Dorothy at Skyrie Part 11

"What becomes of the family that owns the calf? Is that what you were thinking, my dear? No matter! So long as that lowing mother and child were not cruelly 'separated' everything is right. May I come and peel the potatoes for you?"

For helpless to do great things for his household the crippled man had insisted upon his right to do small ones; but it always hurt his wife's pride to see her once stalwart husband doing "woman's work," so he never attempted it without permission.

This time she nodded consent, and promptly brought him a basin of them, while she sat down to sh.e.l.l a measure of pease procured that morning from a pa.s.sing huckster. She felt that they could talk as they worked, and indeed there was much to discuss. Until her return everything had been absorbed by Dorothy's fortunes; and even still it was thought of Dorothy which lay closest to both their hearts.

"But Dolly brought down to a real bread-and-b.u.t.ter basis! We are compelled to make our living and hers out of this run-down farm. Now, how to begin? Shall I sit by the roadside and ask every man who pa.s.ses by if he wants to hire himself out 'on shares'? Or will you risk another advertis.e.m.e.nt, compounded by yourself?" inquired Mr. Chester.

"Help we must have."

"Yes, we must. If I could only get hold of some of the strong, idle, colored men loafing the streets of Baltimore! They, or he, would be just what we need."

"Maybe not, my dear. In any case we haven't one, nor time to import one.

Probably he would be discontented if we got one. We'll have to depend on 'local talent' and--hear that cow 'Moo!' Sounds as if she were homesick."

"Poor thing! probably she is. I am--a little, myself," returned mother Martha, rising to put her vegetables on to boil. "Also, I consider that we have accomplished sufficient for one morning. Let's rest on it and wait what may turn up; fortunately Hannah can live upon gra.s.s--the whole farm is gra.s.s, or weeds----"

"And the calf can live upon Hannah! My dear, country life is making you a philosopher: and here comes our girl as ready for her dinner as I am.

I'll take a bit of a nap while she sets the table, and the sooner I'm called to it the better. No trouble with our appet.i.tes since we came to Skyrie," rejoined the ex-postman, crossing to the lounge and settling himself, not for the "nap" he had mentioned but to best consider that farming question, almost a hopeless one to him.

The afternoon pa.s.sed quietly, varied by frequent visits on the part of mother Martha and Dorothy to their respective possessions of live stock, tethered by the barn. All seemed going well. Hannah had ceased to low and lay upon the gra.s.s contentedly chewing her cud, while her festive offspring gamboled around as far as its rope-length would permit.

As for the unnamed pig, it had rooted for itself a soft muddy bed, and from having been well fed, earlier in the day, was contented to lie and slumber in the sunshine.

Contemplation of the creatures gave Martha great pleasure, till Dorothy suddenly propounded the question:

"Who's going to milk Hannah? That nice Quaker man said 'twice a day,'

and 'ten quarts at a time.'"

For a moment Mrs. Chester did not answer; then she looked up and, as if in reply to her own perplexity, beheld Jim Barlow.

"O my lad! Never anybody more welcome. You can milk, of course?"

"Yes, ma'am, I should say so. Mis' Calvert she sent me over to see if you needed anything. She said as how none your folks was used to farmin'

and she's got a right smart o' curiosity over how you came out with your advertis.e.m.e.nt. More'n that, here's a letter she had Ephraim fetch up-mounting, when he druv down for her mail. She said I was to tell you 't all your letters could be put with her'n if you wanted; so's to save you or Dorothy walking way to the office."

"All our letters won't be many and she is very kind. Please thank her for us and tell her that--that--Jim, would you like to change 'bosses'

and come to work for us at Skyrie?" asked Mrs. Chester with sudden inspiration.

"No, ma'am, I wouldn't," answered the lad, with unflattering promptness.

"I mean--you know----"

"Oh! don't try to smooth that over, pray. It was a mere thought of mine, knowing how fond you were, or seemed to be, of our girl. But, of course, you wouldn't. The comforts and conveniences of our little home can't compare with Deerhurst. Only----" said the lady, somewhat sarcastically, and on the point of adding: "It's better than Miranda Stott's." But she left her sentence unfinished and it was kinder so.

Poor Jim saw that he had offended. Even Dorothy's brown eyes had flashed, perceiving her mother's discomfiture, but though his face flushed to find himself thus misunderstood he did not alter, nor soften, his decision. He merely stated the case as he regarded it:

"If I could make two of myself I'd be glad to. I'd just admire to take hold this job an' clear the weeds an' rubbidge offen Skyrie. Not 't I think it'll ever be wuth shucks--for farmin': the land's all run to mullein an' stun. But I could make it a sight better 'n it is an' it might grow plenty of them posies Dorothy's so tickled with. If it could be stocked now--Mis' Stott used to say that keepin' lots o' cattle was to be looked at both ways; what they leave on the land in manure fetches it up, an' what they eat offen it fetches it down. She kep' more calves an' yearlin's than 'peared like she'd ought to, but she raised a power of stuff for market, 'count of 'em. If I was you folks I'd put my money into yearlin's fust thing," said this young farmer, rendered talkative by his novel position as adviser.

Dorothy was disgusted. This didn't seem like the old, subservient Jim she was familiar with and she disliked his plainness of speech. She improved the occasion by calling his attention to Jewel:

"See my calf? That's my very own! She was a present to me this very day, Jim Barlow, and I've named her Jewel. Maybe, though, I'll change that to 'Daisy.' I've read stories where cows were called 'Daisies,' and she'll be a cow sometime, and I shall sell her milk to get money."

"Pshaw! Looks like good stock, that calf does; 's if 't might make a nice steer, but 'twon't never be a _cow_ to give milk. 'Tain't that kind of a calf; and after all, raisin' young cattle is a power of work. They run over fences an' fall into hollers, an' Mis' Stott she used to say, sometimes, she didn't know but they did eat their own heads off; meanin' their keep cost more than they was wuth--time they was ready for killin'. If I was you, Dorothy, I'd fat that calf up, quick's I could, then sell him to the butcher for veal," further advised this practical youth.

"O you horrid boy! You--you--I never saw anybody who could dash cold water on people's happiness as you can! You--you're as hateful as you can be!" cried Dorothy, venting all her disappointment in anger against him.

Now it happened that that same morning, at Seth Winters's office, the untutored farm boy had seen and envied the ease of manner with which handsome Herbert Montaigne had won his way into the favor of Mrs.

Calvert and had instantly made friends with Dorothy. Then and there, something sharp and bitter had stolen into Jim's big heart and had sent him speeding out of sight--eager to hide himself and his uncouthness from these more fortunate folk, whose contrast to himself was so painful. Dorothy--why, even Dorothy--had, apparently, been captivated by the dashing Herbert to the utter neglect of her former friend; and, maybe, that was what had hurt the most. Incipient jealousy had stung Jim's n.o.bler nature and now made him say with unconscious wistfulness:

"I'm sorry, girlie. You--you didn't think so--always."

The girl had turned her back upon him, in her indignation, but at the altered tone she faced about, while a swift recollection of all that she owed to him sent the tears to her eyes and her to clasp her arms about his neck and kiss him soundly, begging:

"O Jim! forgive me! I didn't mean--I forgot. _You_ never can be horrid to me. I don't like to have my things made fun of--I never was given a calf before--I--Kiss me, Jim Barlow, and say you do!"

To the bashful lad this outburst was more painful than jealousy. His face grew intensely red and he did not return the kiss. On the contrary he very promptly removed her clinging arms, with his protesting:

"Pshaw! What ails you, Dorothy?"

Then he forced himself to look towards Mrs. Chester and to return to the real business of the moment. Fortunately, that lady was not even smiling. She was too accustomed to her child's impulsiveness to heed it, and she had resolved to act upon the principle that "half a loaf is better than no bread." In other words, she would improve this chance of getting some fit quarters for the pig, which had roused and begun to make its presence evident. She scarcely even heard Jim's attempted explanation:

"You see, Mis' Chester, 'twas Mis' Calvert that took me up an' set out to make a man of me. I disappointed her fust time she trusted me, and I've got to stay long enough to show I ain't so wuthless as I seemed.

_I've got to._ More'n that, the gardener she's had so long is so old an'

sot in his ways he don't get more'n half out the soil 't he'd ought to.

I'm goin' to show him what Maryland folks can do! That truck o' his'n?

Why, bless your heart, he couldn't sell it to Lexington Market, try his darnedest: nor Hollins', nor Richmond, nor even Ma'sh Market--where poor folks buy. Huh! No, I can't leave. But I'll come work for you-all every minute I can get, without neglectin' Mis' Calvert."

"O Jim! That's lovely of you, but you mustn't do that. It would be too great a sacrifice. You planned to study every minute you were not working or sleeping, and you must. It's your chance. You must, Jim dear.

You know you're to be President--or something big--and you're to make me very, very proud of you. Some way, somebody will be found,--to farm poor Skyrie!" returned Dorothy, eagerly, yet unable to resist the last reproach.

"Now, Mis' Chester, I can, an' ought, to get that pig into a pen 'fore dark. Is there any old lumber 'round, 't you can spare?" asked the lad, rolling up his blouse sleeves, preparatory to labor.

"There's an old dog-churn in the cellar, that Alfaretta Babc.o.c.k knocked to pieces the time----"

"Speaking of Babc.o.c.k, ma'am, that is my name: and I've come to hire out," said a queer unknown voice, so near and so suddenly that mother Martha screamed; then having whirled about to see whence the voice came, screamed again.

CHAPTER XI

HELPERS

The man who had come so noiselessly over the gra.s.s, from Cat Hollow, might well have been the "Nanarchist" his daughter had termed him, were one to judge from tradition and appearance; and it is small wonder that Mrs. Chester had cried out so unexpectedly, beholding this specimen of the "Red Brotherhood."

Tall beyond the average, "Pa Babc.o.c.k"--he was rarely spoken of otherwise--had a great head covered by a shock of fiery hair which proved Alfaretta truthful in her statement that "he'd disdain to comb it." The hair was stiff and bristly, and stood out in every direction, while the beard matched it in growth and quant.i.ty. He wore a faded red flannel shirt, and denim overalls that had once been red, while his great hairy feet were bare and not too clean. He wore no hat and scarcely needed one, and while his physique was that of a mighty man his face was foolishly weak and vain. His voice perfectly suited the face: and, altogether, he was a most unprepossessing candidate for the position of "hired man" at Skyrie.

"You wish to hire out?" asked the mistress of the farm, repeating incredulously his statement. "But I thought--Alfaretta said----"

"I do not doubt it. The reputation I have won at the hands of my own household is part of the general injustice of society--as it exists.