Dorothy at Skyrie

"I didn't do any harm. I didn't!"

His speech was thick and he lisped like a baby learning to talk, but his face brightened when she answered quickly:

"Of course you didn't. But why aren't you in there with all the others? You must come, in a minute, back with me. First, see here?"

With the friendliest of smiles she held aloft the monster cake she had judged would be the waif's proper share of the feast, choosing for him, as she would for herself, to have the dessert come before the bread and butter.

Peter's protruding eyes fastened upon the dainty and his mouth opened widely, and for a time, at least, he knew nothing beyond that cake. Breaking it into bits, Dorothy fed him. He did not offer to take the food in his own hands, he simply opened that cavernous mouth and received with a snap of his jaws the portions she dropped therein. The operation became fascinating to the girl and she marveled to see no movement of swallowing; only that automatic opening and closing, and the subsequent absorption of the cake.

She had not supposed he would consume the whole loaf at one meal. He did. The last morsel followed the first and still there was no sign of surfeit, and the girl sprang up, saying:

"Now I must go back to help those ladies wait on the table. Will you come?"

With some hesitation Peter Piper got to his feet, and now his gaze was riveted upon her face as closely as it had been upon the chocolate cake and almost as greedily. As if within her bonny smile and unshrinking friendliness he beheld something new and wonderfully beautiful. It was just as they stood up that somebody behind the wall called out:

"Well, Peter Piper! Good enough! So you've come to the 'Bee,' too, have you? If you'd let me know where you were you'd have had your invitation long ago. Time enough, though, time enough. Always is to do a good deed, and there's a deal of work yet to be finished before nightfall. Let me tell you, Miss Dorothy Chester, there isn't a better gardener anywhere around than our friend Peter! If he'd only stick to it – if the lad would only stick to it!"

It was Seth Winters, of course, who had seen Dorothy's crossing of the field to that same spot where he, also, had discovered the feathered cap of the poor imbecile. He was honestly glad of the lad's return, being always somewhat anxious over his long absences. Much experience of life had shown him that the world is not very kind to such as Peter, and he tried by fatherly interest and goodness to make up to the boy somewhat for the harshness of others. Dorothy's action had delighted him: and with an approving smile he held his hands toward her, across the wall, and bade:

"Give me your hands, lassie! I'll help you back over; and, Peter, come."

Dorothy sprang lightly to the top of the wall and he swung her as lightly down; the half-wit following with a nimbleness one would not have expected and, like a child, catching hold of the girl's skirt and thus firmly attaching himself to her.

"Why, Peter! Don't do that! Young ladies don't like to drag big fellows like you around by main force!" remonstrated the smith, smiling and shaking his head at the youth, who merely smiled in return and clutched the tighter, even though the girl once or twice tried to loosen his grasp, attempting this so gently that it produced no effect; and thus escorted she came back to the stables beneath the trees and to the presence of Helena, toward whom officious Mrs. Smith immediately forced her.

Oddly enough, since they were so unlike, there was instant liking between the two girls; and with a smile Helena made room for Dorothy on the bench beside her. But there was no room for Peter, nor would he have claimed it now had there been plenty. With intense and haughty surprise Helena had stared at the unfortunate for a moment, till an amused contempt curved her lips in a disdainful smile.

In general, people did not credit the poor creature with sensitiveness; none save Seth Winters believing that he keenly felt the scoffs and gibes so often put upon him; but he now proved the truth of the blacksmith's opinion. Helena's scornful look did what Dorothy's efforts had failed to do – it loosened Peter's fingers from her skirt and sent him, cowering and abashed, to the furthest limit of the group. Fortunately, for him, straight also to a spot where Herbert Montaigne was merrily helping – or hindering – the women busy cooking over the fires upon the ground. Herbert had seen Dorothy's exit from the field with the great cake in hand and had, for an instant, intended pursuit that should end in a lark; then he had seen the red feathers of Peter's cap and reflected:

"That girl's got some fellow over there she's going to feed on the sly. They've both dropped down out of sight now – I reckon I won't spoil sport – shouldn't like it myself. It's none of my business anyhow, though I wouldn't mind being the fellow in the case – this time."

Also he made it sufficiently his business to watch for the reappearance of Dolly, minus the cake and attended by Seth and the too appreciative Peter. Then the whole significance of the incident flashed upon him, and to his boyish fancy for the little maid was instantly added a deep respect.

"Bless my eyes! I called her a 'daisy,' but she's more than that. There isn't a girl in a thousand who'd have done that decent thing without being bidden; but – Hello! seems as if she'd got what Mrs. Smith calls her 'come uppance'! The simpleton has glued himself to her petticoats and she can't shake him free!" Then a moment more of watching showed him the result of his sister's haughtiness and made him exclaim aloud: "Good enough for Helena! The first time I ever knew her confounded pride to be of any use. But here comes the victim of her scorn, and it's up to me to finish the job Dorothy C. has so well begun!"

In all his life poor Peter Piper had never been so happy as that day made him. Instead of the indifference or aversion commonly shown him, he was met with an outstretched hand and the genial greeting of another lad not much younger than himself; and if, for the sake of impressing others into the same friendliness, the greeting was rather overdone, the fault was on the right side and Peter was too simple to suspect it.

With a confused expression and an unaccountable warmth in his lonely heart, the "touched of God" accepted the extended hand and cast a grateful glance into Herbert's face. A look that, for an instant, suffused that youngster's own because he felt his present kindness to be "second hand." Then Peter turned about and pointed to where Dorothy now sat laughing and feasting, and volubly explaining to Mrs. Smith, between mouthfuls:

"I really couldn't help taking the nicest cake in sight, dear Mrs. Smith! I knew it was yours and belonged now to the public; and I will make you another to take its place. I – I hope it wasn't 'stealing – '" she finished, with a momentary gravity.

"Bless all my first wife's relations! Don't let such a horrid word as that come to this merry 'Bee!' It was yours, your very own, leastwise your ma's and pa's, to eat or give away just as you'd ruther. I do still think that broken pieces, after the rest has finished, would have answered the purpose full as well, but – "

"Broken pieces, Mrs. Smith! On a day like this?" cried Mrs. Calvert, reprovingly. "You do yourself an injustice. If I'm not mistaken you've put aside some mighty tender pieces of chicken and part of your own biscuits for this same poor estray."

The mistress of ceremonies blushed and bridled her head. In truth she had, indeed, "put aside" the dainties mentioned, but alas! they had been intended for the delectation of her own and her cronies' palates. With instant change of mind, however, she caught up the basket hidden beneath the table and marched valiantly forward to the spot where Herbert was supplying Peter with the best of everything he could lay his hands on. Admirably frank – when found out – good Mrs. Smith now added her store to Herbert's, and the half-wit's eyes grew more protruding than ever. Also, to the disgust of both watchful lad and woman, Peter caught the food from the basket and thrust it within his oilcloth jacket. He knew, if those watching him did not, the terrible pangs of starvation and here was provision for many a day. Besides, the whole of a rich chocolate cake does have a diminishing effect upon even such appetites as Peter's.

Bounteous as the feast was, but a brief half-hour was permitted for its consumption; then the master of the day announced:

"Our job's well begun and so half-done. Now for a fine finish and – home!"

All who were standing hurried to their tasks at this word of command, and all who were sitting as promptly rose. Among them Mrs. Cecil, with a sudden realization of her eighty years of cushioned ease and her one hour of sitting on a board. Also, her zest of the occasion had as suddenly passed. She had taken a moment's chance to speak to "Johnnie" of money matters; how it would "really be an accommodation for him to take and use some of her own superfluous ready cash, till such time as Skyrie began to yield a comfortable income"; and to her delicately worded offer "Johnnie" had returned a most awkward refusal. He had tried to soften his reply, but not being politic or tactful had succeeded only in expressing himself more brusquely. When pressed to tell if any other person had superseded her, he had to acknowledge that Friend Oliver Sands had done so, but that the affair belonged to his wife, etc.

That was the climax. Between the mistress of Deerhurst and the miller there was a grudge of long standing. Though liberal in her business dealings the old gentlewoman hated to be cheated, and she had openly declared to all who chose to listen that Oliver had cheated her. She stopped buying her feed of him and went to the extra trouble of sending all the way to Newburgh for everything in his line that was required at Deerhurst.

Few like to have their kindnesses returned upon themselves, unappreciated: Betty Calvert less than most: so with a feeling of affront, which she was too outspoken wholly to corer by politeness, she said:

"Mr. Smith, I must go home. May Dorothy Chester take your horse and wagon and drive me there?"

"Of course, and proud to have you use it. But can that little girl drive?" he asked, glancing at the child with a funny smile. Well he knew the retort he might expect – and presently received, amid a burst of kindly laughter from others around – from the lady:

"My good Mr. Smith, I sold you that nag. He's twenty years old if a day. A babe in arms could drive him! and I'll send a capable horseman back with him – and her. Good-day, all; and God speed the finish!"

She said it quite devoutly, thankful for the present help given the crippled, would-be farmer, and knowing that with even the best of help his future would be difficult.

A few moments later, for the first time in her life, Dorothy held a pair of reins in her hands, clutching them tightly as if all her strength were required to restrain the speed of the venerable animal hitched before the open "democrat" in which she sat, and that nothing could induce to anything swifter than a walk. Once she opened her lips and asked, nervously:

"Are you – much afraid, Mrs. Calvert?"

"Not – much!" quavered that lady, in mimicry, and with the most admiring contemplation of the earnest young face beside her. From the flapping ears of their steed Dorothy's own eyes never wavered. It was a wonderful experience. To pull on either rein and guide so big a creature to the right or left – Why, she had seen others drive but she had never before realized the great intelligence of a horse! Oh! how delightful it would be to own one for one's self! All the inborn love of horseflesh that, till that moment, she had not realized woke up in her small breast, and finally found voice in the exclamation:

"Oh! If Daisy-Jewel had only been a colt instead of a calf!"

"A perfectly simple matter to change him into one," quietly returned Mrs. Cecil; and hearing her, Dorothy wondered if this old gentlewoman were in truth the "fairy godmother" to whom she had sometimes likened her.

The girl did not answer. They had arrived at the gates of Deerhurst and this young "coachman" was gravely considering how to drive through them without hitting either ivy-covered pillar. So earnest was she now that Mrs. Calvert had twice to repeat a question she had long been pondering; but which fell upon Dorothy Chester's ears, at last, with the sound of an exploding bomb.

"My little Dorothy, will you come to live with me, and become my adopted daughter?"

CHAPTER XV

CONCERNING SEVERAL MATTERS

"O Jim! I feel so – so guilty! Just as if I had done something dreadfully wrong!" cried troubled Dorothy C. to her faithful if jealous friend, as they were driving homeward again. The reins were in his hands this time and he held them with an ease which left everything to the old horse itself, and which would have surprised the girl had room been left in her mind for any smaller surprises after that great one of Mrs. Cecil's question.

"Don't see why," returned practical Jim. His own satisfaction was great, just then, for he had seen Herbert Montaigne driving homeward on his brand-new horse-rake, brilliant in red paint and purchased by that extravagant youth expressly for the Skyrie "Bee." Herbert had forsaken that laborious festivity, soon after the departure of Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy; but not till after he had also finished all the raking there had been for him to do. Much of the ground was so overrun with bushes and brambles that only hand-rakes were available, and to the more difficult task of these the lad did not aspire.

Now, at ease with his own conscience and at peace with all the world, he drove by the gates of Deerhurst whistling his merriest, and bent upon ending his rarely useful day by a row upon the river. He even caught a glimpse of Dorothy sitting in the farm wagon waiting for Jim to "make himself tidy after his gardening," as his mistress had directed; and had called out some bit of nonsense to her which she was too absorbed in thought to notice.

"That's all right. Needn't answer if she doesn't wish! I'll see her to-morrow and get her to go on that picnic at the camp. One picnic paves the way to another – that's easy! I don't feel now any great longing even for planked shad – such a dinner I ate! But that's one good thing about a dinner, little Kit! Take a few hours off and you'll be ready for the next one! Good thing my top-lofty sister 'took a notion' to sweet Dolly! That's going to make things lots easier for my scheme, 'but I'll 'bide a wee' before I spring it on the Pater. Eh, little Kit? Aren't you a beauty? and – good luck! You're just the thing to take her, to-morrow. She told me, to-day, they hadn't a single cat. 'Not a single cat!' In a tone of regular heartbreak, she said it, Kit! That's why I heard you squalling by the roadside and picked you up. Somebody dropped you, didn't he? Somebody a deal richer in cats than Dorothy C. Why, little Kit, I heard a workman telling the other day how he found a bag of kittens, a whole bag of them, 'lost' by somebody as heartless as your own late owner, probably, but far less wise. For the bag was a potato sack and it had the owner's name stamped in full on it. Must have lost it out the back of a wagon, the workman thought. Anyway, next day he gathered up all the stray cats and kittens he could find and in the dead of night – the dead of night, little Kit! when all dire deeds are done! – he carried the replenished sack back and left it on the 'loser's' doorstep. Good for that workman! but, query. What became of the cats? Never mind, Kitty, I know what will become of you, and your fate will be the happiest possible. Get up there, Slowpoke!" finished the lad, thrusting the tiny kitten he had found astray on the road into his blouse, and urging the work horse forward. In any case it is probable he would have picked up the lost kitten and given it a home in his father's barn, but it suited well with Dorothy's pathetic regret that he should have found it.

"You 'don't see why,' Jim Barlow, I feel so worried over what Mrs. Calvert asked? Then you're stupider than I thought. She is so kind, she found and saved me – after you, of course – and she is so old and lonely. I'd love to live with her if – if there were two of me. Already she looks to me to do little things for her that nobody else seems to think she wants, and to do them without her asking. I love her. Seems if she was sort of my folks —my own folks that I must have had sometime. We like the same things. She adores Dickens, so do I. She loves outdoors, so do I. She – But there, it's no use! I can't go to live with her and leave father John and mother Martha. It would break their hearts and mine, too! Oh! dear! I wish she hadn't asked me; then I wouldn't have had to say 'No,' and see her beautiful old face lose all its lovely brightness. When I think how old she is, how it's but a little while she'll need me – Why, then my heart breaks in two the other way! O Jim! Isn't life a terrible, terrible perplexity?" demanded this small maid to whom "life" was, indeed, just showing its realities.

Jim listened silently, but it wouldn't have flattered her to know that it was her ready flow of language and the rather long words she used which mainly impressed him. To his practical mind it was simply impossible for any right-minded girl to forsake those who had cared for her all her life, in order to gratify the whim of an old lady whom she had known but a short time. Nor did it enter the thoughts of either of these young folks that the material advantages offered to Dorothy would be very great. It was only a question of happiness; the happiness of the Chesters or that of Mrs. Cecil.

As they left Deerhurst behind them and still Jim had answered nothing except that provoking "Don't see why," Dorothy lost her patience.

"Jim Barlow, have you lost your tongue? I think – I think you're horribly unsympathetic!" she cried, flashing a glance upon him that was meant for anger, yet ended in surprise at his actually smiling countenance. "I don't see anything funny in this business, if you do! What are you laughing at?"