Dorothy Part 14

One afternoon, when Miranda and Jim were hard at work in the field beyond the house and Dorothy still lay upon the bed, though for the first time dressed in her own clothes, which her nurse had found time to launder, the girl fancied that she heard a groan from somewhere.

"Why, Tige, what's that?" she asked, half rising and listening intently.

He answered by a thump of his tail on the boards and his head turned sidewise, with his ears p.r.i.c.ked up. Evidently, he, too, had caught the sound, and was puzzled by it.

A moment later, Dorothy was certain she heard a movement of somebody in the room overhead. There was but one, she knew, and it covered the entire width of the small house, for she had seen that during her brief occupation of it. Who could it be?

Half-frightened and wholly curious she crossed from the bed to the door and looked out. Yes, the two other inmates of the cottage were still in the field, setting out celery plants, as she had heard them discussing at dinner.

Tiger kept close beside her and, now that she was upon her feet again, seemed doubtful whether he were to remain her friend or again become her watchful enemy. She settled that question, however, by her loving pat on his head and the smile she gave him. His attentions to her, while she had lain so weak and helpless, had won her own affection and made her feel that she would never again be afraid of any dog.

Suddenly Mrs. Stott looked round and saw the girl in the doorway. Then she at once stood up, said something to Jim, and hurried to the house: demanding, as she reached it and with evident alarm:

"What's the matter?"

Dorothy smiled. She had been so dependent on this woman that she had learned to really like her, and she answered brightly:

"Nothing but fancies, I reckon! I thought, Tiger, too, thought, we heard somebody in the room upstairs. Then we came to the door and saw you were both outdoors, so there couldn't have been, could there? You never have burglars in this out-of-the-way place, do you? My darling mother Martha is always looking out for them and there's none ever came. Oh! I'm so glad to be well, almost well, once more. You'll let me go home to her, won't you? The very next time you go to market? I've been such a trouble I'm sure you'll be glad to be rid of me!" and Dorothy impulsively caught at the woman's hand and kissed it.

For an instant Miranda Stott looked as if she could have been "knocked down with a feather." A kiss was as unknown and startling a thing to her as it was possible to imagine and it disconcerted her. But her answer was:

"Yes, I'm glad too. I'll fetch a chair. Do you good."

So she caught up a chair in one strong hand, leaving a muddy impress upon it; and, seeing this, covered her other hand with her ap.r.o.n, then thrust it under Dorothy's arm and so piloted her out to the celery patch. There were no trees allowed to grow in that utilitarian spot, except here and there a fruit tree; and under the spa.r.s.e shade of a slender plum-sapling Dorothy was made to sit, while Jim went on with his dropping of tiny seedlings into holes filled with water. Mrs. Stott had gone again to the house and for a moment the boy and girl were free to talk, and all her own old interest in gardening returned. Besides, she wanted to learn all she could about it, so that she might be useful when she, at last, got to that home "in the country" where they were all going so soon.

"Why do you do that, Jim?" she asked, intently watching his long fingers straighten the fine roots of the plants, then drop them into the prepared drill.

"Why, to make 'em grow. 'Cause it's the way," he answered, surprised that anybody should ask such a foolish question.

"Oh, I see. You drill a place with a wooden peg, then you pour water into it, then you plant the plant. Hmm. That's easy. I'll know how to make our celery grow, too."

Jim looked up. "Where's your celery at?"

"I reckon it's 'at' a seed store, yet. 'Cause we haven't got there. Say, Jim, were you afraid you'd 'catch' the measles? the reason why you didn't come into the kitchen at all."

The lad laughed, slyly.

"No, I wasn't. She was, though. 'Cause I've had 'em. She didn't know an'

I didn't tell her. Stayin' out in the barn I had time to myself. I learned myself six more words. Hear me?"

"Maybe I don't know them myself. Then I shouldn't know if you spelled them right or wrong," she cautiously answered. "If I had a book I'd hear them, gladly."

Jim forgot that he was never expected to pause in any labor on hand and stood up: his thin body appearing to elongate indefinitely with surprise as he returned:

"Why--but _you've_ been to school! Anybody could hear 'em off a book. I could hear 'em myself that way! Pshaw!" and into this mild expletive he put such a world of contempt that Dorothy's cheeks tingled.

"Go ahead. Maybe I know them, but--you'd better work; Mrs. Stott is coming."

The woman was, indeed, almost upon them and listening suspiciously to what they might be saying; and though there was scorn in her expression there was also relief. She couldn't understand what any farm hand needed of "book learning," but it sounded harmless enough when Jim p.r.o.nounced the word: "Baker. B-a-k-e-r, baker," and the girl applauded with a clap of her hands and the exclamation: "Good! Right! Fine! Next!"

Back on his knees again, the lad cast a sheepish glance toward his employer, as if asking her permission to continue. She did not forbid him, so he went on with: "Tinker. T-i-n, tin, k-e-r, ker, tinker."

Again Dorothy commended him and was thankful that her own knowledge was sufficiently in advance of his that she should not be put to shame--"without a book." Also, by the time the ambitious youth had recited his new lesson of six words, in their entirety, both he and Dorothy were in a fine glow of enthusiasm. She, also, loved study and found it easy; and she longed with all her heart that she could put inside this Jim's head as much as she already learned.

Then he was sent away to attend to the cattle for the night, to see that the market-wagon was again packed, and to put all utensils safely under cover. Because she could afford no waste, or thought she couldn't, Miranda Stott took better care of her farm implements than most farmers did; and if indoors there was much to be desired in the way of neatness, out-of-doors all was ship-shape and tidy. She finished the celery planting herself, and Dorothy wondered if there were people enough in the world to eat all those plants, after they were grown. Then Miranda took the chair from Dorothy and said:

"Come, I want my bed again. I'll fix you outside." And as if some further explanation were needed, added: "It's healthier. You've got to get well, quick."

"Oh! I want to. I am, almost, already. It is so good to be out of doors, and--are you going to take me home, to-night, when you drive in?"

"No. Take letter. See?" answered this laconic woman, and led the girl into the barn and into what had been a small harness-room part.i.tioned from one side. This had, evidently, been prepared for occupation and there was a suspicious air of wisdom on Jim's face, as Dorothy pa.s.sed him, fastening the cattle-stanchions, betraying that this barn bedroom was a familiar place to him.

"Why, it is a bedroom! If the bed is only a pile of hay! There are sheets on it and a pillow and a blanket. My! It smells so sweet and outdoor-sy!" cried Dorothy, thinking how much more restful such a couch would be than that hot feather bed in the kitchen, on which she had lain and tossed.

"Yours. Stay here now. Jim'll bring your supper, and a chair. Fetch the paper, boy," she concluded, as he departed for the cellar under the cottage which was used for a dairy.

Then Mrs. Stott went away, Tiger nestled up to her--as if offering his society--and the still weak girl dropped down on the sweet-smelling bed and felt almost happy, even though still refused a return home.

"Well, it's something to be let to write to mother. I was so sick I haven't done it often; but if, as that Mr. Smith said, she knew I was safe she won't worry much. Not so very much. But, oh! How I want her, how I want her!"

The farm-mistress herself brought back the chair and paper, and waited while Jim followed with the supper of bread and cold meat. He added a pitcher of water without bidding, and, supposing him to have finished, his mistress left the place. Indeed, she seemed so changed and preoccupied that Dorothy wondered and pitied. Her own sorrows were teaching her the divine gift of compa.s.sion, and though she was this woman's prisoner she longed to share and soothe the distress she was so evidently suffering.

But she dared not. With a gesture of despair, Mrs. Stott suddenly threw both hands outward, then hurried away into the cottage, leaving the boy and girl staring after her. Even Jim did not tarry, though he longed to do so; yet he managed to whisper, in his own mysterious fashion:

"It's _him_. He's got 'em. They're goin' hard--he's old."

CHAPTER XIII

THE PLUMBER AND HIS GOSSIP

The eagle-gate was open again. Mrs. Cecil had recovered from her illness, and was once more upon her broad piazza. This time she was not awaiting the arrival of the postman but of the plumber. The sudden heat of the southern city reminded her of her northern home in the highlands and she was anxious to remove there as soon as possible. But, with true Maryland housewifery, she must personally see to all the details of the annual flitting.

In every room of the house pictures were being swathed in tarletan, chandeliers wrapped in the same stuff, carpets lifted, furniture put into freshly starched slips, and the entire interior protected to the utmost against the summer's dust and fading. Only one matter did not progress as rapidly as this impatient little mistress of the mansion felt it should. n.o.body came at her instant command to examine the plumbing and see that it was in order for the season.

"And water makes more trouble than even flies. Dinah, girl! Are you sure a message was sent to that man how I was waiting?"

"Posi_tive_-ly sho, Miss Betty. Laws, honey, don't go worritin' yo'se'f an' you-all jus' done gettin' ovah yo' misery. He'll be comin' erlong, bime-by," comforted the maid, officiously folding a shawl about Mrs.

Cecil's shoulders, and having the shawl instantly tossed aside, with a gesture of disgust.

"O you girl! Do stop fussing about me. I'm nearly suffocated, already, in this awful heat, and I won't--I won't be wrapped up in flannel, like a mummy. You never had any sense, Dinah!"

"Yas'm. I 'low dat's so, Miss Betty. Mebbe on account you-all nevah done beaten me ernough. Yas'm, but I doan 'pear to be acquainted wid er mummy, Miss Betty. What-all be dey like?" And with imperturbable good nature, Dinah picked up the shawl and again placed it around her lady, who permitted it to remain without further protest.

"Hmm. No matter what they're like, Dinah. But you know, girl, you know as well as I do what trouble it made for us last year, when we went away and forgot to have the water turned off from the fountain, yonder. That care-taker we left--Oh! dear! Is there anybody in this world fit to be trusted!"