a still more intimate
acquaintance with the cockatoo, who now knew her well, and who no
longer shrieked at the sight of Gaston; and to pet the white, blue-eyed
Persian cat, while Gaston slept peacefully on the sunny door-stone.
The daily offering of the Little Madam in her office as hostess was
usually a tiny square of honeycomb, dripping with amber honey made by
her own bees, sometimes varied with a pink peach or a russet pear.
Whatever it might be, it was daintily served on some delicate bit of
India ware--another of Skipper Joe's gifts, who seemed to consider
nothing too good or too fine for this little lady.
Meanwhile, Aunt Anna's solicitude in regard to the Little Madam's
comfort and safety had not lessened. The rumors concerning her had
gained ground. She was not only a Roman Catholic, who kept a cross with
the crucified Christ upon it in her room, and worshipped this graven
image contrary to the commandment, but her forgetfulness was all a
pretence. She knew what she was about well enough. "She was a spy,"
said some; spying for what purpose, however, they could not definitely
say. "A Jesuit, without doubt," one woman more learned than the others
declared. "If she were not got rid of in some way she would ruin the
morals and destroy the faith of the young, especially," said others.
"And _what_ was Mis' Park a-thinkin' of, t' let that child (Dolly)
keep a-runnin' down there every day o' her life! Mark my words, Miss
Periwinkle, she'll rue it--she'll rue it yit!" And Aunt Debby, to whom
these words were addressed, "guessed Mis' Park c'd take care o' her own
business, an' didn't want none o' her help."
But all this unfriendly gossip bore its legitimate fruit. Many who
heretofore had been kind to the Little Madam, and had given expression
to that kindness in words and in gifts, now stood aloof, and, like the
Priest and the Levite, passed by on the other side. The more ignorant
gave active expression to their dislike and distrust, and annoyed her
in many ways. Especially did the children do this. Her grapes were
stolen and the vine pulled up--the vine she herself had transplanted
from its native woods. Her beehive was upset; and it is pleasant to
chronicle that the boy who did it was badly stung; and the brown-eyed
doctor, having to be called in, while he mitigated the sufferings of
his patient, improved the opportunity of administering both to the boy
and his mother a homily on the duty of loving one's neighbor as one's
self.
Once Dolly, arriving opportunely, found one of these boys fastening a
cord around the neck of the blue-eyed Persian cat, with the intent to
hang her. He was crouching behind the barn, where he thought himself
completely hidden from observation, and was taken by surprise when
Dolly fell upon him "tooth and nail," released the cat, and gave the
young ruffian a sound cuffing. He did not forget the feel of her soft
palm nor the look in her blazing eyes for many a day; and when Dolly,
half ashamed, confessed her passionate outbreak to Aunt Anna, the
latter said she had done just right, and needn't feel called upon to
apologize.
So, as they came that day to the lane leading down to the Little
Madam's, Dolly said, "It's late, Ned; but I must go down and see the
Little Madam. I haven't seen her to-day."
"I wouldn't go to-night, Dolly, 'f I were you; no matter 'f you do miss
a day," said Ned.
Dolly hesitated a moment. Then she turned Skatta's head decidedly. "Oh
yes, I must, Ned," she said. "There's no knowing what those dreadful
boys have done to her to-day. I sha'n't feel a bit easy if I don't see
her. But you needn't come, Ned."
Dolly trotted off, and Ned rode slowly on towards the tavern; but just
before he reached it he turned his horse and galloped after Dolly, who
was already out of sight.
As Dolly drew near the cottage she became at once aware that something
unusual was taking place. On the low roof of the barn crouched the
Persian cat, with every hair erect, and her tail bristling like a
lamp-chimney cleaner, while the cockatoo was shrieking loudly within
the house, "Go 'way! go 'way! Bad boy! bad boy!"
Dolly leaped from her horse and ran in, to find the Little Madam
struggling in the grasp of a man, whom she instantly recognized as the
one she had seen that day at the coal-pits--the man with the evil eye.
With a savage roar Gaston ran past Dolly, sprang upon the man, and
seized him by the throat. There was a momentary struggle, a flash, a
crack of a pistol, then the man leaped through the open window just as
Ned rode up, and Gaston lay stretched upon the floor, with the blood
pouring out from a wound in his breast.
Dolly stood for a moment as if dazed, then she threw herself down by
his side, with a piercing cry of "Gaston! Gaston!" The brave fellow
made one last effort to rise and to lap the hand of his beloved
mistress, looked once at her with his human eyes, and then the
faithful, loving heart was stilled forever.
After that first cry Dolly lay motionless, with her hands clasped
around the dead dog's neck, and her face buried in his shaggy hair,
making half-inarticulate moans, pitiful to hear, Ned felt, as he came
in and spoke to her and she did not answer.
"Oh don't, Dolly! don't!" he entreated. "Come home to mother." And he
bent down and tried to loosen the tightly clasped hands. But Dolly made
no reply, only lying quite still, with the low heart-breaking moans
coming from her lips at intervals.
"Take care of her," he said at last to the Little Madam, "and I'll go
for mother."
When Aunt Anna came she found her still lying there, with the Little
Madam by her side tenderly caressing her, and the Australian cockatoo
talking from his perch in the corner--"Poor Dolly! poor Polly! kiss
Dolly! Gaston! Gaston! dead!" and then he gave a chuckle that sounded
curiously like a sob.
"Dolly," said Mrs. Park, lifting her gently but firmly, "come with me,
my dear; come home, and we will take Gaston too." At the sound of his
name the flood-gates of her grief were opened and the tears came fast,
with sobs that shook her whole frame. She yielded at once, however,
to the loving command, and Uncle Harry carried her in his arms to the
carriage and they drove home, with Ned following sorrowfully on old
Bill, and leading Skatta.
'Zekle got out the express wagon to go for Gaston.
"Seems if 't 'd ought t' be the hearse," he said to Thankful, as he
put some clean straw in the bottom and laid a white sheet over it,
which Thankful had brought for that purpose. "He's a sight humaner th'n
some human critters I know."
"That's so, 'nough sight," replied Thankful, in her grimmest tone, and
she looked black as a thunder-cloud in a sultry summer's sky.
Grief always had a singular effect on Thankful, and she forgot how
often she had scolded Gaston for bringing in dirt on his big feet; but
he had also had many a toothsome morsel from her hand, and they had
been on the whole excellent friends. It was Thankful's way to give her
friends an admonitory rap with one hand, while she held out some valued
gift with the other.
"Now, Ned," she said, "'f you want t' do somethin' for Gaston, you c'n
go 'n git some pine boughs 'nstead o' snivellin' there;" for poor Ned,
utterly broken down with grief for Gaston and the distress of seeing
Dolly's tears, was himself sobbing in the deep window-seat in the
sitting-room, where he had hoped nobody would see him.
"Mis' Park wants him put 'n the parlor; an' we'll have things done
decent 'f he _is_ nothin' but a dog." And Thankful, slamming the door
behind her, retreated to the parlor to make the necessary arrangements;
and when 'Zekle and the other men arrived, bringing Gaston, he was laid
tenderly on the fragrant pine boughs.
The next day he was buried in the little grass-plot in Aunt Anna's
flower-garden, and was missed and mourned by the whole household,
but by none so deeply as by his beloved mistress, who refused to be
comforted.
The spot where Gaston lay was shut in from observation by a trellis
overgrown with the ever-green myrtle, and there Aunt Anna often
found her, lying upon his grave and crying softly. She was becoming
acquainted with Death, for we never really become acquainted with Death
until he takes some one we dearly love.
"Do you think it is right for you to mourn so for Gaston?" asked Aunt
Anna, one day, finding her there as usual. "Gaston was getting old, and
some day he would have died."
"Oh dear! that don't make it a bit easier," moaned Dolly, as Aunt Anna
knew very well. "I wanted him to live as long as I did, and now I shall
never see him again--_never!_" and a fresh burst of tears followed.
Aunt Anna hesitated a moment before she spoke again. "Do you remember,
Dolly, how our Lord said that a sparrow does not fall unnoticed by our
Father? And it is not for us to say whether Gaston shall live again.
Many wise and good men and women believe that life once given is never
taken back. There is nothing in the Bible that forbids our believing
that our beloved companions among what we call the brute creation
shall live again. We have a loving Father, Dolly, and we must trust
ourselves and all we have to His keeping. He will never fail us." And
Dolly, listening, was comforted, and from that hour could think and
speak of Gaston with cheerfulness.
That night--the night after Gaston was killed--'Zekle passed at the
vine-covered cottage so that no farther harm came to the Little Madam,
and the next day she was transferred, with the blue-eyed cat and
the white cockatoo, her boxes of mignonette and her old India ware,
to a sunny corner of the tavern. Her bees were carefully removed to
winter-quarters, and the dismantled cottage locked until spring, or
until less troublous times should permit her return.
Dolly, meanwhile, was haunted by a feeling that, after some hesitation,
she imparted to Aunt Anna.
"I think, Aunt Anna," she said, "that the dreadful man who killed
Gaston was one of the thieves that tried to rob Uncle Harry."
"What makes you think so, my dear?"
"Because when he jumped through the window he looked just as one of
them did that night when they jumped through the meeting-house window.
And his voice, too, Auntie--he was swearing dreadfully at the Little
Madam, and it makes me think of that night every time I think of him."
When Aunt Anna told her husband what Dolly had said, his reply was,
"Very likely. But I don't see what he was after at the Little Madam's.
She hasn't any money or anything of value except her cat and her
cockatoo, and a thief wouldn't be likely to want those."
And then Mrs. Park told him the latest gossip about the Little Madam;
how it was rumored that she had a large sum of money concealed on her
premises.
"Where do they think she got it, and what do they think she is going to
do with it?" asked Uncle Harry.
"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Mrs. Park. "There's no reason in such
a supposition, of course. But who ever heard of a reasonable gossip!"
Who, indeed!