Dorothy at Skyrie
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The sale went on for a long time, and the bidding grew more spirited continually. Bill Barry's taunt about cash payment touched the pride of some, but the outcome of the matter was predestined from the beginning. Seth Winters had had his instructions and now acted upon them. When nobody would "raise" him any higher, the calf was knocked down to him at thirty-five dollars and was promptly dispatched to a new home in charge of the Smith boys, who had come to see the finish of the "Bee."
Bill Barry refused to take any payment for his services in the matter, so the blacksmith hurried to find Dorothy and to place the money in her hands. To his surprise, he found her weeping bitterly, with her head against old Hannah's hairy side, as if mingling her tears with that bereaved mother's.
"Why, Dorothy dear! I understood you were tired of Daisy-Jewel and more than willing to exchange him for a colt. See here – thirty-five dollars, all in crisp banknotes, and your very own!"
But Dorothy would not be comforted, nor even lift her curly head to look upon what she now sadly considered as the price of blood, while Hannah continued to moo distractingly, yet, at the same time managed to chew her cud – the sign of a well-contented bovine mind.
Jim also drew near, a wide, short board in hand and, wholly disgusted with Dorothy's inconsistency, exclaimed:
"Pshaw! If girls don't beat all creation for changin' their minds! Here was you wantin' to be rid of that calf, now cryin' like – most like one yourself. Shucks! Dorothy Chester, where's your good sense at? An' you stand aside, will you? I want to fix Hannah so you won't have to chase her no more."
Now the truth is that Dorothy had listened to the auction with keen interest and no thought of grief till she heard Mr. Barry allude to herself as a "poor little girl with only one calf." Then the springs of self-pity were touched and she would have stopped the sale had she dared or known quite how. That her father approved of it he had told her at its beginning, and so did Jim. These two were the most sensibly practical persons she knew, even more than mother Martha, – where the question of live stock was concerned, – and she ought to be guided by their judgment. Daisy-Jewel had been a trial and expense from the day of his arrival at Skyrie, but – he was her Daisy-Jewel, and she had sold him into bondage – probably, into worse: the hands of a butcher! Thirty-five dollars! It seemed incredible: but thirty-five dollars as the price of a life. How dreadful!
"Stand still, you old misery! Now, then, my Hannah, how do you find yourself?" cried Jim, coolly pushing Dorothy aside and stepping back himself to avoid the twisting and jerking of the cow's horns. "There you be! Plenty of chance to look down on the pasture but none to go skippin' over stun walls!"
Dorothy wiped her eyes, indignant with Jim for his callous want of sympathy in her own grief, and curious about Hannah; who had ceased both mooing and chewing, confused and distracted by the thing which had befallen her.
Jim had simply hung the board he had brought upon Hannah's horns and securely fastened it there, letting it fall forward over her face at an angle which permitted her to see the ground but, as he had declared, would not encourage her search for stone walls to leap. "Easy as fallin' off a log, ain't it?" he demanded of Mr. Winters, who had watched the operation with some amusement and some compassion. "Some folks think it's mean to put boards on 'em, but Mis' Stott she said 'twas better to be mean to critters than to have critters mean to folks. Why, here has Dorothy been runnin' half over the hull farm, catchin' Hannah, when all that time she might have been studyin' her books!"
"Thanks, noble youth! I'm not 'sufferin'' to study in the summer and vacation time," answered Dorothy, who had begun to recover her cheerfulness and now asked the blacksmith, as he extended the money toward her: "What will become of Daisy now?"
"Mrs. Calvert has bought him. He will be kept on the Deerhurst farm, the other side of the mountain, and will grow up, I trust, quite worthy of his pedigree. She owns a fine herd of animals and her stock-farm is one of her chief interests here."
"Than he won't be – be murdered?"
"No, indeed. Here is your money. I must be going. Good-night."
"I'll go along with you. Good-night, Dorothy. Don't forget to ask your folks 'bout that circus!" called Jim, casting a self-important glance into Seth Winters's face as he followed him down the path.
With her money in hand Dorothy joined her parents and was well commended that she had consented to the sale of Daisy-Jewel; and for a little while, until milking-time required Martha's presence in the barnyard, the trio discussed its vast amount and the best sort of horse to be selected. Neither Mr. Chester nor his wife dashed the girl's enthusiasm or so much as hinted that the sum in hand would scarcely pay for a good horse. To her it seemed all-sufficient, not only for a horse, but for a wagon and harness as well. And – But let us not anticipate!
The circus whose coming attractions now filled Jim Barlow's mind more than even his beloved "study" had sent out its posters long ahead; so that the country folk might accustom themselves to the ideas of its tempting sights and to grow anxious to behold them. To the lad it seemed as if the days would never pass. The only relief to his eagerness was that Herbert's projected camp-picnic had been postponed on account of Helena's sudden illness. One of her bronchial attacks had kept her a prisoner within the Towers and she had become so interested in the idea of the affair that her brother waited for her to recover.
He contented himself the better by frequent visits to Skyrie, and by his gift to Dorothy of the stray kitten. The rather disreputable-looking little animal he had coaxed Miss Milliken to cleanse and adorn with a blue ribbon before its advent at Skyrie, where it now resided, petted and pampered till its thin outlines became plump ones and it almost filled that place in Dorothy's heart left vacant by Daisy-Jewel.
Also, Dolly herself had twice been sent for to visit Helena in her confinement of the sick-room, and had won the liking of everybody who saw her there. She was so simple and natural, so free from the imitating manner of some of Helena's friends who envied and toadied to the rich man's daughter, that the heiress found her society novel and refreshing. It was something quite new for Helena to be told, one day when she was "fussing" over the dainty meal sent up to her room, that:
"Why, Helena Montaigne! You perfectly wicked girl! My mother and Mrs. Calvert too both say that it's as sinful as it's ill-bred to quarrel with your food. 'Not fit to eat' isn't true. Maybe you aren't 'fit' to eat it yourself, poor dear, because you're ill. But I never saw such a dainty lunch as that, even at Deerhurst itself. Eat it, do, and get strong and make your mother happy. She's taken a lot of trouble for you. I know she went into the kitchen and fixed those things herself, because she thought your cook wasn't careful enough. Now, do behave! And I'll sing to you while you eat. I've heard my father say that at the big hotels at Atlantic City and other places they have a band play while the people dine. Well, then, I'll be your band and sing. So begin! You must! I shall make you!"
Laughing, yet wholly in earnest, Dorothy had picked a morsel of food on a fork and held it so close to Helena's lips that she had to take it, whether or not. A second morsel followed the first, and the performance was enlivened by a recital of Peter Piper's consumption of the chocolate cake.
Before she knew it Helena was laughing, and likewise before she quite realized it – so swiftly had Dorothy fed and talked – she had made a better meal than at any time since her illness. The food strengthened, for the illness was really past, and seeing her darling recover made Mrs. Montaigne very grateful to the girl whose influence had helped that recovery. Also, this general liking for his own especial friend, as Herbert considered her, fully confirmed the lad in the scheme he had formed, but had not yet broached to his family. Thought he:
"I'll wait a little longer yet, till even the Pater has seen how sweet and unselfish she is, then I'll spring it on the family. If I carry it through – Hurray!"
But though Jim knew of these visits he had not resented them. It was perfectly natural, he supposed, that girls should like other girls; and that puling, sickly-looking, stuck-up daughter of those rich folks – Well, he was glad that Dorothy could show them that a little maid who had once worked alongside himself on a Maryland truck-farm could "hold a candle" with the best of them! Herbert, himself, had not crossed Jim's way. He had gone into camp with some other lads of the Heights and had himself almost forgotten his home in the fun of that outing.
But weeks do pass, no matter how they sometimes seem to drag; and the day came when Jim and Dorothy were seated in Mrs. Calvert's runabout, a gentle horse in the shafts, and themselves en route for that long-dreamed-of circus.
Dorothy carried her money with her. As yet the sum received for Daisy-Jewel remained unbroken. Neither parent would use any of it, each insisting that it was Dorothy's own and that she should expend it as she saw fit: though that this would be for the horse or colt into which the calf had been thus changed was a foregone conclusion.
It had become a standard jest with the ex-postman that she should never go anywhere away from Skyrie without her pocket-book. "In case you might meet the horse of your heart, somewhere along the road. It's the unexpected that happens. You're certain to find Daisy's successor when you're unaware that he, she, or it is near." And to-day he had added:
"A circus is the very place to look for a horse! When you get there stir around and – pick up a bargain, if you can! By all means, take your pocket-book to-day!"
She had kissed his merry lips to stop their teasing but – she had carried the purse! Something unexpected was, in reality, to happen: Despite their long anticipation, this happy pair of youngsters were to fall short of their ambition – they were not to visit the circus.
CHAPTER XVII
ON THE ROAD TO THE CIRCUS
"Ain't this grand, Dorothy? I never did see anybody so good as Mrs. Calvert! She wouldn't hear tell o' my working half the day, though I could well's not, 'cause the circus don't take in till two o'clock. No, sir! She up an' give me the whole day an' said my pay was to go on just the same as if I was hoein' them inguns 'at need it."
"Onions, Jim; not 'inguns,'" corrected Dorothy with a smile. "You are improving fast. I haven't heard you call anybody 'Mis',' for Mrs., in ever so long, and most of the time you keep tight hold of your g's. Yes, she is dear! but you deserve her kindness. Nobody else ever served her so faithfully, she says; not even those old colored servants who love her and – impose on her, too! You look fine, to-day. Those 'store clothes' are mightily becoming and I'm proud of you. But whatever shall we do with a whole day?"
"Mrs. Calvert, she said we was to drive into the town, Newburgh, you know, where the circus is to be at and to a livery stable that knows her. Or the man who keeps it does. We was to put the horse up there an' leave it till time to go home again. Then we was to walk around the city an' see the sights. 'Bout noon she reckoned 'twould be a good plan to go to what they call the 'Headquarters,' where General George Washington lived at, when he fit into the Revolution. I've been readin' about that in the History she give me and I'd admire to stand on the spot he stood on once. There's a big yard around the house and benches for folks to sit on, and a well o' water for 'em to drink; and nobody has to pay for settin' nor drinkin', nary one. All the folks want you to do, and you don't have to do it, you ain't really obleeged, is to go inside a room an' write your name and where you come from in a 'Visitors' Book.' I've been practicing right smart, ever since she told me that, an' I can write my name real plain. What bothers me is to tell where I come from. I don't much like to say the poorhouse, where I was took after my folks died, and I hate to say Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. I haven't got no right to say Riverside nor Deerhurst, 'cause I've only lately come to them places, I've never come from 'em. I – "
"O Jim! Stop 'splitting hairs'!"
Thus arrested in his flow of language, the youth carefully inspected his clothing and failed to perceive the "hairs" in question. Whereupon Dorothy laughed and assured him that she had merely used a figure of speech, and meant: "Don't fuss! Just write 'Baltimore,' as I shall, and have done with it. Funny, Jim, but I just this minute thought that I'm the one who doesn't know where I came from! Well, I'm here now, and what's behind me is none of my business. But, boy, you mustn't put that 'at' after places. It sounds queer, and I hate queer people. Ah! me!"
Jim drove carefully along the fine road with a full appreciation of the beautiful scenery through which it ran, yet in no wise moved to express his admiration of it. He was too happy for words and his soaring thoughts would have amazed even Dorothy, familiar though she had become with his ambitions; and after driving onward for some time in this contented silence he became suddenly aware that his companion was not as happy as he. Her eyes were fixed upon the road and her face had a troubled, preoccupied expression.
"Dolly Chester, what you thinkin' of? Don't you like it? Ain't you glad you come?"
"Why – Jim! How you startled me! Of course I'm glad I come. The whole trip is the most delightful thing; but – what I was thinking of, I'm afraid would make you sneer if I told."
"Tell an' see if it will. I ain't no great hand to make fun of folks – I don't like to be made fun of myself. What was it?"
"The Ghost that haunts Skyrie. Jim – I've seen it! I myself with my own eyes."
He checked his horse in his amazement, and incredulously ejaculated:
"You – don't!"
"Yes, I do. I did. This very last night that ever was; and talk about liking this ride? Huh! I'm more glad than I can say to get away from home just this little while, even. Yet mother and father are left there, and if IT should come and frighten them while I'm not there – O Jim! It scared me almost into a fit. Scared me so stiff and still I could neither move nor speak. Now I'm rather glad I didn't. It may not come again, though It has two or three times."
They were nearly at the top of a long hill and, partly to rest the perfectly untired horse, partly to hear in silence this remarkable story, Jim drew aside into the shade of a wayside tree and commanded:
"Silly Dolly! There ain't no such things; but – out with the hull business, body an' bones!"
"I'm glad to 'out' with it. It's seemed as if I should burst, keeping it all to myself, and the worst is I feel that father wouldn't believe me. There's something else, too. Jim, do you believe that Peter Piper is really harmless? He follows me everywhere I go. He doesn't come near the house because mother doesn't like him and shows that plain enough even for him to understand. She never did like beggars down home in Baltimore, and she's taken a fearful dislike to Peter."
"Stick to what you started to tell; not get a body's ideas all on edge, then switch off onto Peter Piper. As for that poor feller, he won't hurt nobody what don't hurt him. But he ain't a ghost. Tell what you saw."
"Will you promise not to laugh nor – nor disbelieve?"
"I won't laugh an' I will believe – if I can."
"You dear good Jim! I can always rely upon you to help me in my troubles!" cried Dorothy, gratefully.
With comfortable complacency Jim replied: "That's so."
"You know Pa Babcock doesn't work for us any more. He left the next day after the 'Bee.' Sent Alfaretta around to tell us that 'he'd overdone hisself and was obliged to take a vacation.' Why, Jim Barlow, he was engaged to work three days out of each week and he never got in more than one. He was to 'find himself,' which father says means to furnish his own food, and he never brought a single meal. Mother Martha had to cook extra for him every time. We weren't real sorry to have him leave, for we thought it would be easy to get another man, now that Skyrie had been put in such good order. But it wasn't; besides, any that offered asked from two to three dollars a day. Think of that! Why, of course mother couldn't pay that, even if it was haying time and men scarce, as they all told her. She said we must let all the farm alone except just the garden patch and that field of corn which is to feed our stock next winter. Jim, life in the country 'isn't all catnip!' I never, never dreamed that I could work so hard or do so much. Look at my hands, will you?"
She thrust out her little hands, now scarred and blistered by the use of heavy, unfamiliar tools, compared with which her old home "garden set" were mere toys.
For sympathy she received the assurance:
"Won't blister nigh so much, after a spell, and the skin gets tough. Go on with the ghost, will you?"
"I am going on. It's all mixed up with Pa Babcock. If he hadn't left I wouldn't have had to work in the garden nor mother in the cornfield. That tires her awfully, and makes her fearfully cross; so that father and I keep all little worries to ourselves that we can. He even tries to help her hoe those terrible rows of corn that has come up so beautifully and is growing so well. If only the weeds wouldn't grow just as fast! But to see my mother handling a hoe and my father trying to do so too, resting on his crutches and tottering along the row as he works – Jim, it makes me wild! So of course I try to take all care of the garden patch and – of course, I failed. Partly I was afraid to stay out there alone, sometimes, for I might happen any time to look up and there would be Peter Piper staring over the wall at me, or even inside it. Then I have to run in and stop working for awhile. Mother would be angry if she knew and drive him off with harsh words, and though I am afraid of him, too, I can't bear to hurt his feelings. I am really so sorry for him that often I carry my dinner out of doors with me and give it to him, though mother Martha thinks I've taken it because I do so love to eat out under the trees. I can't help feeling that he's hungrier than I am; and I don't think it's wrong because I've never been forbidden nor asked about it. Do you think it is, Jim dear?"
"I ain't judgin' for other folks and I 'low your victuals is your own," answered he.
"That's a horrid word, 'victuals!' It makes me think of 'cold' ones and beggars at the back gate."
"All right. I won't say it again. Get back to that ghost."
"I'm getting. Why hurry so? We have the whole day before us."
"But, Dorothy Chester, that circus takes in at two o'clock!" warned the careful lad.
"And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow – I've been to bed some night, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: and I've got up in the morning and —found – them – in – perfect – order! What do you think of that?"
"Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you was abed."
"No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; nor can I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I had explained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up and held my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor 'cultivators' – even little ones like mine – run over the beds as something certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. I know it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost; because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farming business that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leave it. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father came here to get well – his only chance. We haven't enough money to move back to Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with the Ghost. It is the only way. But – O Jim! I've not only seen what It has done in the garden, I've seen It at work there. Seen It with my own two eyes! Now, do you believe?"
"Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!"
Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry for Dorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomed labor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as he did with added gentleness:
"I think that that there Babcock girl had ought to had her neck wrung 'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' I wish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.' Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such a job to you. I – I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hire myself out to your folks."
"No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the best place to get on as you couldn't do with us."
This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that he had no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt his conscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late that there would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject and inquired:
"If you seen It, what did it look like?"
"It was tall, like a man. It was all in some light-colored clothes and it worked as steadily as if It were a machine. But it made very little noise. It didn't want to be heard, I thought. When It had finished It sort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I saw It crossing a field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is, that Alfaretta told of, and where she said It lives part of the time. It used to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps in now. So she said."
"Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you go to takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!"
"Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe is on the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes to Skyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinks she's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners. But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told nobody but you, Jim."
Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was still unconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked:
"Why didn't your folks see It if you did?"
"Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go down into the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through those windows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from the garden. That's why."
"All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road and chirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret, Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, and soon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitable animal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggested was possible.
A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within a rude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of people that both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured:
"Another auction! Let's stop and listen."
It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stood on the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediately recognized the two young people and called out to them:
"Hello, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on? Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to the prettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on." Then with a general sweep of his eye over the assemblage, he added for the benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes, hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman's goods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebald mare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle or harness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how the kids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! How much am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow and orphans? How – much?"