Dorothy at Skyrie Part 19

"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 pa.s.s, 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 antic.i.p.ation, 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. n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sured 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed:

"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 n.o.body 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 Babc.o.c.k 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 a.s.surance:

"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 Babc.o.c.k. 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.