The Comings of Cousin Ann Part 4

Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood in New England. She could barely remember the old white farmhouse with its faded green shutters that rattled so dismally in the piercing winds that seemed to single out the Knight house as it swept down between the hills. She recalled vividly the discussion carried on between her parents in regard to their mode of moving West--whether by wagon or rail--and the final decision to go by wagon because in that way they might save not only railroad fare but the bony team. Furniture was packed ready for shipment and stored in a neighbor's barn until they were sure in just what part of the West they would settle. California had been their goal, but Kentucky seemed far enough. They had stopped for a while in Ryeville with an old neighbor from New England and, hearing of a farm owned by one d.i.c.k Buck that was to be sold for taxes, they determined to abandon the journey to California and put what savings they had on this farm.

The mortgage went with the farm. That Ezra Knight bargained for, but what he had not bargained for was that old d.i.c.k Buck and his son, young d.i.c.k, also were included in the purchase. They lived in a two-room log house, a little behind the site Ezra had selected for his own domicile. This was the natural place to build, since the land sloped gently from it, giving a proper drainage, and then the well was already there and a wonderfully good well it was.

The new house was built, the plan following the old house they had left in Connecticut as closely as possible, but still old d.i.c.k Buck stayed on in his log cabin. Every day he told Ezra Knight he was planning to move, but always some unforeseen event would arise to make it necessary for him to postpone his departure. The houses were not fifty feet apart, the back yard of the New England cottage serving as a front yard to the cabin. The days stretched into weeks, the weeks into months. Ezra grew impatient and the old d.i.c.k took to his bed with a mysterious malady that defied the skill of the country doctor. Mrs.

Knight, a kindly soul, ministered to his wants, saying she couldn't let a dog suffer if he was a neighbor. The months stretched into years. Every time Ezra approached the one time owner of the farm on the subject of his finding some other place of abode, old d.i.c.k had an attack of his mysterious malady and Ezra would have to give up for the time being.

In the meantime young d.i.c.k was growing into a likely lad and little Prudence Knight had let down her skirts and put up her hair. d.i.c.k was employed on the Knight farm, and what was more natural than he should take his meals with them? Old d.i.c.k found it equally natural that he should also make one at the frugal board. When Ezra died, which he did ten years after he moved to Kentucky, old d.i.c.k and young d.i.c.k kindly offered to sit up with the corpse. The bereaved wife made the bed in the low-ceilinged attic room for them and what more natural than they should stay on? Stay on they did until young d.i.c.k and Prudence were married; until young d.i.c.k died. Then old d.i.c.k stayed on and Mrs.

Knight died and his daughter-in-law and the little flame-haired Judith were left to fend for themselves.

After the death of Mrs. Knight of course leaving was impossible. Old d.i.c.k even spoke of himself as the sole support of his daughter-in-law and her little Judith. He began to look upon hunting and fishing as a duty and seemed to feel that they would have been dest.i.tute without his occasional donation of a small string of perch or a rabbit. Mrs.

Knight tolerated him because she was used to him. Judith had a real affection for the old man and, when he died, mourned for him sincerely. To be sure he had been a very untidy old person who had never done a day's work in all his life but at least he had a nimble wit which had appealed to the child.

After his death Judith trapped rabbits and caught fish. She did many things besides, however, as by that time family funds were so low and the farm so unproductive it was necessary for some member of the family to begin to make money. She was fourteen at the time her grandfather died--a slim long-legged girl giving promise of the beauty that the old soldiers and the drummer on the Rye House porch acknowledged later on. Even then the wire-spring energy was hers that still puzzled her mother--energy and an ever-present determination to get ahead. Sometimes she caught enough fish to sell a few. Sometimes she carried rabbits into the town for sale. In blackberry season she was an indefatigable picker. She went in for chickens and had steady customers in Louisville for her guaranteed eggs. School was looked upon as part of the business of getting ahead. Nothing in the way of weather daunted her. She went through the high school with flying colors and got a medal for not having missed a single day in four years.

At nineteen she was teaching school for eight months of the year and the other four peddling toilet articles and a few side lines and now planning to feed the motormen on the interurban trolleys.

"Well, well! I guess she got it from the Norse sailor," sighed Mrs.

Buck picking up another potato.

CHAPTER V

Uncle Billy's Diplomacy

The hall bedroom at Buck Hill was not such a small room, except in comparison with the other rooms, which were enormous. There was plenty of s.p.a.ce in it for Miss Ann and a reasonable amount of luggage, but not for Miss Ann and three trunks and the numerous bags and bundles and boxes, which Billy stowed away, endeavoring to make the place as comfortable as possible for his beloved mistress.

"I'll unstrop yo' trunks an' we kin git unpacked an' then I'll tote the empties up in the attic 'ginst the time we 'cides ter move on," he said, looking sadly at Miss Ann as she sank listlessly in a chair.

Miss Ann allowed herself to be listless in the presence of Billy, and Billy alone. At the sound of a step on the stairs she stiffened involuntarily. n.o.body must find Ann Peyton slouching or down-hearted.

It was only Mildred going up for a last look at the guest chamber, to make sure everything was in readiness for her company. She did not come to her old cousin's room so Miss Ann felt at liberty to relax once more.

"Billy, I am not going to unpack yet," she faltered. "I--I--perhaps we may have to start off again in a hurry."

"Don't say it, Miss Ann! We won't never be called on ter depart from Buck Hill 'til we's good an' ready--not whilst Ma.r.s.e Bob Bucknor's prodigy is livin', an' Mr. Jeff the spitin' image of his gran'dad. I's sho Miss Milly done put you in this pretty lil' room kase she thought you'd like it, bein' so handy to the stairs an' all, an' the windy right over the baid so's you kin lay an 'look out at the trees an'

flowers--an' if there ain't a wishteria vine a comin' in the cas.e.m.e.nt an' twinin' aroun' jes' like a pixture. I tell you Miss Ann, this here room becomes you powerful much. I wonder they ain't never give it ter you befo'. It's a heap mo' homey like than the gues' chamber an' I'm thinkin' it's agonter be quieter an' cooler an' much mo'

habitationable."

"Yes, Billy, I'm sure it will be." There was a plaintive suggestion of tears in her voice.

"Now, Miss Ann, you git in yo' wropper an' lay down a spell an' I'm gonter fotch you a cup er tea. You's plum tuckered out what with sech a early start an' mo'n likely no sleep las' night. You ain't called on ter be a botherin' yo' little haid 'bout nothin'. Jes' you res'

yo'se'f an' after you rests you kin come down on the po'ch an' git the air."

If he had been a mammy coaxing a child Billy's tone could not have been more gentle or loving. He busied himself unstrapping the trunks and valises and then hurried off for the cup of tea, declaring he would be back in a moment although he well knew that a trial of will with Aunt Em'ly lay before him. Tea and toast he determined to have for his mistress--if over the cook's dead body. Aunt Em'ly was queen of the kitchen and nothing irritated her more than having extra food to prepare.

"Let 'em eat they victuals when they's served, three times a day without no stint or savin' an' not be peckin' in between times," she hurled at poor old Billy when he meekly demanded a tray for the hall bedroom.

"I'll fix it myself, Sis Em'ly, an' I won't make a mite er dirt. Miss Ann air plum flabbergasted what with sech a long trip an' no breakfas'."

"I thought you done boas' you et at a hotel," sniffed the old woman.

"How come she air hongry fer tea an' toas' if she done et at a hotel."

"Sho--sho--but you see it done got jolted down an' Miss Ann--Please, Sis Em'ly. I ain't a arskin' nothin' fer myse'f, but jes' for my Miss Ann. You done won out consarnin' gues' chambers an' hall bedrooms so you mought be willin' ter give a po' tired lady a cup er tea."

Aunt Em'ly was really a very kind person, but there was something about old Billy's long beard tied up in innumerable plaits, his bow legs and general air of superiority, that had always irritated her.

For years she had been held in the subjection of politeness by this unwelcome guest by the att.i.tude of her white people to his mistress, but now the barriers were down and Mrs. Bucknor had openly expressed her impatience at this too-frequent visitor and had been persuaded by her daughters to give Miss Ann the hall room, no longer need she a.s.sume cordiality to the old servant. Of course she intended to make the tea for Miss Ann but she also intended to be as disagreeable as possible while the kettle boiled.

The old man sat meekly in the corner of the kitchen, watching Aunt Em'ly while she scalded the small Rebecca pot and measured out the tea. He was glad to see that she put in an extra spoonful as that meant that he too might find some much-needed refreshment. She made quite a stack of toast and b.u.t.tered it generously, although all the time she grumbled and frowned.

"Here, take it, an' git out'n my kitchen. I don't much mo'n git the breakfus dishes washed befo' I haster begin gittin' dinner an' if I's gonter have ter be a stoppin' every five minutes ter fix trays I like ter know when I will git through."

"Thank you, Sis Em'ly, thank you!" cried old Billy, seizing the coveted tray and making a hasty exit. "Her bark air wus'n her bite,"

he chuckled, "an' I do hope Miss Ann ain't gonter take away her applet.i.te for dinner by eatin' all this toas' an' drinkin' this whole pot er tea, kase I tell you now ol' Billy's stomic air done stuck to his back with emptiness."

The tea and toast did put heart in the weary travelers. Miss Ann left half the simple feast for Billy, commanding him to go sit in the corner of the room and devour his share.

"Now I'm gonter rub down my hosses an' wash the ca'ige, and if you's got any little odd jobs fer me ter do I'll mosey back this way arter dinner. Praise Gawd, the Buck Hill folks has dinner in the middle of the day, an' plenty of it. These here pick-up, mid-day canned salmon lunches air bad enough for the white folks but by the time they gits ter the n.i.g.g.e.rs th'ain't nothin' lef but the can. I hear tell the young ladies air 'spectin' of comp'ny so I reckon you'll be a needin'

yo' sprigged muslin ter take the shine out'n all the gatherin'. I'm a gonter press it fer you, even if a hot iron air arskin' a big favor with some er these free n.i.g.g.e.rs."

"Oh, Billy, you needn't bother to press my gown. It makes very little difference what I wear. I don't believe I can appear this evening."

"Miss Ann, air you sick? Ain't yo' tea picked you up none?"

"No, Billy, I'm not sick. I'm just so miserable. I'm beginning to see that we are no longer wanted--even here at Buck Hill." The old woman's voice quavered piteously. "They used to want us--everywhere. At least, if they didn't they pretended they did. I don't know when it started--this drawing back--this feeling we are a burden. When did it begin, Billy?"

"'Tain't never begun. You's jes' so blue-blooded you is sensitive like, Miss Ann. You is wanted mo'n ever. You-all's kin is proud ter own you. You air still the beauty of the fambly, Miss Ann. I knows, kase I done seed every s.h.e.m.a.l.e mimber of the race er Peytons an'

Bucknors an' all. Th'ain't never a one what kin hol' a can'le ter you. Don't you go ter throwin' off on my Miss Ann or you'll be havin'

ol' Billy ter fight. I ain't seed nothin' in this county ter put long side er you, less'n it wa' that pretty red-headed gal what went whizzin' by us up yonder on the pike in a blue ortermobubble. I ain't knowin' who she air but one thing that made her so pretty wa' that I member the time when you wa' jes' like her. She turned her head aroun'

ter look at us an' she give me sech a start I pretty nigh fell off'n my box.

"I ain't meanin' no disrespec' ter Ma.r.s.e Bob an' Miss Milly's daughters, but they ain't nothin' by the side er that there young gal what dusted us this mornin'. The bes'-lookin' one er their daughters is Mr. Jeff. He air sho growed ter a likely young man. He air certainly kind an' politeful too. Didn't he say pintedly he wa' glad ter see you? Didn't he ketch a holt an' help me tote ev'y las' one er these here trunks up here? When the young marster air so hospitle I don't see whe'fo' you gits notions in yo' haid."

"Perhaps you are right, Billy," and Miss Ann again held up her head.

She must not let herself slump. The will that had carried her through all the long years of visiting must carry her still. She had demanded and hence received homage and respect from her kinsmen for two generations and she must continue to do it. It would be fatal at this point to show weakness or truculence. She had been and intended to be always the honored guest at the various homes that she visited. The unfortunate occurrence at Cousin Betty Throckmorton's was to be ignored--forgotten. Billy was right; she must dress with care. The matter of the hall bedroom must be treated lightly and accepted as a compliment. It wasn't as though she had been put out of the guest chamber. She knew in her heart that in times that were past any youthful visitors expected at Buck Hill must have made way for her, but she did not acknowledge it to herself or to Billy.

She shook out the sprigged muslin and gave it to the old man to press.

Then, with meticulous care, she began the business of unpacking. It was with some irritation that she found only the top drawer of the bureau empty. In the other drawers Mrs. Bucknor had put away sundry articles which she had forgotten about--remnants of cloth, old ribbons and laces and photographs. The hall room was used only when there was an overflow of guests and only transient visitors put there. For transients one drawer was sufficient. In the wardrobe there hung an old hunting suit of Jeff's and several dancing frocks belonging to Mildred and Nan, that had been temporarily discarded to await future going over by the seamstress.

"They might have spared me this," Miss Ann muttered, as she endeavored to make hanging room for her voluminous skirts.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed the offending garments from the hooks and put them in a pile on the floor. Then she pulled out the lower bureau drawers and dumped the contents on top of the old hunting suit and dancing frocks.

"There! I shall give them to understand I am not to be treated with ignominy. I am Ann Peyton. I have always been treated with consideration and I always intend to be."

The old eyes flashed and the faded cheeks flushed. She gave the pile of debris a vicious little kick. The blow dislodged from the ma.s.s a small, old-fashioned daguerreotype. There was something about the little picture that was familiar. She stooped and picked it up. It was her own likeness, taken at seventeen, a slender, charming girl whose expression gave one to understand that she could not be still much longer. She would have been a better subject for a motion-picture camera than the invention of Daguerre. Youth looked into the eyes of age and Miss Ann put her hands over her own poor face as though to hide from youth the ravages of time. It seemed to her that the young Ann looked out on the old Ann and said, "What have you done with me?

Where am I? You needn't tell me that you and I are one and the same."

Slowly she walked to the bureau and slowly she raised her eyes to the mirror and then gazed long and sadly at her face.