Ruth Fielding Down in Dixie Part 10

"It looks as if it would fall to pieces," objected Ruth.

"He a.s.sures me it won't. I don't care if everybody _is_ laughing at us."

"Neither do I. But I believe it is going to rain."

"Nothing more than a little shower, if any," Helen said, and popped into the carriage. Ruth, rather doubtful still, followed her. Amid a good deal of amus.e.m.e.nt on the part of the company on the verandas, the rattling equipage rolled away.

They rode along the edge of the fortress moat and past the officer's quarters, and so around the entire fortress and across the reservation into the country. The old man sat very stiff and upright in his seat, flourished his whip over his old horse in a grand manner, and altogether made as brave an appearance as possible.

The knock-kneed horse dragged its feet over the highway with a shuffle that made Ruth nervous. She liked a good horse. This one moved so slowly, and the turnout was altogether so ridiculous, that Ruth did not know whether to join Helen in laughing at it, or get out and walk back.

Suddenly, however, a drizzle of rain began to fall. It was not unexpected, for the clouds were still black and a chill breeze had blown up.

"We'll have to go back, Uncle," cried Helen to the driver.

"Wait a minute-wait a minute," urged the old man. "Ah'll git right down an' fix dat hood. Dat'll shelter yo' till we gits back t' de hotel-ya-as'm."

"You should not have encouraged us to come out with you when it was sure to rain," said Ruth, rather tartly for her.

"Sho' 'nuff, missy-sho' 'nuff," cackled the old darkey. "But 'twas a great temptation."

"What was a great temptation?"

"To earn a dollar. Dollars come skeerce like nowadays, for Unc' Simmy.

He kyan't keep up wid dese yere taxum-cabs an' de rich folks' smart conveyances-no'm!" and the old negro chuckled as though poverty, too, were a humorous thing.

He began to fuss with the hood of the carriage, which was supposed to pull up and shelter the occupants. But it would not "stay put," as Helen laughingly said, and the summer shower began to patter harder on the unprotected girls.

"You'd better not mind it, Mr. Simmy," Helen said, "and drive us back at once. We're bound to get wet anyway."

"Dey calls me _Unc'_ Simmy, missy-ma frien's do," said the old man, rheumatically climbing to his seat again. "An' Ah ain't gwine t' drib yo' back to de hotel in de face ob dishyer shower, an' git all yo'

fin'ry wet. No'm! Yo' leab' Unc' Simmy 'lone fo' a-gittin' yo' to shelter 'twill de storm pa.s.ses ober."

He touched up the old horse with the whiplash, and the creature really broke into a knock-kneed trot, Unc' Simmy meanwhile singing a broken accompaniment to the shuffling pace of his steed:

"'On Jor-dy-an's sto'my bank I stand An' cas' a wishful eye T' Can-ny-an's bright an' glo-ree-ous land- Ma' ho-o-me 'twill be, bymeby!'

Dis ain' gwine t' be much ob a shower, missy. We turns in yere."

They had pa.s.sed several smart looking dwellings-villas they might better be called-and more than one old, Southern house with high pillars in front and an air of decayed gentility about them.

Unc' Simmy swung his steed through a ruined gateway where the Virginia creeper and honeysuckle hid the gateposts and wall. There was a small wooden structure like a gate-keeper's cottage, much out of repair. The shingles on the roof had curled in the hot sun's rays till they resembled clutching fingers; some of the siding-strips in the peak, far out of ordinary reach, hung and flapped by one nail; some bricks were missing from the chimney-top; the house had not been painted for at least two decades. The porch on the front was sheltered by climbing vines, and there were many old-fashioned flowers in neatly kept beds before the little house. But the girls did not see much of the front of the cottage just then, for the old horse went by and up the lane at a clumsy gallop. The rain was coming down faster.

"Where for pity's sake is he taking us?" Ruth demanded.

"I don't care-it's fun," gasped Helen, cowering before the rain drops.

Behind the cottage was a small barn-evidently built much more recently than the house. The wide door was swung open and hooked back and Unc'

Simmy drove inside.

"Dar we is!" he cried exultantly. "Ah'll jes' take yo' all in t' visit wid' Miss Catalpa while Ah fixes dishyer kerrige so it'll take yo' back to de P'int dry-ya-as'm."

"'Miss Catalpa,' no less!" murmured Helen in Ruth's ear. "_That_ sounds like a real darkey name, doesn't it? I wonder if she's an old aunty-or mammy, do they call them?"

But Ruth was interested in another phase of the matter. "Won't the lady object to unexpected visitors, Uncle Simmy?" she asked.

"Lor' bress yo'! no, honey," he said, helping her out of the sheltered carriage, and then Helen in turn. "Yo' come right in wid me. Miss Catalpa's on de front po'ch. She likes t' hear de drummin' ob de rain, she say-er-he, he, he! W'ite folks sho' do have funny sayin's, don't dey?"

"Then Miss Catalpa is _white_!" gasped Helen to Ruth, as the old darkey led the way across the back yard to the cottage.

They reached the shelter of the front veranda just as the rain "came down in buckets," as Helen declared. The chums had never seen it rain so hard before. And the thunder of it on the porch roof drowned all other sound. Unc' Simmy was grinning at them and saying something; they could see his lips moving; but they could not hear a word.

In the half dusk of the vine-sheltered porch they saw him gesticulating and they looked toward the other end. There was a low table and a sewing basket. In a low rocker, swinging to and fro, and crooning a song perhaps, for her lips were moving as her needles flashed back and forth in the soft wool she was knitting, was a fair, pink-cheeked little lady, her light brown hair rippling away from her brow and over her ears in some old-fashioned and forgotten style, but which was very becoming to the wearer.

Her ear was turned toward their end of the porch, and she was smiling.

Evidently, in spite of the drumming of the hard rain, she had distinguished their coming; but her eyes had the unmistakable look of those who live in darkness.

The little lady was blind.

CHAPTER VII-MISS CATALPA

"Oh! the poor dear!" gasped Helen, for she, like Ruth, discovered the little lady's infirmity almost at once.

The old negro coachman pompously strode down the porch, beckoning to the girls to follow. They were, for the moment, embarra.s.sed. It seemed impudent to approach this strange gentlewoman with no introduction save that of the disreputable looking Unc' Simmy.

But the quick, sudden shower lulled a little and they could hear the lady's voice-a sweet, delicious, drawling tone. She said:

"Yo' have brought some callers, I see, Simmy. Good afternoon, young ladies."

Her use of the word "see" brought the quick, stinging tears to Ruth Fielding's eyes. But the lady's smile and outstretched hand welcomed both girls to her end of the porch. The hand was frail and beautiful. It surely had never done any work more arduous than the knitting in the lady's lap.

She was dressed very plainly in gingham; but every flaunce was starched and ironed beautifully, and the lace in the low-cut neck of the cheap gown and at the wrists, was valuable and ivory-hued with age.

The negro cleared his voice and said, with great respect, removing his ancient hat as he did so:

"De young ladies done tak' refuge yere wid' yo' w'ile it shower so hard, Miss Catalpa. I tell 'em yo' don't mind dem comin' in t' res'. Yo' knows Unc' Simmy dribes de quality eround de P'int nowadays."

"Oh, yes, Simmy. I know," said Miss Catalpa, with a little sigh. "It isn't as it used to be befo' _we_ had to take refuge, too, in this old gatehouse. It is a refuge both in sun and rain fo' us. How do you do, my dears? I know you are young ladies-and I love the young. And I fancy you are from the No'th, too?"

And Helen and Ruth had not yet said a word! The subtle appreciation of the blind woman told her much that astonished the girls.

"Yes, ma'am," said Ruth, striving to keep her voice from shaking, for the pity she felt for the lady gripped her at the throat. "We are two schoolgirls who have come down to Dixie to play for a few weeks after our graduation from Briarwood Hall."

"Indeed? I went to school fo' a while at Miss Chamberlain's in Washington. Hers was a very select young ladies' school. But, re'lly, you know, had my po' eyes not been too weak to study, the family exchequer could scarcely stand the drain," and she laughed, low and sweetly. "The Grogan fortunes had long been on the wane, you see. No men to build them up again. The war took everything from us; but the heaviest blow of all was the killin' of our men."