Dorothy at Skyrie

Now he looked at her, his face radiant with the fun of his own thoughts, and replied:

"Lots o' things. Fust off, Dorothy, will you correct me every time I use bad language?"

"Bad – language! Swearing, you mean? Why, Jim, I never heard you, not once. Huh! If I did I reckon I would correct you, so quick 'twould make you dizzy!"

"Pshaw! I don't mean that, silly thing! I mean – Dorothy, I want to talk like other folks: like Mis' Calvert – "

"Then begin to call her 'Mrs.'"

"Mrs. Calvert," answered Jim, obediently. "To you and her and Mr. Chester, talkin' – "

"Talking, Jim. Don't clip the g's off your words!"

He half-frowned, then laughed. She was almost too ready with her corrections. But he went on:

"I'm studyin' – studying – every night, as long as I dast – "

"Dare, you mean."

Poor Jim gasped and retorted:

"Well, dare, then, if you say so. D-a-r-e! and be done with it! Mis', I mean Mrs., Calvert has give orders – "

"Given orders, boy."

"Shut up! I mean she's told the old man and woman that keeps – "

"Who keep!"

"That keeps the gate and lives in the lodge an' I live with 'em, if you want to know the hull kit an' boodle of the story, she's give 'em orders I can't have no light lit after half-past ten o'clock, 'cause I'll spile my eyes an' break down my strength – Pshaw! as if a feller could, just a-studyin', when he's so powerful bent on't as I be! But, you know I know I don't talk quite the same as them 'at knows better an' has had more book l'arnin'," explained the young student, hopelessly relapsing into the truck-farm vernacular.

"Yes, Jim, I do know that you know, as you so tellingly put it. I've seen you flush more than once when you've noticed the difference in speech, and I'll help you all I can. I don't know much myself. I'm only a girl, not far along in her own education, but I'll do what I can; only, Jim Barlow, don't you go and get offended when I set you right. If you do you shall go on 'wallowing in your ignorance,' as I've read somewhere. Now, that's enough 'correction' for once. Tell me the other 'lots of things' you were laughing at."

"Sure! The first one, how we're goin' to get ahead of that old Quaker miller. Mis' – Mrs. – Calvert's planned the hull – whole – business. She don't like him none. She stopped me an' told me things, a few. She 'lows he's got some scheme or other, 'at ain't no good to your folks, a-lettin' good money on a wore-out farm like Skyrie. There's more in his doin's than has come to light yet. That's what she says. Even his sellin' your ma that jumpin' cow was a low-down, ornery trick. An' that bull calf – no more use to such as you-all 'an a white elephant, she says. Less; 'cause I s'pose a body'd could sell a elephant, if they was put to it. Say, Dorothy. They's a-goin' to be a circus come to Newburgh bime-by. The pictures of it is all along the fences an' walls; an', say – I'm earnin' wages now, real good ones. I told Mis', Mrs., Calvert 't I didn't think I ought to take any money off her, 'cause she's give – given – me all these new clothes an' treats me so like a prince; but she laughed an' said how 'twas in the Bible that 'a laborer is worthy of his hire' and she'd be a poor sort of Christian that didn't at least try to live up to her Bible. Say, Dorothy, she's even give me one for myself! Fact. She give it an' says she, she says: 'James, if you make that the rule of your heart and life, you can't help being a gentleman, 'at you aspire to be, as well as a good man.' Then she fetched out another book, big – Why, Dorothy! So big it's real heavy to lift! An' she called that one a 'Shakespeare.' The name was printed on it plain; an' she said the man what wrote it more years ago 'an I can half-tell, had 'done the thinkin' for half – the world, or more,' she said. And how 'if I'd use them two books constant an' apply 'em to my own life I'd never need be ashamed an' I could hold up my head in even the wisest company.' Say, Dorothy! Mis' Calvert knows a powerful lot, seems if!"

"Well, she ought. She's lived a powerful long time."

"An' I've been thinkin' things over. I don't believe I will try to be President, like we planned. Lookin' into that Shakespeare feller's book I 'low I'd ruther write one like it, instead."

"O Jim! That's too delightful! I must tell father that. I must! You, a new Shakespeare! Why, boy, he's the wisest writer ever lived. I'm only just being allowed to read a little bit of him, old as I am. My father picks out the best parts of the best dramas and we often read them together, evenings. But – What are the other things you thought about, and made you laugh? That circus, too; shall you go to it, Jim? Did you ever go to one?"

"Never. Never. But I'm just sufferin' to go. Say, Dorothy? If I can get all my work done, an' Mrs. Calvert she don't think it's sinful waste o' good money, an' your folks'll let you, an' it don't come on to rain but turns out a real nice day, an' I can get the loan of Mrs. Calvert's oldest horse an' rig – 'cause I wouldn't dast – dare – to ask for a young one – an' I felt as if I could take care of you in such a terrible crowd as Ephraim says they always is to circuses, would you, will you, go with me?"

In spite of herself Dorothy could not help laughing. Yet there was something almost pathetic in the face of this poor youth, possessing a small sum of money for the first time, beset by the caution which had hedged his humble, dependent life, yet daring – actually daring, of his own volition – to be generous! Generous of that which Miranda Stott had taught him was the very best thing in the world – money! Of himself, his strength, his unselfishness and devotion, – all so much higher than that "money," – he had always been most lavish; and remembering this, with a sympathy wise beyond her years, Dorothy speedily hushed her laughter and answered eagerly:

"Indeed, I will, you dear, care-taking, cautious boy, and thank you heartily. I love a circus. Father John used to take mother Martha and me to one once every summer. Why, what a perfectly wild and giddy creature I shall be! To a circus with you, a camp-picnic with Herbert and Helena, and this splendid farmers' 'Bee' – Hurray!"

Jim's countenance fell. "I didn't know 'bout that other picnic," said he. "When's it comin' off? And what is a picnic, anyway?"

"You'll see when we get home to Skyrie. A picnic is the jolliest thing there is – except a circus. Except a circus. When it's to come off I don't know, but when it does I mean you shall be in it, too, Jim Barlow. Yet you haven't finished about poor, dear Mr. Oliver Sands. You have wandered all over the face of the earth, as my teacher used to complain I did in writing my compositions. I didn't stick to my subject. You haven't stuck to yours, the Quaker man. Finish him up, for we're almost at Skyrie now."

Comforted by her ranking of a circus as something infinitely more delightful than even a rich boy's picnic, and because the fields of Skyrie were, indeed, now in view, Jim resumed concerning the gentleman in question:

"Dorothy, that calf o' yours won't never be no good. The man give him to you, all right, an' 'peared amazin' generous. But – he cal'lated on gettin' back more'n his money's worth. He'd tried to sell old Hannah time an' again, so Mrs. Calvert was told, an' couldn't, 'count of her being so hard to keep track of. He didn't dast to sell without the calf alongside, for if he did the critter's so tearin' lively she'd 'a' got back home to his farm 'fore he did, drive as fast as he might. But what he planned was: your ma take the calf for a gift an' she'd have to send to his mill to get feed an' stuff for to raise it on. To keep both cow an' calf would cost – I don't know how much, but enough to suit him all right. 'Tother side the matter, his side, you did get Hannah cheap. She's good breed, her milk'll make nice butter – "

"It does! Splendid, perfectly splendid! Mrs. Smith showed mother how to manage and it all came back to her, for she had only, as father says, 'mislaid her knowledge' and she makes all the butter we need. Not all we want – We could eat pounds and pounds! But it takes a good many quarts of milk to make a pound of butter, I've learned; and an awful lot of what father calls 'circular exercise' to make the 'butter come.' Mother bought one of those churns that you turn around and around, I mean a dasher around and around inside the churn – I get my talk mixed up, sometimes – and it takes an hour, maybe, to turn and turn. Worse than freezing ice cream in a 'ten-minute' freezer, like we had in Baltimore, yet had to work all morning to get it frozen ready for Sunday dinner. Mother thinks a dash-churn, stand and flap the dasher straight up and down till your arms and legs give out, is the best kind. But the around-and-around is the modern sort; so, of course, she got that. If Daisy-Jewel and Piggy-Wig didn't need so much milk themselves there'd be more for us. And somehow, you don't make me feel very nice toward Mr. Oliver Sands."

"Say, Dorothy. Mis' Calvert's notion is for you to sell Daisy an' buy a horse. Will you, if you get a chance?"

"Simple Simon! A horse is worth lots and lots more than a calf! was that what she meant when she said a calf might turn into a colt? A colt is a horse, after all. A little horse. Well, maybe she was right. I might sell a little calf and get a little colt. But who in the world would buy? Besides, despite all the trouble she makes, mother wouldn't part with that pretty, écru-colored cow, and Hannah will not be separated from Daisy-Jewel. I mean Daisy-Jewel will not be separated from Hannah. Even a man, Mr. Oliver Sands, said that would be 'cruel.' You don't want to have me cruel, do you, Jim Barlow?"

"Shucks! Hannah won't mourn for no calf, longer 'n a couple of hours, 'less she's different from any cow I ever see, light-complected or otherwise. As for that jumpin' notion o' hern; I'll fix her! I've been layin' out to do it, ever since I heard she done it, but somehow I didn't get the chance."

"You didn't get the chance because you never take it. I don't think it's right, Jim Barlow, for you to work every minute of daylight, fearing you won't do all your horrid 'duty' to your employer, then study all night to make yourself 'fit for your friends,' as you told me. Maybe, some of your friends might like to see you, now and then, before you are 'fit,'" returned Dorothy, and with that they came to the gate of Skyrie and drove over the path to the barn, the path, or driveway, which that very morning had been overgrown and hidden with grass and weeds, but now lay hard and clean as if just newly made.

"Pshaw! Somebody's been busy, I declare!" cried Jim, admiringly, and leaped out to tie Mr. Smith's "nag" in a comfortable shady place. He did not offer to help Dorothy alight, nor did she either wait for or expect this courtesy; but seeing mother Martha in the kitchen, ran to her with an account of her brief outing.

The housemistress had slipped away from the few women guests left remaining in the field where dinner had been served. Most of them had already left for home, their part in the day's proceedings having been well finished, and each a busy farmwife who had snatched a half-day from her own crowding tasks to help the "Bee" along.

She had made many acquaintances, she was glad to know them. She "liked folks better than scenery," as she had once complained to her husband, during a fit of homesickness for "dear old Baltimore"; but she was very tired. The excitement of this unexpected visitation, and the varying emotions of the day had strangely wearied her. Besides, deep down in her heart – as in father John's – lay a feeling of wounded pride. She had been very happy, for a time, she had found herself the center of much kindly attention: and yet – she wished that the need for such attention had not existed. So she was glad now of the privacy of her kitchen whither none would intrude; and into which Dorothy ran, full of talk and eager above all things to tell of that astonishing offer of Mrs. Calvert's to re-adopt her.

But something stopped the words on her lips. She could not herself have explained why she refrained from speaking, unless it were that weary, fretful expression of Mrs. Chester's face. So, instead of bestowing confidences, she merely said:

"Mother dear, do come upstairs to your own pretty room and lie down. It's grown terribly warm this afternoon and you look so tired. I'll shut the blinds and make it all dark and cool; then I'll find father John and see if he needs me too. Come, mother, come."

With a sudden burst of affection, such as rarely came from Mrs. Chester, that lady caught the girl in her arms and kissed her fondly, saying:

"You are my good angel, Dolly darling! You are the brightness of my life. Don't ever let anybody else steal you away from me, will you? I couldn't live without you, now – and here."

Dorothy's breath came quick and sharp. How odd this was, to have her mother touch upon that very subject lying uppermost in her own heart! Could she and Mrs. Calvert have been discussing her in this way? Well, at least, she now knew that she had been wholly right. The reluctant "No" she had given Mrs. Betty was the only word to say.

CHAPTER XVI

THE FATE OF DAISY-JEWEL

The "Bee" was a thing of the past. Everybody had gone, leaving a vastly different Skyrie from that which greeted the rising sun of that memorable day. Weed-grown, bramble-infested fields lay cleared of débris, that had been gathered into heaps and burned. The garden plot was now a stretch of well-made beds wherein had been sown or set such things as would develop to ripeness that season, although it was long past orthodox time for garden-making. To the delight of his obstinate soul, even Pa Babcock's asparagus trench had been duly prepared and a sufficient number of the roots set out. But the work of the trench, or bed, had not been accomplished by himself. He had explained the pressing need of such a thing to Mrs. Calvert, who, to rid herself and others of his "talk," had promptly furnished the necessary funds to pay for the plants and had dispatched him to a distant market gardener's to procure them. He had returned sooner than was expected or desired, but could he relegate his own intelligent task to anybody else? So, for once, he really did work faithfully, spreading out each tiny rootlet with a care that insured a prompt growth, and deluging them with water which it took many trips to the spring to bring.

The old well-curb had been repaired, the well emptied of water, and cleaned. The barn had been put in order, so far as might be with the time and material at command. The roof would not leak again nor the blinds fall because of rusted hinges. Even the cellar had been swept, and garnished with double coatings of sweet-smelling whitewash; and, indeed, all that these willing helpers could think of and accomplish had been done to make the Skyrie household "start farming fair and square."

The last event of the "Bee" had been an auction.

Mrs. Calvert had sent a brief note of instructions to Seth Winters and he had promptly acted upon them. With such an assembly at hand the time was ripe for selling Daisy-Jewel to the highest bidder. So the blacksmith held a short parley with Bill Barry, the village auctioneer, and afterward started the sale by a fair price named for such a blooded quadruped.

"Seven dollars! Seven dollars! Did I hear somebody bid seven dollars? only seven for such a beautiful Jewel and Daisy combined?"

"Seven fifty!" called Jim Barlow, also acting upon instructions.

"Seven fifty – somebody higher? And eight dollars? Eight, eight, eight, somebody raise me eight-eight-eight —And fifty! Eight dollars and fifty cents! Why, you folks, you make me blush to be an auctioneer, standing here on a horse-block and selling away from a little girl the only piece of stawk she owns for just eight dollars and fifty cents. That I should live to – Nine, nine, nine, nine! Somebody raise me nine dollars for a full-bred Jersey bull calf! nine, nine, nine – "