MARY-'GUSTA
By Joseph C. Lincoln
CONTENTS
MARY-'GUSTA
CHAPTER I
On the twentieth day of April in the year 19—, the people—that is, a majority of the grown people of Ostable—were talking of Marcellus Hall and Mary-'Gusta.
A part of this statement is not surprising. The average person, no matter how humble or obscure, is pretty certain to be talked about on the day of his funeral, and Marcellus was to be buried that afternoon. Moreover, Marcellus had been neither humble nor obscure; also, he had been talked about a good deal during the fifty-nine years of his sojourn on this planet. So it is not at all surprising that he should be talked about now, when that sojourn was ended. But for all Ostable—yes, and a large part of South Harniss—to be engaged in speculation concerning the future of Mary-'Gusta was surprising, for, prior to Marcellus's death, very few outside of the Hall household had given her or her future a thought.
On this day, however, whenever or wherever the name of Marcellus Hall was mentioned, after the disposition of Marcellus's own bones had been discussed and those of his family skeleton disinterred and articulated, the conversation, in at least eight cases out of ten, resolved itself into a guessing contest, having as its problem this query:
“What's goin' to become of that child?”
For example:
Mr. Bethuel Sparrow, local newsgatherer for the Ostable Enterprise, seated before his desk in the editorial sanctum, was writing an obituary for next week's paper, under the following head:
“A Prominent Citizen Passes Away.”
An ordinary man would probably have written “Dies”; but Mr. Sparrow, being a young and very new reporter for a rural weekly, wrote “Passes Away” as more elegant and less shocking to the reader.
It is much more soothing and refined to pass away than to die—unless one happens to be the person most concerned, in which case, perhaps, it may make little difference.
“The Angel of Death,” wrote Mr. Sparrow, “passed through our midst on Tuesday last and called to his reward Captain Marcellus Hall, one of Ostable's most well-known and influential residents.”
A slight exaggeration here. Marcellus had lived in Ostable but five years altogether and, during the last three, had taken absolutely no part in town affairs—political, religious or social. However, “influential” is a good word and usual in obituaries, so Bethuel let it stand. He continued:
“Captain Hall's sudden death—”
Erasure of “death” and substitution of “demise.”
Then:
“—Was a shock to the community at large. It happened on account of—” More erasures and substitutions. “—It was the result of his taking cold owing to exposure during the heavy southeast rains of week before last which developed into pneumonia. He grew rapidly worse and passed away at 3.06 P.M. on Tuesday, leaving a vacancy in our midst which will be hard to fill, if at all. Although Captain Hall had resided in Ostable but a comparatively short period, he was well-known and respected, both as a man and—”
Here, invention failing, Mr. Sparrow called for assistance.
“Hey, Perce,” he hailed, addressing his companion, Mr. Percy Clark, who was busy setting type: “What's a good word to use here? I say Marcellus was respected both as a man—and somethin' else.”
“Hey?” queried Percy, absently, scanning the eight point case. “What d'ye say?”
“I asked you what would be a good thing to go with 'man'?”
“Hey? I don't know. Woman, I guess.”
“Aw, cut it out. Never mind, I got it:
“—As a man and a citizen. Captain Hall was fifty-nine years of age at the time of his demise. He was born in South Harniss and followed the sea until 1871, when he founded the firm of Hall and Company, which was for some years the leading dealer in fresh and salt fish in this section of the state. When the firm—
“I say, Perce! 'Twouldn't do to say Marcellus failed in business, would it? Might seem like hintin' at that stuff about his sister and the rest of it. Might get us into trouble, eh?”
“Humph! I don't know who with. Everybody's talkin' about it, anyway. Up to the boardin' house they've been talking about mighty little else ever since he died.”
“I know, but talk's one thing and print's another. I'm goin' to leave it out.
“When the firm went out of business in 1879, Captain Hall followed the sea again, commanding the ships Faraway, Fair Wind, and Treasure Seeker, and the bark Apollo. Later he retired from the sea and has not been active in the same or otherwise since. In 1894 he married Augusta Bangs Lathrop, widow of the late Reverend Charles Lathrop, formerly pastor of the Congregational Church in this town. Captain Hall had been residing in his native town, South Harniss, but after his marriage he took up his residence in Ostable, purchasing the residence formerly owned by Elnathan Phinney on Phinney's Hill, where he lived until his lamented demise. Mrs. Hall passed away in 1896. The sudden removal of Captain Hall from our midst leaves a stepdaughter, Mary Augusta Lathrop, aged seven. The—”
Here Mr. Sparrow's train of thought collided with the obstruction which was derailing many similar trains in Ostable and South Harniss.
“I say, Perce,” he observed “what's goin' to become of that kid of Marcellus's—his wife's, I mean? Marcellus didn't have any relations, as far as anybody knows, and neither did his wife. Who's goin' to take care of Mary-'Gusta?”
Percy shook his head. “Don't know,” he answered. “That's what all hands are askin'. I presume likely she'll be looked after. Marcellus left plenty of money, didn't he? And kids with money can generally find guardians.”
“Yup, I guess that's so. Still, whoever gets her will have their hands full. She's the most old-fashioned, queerest young-one ever I saw.”
So much for Mr. Sparrow and his fellow laborer for the Enterprise. Now to listen for a moment to Judge Baxter, who led the legal profession of Ostable; and to Mrs. Baxter who, so common report affirmed, led the Judge. The pair were upstairs in the Baxter house, dressing for the funeral.
“Daniel,” declared Mrs. Baxter, “it's the queerest thing I ever heard of. You say they don't know—either of them—and the child herself doesn't know, either.”
“That's it, Ophelia. No one knows except myself. Captain Hall read the letter to me and put it in my charge a year ago.”
“Well, I must say!”
“Yes, I know, I said it at the time, and I've been saying it to myself ever since. It doesn't mean anything; that is, it is not binding legally, of course. It's absolutely unbusinesslike and unpractical. Simply a letter, asking them, as old friends, to do this thing. Whether they will or not the Almighty only knows.”
“Well, Daniel, I must say I shouldn't have thought you, as his lawyer, would have let him do such a thing. Of course, I don't know either of them very well, but, from what little I've heard, I should say they know as much about what they would be supposed to do as—as you do about tying a necktie. For mercy sakes let me fix it! The knot is supposed to be under your chin, not under your ear as if you were going to be hung.”
The Judge meekly elevated the chin and his wife pulled the tie into place.
“And so,” she said, “they can say yes or no just as they like.”
“Yes, it rests entirely with them.”
“And suppose they say no, what will become of the child then?”
“I can't tell you. Captain Hall seemed pretty certain they wouldn't say no.”
“Humph! There! Now you look a little more presentable. Have you got a clean handkerchief? Well, that's an unexpected miracle; I don't know how you happened to think of it. When are you going to speak with them about it?”
“Today, if they come to the funeral, as I suppose they will.”
“I shall be in a fidget until I know whether they say yes or no. And whichever they say I shall keep on fidgeting until I see what happens after that. Poor little Mary-'Gusta! I wonder what WILL become of her.”
The Judge shook his head.
Over the road between South Harniss and Ostable a buggy drawn by an aged white horse was moving slowly. On the buggy's seat were two men, Captain Shadrach Gould and Zoeth Hamilton. Captain Gould, big, stout, and bearded, was driving. Mr. Hamilton, small, thin, smooth-faced and white-haired, was beside him. Both were obviously dressed in their Sunday clothes, Captain Shadrach's blue, Mr. Hamilton's black. Each wore an uncomfortably high collar and the shoes of each had been laboriously polished. Their faces, utterly unlike in most respects, were very solemn.
“Ah hum!” sighed Mr. Hamilton.
Captain Shadrach snorted impatiently.
“For the land sakes don't do that again, Zoeth,” he protested. “That's the tenth 'Ah hum' you've cast loose in a mile. I know we're bound to a funeral but there ain't no need of tollin' the bell all the way. I don't like it and I don't think Marcellus would neither, if he could hear you.”
“Perhaps he can hear us, Shadrach,” suggested his companion, mildly. “Perhaps he's here with us now; who can tell?”
“Humph! Well, if he is then I KNOW he don't like it. Marcellus never made any fuss whatever happened, and he wouldn't make any at his own funeral no more than at anybody else's. That wasn't his way. Say nothin' and keep her on the course, that was Marcellus. I swan I can hardly make it seem possible that he's gone!”
“Neither can I, Shadrach. And to think that you and me, his old partners and lifelong chums as you might say, hadn't seen nor spoken to him for over two years. It makes me feel bad. Bad and sort of conscience-struck.”
“I know; so it does me, in a way. And yet it wasn't our fault, Zoeth. You know as well as I do that Marcellus didn't want to see us. We was over to see him last and he scarcely said a word while we was there. You and me did all the talkin' and he just set and looked at us—when he wasn't lookin' at the floor. I never saw such a change in a man. We asked—yes, by fire, we fairly begged him to come and stay with us for a spell, but he never did. Now it ain't no further from Ostable to South Harniss than it is from South Harniss to Ostable. If he'd wanted to come he could; if he'd wanted to see us he could. We went to see him, didn't we; and WE had a store and a business to leave. He ain't had any business since he give up goin' to sea. He—”
“Sshh! Shh!” interrupted Mr. Hamilton, mildly, “don't talk that way, Shadrach. Don't find fault with the dead.”
“Find fault! I ain't findin' fault. I thought as much of Marcellus Hall as any man on earth, and nobody feels worse about his bein' took than I do. But I'm just sayin' what we both know's a fact. He didn't want to see us; he didn't want to see nobody. Since his wife died he lived alone in that house, except for a housekeeper and that stepchild, and never went anywhere or had anybody come to see him if he could help it. A reg'lar hermit—that's what he was, a hermit, like Peleg Myrick down to Setuckit P'int. And when I think what he used to be, smart, lively, able, one of the best skippers and smartest business men afloat or ashore, it don't seem possible a body could change so. 'Twas that woman that done it, that woman that trapped him into gettin' married.”
“Sshh! Shh! Shadrach; she's dead, too. And, besides, I guess she was a real good woman; everybody said she was.”
“I ain't sayin' she wasn't, am I? What I say is she hadn't no business marryin' a man twenty years older'n she was.”
“But,” mildly, “you said she trapped him. Now we don't know—”
“Zoeth Hamilton, you know she must have trapped him. You and I agreed that was just what she done. If she hadn't trapped him—set a reg'lar seine for him and hauled him aboard like a school of mackerel—'tain't likely he'd have married her or anybody else, is it? I ain't married nobody, have I? And Marcellus was years older'n I be.”
“Well, well, Shadrach!”
“No, 'tain't well; it's bad. He's gone, and—and you and me that was with him for years and years, his very best friends on earth as you might say, wasn't with him when he died. If it hadn't been for her he'd have stayed in South Harniss where he belonged. Consarn women! They're responsible for more cussedness than the smallpox. 'When a man marries his trouble begins'; that's gospel, too.”
Zoeth did not answer.
Captain Gould, after a sidelong glance at his companion, took a hand from the reins and laid it on the Hamilton knee.
“I'm sorry, Zoeth,” he said, contritely; “I didn't mean to—to rake up bygones; I was blowin' off steam, that's all. I'm sorry.”
“I know, Shadrach. It's all right.”
“No, 'tain't all right; it's all wrong. Somebody ought to keep a watch on me, and when they see me beginnin' to get hot, set me on the back of the stove or somewheres; I'm always liable to bile over and scald the wrong critter. I've done that all my life. I'm sorry, Zoeth, you know I didn't mean—”
“I know, I know. Ah hum! Poor Marcellus! Here's the first break in the old firm, Shadrach.”
“Yup. You and me are all that's left of Hall and Company. That is—”
He stopped short just in time and roared a “Git dap” at the horse. He had been on the point of saying something which would have been far more disastrous than his reference to the troubles following marriage. Zoeth was apparently not curious. To his friend's great relief he did not wait for the sentence to be finished, nor did he ask embarrassing questions. Instead he said:
“I wonder what's goin' to become of that child, Mary Lathrop's girl. Who do you suppose likely will take charge of her?”
“I don't know. I've been wonderin' that myself, Zoeth.”
“Kind of a cute little thing, she was, too, as I recollect her. I presume likely she's grown up consid'ble since. You remember how she set and looked at us that last time we was over to see Marcellus, Shadrach?”
“Remember? How she looked at ME, you mean! Shall I ever forget it? I'd just had my hair cut by that new barber, Sim Ellis, that lived here 'long about then, and I told him to cut off the ends. He thought I meant the other ends, I cal'late, for I went to sleep in the chair, same as I generally do, and when I woke up my head looked like the main truck of the old Faraway. All it needed was to have the bald place gilded. I give you my word that if I hadn't been born with my ears set wing and wing like a schooner runnin' afore the wind I'd have been smothered when I put my hat on—nothin' but them ears kept it propped up off my nose. YOU remember that haircut, Zoeth. Well, all the time you and me was in Marcellus's settin'-room that stepchild of his just set and looked at my head. Never took her eyes off it. If she'd said anything 'twouldn't have been so bad; but she didn't—just looked. I could feel my bald spot reddenin' up till I swan to man I thought it must be breakin' out in blisters. 'Never see anybody that looked just like me, did you, Sis?' I says to her, when I couldn't stand it any longer. 'No, sir,' she says, solemn as an owl. She was right out and honest, I'll say that for her. That's the only time Marcellus laughed while we was inside that house. I didn't blame him much. Ho, ho! Well, he ain't laughin' now and neither are we—or we hadn't ought to be. Neither is the child, I cal'late, poor thing. I wonder what will become of her.”
And meanwhile the child herself was vaguely, and in childish fashion, wondering that very thing. She was in the carriage room of the barn belonging to the Hall estate—if the few acres of land and the buildings owned by the late Marcellus may be called an estate—curled up on the back seat of the old surrey which had been used so little since the death of her mother, Augusta Hall, four years before. The surrey was shrouded from top to floor with a dust cover of unbleached muslin through which the sunshine from the carriage room windows filtered in a mysterious, softened twilight. The covered surrey was a favorite retreat of Mary-'Gusta's. She had discovered it herself—which made it doubly alluring, of course—and she seldom invited her juvenile friends to share its curtained privacy with her. It was her playhouse, her tent, and her enchanted castle, much too sacred to be made common property. Here she came on rainy Saturdays and on many days not rainy when other children, those possessing brothers or sisters, played out of doors. She liked to play by herself, to invent plays all her own, and these other children—“normal children,” their parents called them—were much too likely to laugh instead of solemnly making believe as she did. Mary-'Gusta was not a normal child; she was “that queer Lathrop young-one”—had heard herself so described more than once. She did not like the phrase; “queer” was not so bad—perhaps she was queer—but she had an instinctive repugnance to being called a young-one. Birds and rabbits had young-ones and she was neither feathered nor furred.
So very few of the neighborhood children were invited to the shaded interior of the old surrey. Her dolls—all five of them—spent a good deal of time there and David, the tortoise-shell cat, came often, usually under compulsion. When David had kittens, which interesting domestic event took place pretty frequently, he—or she—positively refused to be an occupant of that surrey, growling and scratching in a decidedly ungentlemanly—or unladylike—manner. Twice Mary-'Gusta had attempted to make David more complacent by bringing the kittens also to the surrey, but their parent had promptly and consecutively seized them by the scruff of their necks and laboriously lugged them up to the haymow again.
Just now, however, there being no kittens, David was slumbering in a furry heap beside Mary-'Gusta at one end of the carriage seat, and Rosette, the smallest of the five dolls, and Rose, the largest, were sitting bolt upright in the corner at the other end. The christening of the smallest and newest doll was the result of a piece of characteristic reasoning on its owner's part. She was very fond of the name Rose, the same being the name of the heroine in “Eight Cousins,” which story Mrs. Bailey, housekeeper before last for Marcellus Hall, had read aloud to the child. When the new doll came, at Christmas time, Mary-'Gusta wished that she might christen it Rose also. But there was another and much beloved Rose already in the family. So Mary-'Gusta reflected and observed, and she observed that a big roll of tobacco such as her stepfather smoked was a cigar; while a little one, as smoked by Eben Keeler, the grocer's delivery clerk, was a cigarette. Therefore, the big doll being already Rose, the little one became Rosette.
Mary-'Gusta was not playing with Rose and Rosette at the present time. Neither was she interested in the peaceful slumbers of David. She was not playing at all, but sitting, with feet crossed beneath her on the seat and hands clasped about one knee, thinking. And, although she was thinking of her stepfather who she knew had gone away to a vague place called Heaven—a place variously described by Mrs. Bailey, the former housekeeper, and by Mrs. Susan Hobbs, the present one, and by Mr. Howes, the Sunday school superintendent—she was thinking most of herself, Mary Augusta Lathrop, who was going to a funeral that very afternoon and, after that, no one seemed to know exactly where.
It was a beautiful April day and the doors of the carriage house and the big door of the barn were wide open. Mary-'Gusta could hear the hens clucking and the voices of people talking. The voices were two: one was that of Mrs. Hobbs, the housekeeper, and the other belonged to Mr. Abner Hallett, the undertaker. Mary-'Gusta did not like Mr. Hallett's voice; she liked neither it nor its owner's manner; she described both voice and manner to herself as “too soothy.” They gave her the shivers.
Mr. Hallett's tone was subdued at the present time, but a trifle of the professional “soothiness” was lacking. He and Mrs. Hobbs were conversing briskly enough and, although Mary-'Gusta could catch only a word or two at intervals, she was perfectly sure they were talking about her. She was certain that if she were to appear at that moment in the door of the barn they would stop talking immediately and look at her. Everybody whom she had met during the past two days looked at her in that queer way. It made her feel as if she had something catching, like the measles, and as if, somehow or other, she was to blame.
She realized dimly that she should feel very, very badly because her stepfather was dead. Mrs. Hobbs had told her that she should and seemed to regard her as queerer than ever because she had not cried. But, according to the housekeeper, Captain Hall was out of his troubles and had gone where he would be happy for ever and ever. So it seemed to her strange to be expected to cry on his account. He had not been happy here in Ostable, or, at least, he had not shown his happiness in the way other people showed theirs. To her he had been a big, bearded giant of a man, whom she saw at infrequent intervals during the day and always at night just before she went to bed. His room, with the old-fashioned secretary against the wall, and the stuffed gull on the shelf, and the books in the cupboard, and the polished narwhal horn in the corner, was to her a sort of holy of holies, a place where she was led each evening at nine o'clock, at first by Mrs. Bailey and, later, by Mrs. Hobbs, to shake the hand of the big man who looked at her absently over his spectacles and said good night in a voice not unkindly but expressing no particular interest. At other times she was strictly forbidden to enter that room.
Occasionally, but very rarely, she had eaten Sunday dinner with Marcellus. She and the housekeeper usually ate together and Mr. Hall's meals were served in what the child called “the smoke room,” meaning the apartment just described, which was at all times strongly scented with tobacco. The Sunday dinners were stately and formal affairs and were prefaced by lectures by the housekeeper concerning sitting up straight and not disturbing Cap'n Hall by talking too much. On the whole Mary-'Gusta was rather glad when the meals were over. She did not dislike her stepfather; he had never been rough or unkind, but she had always stood in awe of him and had felt that he regarded her as a “pesky nuisance,” something to be fed and then shooed out of the way, as Mrs. Hobbs regarded David, the cat. As for loving him, as other children seemed to love their fathers; that the girl never did. She was sure he did not love her in that way, and that he would not have welcomed demonstrations of affection on her part. She had learned the reason, or she thought she had: she was a STEPCHILD; that was why, and a stepchild was almost as bad as a “changeling” in a fairy story.
Her mother she remembered dimly and with that recollection were memories of days when she was loved and made much of, not only by Mother, but by Captain Hall also. She asked Mrs. Bailey, whom she had loved and whose leaving was the greatest grief of her life, some questions about these memories. Mrs. Bailey had hugged her and had talked a good deal about Captain Hall's being a changed man since his wife's death. “He used to be so different, jolly and good-natured and sociable; you wouldn't know him now if you seen him then. When your mamma was took it just seemed to wilt him right down. He was awful sick himself for a spell, and when he got better he was like he is today. Seems as if HE died too, as you might say, and ain't really lived since. I'm awful sorry for Cap'n Marcellus. You must be real good to him when you grow up, Mary-'Gusta.”
And now he had gone before she had had a chance to grow up, and Mary-'Gusta felt an unreasonable sense of blame. But real grief, the dreadful paralyzing realization of loss which an adult feels when a dear one dies, she did not feel.
She was awed and a little frightened, but she did not feel like crying. Why should she?
“Mary-'Gusta! Mary-'Gusta! Where be you?”
It was Mrs. Hobbs calling. Mary-'Gusta hurriedly untwisted her legs and scrambled from beneath the dust cover of the surrey. David, whose slumbers were disturbed, rose also, yawned and stretched.
“Here I be, Mrs. Hobbs,” answered the girl. “I'm a-comin'.”
Mrs. Hobbs was standing in the doorway of the barn. Mary-'Gusta noticed that she was not, as usual, garbed in gingham, but was arrayed in her best go-to-meeting gown.
“I'm a-comin',” said the child.
“Comin', yes. But where on earth have you been? I've been hunting all over creation for you. I didn't suppose you'd be out here, on this day of all others, with—with that critter,” indicating David, who appeared, blinking sleepily.
“I must say I shouldn't think you'd be fussin' along with a cat today,” declared Mrs. Hobbs.
“Yes'm,” said Mary-'Gusta. David yawned, apparently expressing a bored contempt for housekeepers in general.
“Come right along into the house,” continued Mrs. Hobbs. “It's high time you was gettin' ready for the funeral.”
“Ready? How?” queried Mary-'Gusta.
“Why, changin' your clothes, of course.”
“Do folks dress up for funerals?”
“Course they do. What a question!”
“I didn't know. I—I've never had one.”
“Had one?”
“I mean I've never been to any. What do they dress up for?”
“Why—why, because they do, of course. Now don't ask any more questions, but hurry up. Where are you goin' now, for mercy sakes?”
“I was goin' back after Rose and Rosette. They ought to be dressed up, too, hadn't they?”
“The idea! Playin' dolls today! I declare I never see such a child! You're a reg'lar little—little heathen. Would you want anybody playin' dolls at your own funeral, I'd like to know?”
Mary-'Gusta thought this over. “I don't know,” she answered, after reflection. “I guess I'd just as soon. Do they have dolls up in Heaven, Mrs. Hobbs?”
“Mercy on us! I should say not. Dolls in Heaven! The idea!”
“Nor cats either?”
“No. Don't ask such wicked questions.”
Mary-'Gusta asked no more questions of that kind, but her conviction that Heaven—Mrs. Hobbs' Heaven—was a good place for housekeepers and grown-ups but a poor one for children was strengthened.
They entered the house by the kitchen door and ascended the back stairs to Mary-'Gusta's room. The shades in all the rooms were drawn and the house was dark and gloomy. The child would have asked the reason for this, but at the first hint of a question Mrs. Hobbs bade her hush.
“You mustn't talk,” she said.
“Why mustn't I?”
“Because 'tain't the right thing to do, that's why. Now hurry up and get dressed.”
Mary-'Gusta silently wriggled out of her everyday frock, was led to the washstand and vigorously scrubbed. Then Mrs. Hobbs combed and braided what she called her “pigtails” and tied a bow of black ribbon at the end of each.
“There!” exclaimed the lady. “You're clean for once in your life, anyhow. Now hurry up and put on them things on the bed.”
The things were Mary-'Gusta's very best shoes and dress; also a pair of new black stockings.
When the dressing was finished the housekeeper stood her in the middle of the floor and walked about her on a final round of inspection.
“There!” she said again, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Nobody can say I ain't took all the pains with you that anybody could. Now you come downstairs and set right where I tell you till I come. And don't you say one single word. Not a word, no matter what happens.”
She took the girl's hand and led her down the front stairs. As they descended Mary-'Gusta could scarcely restrain a gasp of surprise. The front door was open—the FRONT door—and the child had never seen it open before, had long ago decided that it was not a truly door at all, but merely a make-believe like the painted windows on the sides of her doll house. But now it was wide open and Mr. Hallett, arrayed in a suit of black, the coat of which puckered under the arms, was standing on the threshold, looking more soothy than ever. The parlor door was open also, and the parlor itself—the best first parlor, more sacred and forbidden even than the “smoke room”—was, as much of it as she could see, filled with chairs.
Mrs. Hobbs led her into the little room off the parlor, the “back settin'-room,” and, indicating the haircloth and black walnut sofa against the wall, whispered to her to sit right there and not move.
“Mind now,” she whispered, “don't talk and don't stir. I'll be back by and by.”
Mary-'Gusta, left alone, looked wide-eyed about the little back sitting-room. It, too, was changed; not changed as much as the front parlor, but changed, nevertheless. Most of the furniture had been removed. The most comfortable chairs, including the rocker with the parrot “tidy” on the back, had been taken away. One or two of the bolt-upright variety remained and the “music chair” was still there, but pushed back into a corner.
Mary-'Gusta saw the music chair and a quiver of guilty fear tinged along her spine; that particular chair had always been, to her, the bright, particular glory of the house. Not because it was beautiful, for that it distinctly was not; but because of the marvellous secret hidden beneath its upholstered seat. Captain Marcellus had brought it home years and years before, when he was a sea-going bachelor and made voyages to Hamburg. In its normal condition it was a perfectly quiet and ugly chair, but there was a catch under one arm and a music box under the seat. And if that catch were released, then when anyone sat in it, the music box played “The Campbell's Are Coming” with spirit and jingle. And, moreover, kept on playing it to the finish unless the catch was pushed back again.
To Mary-'Gusta that chair was a perpetual fascination. She had been expressly forbidden to touch it, had been shut in the dark closet more than once for touching it; but, nevertheless, the temptation was always there and she had yielded to that temptation at intervals when Mrs. Hobbs and her stepfather were out. And the last time she had touched it she had broken the catch. She had wound up the music box, after hearing it play, but the catch which made it a perfectly safe seat and not a trap for the unwary had refused to push back into place. And now there it was, loaded and primed, so to speak, and she was responsible. Suppose—Oh, horrible thought!—suppose anyone should sit in it that afternoon!
She gasped and jumped off the sofa. Then she remembered Mrs. Hobbs' parting command and stopped, hesitating. Mr. Hallett, standing at the end of the hall, by the front door, heard her move and tiptoed to the sitting-room.
“What's the matter, little girl?” he whispered, soothingly.
“No-nothin',” gasped Mary-'Gusta.
“You're sure?”
“Ye-yes, sir.”
“All right. Then you set down on the sofa and keep still. You mustn't make any noise. The folks are comin' now. Set right down on the sofy, that's a good girl!”
So back to the sofa went Mary-'Gusta, trembling with apprehension. From her seat she could see along the hall and also through the other door into the “big settin'-room,” where, also, there were rows of chairs. And, to her horror, these chairs began to fill. People, most of them dressed in church-going garments which rattled and rustled, were tiptoeing in and sitting down where she could see them and they could see her. She did not dare to move now; did not dare go near the music chair even if going near it would have done any good. She remained upon the sofa, and shivered.
A few moments later Mrs. Hobbs appeared, looking very solemn and Sundayfied, and sat beside her. Then Judge and Mrs. Baxter were shown into the little room and took two of the remaining chairs. The Judge bowed and smiled and Mrs. Baxter leaned over and patted her hand. Mary-'Gusta tried to smile, too, but succeeded only in looking more miserable. Mrs. Hobbs whispered to her to sit up straight.
There was a steady stream of people through the front door now. They all entered the parlor and many stayed there, but others passed on into the “big settin'-room.” The chairs there were almost all taken; soon all were taken and Mr. Hallett was obliged to remove one of those in the small room. There were but two left empty, one a tall, straight antique with a rush seat, a family heirloom, and the other the music chair. Mary-'Gusta stared at the music chair and hoped and hoped.
Mr. Sharon, the minister, entered and shook hands with the Judge and Mrs. Baxter and with Mrs. Hobbs and Mary-'Gusta. He also patted the child's hand. Mrs. Hobbs whispered to him, with evident pride, that it was “goin' to be one of the biggest funerals ever given in Ostable.” Mr. Sharon nodded. Then, after waiting a moment or two, he tiptoed along the front hall and took up his stand by the parlor door. There was a final rustle of gowns, a final crackle of Sunday shirtfronts, and then a hushed silence.
The silence was broken by the rattle of wheels in the yard. Mr. Hallett at the door held up a warning hand. A moment later he ushered two people in at the front door and led them through the parlor into the “big settin'-room.” Mary-'Gusta could see the late comers plainly. They were both men, one big and red-faced and bearded, the other small, and thin, and white-haired. A rustle passed through the crowd and everyone turned to look. Some looked as if they recognized the pair, but they did not bow; evidently it was not proper to bow at funerals.
Mr. Hallett, on tiptoe, of course, glided into the little room from the big one and looked about him. Then, to the absolute stupefaction of Mary-'Gusta, he took the rush-seated chair in one hand and the music chair in the other and tiptoed out. He placed the two chairs in the back row close to the door of the smaller room and motioned to the two men to sit.
Mary-'Gusta could stand it no longer. She was afraid of Mrs. Hobbs, afraid of Mr. Hallett, afraid of the Baxters and all the staring crowd; but she was more afraid of what was going to happen. She tugged at the housekeeper's sleeve.
“Mrs. Hobbs!” she whispered, quiveringly. “Oh, Mrs. Hobbs!”
Mrs. Hobbs shook off the clutch at her sleeve.
“Sshh!” she whispered. “Sshh!”
“But—but please, Mrs. Hobbs—”
“Sshh! You mustn't talk. Be still. Be still, I tell you.”
The small, white-haired man sat down in the rush-seated chair. The big man hesitated, separated his coat tails, and then he, too, sat down.
And the music box under the seat of the chair he sat in informed everyone with cheerful vigor that the Campbells were coming, Hurrah! Hurrah!
Captain Shadrach Gould arose from that chair, arose promptly and without hesitation. Mr. Zoeth Hamilton also rose; so did many others in the vicinity. There was a stir and a rustle and whispered exclamations. And still the news of the imminent arrival of the Campbells was tinkled abroad and continued to tinkle. Someone giggled, so did someone else. Others said, “Hush!”
Mrs. Judge Baxter said, “Heavens and earth!”
Mrs. Hobbs looked as if she wished to say something very much indeed.
Captain Shadrach's bald spot blazed a fiery red and he glared about him helplessly.
Mr. Hallett, who was used to unexpected happenings at funerals—though, to do him justice, he had never before had to deal with anything quite like this—rushed to the center of the disturbance. Mrs. Hobbs hastened to help. Together and with whisperings, they fidgeted with the refractory catch. And still the music box played—and played—and played.
At last Mr. Hallett gave it up. He seized the chair and with it in his arms rushed out into the dining-room. Captain Shadrach Gould mopped his face with a handkerchief and stood, because there was nowhere for him to sit. Mrs. Hobbs, almost as red in the face as Captain Shad himself, hastened back and collapsed upon the sofa. Mr. Sharon cleared his throat.
And still, from behind the closed door of the dining-room the music chair tinkled on:
“The Campbells are coming! Hurrah! Hurrah!” Poor little guilty, frightened Mary-'Gusta covered her face with her hands.
CHAPTER II
“And now, gentlemen,” said Judge Baxter, “here we are. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I shall have a good deal to say and I expect to surprise you. Sit down.”
Captain Gould and Mr. Hamilton were in the Judge's library at his home. The funeral was over, all that was mortal of Marcellus Hall had been laid to rest in the Ostable cemetery, and his two friends and former partners had, on their return from that cemetery, stopped at the Judge's, at the latter's request. He wished, so he said, to speak with them on an important matter.
“Why don't you sit down, Captain?” asked the Judge, noticing that, although Zoeth had seated himself in the rocker which his host had indicated, Shadrach was still standing.
Captain Shadrach laid a hand on the back of the armchair and regarded the lawyer with a very grave face, but with a twinkle in his eye.
“To tell you the truth, Judge,” he said, slowly, “I don't cal'late I ever shall set down again quite so whole-hearted as I used to. You spoke of a surprise, didn't you? I've had one surprise this afternoon that's liable to stay with me for a spell. I'm an unsuspectin' critter, generally speakin', but after that—Say, you ain't got a brass band nor fireworks hitched to THIS chair, have you?”
Judge Baxter laughed heartily. “No,” he said, as soon as he could speak. “No, Captain, my furniture isn't loaded.”
The Captain shook his head. “Whew!” he whistled, sitting down gingerly in the armchair. “Well, that's a mercy. I ain't so young as I used to be and I couldn't stand many such shocks. Whew! Don't talk to ME! When that devilish jig tune started up underneath me I'll bet I hopped up three foot straight. I may be kind of slow sittin' down, but you'll bear me out that I can GET UP sudden when it's necessary. And I thought the dum thing never would STOP.”
Mr. Hamilton stirred uneasily. “Hush, hush, Shadrach!” he pleaded. “Don't be so profane. Remember you've just come from the graveyard.”
“Come from it! By fire! There was a time there when I'd have been willin' to go to it—yes, and stay. All I wanted was to get out of that room and hide somewheres where folks couldn't look at me. I give you my word I could feel myself heatin' up like an airtight stove. Good thing I didn't have on a celluloid collar or 'twould have bust into a blaze. Of all the dummed outrages to spring on a man, that—”
“Shadrach!”
“There, there, Zoeth! I'll calm down. But as for swearin'—well, if you knew how full of cusswords I was there one spell you wouldn't find fault; you'd thank me for holdin' 'em in. I had to batten down my hatches to do it, though; I tell you that.”
Mr. Hamilton turned to their host. “You'll excuse Shadrach, won't you, Judge,” he said, apologetically. “He don't mean nothin' wicked, really. And he feels as bad as I do about Marcellus's bein' took.”
“Course I do!” put in the Captain. “Zoeth's always scared to death for fear I'm bound to the everlastin' brimstone. He forgets I've been to sea a good part of my life and that a feller has to talk strong aboard ship. Common language may do for keepin' store, but it don't get a vessel nowheres; the salt sort of takes the tang out of it, seems so. I'm through for the present, Zoeth. I'll keep the rest till I meet the swab that loaded up that chair for me.”
The Judge laughed again. Then he opened his desk and took from a drawer two folded papers.
“Gentlemen,” he said, gravely, “I asked you to come here with me because there is an important matter, a very important matter, which I, as Captain Hall's legal adviser, must discuss with you.”
Captain Shadrach and Zoeth looked at each other. The former tugged at his beard.
“Hum!” he mused. “Somethin' to do with Marcellus's affairs, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Want to know! And somethin' to do with me and Zoeth?”
“Yes, with both of you. This,” holding up one of the folded papers, “is Captain Hall's will. I drew it for him a year ago and he has appointed me his executor.”
Zoeth nodded. “We supposed likely he would,” he observed.
“Couldn't get a better man,” added Shadrach, with emphasis.
“Thank you. Captain Hall leaves all he possessed—practically all; there is a matter of two hundred dollars for his housekeeper, Mrs. Hobbs, and a few other personal gifts—but he leaves practically all he possessed to his stepdaughter, Mary Lathrop.”
Both his hearers nodded again. “We expected that, naturally,” said the Captain. “It's what he'd ought to have done, of course. Well, she'll be pretty well fixed, won't she?”
Judge Baxter shook his head. “Why, no—she won't,” he said, soberly. “That is a part of the surprise which I mentioned at first. Captain Hall was, practically, a poor man when he died.”
That the prophesied surprise was now a reality was manifest. Both men looked aghast.
“You—you don't mean that, Judge?” gasped Zoeth.
“Poor? Marcellus poor?” cried Shadrach. “Why—why, what kind of talk's that? He didn't have no more than the rest of us when—” he hesitated, glanced at Zoeth, and continued, “when the firm give up business back in '79; but he went to sea again and made considerable, and then he made a whole lot in stocks. I know he did. You know it, too, Zoeth. How could he be poor?”
“Because, like so many other fortunate speculators, he continued to speculate and became unfortunate. He lost the bulk of his winnings in the stock market and—well, to be quite frank, Captain Hall has been a broken man, mentally as well as physically, since his wife's death and his own serious illness. You, yourselves, must have noticed the change in his habits. From being an active man, a man of affairs, he became almost a hermit. He saw but few people, dropped the society of all his old friends, and lived alone—alone except for his various housekeepers and Mary-'Gusta—the little girl, I mean. You must have noticed the change in his relations with you.”
Mr. Hamilton sighed. “Yes,” he said, “we noticed he never came to see us and—and—”
“And wasn't over'n above sociable when we come to see him,” finished Captain Shadrach. “Yes, we noticed that. But I say, Judge, he must have had SOME money left. What became of it?”
“Goodness knows! He was a child, so far as money matters went, in his later years. Very likely he frittered it away in more stock ventures; I know he bought a lot of good for nothing mining shares. At any rate it has gone, all except a few thousands. The house and land where he lived is mortgaged up to the handle, and I imagine there are debts, a good many of them. But whatever there is is left to Mary-'Gusta—everyone calls her that and I seem to have caught the habit. It is left to her—in trust.”
Captain Shadrach thought this over. “In trust with you, I presume likely,” he observed. “Well, as I said afore, he couldn't have found a better man.”
“HE thought he could, two better men. I rather think he was right. You are the two, gentlemen.”
This statement did not have the effect which the Judge expected. He expected exclamations and protests. Instead his visitors looked at each other and at him in a puzzled fashion.
“Er—er—what was that?” queried Mr. Hamilton. “I didn't exactly seem to catch that, somehow or 'nother.”
Judge Baxter turned to the Captain.
“You understood me, didn't you, Captain Gould?” he asked.
Shadrach shook his head.
“Why—why, no,” he stammered; “it didn't seem to soak in, somehow. Cal'late my head must have stopped goin'; maybe the shock I had a spell ago broke the mainspring. All I seem to be real sartin of just now is that the Campbells are comin'. What was it you said?”
“I said that Captain Marcellus Hall has left whatever property he owned, after his creditors are satisfied, to his stepdaughter. He has left it in trust until she becomes of age. And he asks you two to accept that trust and the care of the child. Is that plain?”
It was plain and they understood. But with understanding came, apparently, a species of paralysis of the vocal organs. Zoeth turned pale and leaned back in his chair. Shadrach's mouth opened and closed several times, but he said nothing.
“Of course,” went on Baxter, “before I say any more I think you should be told this: It was Captain Hall's wish that you jointly accept the guardianship of Mary-'Gusta—of the girl—that she live with you and that you use whatever money comes to her from her stepfather's estate in educating and clothing her. Also, of course, that a certain sum each week be paid you from that estate as her board. That was Marcellus's wish; but it is a wish, nothing more. It is not binding upon you in any way. You have a perfect right to decline and—”
Captain Shadrach interrupted.
“Heave to!” he ordered, breathlessly. “Come up into the wind a minute, for mercy sakes! Do you mean to say that me and Zoeth are asked to take that young-one home with us, and take care of her, and dress her, and—and eat her, and bring her up and—and—”
He paused, incoherent in his excitement. The Judge nodded.
“Yes,” he replied, “that is what he asks you to do. But, as I say, you are not obliged to do it; there is no legal obligation. You can say no, if you think it best.”
“If we think—for thunder sakes, Baxter, what was the matter with Marcellus? Was he out of his head? Was he loony?”
“No, he was perfectly sane.”
“Then—then, what—Zoeth,” turning wildly to Mr. Hamilton, who still sat, pale and speechless, in his chair; “Zoeth,” he demanded, “did you ever hear such craziness in your life? Did you ever HEAR such stuff?”
Zoeth merely shook his head. His silence appeared to add to his friend's excitement.
“Did you?” he roared.
Zoeth muttered something to the effect that he didn't know as he ever did.
“You don't know! Yes, you do know, too. Speak up, why don't you? Don't sit there like a ship's figgerhead, starin' at nothin'. You know it's craziness as well's I do. For God sakes, say somethin'! TALK!”
Mr. Hamilton talked—to this extent:
“Hush, Shadrach,” he faltered. “Don't be profane.”
“Profane! Pup-pup-profane! You set there and—and—Oh, jumpin', creepin' Judas! I—I—” Language—even his language—failed to express his feelings and he waved his fists and sputtered. Baxter seized the opportunity.
“Before you make your decision, gentlemen,” he said, “I hope you will consider the situation carefully. The girl is only seven years old; she has no relations anywhere, so far as we know. If you decline the trust a guardian will have to be appointed by the courts, I suppose. Who that guardian will be, or what will become of the poor child I'm sure I don't know. And Captain Marcellus was perfectly sane; he knew what he was doing.”
Shadrach interrupted.
“He did!” he shouted. “Well, then, I must say—”
“Just a minute, please, I have a letter here which he wrote at the time he made his will. It is addressed to both of you. Here it is. Shall I read it to you, or had you rather read it yourselves?”
Zoeth answered. “I guess maybe you'd better read it, Judge,” he said. “I don't cal'late Shadrach nor me are capable of readin' much of anything just this minute. You read it. Shadrach, you be still now and listen.”
The Captain opened his mouth and raised a hand. “Be still, Shadrach,” repeated Zoeth. The hand fell. Captain Gould sighed.
“All right, Zoeth,” he said. “I'll keep my batch closed long's I can. Heave ahead, Judge.”
The letter was a long one, covering several sheets of foolscap. It began:
To Shadrach, Gould and Zoeth Hamilton, my old partners and friends.
DEAR SHAD AND ZOETH:
I am writing this to you because I have known you pretty much all my life and you are the only real friends I have got in this world.
“I was his friend, or I tried to be,” commented Baxter, interrupting his reading; “but he considered you two, and always spoke of you, as his oldest and nearest friends. He has often told me that he knew he could depend on you. Now listen.”
The letter went on to state that the writer realized his health was no longer good, that he was likely to die at any time and was quite reconciled.
I should be glad to go [Captain Hall had written], if it was not for one thing. Since my wife was took from me I care precious little for life and the sooner it ends the better. That is the way I look at it. But I have a stepdaughter, Mary Augusta Lathrop, and for her sake I must stick to the ship as long as I can. I have not been the right kind of father to her. I have tried, but I don't seem to know how and I guess likely I was too old to learn. When I go she won't have a relation to look out for her. That has troubled me a lot and I have thought about it more than a little, I can tell you. And so I have decided to leave her in your care. I am hoping you will take charge of her and bring her up to be a good girl and a good woman, same as her mother was before her. I know you two will be just the ones for the job.
“Jumpin' fire!” broke in Shadrach, the irrepressible.
“Hush, Shadrach,” continued Mr. Hamilton. “Go on, Judge.”
Baxter continued his reading. The letter told of the will, of the property, whatever it might be, left in trust for the child, and of the writer's desire that it might be used, when turned into money, for her education. There were two pages of rambling references to stocks and investments, the very vagueness of these references proving the weakening shrewdness and lack of business acumen of Captain Hall in his later years. Then came this:
When this first comes to you I know you will both feel you are not fitted to take charge of my girl. You will say that neither of you has had any children of his own and you have not got experience in that line. But I have thought it over and I know I am right. I couldn't find better pilots afloat or ashore. Shadrach has been to sea and commanded vessels and is used to giving orders and having them carried out. He sailed mate with me for a good many voyages and was my partner ashore. I know him from truck to keelson. He is honest and able and can handle any craft. He will keep the girl on the course she ought to sail in her schooling and such and see she does not get on the rocks or take to cruising in bad company. Zoeth has had the land training. He is a pious man and as good outside the church as he is in, which is not always the case according to my experience. He has the name all up and down the Cape of being a square, honest storekeeper. He will look out for Mary's religious bringing up and learn her how to keep straight and think square. You are both of you different from each other in most ways but you are each of you honest and straight in his own way. I don't leave Mary in the care of one but in the charge of both. I know I am right.
“He said that very thing to me a good many times,” put in the Judge. “He seemed to feel that the very fact of your being men of different training and habits of thought made the combination ideal. Between you, so he seemed to think, the girl could not help but grow up as she should. I am almost through; there is a little more.”
I want you fellows to do this for my sake. I know you will, after you have thought it over. You and I have been through good times and bad together. We have made money and we have seen it go faster than it came. Shad has seen his savings taken away from him, partly because I trusted where he did not, and he never spoke a word of complaint nor found a mite of fault. Zoeth has borne my greatest trouble with me and though his share was far away bigger than mine, he kept me from breaking under it. I have not seen as much of you lately as I used to see, but that was my fault. Not my fault exactly, maybe, but my misfortune. I have not been the man I was and seeing you made me realize it. That is why I have not been to South Harniss and why I acted so queer when you came here. I was sort of ashamed, I guess. You remember when the old Hall and Company firm started business there were four of us who agreed to stick by each other through foul weather and fair till we died. One of that four broke his promise and pretty nigh wrecked us all, as he did wreck the firm. Now I am asking you two to stick by me and mine. I am trusting and believing that you are going to do it as I write this. When you read it I shan't be on hand. But, if I am where I can see and hear I shall still be believing you will do this last favor for your old messmate.
MARCELLUS.
Judge Baxter folded the sheets of foolscap and laid them on the table. Then he took off his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief.
“Well, gentlemen?” he said, after a moment.
Captain Gould drew a long breath.
“I don't think it's well,” he observed. “I think it's about as sick as it can be, and I cal'late Zoeth feels the same; eh, Zoeth?”
Mr. Hamilton did not answer. He neither spoke nor moved.
“Of course,” said the lawyer, “it is not necessary that you make up your minds this instant. You will probably wish a few days to think the matter over in and then you can let me know what you decide. You have heard the letter and I have explained the situation. Are there any questions you would like to ask?”
Shadrach shook his head.
“No, not far's I'm concerned,” he said. “My mind is made up now. I did think there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for Marcellus. And I would have done anything in reason. But this ain't reason—it's what I called it in the beginnin', craziness. Me and Zoeth can't go crazy for anybody.”
“Then you decline?”
“Yes, sir; I'm mighty sorry but of course we can't do such a thing. Me and Zoeth, one of us a bach all his life, and t'other one a—a widower for twenty years, for us to take a child to bring up! My soul and body! Havin' hung on to the heft of our senses so far, course we decline! We can't do nothin' else.”
“And you, Mr. Hamilton?”
Zoeth appeared to hesitate. Then he asked:
“What sort of a girl is she?”
“Mary-'Gusta? She's a bright child, and a well-behaved one, generally speaking. Rather old for her years, and a little—well, peculiar. That isn't strange, considering the life she has led since her mother's death. But she is a good girl and a pretty little thing. I like her; so does my wife.”
“That was her at the cemetery, wasn't it? She was with that Hobbs woman?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. Shadrach and I met her when we was over here two years ago. I thought the one at the graveyard was her. Poor little critter! Where is she now; at the house—at Marcellus's?”
“Yes; that is, I suppose she is.”
“Do you—do you cal'late we could see her if we went there now?”
“Yes, I am sure you could.”
Zoeth rose.
“Come on, Shadrach,” he said, “let's go.”
The Captain stared at him.
“Go?” he repeated. “Where? Home, do you mean?”
“No, not yet. I mean over to Marcellus's to see that little girl.”
“Zoeth Hamilton! Do you mean to tell me—What do you want to see her for? Do you want to make it harder for her and for us and for all hands? What good is seein' her goin' to do? Ain't it twice as easy to say no now and be done with it?”
“I suppose likely 'twould be, but it wouldn't be right Marcellus asked us to do this thing for him and—”
“Jumpin' Judas! ASKED us! Do you mean to say you're thinkin' of doin' what he asked? Are you loony, too? Are you—”
“Shh, Shadrach! He asked us, as a last favor, to take charge of his girl. I feel as you do that we can't do it, 'tain't sensible nor possible for us to do it, but—”
“There ain't any buts.”
“But the very least we can do is go and see her and talk to her.”
“What for? So we'll feel meaner and more sneaky when we HAVE to say no? I shan't go to see her.”
“All right. Then I shall. You can wait here for me till I come back.”
“Hold on, Zoeth! Hold on! Don't—”
But Mr. Hamilton was at the door and did not turn back. Judge Baxter, who was following him, spoke.
“Sit right here, Captain,” he said. “Make yourself as comfortable as you can. We shan't be long.”
For an instant Shadrach remained where he was. Then he, too, sprang to his feet. He overtook the lawyer just as the latter reached the side door.
“Hello, Captain,” exclaimed Baxter, “changed your mind?”
“Changed nothin'. Zoeth's makin' a fool of himself and I know it, but he ain't goin' to be a fool ALL by himself. I've seen him try it afore and 'tain't safe.”
“What do you mean?”
The Captain grunted scornfully.
“I mean there's safety in numbers, whether it's the number of fools or anything else,” he said. “One idiot's a risky proposition, but two or three in a bunch can watch each other. Come on, Judge, and be the third.”
CHAPTER III
The white house on Phinney's Hill looked desolate and mournful when the buggy containing Judge Baxter and his two companions drove into the yard. The wagon belonging to Mr. Hallett, the undertaker, was at the front door, and Hallett and his assistant were loading in the folding chairs. Mr. Hallett was whistling a popular melody, but, somehow or other, the music only emphasized the lonesomeness. There is little cheer in an undertaker's whistle.
Captain Gould, acting under the Judge's orders, piloted his horse up the driveway and into the back yard. The animal was made fast to the back fence and the three men alighted from the buggy and walked up to the side door of the house.
“Say, Judge,” whispered the Captain, as they halted by the step, “you don't cal'late I can find out who loaded up that music-box chair on me, do you? If I could meet that feller for two or three minutes I might feel more reconciled at bein' fool enough to come over here.”
Mrs. Hobbs answered the knock at the door—she invited them in. When told that they had come to see Mary-'Gusta she sniffed.
“She's in her room,” she said, rather sharply. “She hadn't ought to be let out, but of course if you want to see her, Judge Baxter, I presume likely she'll have to be. I'll go fetch her.”
“Wait a minute, Mrs. Hobbs,” said Baxter. “What's the matter? Has the child been behaving badly?”
Mrs. Hobbs' lean fingers clinched. “Behavin' badly!” she repeated. “I should say she had! I never was so mortified in my life. And at her own father's funeral, too!”
“What has she done?”
“Done? She—” Mrs. Hobbs hesitated, glanced at Captain Shadrach, and left her sentence unfinished. “Never mind what she done,” she went on. “I can't tell you now; I declare I'd be ashamed to. I'll go get her.”
She marched from the room. Zoeth rubbed his forehead.
“She seems sort of put out, don't she,” he observed, mildly.
Baxter nodded. “Susan Hobbs has the reputation of getting 'put out' pretty often,” he said. “She has a temper and it isn't a long one.”
“Has she been takin' care of Marcellus's girl?” asked Zoeth.
“Yes. As much care as the child has had.”
Captain Shad snorted. It was evident that the housekeeper's manner had not impressed him favorably.
“Humph!” he said. “I'd hate to have her take care of me, judgin' by the way she looked just now. Say,” hopefully, “do you suppose SHE was the one fixed that chair?”
They heard Mrs. Hobbs on the floor above, shouting:
“Mary-'Gusta! Mary-'Gusta! Where are you? Answer me this minute!”
“Don't seem to be in that room she was talkin' about,” grumbled Shadrach. “Tut! Tut! What a voice that is! Got a rasp to it like a rusty saw.”
Mrs. Hobbs was heard descending the stairs. Her face, when she reentered the sitting-room, was red and she looked more “put out” than ever.
“She ain't there,” she answered, angrily. “She's gone.”
“Gone?” repeated Zoeth and Shadrach in chorus.
“Gone?” repeated the Judge. “Do you mean she's run away?”
“No, no! She ain't run away—not for good; she knows better than that. She's sneaked off and hid, I suppose. But I know where she is. I'll have her here in a minute.”
She was hurrying out again, but the Captain detained her.
“Wait!” he commanded. “What's that you say? You know where she is?”
“Yes, or I can guess. Nine chances to one she's out in that barn.”
“In the barn? What's she doin' there—playin' horse?”
“No, no. She's hidin' in the carriage room. Seems as if the child was possessed to get out in that dusty place and perch herself in the old carryall. She calls it her playhouse and you'd think 'twas Heaven the way she loves to stay there. But today of all days! And with her best clothes on! And after I expressly told her—”
“Yes, yes; all right. Humph! Well, Zoeth, what do you say? Shall we go to Heaven and hunt for her? Maybe 'twill be the only chance some of us'll get, you can't tell,” with a wink at Baxter.
“Hush, Shadrach! How you do talk!” protested the shocked Mr. Hamilton.
“Let's go out to the barn and find the young-one ourselves,” said the Captain. “Seems the simplest thing to do, don't it?”
Mrs. Hobbs interrupted.
“You don't need to go at all,” she declared. “I'll get her and bring her here. Perhaps she ain't there, anyway.”
“Well, if she ain't there we can come back again. Come on, boys.”
He led the way to the door. The housekeeper would have accompanied them, but he prevented her doing so.
“Don't you trouble yourself, ma'am,” he said. “We'll find her. I'm older'n I used to be, but I ain't so blind but what I can locate a barn without a spyglass.”
“It won't be any trouble,” protested the lady.
“I know, but it might be. We'll go alone.”
When the three were in the back yard, and the discomfited housekeeper was watching them from the door, he added:
“I don't know why that woman rubs my fur the wrong way, but she does. Isaiah Chase says he don't like mosquitoes 'cause they get on his nerves. I never thought I wore my nerves on the back of my neck, which is where Isaiah gets skeeter-bit mostly, but anyhow, wherever they be, that Hobbs woman bothers 'em. There's the barn, ain't it? Don't look very heavenly, but it may seem that way after a spell in t'other place. Now where's the carriage room?”
The door of the carriage room was open, and they entered. A buggy and the muslin draped surrey were there, but no living creature was in sight. They listened, but heard nothing.
“Mary! Mary-'Gusta!” called Baxter. “Are you here?”
No answer. And then, from beneath the cover of the surrey, appeared a fat tortoise-shell cat, who jumped lightly to the floor, yawned, stretched, and blinked suspiciously at the visitors.
“Humph!” grunted Captain Shadrach. “There's one stowaway, anyhow. Maybe there's another; I've had 'em come aboard in pairs.”
The Judge walked over to the surrey, and raised the cover. From behind it came a frightened little squeal.
“Oh, there you are!” said Baxter. “Mary-'Gusta, is that you?”
There was a rustle, a sob, and then a timid voice said, chokingly, “Yes, sir.”
“Come out,” said the Judge, kindly. “Come out; here are some friends who want to meet you.”
Another sob and then: “I—I don't want to.”
“Oh, yes, you do. We won't hurt you. We only want to see you and talk with you, that's all. Come, that's a good girl.”
“I—I ain't a good girl.”
“Never mind. We want to see you, anyway. I guess you're not very bad.”
“Yes, I—I am. Is—is Mrs. Hobbs there?”
“No. Come now, please.”
A moment's wait, then, from beneath the cover, appeared a small foot and leg, the latter covered by a black stocking. The foot wiggled about, feeling for the step. It found it, the cover was thrown aside and Mary-'Gusta appeared, a pathetic little figure, with rumpled hair and tear-stained cheeks. Rose and Rosette, the two dolls, were hugged in her arms.
Judge Baxter patted her on the head. Zoeth and Shadrach looked solemn and ill at ease. Mary-'Gusta looked at the floor and sniffed dolefully.
“Mary-'Gusta,” said the Judge, “these two gentlemen are old friends of your father's and,” with a pardonable stretching of the truth, “they have come all the way from South Harniss to meet you. Now you must shake hands with them. They like little girls.”
Mary-'Gusta obediently moved forward, shifted Rosette to the arm clasping Rose, and extended a hand. Slowly she raised her eyes, saw Mr. Hamilton's mild, gentle face and then, beside it, the face of Captain Shadrach Gould. With a cry she dropped both dolls, ran back to the surrey and fumbled frantically with the dust cover.
Baxter, surprised and puzzled, ran after her and prevented her climbing into the carriage.
“Why, Mary-'Gusta,” he demanded, “what is the matter?”
The child struggled and then, bursting into a storm of sobs, hid her face in the dust cover.
“I—I didn't mean to,” she sobbed, wildly. “I didn't mean to. Honest I didn't. I—I didn't know. I didn't mean to. Please don't let him. PLEASE!”
The Judge held her close and did his best to calm her.
“There, there, child,” he said. “No one's going to hurt you.”
“Yes—yes, they are. Mrs. Hobbs said she shouldn't wonder if he knocked my—my head right off.”
“Knocked your head off! Who?”
“Him.”
She raised her hand and pointed a shaking finger straight at Captain Shadrach.
All three of her hearers were surprised, of course, but in the case of the Captain himself amazement was coupled with righteous indignation.
“Wha-what?” he stammered. “Who said so? What kind of talk's that? Said I was goin' to knock your head off? I was?”
Baxter laughed. “No, no, Mary-'Gusta,” he said; “you're mistaken. Mrs. Hobbs couldn't have said any such thing. You're mistaken, dear.”
“No, I ain't,” with another sob; “she did say so. She said he would knock my head—ah—ah—off and—and put me in jail, too. And I didn't mean to do it; honest, truly I didn't.”
The Judge looked at his companions and shook his head as if the conundrum was beyond his guessing. Captain Shad groaned.
“By fire!” he ejaculated. “All hands have gone loony, young-ones and all. And,” with conviction, “I'm on the road myself.”
Zoeth Hamilton stepped forward and held out his hands.
“Come here, dearie,” he said, gently; “come here and tell me all about it. Neither me nor the Cap'n's goin' to hurt you a mite. We like little girls, both of us do. Now you come and tell me about it.”
Mary-'Gusta's sobs ceased. She looked at the speaker doubtfully.
“Come, don't be scared,” begged Zoeth. “We're goin' to be good friends to you. We knew your father and he thought everything of us. You ain't goin' to be afraid of folks that was your Pa's chums. You come here and let's talk it over.”
Slowly Mary-'Gusta crossed the room. Zoeth sat down upon an empty box near the door and lifted the girl to his knee.
“Now you ain't afraid of me, be you?” he asked quietly.
Mary-'Gusta shook her head, but her big eyes were fixed upon Captain Shadrach's face.
“No-o,” she faltered. “I—I guess I ain't. But you wasn't the one I did it to. It was him.”
Judging by the Captain's expression his conviction that all hands, himself included, had lost their reason was momentarily growing firmer.
“ME?” he gasped. “You done somethin' to me and I—well, by Judas, this is—”
“Hush, Shadrach! What was it you done, Mary, that made you afraid of Cap'n Gould? Tell me. I won't hurt you and I won't let anybody else.”
“YOU won't let—Zoeth Hamilton, I swan, I—”
“Be still, Shadrach, for mercy sakes! Now, what was it, dearie?”
Mary-'Gusta hesitated. Then she buried her face in Mr. Hamilton's jacket and sobbed a confession.
“I—I made it go,” she cried. “I—I broke the—the catch—and it was wound up and—and it went off. But I didn't know. I didn't mean—”
“There, there, course you didn't. We know you didn't. What was it that went off?”
“The—the music chair. It was in the corner and Mr. Hallett took it and—and I couldn't say anything 'cause Mrs. Hobbs said I mustn't speak a word at the funeral. And—and he set in it and it played and—Oh, don't let him put me in jail! Please don't.”
Another burst of tears. Mary-'Gusta clung tightly to the Hamilton jacket. Judge Baxter looked as if a light had suddenly broken upon the darkness of his mind.
“I see,” he said. “You were responsible for the 'Campbells.' I see.”
Shadrach drew a long breath.
“Whew!” he whistled. “So she was the one. Well, I swan!”
Zoeth stroked the child's hair.
“That's all right, dearie,” he said. “Now don't you worry about that. We didn't know who did it, but now we do and it's all right. We know you didn't mean to.”
“Won't—won't he knock my head off?”
“No, no, course he won't. Tell her so, Shadrach.”
Captain Shadrach pulled at his beard. Then he burst into a laugh.
“I won't hurt you for nothin', sis,” he said, heartily. “It's all right and don't you fret about it. Accidents will happen even in the best regulated—er—funerals; though,” with a broad grin, “I hope another one like that'll never happen to ME. Now don't you cry any more.”
Mary-'Gusta raised her head and regarded him steadily.
“Won't I be put in jail?” she asked, more hopefully.
“Indeed you won't. I never put anybody in jail in my life; though,” with an emphatic nod, “there's some folks ought to go there for frightenin' children out of their senses. Did that Mrs. Hobbs tell you I was goin' to—what was it?—knock your head off and all the rest?”
“Yes, sir, she did.”
“Well, she's a—she's what she is. What else did she say to you?”
“She—she said I was a bad, wicked child and she hoped I'd be sent to the—the orphans' home. If she was to have the care of me, she said, she'd make me walk a chalk or know why. And she sent me to my room and said I couldn't have any supper.”
Zoeth and the Captain looked at each other. Baxter frowned.
“On the very day of her father's funeral,” he muttered.
“Can't I have any supper?” begged Mary-'Gusta. “I'm awful hungry; I didn't want much dinner.”
Zoeth nodded. His tone, when he spoke, was not so mild as was usual with him.
“You shall have your supper,” he said.
“And—and must I go to the orphans' home?”
No one answered at once. Zoeth and Captain Shad again looked at each other and the Judge looked at them both.
“Must I?” repeated Mary-'Gusta. “I—I don't want to. I'd rather die, I guess, and go to Heaven, same as Mother and Father. But Mrs. Hobbs says they don't have any dolls nor cats in Heaven, so I don't know's I'd want to go there.”
Baxter walked to the window and looked out. Captain Shadrach reached into his pocket, produced a crumpled handkerchief, and blew his nose violently. Zoeth stroked the child's hair.
“Mary-'Gusta,” he said, after a moment, “how would you like to go over to South Harniss and—and see me and Cap'n Gould a little while? Just make us a visit, you know. Think you'd like that?”
The Captain started. “Good land, Zoeth!” he exclaimed. “Be careful what you're sayin'.”
“I ain't sayin' anything definite, Shadrach. I know how you feel about it. I just wanted to see how she felt herself, that's all. Think you'd like that, Mary-'Gusta?”
Mary-'Gusta thought it over. “I guess maybe I would,” she said, “if I could take my dolls and David. I wouldn't want to leave David. Mrs. Hobbs don't like cats.”
And at that moment Mrs. Hobbs herself appeared in the doorway of the carriage room. She saw the child and her eyes snapped.
“So she was here,” she said. “I thought as much. Mary-'Gusta, what did you run away from that room for? Didn't I forbid you leavin' it? She's been a bad girl, Judge Baxter,” she added, “and I can't make her behave. I try my best, but I'm sure I don't know what to do.”
Captain Shadrach thrust both hands into his pockets.
“I tell you what to do,” he said, sharply. “You go into the house and put some of her things into a valise or satchel or somethin'. And hurry up as fast as you can.”
Mrs. Hobbs was astonished.
“Put 'em in a satchel?” she repeated. “What for? Where's she goin'?”
“She's goin' home along with me and Zoeth. And she's got to start inside of half an hour. You hurry.”
“But—but—”
“There ain't any 'buts'; haven't got time for 'em.”
Mr. Hamilton regarded his friend with an odd expression.
“Shadrach,” he asked, “do you realize what you're sayin'?”
“Who's sayin'? You said it, I didn't. Besides takin' her home with us today don't mean nothin', does it? A visit won't hurt us. Visits don't bind anybody to anything. Jumpin' Judas! I guess we've got room enough in the house to have one young-one come visitin' for—for a couple of days, if we want to. What are you makin' such a fuss about? Here you,” turning to the housekeeper, “ain't you gone yet? You've got just thirteen minutes to get that satchel ready.”
Mrs. Hobbs departed, outraged dignity in her walk and manner.
“Am—am I goin'?” faltered Mary-'Gusta.
Zoeth nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “you're goin'. Unless, of course, you'd rather stay here.”
“No, I'd rather go, if—if I can take David and the dolls. Can I?”
“Can she, Shadrach?”
Captain Shad, who was pacing the floor, turned savagely.
“What do you ask me that for?” he demanded. “This is your doin's, 'tain't mine. You said it first, didn't you? Yes, yes, let her take the dolls and cats—and cows and pigs, too, if she wants to. Jumpin' fire! What do I care? If a feller's bound to be a fool, a little live stock more or less don't make him any bigger one. . . . Land sakes! I believe she's goin' to cry again. Don't do that! What's the matter now?”
The tears were starting once more in the girl's eyes.
“I—I don't think you want me,” she stammered. “If you did you—you wouldn't talk so.”
The Captain was greatly taken aback. He hesitated, tugged at his beard, and then, walking over to the child, took her by the hand.
“Don't you mind the way I talk, Mary-'Gusta,” he said. “I'm liable to talk 'most any way, but I don't mean nothin' by it. I like little girls, same as Zoeth said. And I ain't mad about the jig-tune chair, neither. Say,” with a sudden inspiration; “here we are settin' here and one of our passengers has left the dock. We got to find that cat, ain't we? What did you say his name was—Solomon?”
“No, sir; David.”
“David, sure enough. If I'd been up in Scripture the way Zoeth—Mr. Hamilton, here—is, I wouldn't have made that mistake, would I? Come on, let's you and me go find David and break the news to him. Say, he'll be some surprised to find he's booked for a foreign v'yage, won't he? Come on, we'll go find him.”
Mary-'Gusta slowly rose from Mr. Hamilton's knee. She regarded the Captain steadily for a moment; then, hand in hand, they left the barn together.
Judge Baxter whistled. “Well!” he exclaimed. “I must say I didn't expect this.”
Zoeth smiled. “There ain't many better men than Shadrach Gould,” he observed, quietly.
CHAPTER IV
Mary-'Gusta, even though she lives to be a very old woman, will never forget that ride to South Harniss. It was the longest ride she had ever taken, and that of itself would have made it unforgettable. Then, too, she was going visiting, and she had never been visiting before. Also, she was leaving Mrs. Hobbs and, for a time at least, that lady could not remind her of her queerness and badness. More than all, she was going on a journey, a real journey, like a grown-up or a person in a story, and her family—David and the dolls—were journeying with her. What the journey might mean to her, or to what sort of place she was going—these questions did not trouble her in the least. Childlike, she was quite satisfied with the wonderful present, and to the future, even the dreaded orphans' home, she gave not a thought.
Perched on the buggy seat, squeezed in between Captain Shad and Mr. Hamilton, she gazed wide-eyed at the houses and fields and woods along the roadside. She did not speak, unless spoken to, and the two men spoke but seldom, each apparently thinking hard. Occasionally the Captain would sigh, or whistle, or groan, as if his thoughts were disturbing and most unusual. Once he asked her if she was comfortable.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Havin' a good time? Like to go to ride, do you?”
Mary-'Gusta assumed her most grown-up air.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I just love to travel. It's been the dream of my life.”
“Gosh! I want to know!” exclaimed the astonished Shadrach; then he shook his head, chuckled, and ordered the horse to hurry up.
The dolls were arranged in a row against the back of the dashboard. In front of them, and between the Captain's feet and Zoeth's, the battered satchel containing the child's everyday dress and visiting essentials was squeezed. Mary-'Gusta's feet stuck straight out and rested on the top of the satchel. David, in a basket with the lid tied fast, was planted between the last mentioned feet. David did not appear to share his—or her—owner's love of travel. The cat wailed lugubriously at intervals.
Zoeth made the next attempt at conversation.
“Never been to South Harniss, have you, Mary-'Gusta?” he inquired.
“No, sir,” gravely. “But,” remembering the housekeeper's final charge not to forget her manners, if she had any, “I'm sure I'll like it very much.”
“Oh, you are, eh? Well, that's nice. What makes you so sure?”
Mary-'Gusta reflected. She remembered what Mrs. Bailey had said after a week's visit in Bayport, which is fourteen miles from Ostable. “I think everybody enjoys a change of air,” she observed.
“My soul and body!” exclaimed Mr. Hamilton.
Captain Shad looked down at his small passenger.
“How old are you, sis?” he demanded.
“I'm seven. But I ain't a sis; I haven't got any brothers or sisters.”
“Oh! Well, that's a fact, too, now I come to think of it. How old did you say; seventy, was it?”
“No, sir. Seven. Did you think I said seventy?”
“Eh? No, I guess not.”
“I couldn't be seventy. If I was I'd be lots bigger, you know.”
“That's so; I presume likely you would.”
More reflection. Then: “If I was seventy I guess you wouldn't have asked me.”
“Sho! Wouldn't I? Why not?”
“'Cause grown-up folks don't like to be asked how old they are. I asked Mrs. Hobbs how old she was once and she didn't like it.”
“Didn't she?”
“No, sir. She told me to mind my own business.”
The Captain laughed aloud. Then, turning to Mr. Hamilton, he said: “Say, Zoeth, Isaiah'll be a little mite surprised when he sees this craft make port, eh?”
Zoeth smiled. “I shouldn't wonder,” he replied.
“Um-hm. I'd like to have a tintype of Isaiah's face. Well, sis—er, Mary-'Gusta, I mean—there's South Harniss dead ahead. How do you like the looks of it?”
They had emerged from a long stretch of woods and were at the summit of a little hill. From the crest of this hill the road wound down past an old cemetery with gray, moss-covered slate tombstones, over a bridge between a creek and a good-sized pond, on through a clump of pines, where it joined the main highway along the south shore of the Cape. This highway, in turn, wound and twisted—there are few straight roads on Cape Cod—between other and lower hills until it became a village street, the main street of South Harniss. The sun was low in the west and its light bathed the clustered roofs in a warm glow, touched windows and vanes with fire, and twinkled and glittered on the waters of Nantucket Sound, which filled the whole southern horizon. There was little breeze and the smoke from the chimneys rose almost straight. So, too, did the smoke from the distant tugs and steamers. There were two or three schooners far out, and nearer shore, a sailboat. A pretty picture, one which artists have painted and summer visitors enthused over many times.
To Mary-'Gusta it was new and wonderful. The child was in a mood to like almost anything just then. Mrs. Hobbs was miles away and the memory of the music chair and her own disgrace and shame were but memories. She drew a long breath and looked and looked.
“Like it, do you?” asked Zoeth, echoing his friend's question.
Mary-'Gusta nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. “It—it's lovely.”
Captain Shadrach nodded. “Best town on earth, if I do say it,” he said, emphatically. “So you think it's lovely, eh?”
“Yes, sir.” Then, pointing, she asked: “Is that your house?”
The Captain grinned. “Well, no, not exactly,” he said. “That's the town hall. Nobody lives there but the selectmen and they ain't permanent boarders—that is, I have hopes some of 'em 'll move after town-meetin' day. Our house is over yonder, down nigh the shore.”
The old horse pricked up his ears at sight of home and the buggy moved faster. It rolled through the main street, where the Captain and Mr. Hamilton were kept busy answering hails and returning bows from citizens, male and female. Through the more thickly settled portion of the village it moved, until at a point where there were fewer shops and the houses were older and less up-to-date, it reached the corner of a narrow cross road. There it stopped before a frame building bearing the sign, “Hamilton and Company, Dry Goods, Groceries, Boots and Shoes and Notions.” There was a narrow platform at the front of the building and upon this platform were several men, mostly of middle age or older. Mary-'Gusta noticed that most of these men were smoking. If she had been older she might have noticed that each man either sat upon the platform steps or leaned against the posts supporting its roof. Not one was depending solely upon his own muscles for support; he sat upon or leaned against something wooden and substantial.
As the buggy drew alongside the platform the men evinced considerable interest. Not enough to make them rise or relinquish support, but interest, nevertheless.
“Hello, Shad!” hailed one. “Home again, be you?”
“Pretty big funeral, was it?” drawled another.
“Who's that you got aboard?” queried a third.
Captain Shadrach did not answer. Mr. Hamilton leaned forward. “Where's Annabel?” he asked.
“She's inside,” replied the first questioner. “Want to see her? Hi, Jabe,” turning his head and addressing one of the group nearest the door, “tell Annabel, Zoeth and Shad's come.”
“Jabe,” who was propped against a post, languidly pushed himself away from it, opened the door behind him and shouted: “Annabel, come out here!” Then he slouched back and leaned against the post again.
The door opened and a stout, red-faced young woman appeared. She looked much more like an Eliza than an Annabel. She had a newspaper in her hand.
“Hey?” she drawled. “Who was that hollerin'? Was it you, Jabez Hedges?”
Jabez did not take the trouble to answer. Instead he took a hand from his trousers pocket and waved it toward the buggy. Annabel looked; then she came down the steps.
“Hello!” she said. “I see you got back all right.”
Zoeth nodded. “How'd you get along in the store?” he asked, anxiously. “How's business?”
“Wasn't none to speak of,” replied Annabel carelessly. “Sold a couple of spools of cotton and—and some salt pork and sugar. Ezra Howland bought the pork. He wasn't satisfied; said there wasn't enough lean in it to suit him, but I let him have it a cent cheaper, so he took it.”
Mr. Hamilton seemed a trifle disappointed. “Was that all?” he asked, with a sigh.
“Yup. No, 'twa'n't neither, come to think of it. Rastus Young's wife, come in with her two young-ones and bought some shoes and hats for 'em.”
“Did she pay cash?” demanded Captain Shadrach sharply.
“No; she said charge 'em up, so I done it. Say, ain't you comin' in pretty soon? It's 'most my supper time.”
Zoeth opened his mouth to answer, but the Captain got ahead of him.
“It's our supper time, too,” he said, crisply. “When we've had it you can have yours. Get dap, January.”
The horse, whose name was Major but who was accustomed to being addressed by almost any name, jogged on. Mr. Hamilton sighed once more.
“I'm 'fraid one of us had ought to stayed in the store, Shadrach,” he said. “Annabel means well, she's real obligin'; but she ain't a good hand at business.”
Shadrach snorted. “Obligin' nothin'!” he retorted. “We're the ones that was obligin' when we agreed to pay her seventy-five cents for settin' astern of the counter and readin' the Advocate. I told you when you hired her that she wasn't good for nothin' but ballast.”
“I know, Shadrach. I'd ought to have stayed to home and kept store myself. But I did feel as if I must go to Marcellus's funeral.”
“Sellin' them Youngs a whole passel of stuff and lettin' 'em charge it up!” went on Shadrach. “They owe us enough now to keep a decent family all winter. Reg'lar town dead-beats, that's what they are. You couldn't get a cent out of Rastus Young if you were to run a dredge through him.”
Mr. Hamilton groaned remorsefully. “If I'd only stayed at home!” he said.
“If you'd stayed to home you'd have charged up the stuff just the same as she did. You're the softest thing, outside of a sponge, in this town. Anybody can impose on you, and you know it, Zoeth.”
Zoeth's habitual mildness gave way to resentment, mild resentment.
“Why, Shadrach,” he retorted, “how you talk! You was the one that charged up the last things Rastus's folks bought. You know you was.”
The Captain looked as if he had been caught napping.
“Well, what's that got to do with it?” he sputtered. “'Twasn't nothin' but some corn meal and a few yards of calico. How could I help chargin' it up, with that woman cryin' and goin' on about their havin' nothin' to eat nor wear in the house? I couldn't let 'em starve, could I? Nor freeze neither?”
“'Twas only last week she did it,” protested his partner. “Folks don't freeze in April, seems to me.”
“Aw, be still! Don't talk no more about it. By fire!” with a sudden change of subject and a burst of enthusiasm, “look at that horse, will you! Turned right in at the gate without my pullin' the helm once or sayin' a word—knows as much as a Christian, that horse does.”
The buggy had rocked and plowed its way over the hummocks and through the sand of the narrow lane and was at the top of a grass-covered knoll, a little hill. At the foot of the hill was the beach, strewn with seaweed, and beyond, the Sound, its waters now a rosy purple in the sunset light. On the slope of the hill toward the beach stood a low, rambling, white house, a barn, and several sheds and outbuildings. There were lilac bushes by the front door of the house, a clam-shell walk from the lane to that door, and, surrounding the whole, a whitewashed picket fence. A sandy rutted driveway led from the rear of the house and the entrance of the barn down to a big gate, now wide open. It was through this gateway and along this drive that the sagacious Major was pulling the buggy.
Mary-'Gusta stared at the house. As she stared the back door was thrown open and a tall, thin man came out. He was in his shirtsleeves, his arms were bare to the elbow, and to Mary-'Gusta's astonishment he wore an apron, a gingham apron similar to those worn by Mrs. Hobbs when at work in the kitchen.
“Ahoy, there, Isaiah!” hailed the Captain. “Here we are.”
The man with the apron took a big nickel watch from the upper pocket of his vest, looked at it, and shook his head. Upon his face, which was long and thin like the rest of him, there was a grieved expression.
“A little mite late, ain't we, Isaiah?” said Zoeth, hastily. “Hope we ain't kept supper waitin' too long?”
The tall man returned the watch to the pocket.
“Only twenty-three minutes, that's all,” he drawled, with the resignation of a martyr. “Twenty-three minutes ain't much in a lifetime, maybe—but it don't help fried potatoes none. Them potatoes was ready at half-past five.”
“Well, 'tain't six yet,” protested Captain Shad.
“Maybe 'tain't, but it's twenty-three minutes later'n half-past five. Last thing you said to me was, 'Have supper ready at half-past five!' I had it ready. Them potatoes went on the fire at—”
“There! there!” interrupted the Captain. “Never mind the potatoes. We'll 'tend to them in a minute. Give us a hand with this dunnage. There's a satchel here and some more stuff. Sooner this craft's unloaded the sooner we can eat. All ashore that's goin' ashore.”
Zoeth climbed out of the buggy. He lifted their passenger to the ground.
“Mary-'Gusta,” he said, “here's where Cap'n Gould and I live. This is Mr. Isaiah Chase. Isaiah, this is Mary Lathrop, Cap'n Marcellus's little girl. She's come to—t—”
“To make us a little visit,” put in the Captain, promptly. “You want to get acquainted with Isaiah, Mary-'Gusta; he's cook and steward for me and Mr. Zoeth. That's right; shake hands and be sociable.”
Mary-'Gusta extended her hand and Mr. Chase, after wiping his own hand on the apron, pumped hers up and down.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, solemnly.
“Now for the dunnage,” said Captain Shad. “There's the satchel and—and the other things. Look out for that basket! LOOK OUT!”
Mr. Chase had seized the basket and swung it out of the buggy. David, frightened at the sudden aerial ascension, uttered a howl. Isaiah dropped the basket as if it was red hot.
“What in tunket!” he exclaimed.
“Nothin' but a cat,” explained the Captain. “'Twon't hurt you.”
“A cat! What—whose cat?”
“Mine,” said Mary-'Gusta, running to the rescue. “He's a real good cat. He ain't cross; he's scared, that's all. Honest, he ain't cross. Are you, David?”
David howled and clawed at the cover of the basket. Mr. Chase backed away.
“A cat!” he repeated. “You fetched a cat—here?”
“Sartin we fetched it.” Captain Shadrach was evidently losing patience. “Did you think we'd fetch an elephant? Now get out them—them doll babies and things.”
Isaiah stared at the dolls. Mary-'Gusta stopped patting the basket and hastened to the side of the buggy. “I'll take the dollies,” she said. “They're mine, too.”
A moment later they entered the house. Mary-'Gusta bore three of the dolls. Mr. Hamilton carried the other two, and Isaiah, with the valise in one hand and the basket containing the shrieking David at arm's length in the other, led the way. Captain Shad, after informing them that he would be aboard in a jiffy, drove on to the barn.
The room they first entered was the kitchen. It was small, rather untidy, and smelt strongly of fish and the fried potatoes.
“Come right along with me, Mary-'Gusta,” said Zoeth. “Fetch the satchel, Isaiah.”
“Hold on,” shouted the perturbed “cook and steward.” “What—what in the nation will I do with this critter?”
The “critter” was David, who was apparently turning somersaults in the basket.
Zoeth hesitated. Mary-'Gusta settled the question.
“Put him right down, please,” she said. “He'll be better soon as he's put down. He's never traveled before and it's kind of strange to him. He'll be all right and I'll come back and let him out pretty soon. Mayn't I, Mr.—Mr. Chase?”
“Huh? Yes, yes, you can if you want to, I cal'late. I don't want to, that's sure.”
He deposited the basket on the floor at his feet. Mary-'Gusta looked at it rather dubiously and for an instant seemed about to speak, but she did not, and followed Mr. Hamilton from the kitchen, through the adjoining room, evidently the dining-room, and up a narrow flight of stairs.
“I cal'late we'll put her in the spare room, won't we, Isaiah?” queried Zoeth, with some hesitation.
Isaiah grunted. “Guess so,” he said, ungraciously, “Ain't no other place that I know of. Bed ain't made, though.”
The spare room was of good size, and smelled shut up and musty, as spare rooms in the country usually do. It was furnished with a bureau, washstand, and two chairs, each painted in a robin's egg blue with sprays of yellow roses. There were several pictures on the walls, their subjects religious and mournful. The bed was, as Mr. Chase had said, not made; in fact it looked as if it had not been made for some time.
“I've been cal'latin' to make up that bed for more'n a month,” explained Isaiah. “Last time 'twas unmade was when Zoeth had that minister from Trumet here of a Saturday and Sunday. Every day I've cal'lated to make up that bed, but I don't seem to get no time. I'm so everlastin' busy I don't get time for nothin', somehow.”
“I can make the bed,” declared Mary-'Gusta, eagerly. “I can make beds real well. Mrs. Hobbs told me so—once.”
The two men looked at each other. Before either could speak a tremendous racket broke out on the floor below, a sound of something—or somebody—tumbling about, a roar in a human voice and a feline screech. Mary-'Gusta rushed for the stairs.
“I knew he would,” she said, frantically. “I was afraid somebody would. It was RIGHT in front of the door. Oh! David, dear! I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'!”
From the kitchen came Captain Shadrach's voice. It sounded excited and angry.
“Who in blazes left that dum critter right under my feet?” he hollered. “I—I swan, I believe I've broke my neck—or his—one or t'other.”
When Zoeth and Isaiah reached the kitchen they found the Captain sitting in a chair, rubbing his knees, and Mary-'Gusta seated on the floor beside the open basket, hugging the frightened and struggling David.
“I—I guess he's all right,” panted the child. “I was so afraid he'd be killed. You ain't killed, are you, David?”
David appeared to be remarkably sound and active. He wriggled from his owner's arms and bolted under the stove.
“No; he's all right,” said Mary-'Gusta. “Isn't it nice he ain't hurt, Mr.—I mean Cap'n Gould?”
Captain Shad rubbed his knee. “Um—yes,” he said, with elaborate sarcasm; “it's lovely. Course I don't mind breakin' both MY legs, but if that cat had been—er—bruised or anything I should have felt bad. Well, Isaiah,” he added, tartly, turning to the grinning “steward,” “are them fried potatoes of yours real or just in your mind?”
“Eh? Why—why they're right there on the stove, Cap'n Shad.”
“Want to know! Then suppose you put 'em on the table. I'm hungry and I'd like to eat one more square meal afore somethin' else happens to finish me altogether. By fire! if this ain't been a day! First that chair, and then that will and letter of Marcellus's, and then this. Humph! Come on, all hands, let's eat supper. I need somethin' solid to brace me up for tomorrow's program; if it's up to this, I'll need strength to last it through. Come on!”
That first supper in the white house by the shore was an experience for Mary-'Gusta. Mrs. Hobbs, in spite of her faultfinding and temper, had been a competent and careful housekeeper. Meals which she prepared were well cooked and neatly served. This meal was distinctly different. There was enough to eat—in fact, an abundance—fried cod and the fried potatoes and hot biscuits and dried-apple pie; but everything was put upon the table at the same time, and Mr. Chase sat down with the others and did not even trouble to take off his apron. The tablecloth was not very clean and the knives and forks and spoons did not glitter like those the child had been accustomed to see.
Even Mr. Hamilton, to whom most of the things of this world—his beloved store excepted—seemed to be unessential trivialities, spoke of the table linen.
“Seems to me,” he observed, in his gentle and hesitating way, “this tablecloth's sort of spotted up. Don't you think so, Shadrach?”
Captain Shad's reply was emphatic and to the point.
“Looks as if 'twas breakin' out with chicken-pox,” he replied. “Ain't we got a clean one in the locker, Isaiah?”
Mr. Chase's face assumed an aggrieved expression.
“Course we have,” he answered, “but I didn't know you was goin' to have company.”
“Neither did we. But we could stand a clean table-cloth, even at that.”
“I've got somethin' to do besides changin' tablecloths every day.”
“Every day! Every Thanksgivin' Day, you mean. This one—”
“Now, look-a-here, Cap'n Shad; you know well as I do that Sarah J. never come to do the washin' last week. She was down with the grip and couldn't move. If you expect me to do washin' as well as cook and sweep and keep house and—and shovel snow, and—”
“Shovel snow! What kind of talk's that? There ain't been any snow since February.”
“Don't make no difference. When there was I shoveled it, didn't I? It ain't no use; I try and try, but I can't give satisfaction and I might's well quit. I don't have to stay here and slave myself to death. I can get another job. There's folks in this town that's just dyin' to have me work for em.”
Captain Shadrach muttered something to the effect that if Isaiah did work for them they might die sooner. Mr. Chase rose from his seat.
“All right,” he said, with dignity. “All right, this settles it. I'm through. After all the years I sailed cook along with you, Shad Gould, and after you beggin' me—yes, sir, beggin' on your knees, as you might say, for me to run this house for you long as you lived—after that, to—to—Good-by. I'll try not to lay it up against you.”
He was moving—not hastily, but actually moving—toward the kitchen door. Zoeth, who was evidently much disturbed, rose and laid a hand on his arm.
“There, there, Isaiah,” he pleaded. “Don't act so. We ain't findin' any fault. Shadrach wasn't findin' fault, was you, Shadrach?”
“No, no, course I wasn't. Don't talk so foolish, Isaiah. Nobody wants you to quit. All I said was—Come back here and set down. Your tea's gettin' all cold.”
To Mary-'Gusta it seemed as if the tea had been at least cool to begin with. However, Mr. Chase suffered himself to be led back to the table and attacked his supper in injured silence. Mary-'Gusta offered a suggestion.
“I guess I could wash a tablecloth,” she said. “I always wash my dolls' things.”
Her three companions were plainly surprised. The Captain was the first to speak.
“You don't say!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, I do. And,” with a glance at the silver, “I can scour knives and forks and spoons, too. I used to help Mrs. Hobbs scour 'em sometimes.”
Even Shadrach had no remark to make. He gazed at the child, then at Zoeth, and drew a long breath.
As soon as supper was over the Captain and Mr. Hamilton hastened up to the village and the store.
“You better go to bed pretty soon, Mary-'Gusta,” said Zoeth. “You're tired, I know. Isaiah'll make your bed for you. We'll be on hand and see you first thing in the morning. Isaiah'll go up with you and blow out your light and all. Good night.”
The Captain said good night also and the pair hurried out.
When at ten o'clock they returned they found Mr. Chase up and awaiting them. Isaiah had a story to tell.
“I never see a young-one like that in this world,” declared Isaiah. “You know what she done after you left? Helped me do the dishes. Yes, sir, by time, that's what she done. And she wiped 'em first-rate, too; good enough to satisfy ME, and you know that means somethin' 'cause I ain't easy to satisfy. And talk! Say, I never had a child talk same as she does. How old is she, for the land sakes?”
Zoeth told them the visitor's age.
“Well, maybe so,” went on Isaiah, “but she don't talk seven; nigher seventeen, if you ask me. Pumpin' me about funerals, she was, and about folks dyin' and so on. Said she cal'lated she'd have a doll's funeral some time. 'For mercy sakes, what for?' I says. 'Can't you think up anything pleasanter'n that to play? That kind of game would give me the blue creeps!' She, thought that over—she generally thinks about a thing for five minutes afore she talks about it—and says she, 'I know,' she says, 'but a person must go to funerals and so it's better to get used to 'em and know how to behave. I shouldn't want my dolls,' she says, 'to do things at funerals that make people feel bad and laugh.' I couldn't get that through my head. 'If they felt bad they wouldn't laugh, would they?' says I. 'THEY wouldn't—the ones that felt bad wouldn't,' says she, 'but others might laugh at them. And that would make the person who was to blame feel TERRIBLY.' Now what was all that about? Can you make any sense of it?”
Captain Shadrach smiled sheepishly. “I cal'late me and Zoeth have an idea what she was drivin' at,” he said. “Go on, Isaiah; what else did she say?”
“What didn't she say? Wanted to know if I thought God would knock anybody's head off that had done wrong, even if they didn't mean to. Yes, sir, that's what she said—-if God would knock anybody's head off. Mine pretty nigh come off when she said that. I told her that, fur's I knew, He wasn't in the habit of doin' it. She said that Mrs. Hobbs told her that if she wasn't punished for her wickedness in this world she would be in the next. She was real kind of scared about it, seemed to me. Now what's she done that's wicked, a little critter like her?”
Zoeth said nothing, but he looked vexed and disturbed.
“I'd knock SOMEBODY'S head off if I had my way,” observed Shadrach. “Or if I didn't, I'd like to. Where is she now, Isaiah?”
“She's up in the spare room, asleep I cal'late. And she's got her dolls along with her, three on one side and two on t'other. Wanted me to be sure and wake all hands of 'em up on time in the mornin'. He, he! She undressed them dolls, every one of 'em, afore they turned in. Oh, yes, and she helped me make the bed, too. She CAN make a bed, blessed if she can't. And all the time a-talkin', one minute like a child and the next like a forty-year-old woman. She's the queerest young-one!”
“I guess she's had a kind of queer bringin' up,” said Zoeth.
“Where's that—where's Saul—er—Elijah—what's his name—David?” asked the Captain. “Where's the cat?”
“He's out in the barn, locked in. She had to go out along with me when I toted him there, and kiss him good night and tell him not to be frightened, and goodness knows what all—you'd think she was that cat's mother, to hear her. How long's she goin' to stay?”
“Don't know,” replied Shadrach, hastily. “That ain't settled yet.”
“How'd you come to fetch her over here? You're the last ones I ever thought would be fetchin' a child to visit you. Say, you ain't cal'latin' to keep her for good, are you?”
Zoeth hesitated. Shadrach's answer was emphatic.
“Course not,” he snapped. “What do Zoeth and me know about managin' a child? Keep her for good, the idea!”
Isaiah chuckled. “'Cordin' to my notion,” he said, “you wouldn't have to know much. You wouldn't have to manage her. If she wasn't managin' you—yes, and me, too—inside of a month, I'd miss my guess. She's a born manager. You ought to see her handle them dolls and that cat.”
When the two partners of Hamilton and Company went upstairs to their own bedrooms they opened the door of the spare room and peeped in. Mary-'Gusta's head and those of the dolls were in a row upon the pillow. It was a strange sight in that room and that house.
“I declare!” whispered Zoeth. “And this mornin' we never dreamed of such a thing. How long this day has been!”
“Judgin' by the state of my nerves and knees it's been two year,” replied Shadrach. “I've aged that much, I swan to man. Humph! I wonder if Marcellus knows what's happened.”
His tone was not loud, but it or the lamplight in her face awakened Mary-'Gusta. She stirred, opened her eyes and regarded them sleepily.
“Is it mornin'?” she asked.
“No, no,” replied Zoeth. “It's only ten o'clock. Captain Shadrach and I was goin' to bed and we looked in to see if you was all right, that's all. You must go right to sleep again, dearie.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mary-'Gusta, obediently. Then she added, “I said my prayers to myself but I'll say 'em to you if you want me to.”
The embarrassed Captain would have protested, but the girl's mind seemed to be made up.
“I guess I will say 'em again,” she said. “There's somethin' in 'em maybe you'd ought to hear.” She closed her eyes. “Please God bless Father—Oh, I forgot—bless Mrs. Hobbs and Cap'n Gould and Mr. Hamilton. I thought I'd ask him to bless you, you know, because I'm visitin' here. And bless David and Rose and Rosette and Emma and Christobel and Minnehaha. They're my dolls. And please, God, forgive me for breakin' the music chair and makin' it go off, because you know I am very sorry and won't do it again. And—and, Oh, yes!—bless Mr. Chase, Amen. You don't mind my puttin' you and Mr. Chase in, do you?”
“No, dearie, not a mite,” said Zoeth.
Captain Shad, looking more embarrassed than ever, shook his head. “Good night,” said Mary-'Gusta. Zoeth hesitated, then he walked over and kissed her.
“Good night, little girl,” he said.
“Good night, Mr. Hamilton,” said Mary-'Gusta. Then she turned expectantly toward the Captain. Shadrach fidgeted, turned to go, and then, turning back, strode to the bed, brushed the soft cheek with his rough one and hastened out into the hall. Zoeth followed him, bearing the lamp. At the door of the Captain's room, they paused.
“Well, good night, Zoeth,” said Shadrach, brusquely.
“Good night, Shadrach. This—this is queer business for you and me, ain't it?”
“I should think 'twas. Humph! You said this morning that maybe Marcellus was alongside of us today. If he is he knows what's happened, don't he?”
“Perhaps he knows that and more, Shadrach. Perhaps he can see what'll happen in the future. Perhaps he knows that, too.”
“Humph! Well, if he does, he knows a heap more'n I do. Good night.”
CHAPTER V
Mary-'Gusta awoke next morning to find the sun shining in at the window of her bedroom. She had no means of knowing the time, but she was certain it must be very late and, in consequence, was almost dressed when Isaiah knocked at the door to tell her breakfast would be ready pretty soon. A few minutes later she appeared in the kitchen bearing the pitcher from the washstand in her room.
“What you doin' with that?” demanded Mr. Chase, who was leaning against the door-post looking out into the yard.
“I was goin' to fill it,” said the child. “There wasn't any water to wash with.”
Isaiah sniffed. “I ain't had no time to fill wash pitchers,” he declared. “That one's been on my mind for more'n a fortni't but I've had other things to do. You can wash yourself in that basin in the sink. That's what the rest of us do.”
Mary-'Gusta obediently washed in the tin basin and rubbed her face and hands dry upon the roller towel behind the closet door.
“Am I late for breakfast?” she asked, anxiously.
“No, I guess not. Ain't had breakfast yet. Cap'n Shad's out to the barn 'tendin' to the horse and Zoeth's feedin' the hens. They'll be in pretty soon, if we have luck. Course it's TIME for breakfast, but that's nothing. I'm the only one that has to think about time in this house.”
The girl regarded him thoughtfully.
“You have to work awful hard, don't you, Mr. Chase?” she said.
Isaiah looked at her suspiciously.
“Huh?” he grunted. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody. I just guessed it from what you said.”
“Humph! Well, you guessed right. I don't have many spare minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Are you a perfect slave?”
“Eh? What?”
“Mrs. Hobbs says she is a perfect slave when she has to work hard.”
“Who's Mrs. Hobbs?”
“She's—she keeps house—that is, she used to keep house for my father over in Ostable. I don't suppose she will any more now he's dead. She'll be glad, I guess. Perhaps she won't have to be a perfect slave now. She used to wear aprons same as you do. I never saw a man wear an apron before. Do you have to wear one?”
“Hey? Have to? No, course I don't have to unless I want to.”
Mary-'Gusta reflected.
“I suppose,” she went on, after a moment, “it saves your pants. You'd get 'em all spotted up if you didn't wear the apron. Pneumonia is a good thing to take out Spots.”
Isaiah was surprised.
“What is?” he asked.
“Pneumonia. . . . No, I don't think that's right. It's pneumonia that makes you sick. Somethin' else takes out the spots. I know now; it's am-monia. It's very good for spots but you mustn't smell the bottle. I smelled the bottle once and it went right up into my head.”
“What on earth are you talkin' about? The bottle went up into your head!”
“No, the ammonia smell did. It was awful; like—like—” she paused, evidently in search of a simile; “like sneezin' backwards,” she added. “It was terrible.”
Isaiah laughed. “I should think 'twould be,” he declared. “Sneezin' backwards! Ho, ho! That's a good one!”
Mary-'Gusta's eyes were still fixed upon the apron.
“Mr.—I mean Cap'n Gould said you was the cook and steward,” she observed. “I don't know as I know what a steward is, exactly. Is it the one that stews things?”
“Ha, ha!” roared Isaiah. Mary-'Gusta's dignity was hurt. The color rose in her cheeks.
“Was it funny?” she asked. “I didn't know. I know that a cook cooked things, and a baker baked things, so I thought maybe a steward stewed 'em.”
Mr. Chase continued to chuckle. The girl considered.
“I see,” she said, with a solemn nod. “It was funny, I guess. I remember now that a friar doesn't fry things. He is a—a kind of minister. Friar Tuck was one in 'Robin Hood,' you know. Mrs. Bailey read about him to me. Do you like 'Robin Hood,' Mr. Chase?”
Isaiah said he didn't cal'late that he knew anybody of that name. The dialogue was interrupted here by the arrival of Zoeth and, a moment later, Captain Shadrach. Breakfast was put upon the table in the dining-room and the quartette sat down to eat.
Mary-'Gusta was quiet during the meal; she answered when spoken to but the only questions she asked were concerning David.
“He's all right,” said Captain Shad. “Lively as can be. He'll have a good time out in that barn; there's considerable many mice out there. Likes mice, don't he?”
“Yes, sir. He's a good mouser. Did he look as if he missed me?”
“Eh? Well, I didn't notice. He never mentioned it if he did. You can go see him after breakfast. What do you think she can find to do today, Zoeth?”
Mr. Hamilton had evidently considered the problem.
“I thought maybe she'd like to go up to the store 'long of you and me,” he suggested. “Would you, Mary'Gusta?”
Mary-'Gusta hesitated. “I'd like to very much,” she said, “only—”
“Only what?”
“Only I've got to see to David and the dolls first. Couldn't I come up to the store afterwards?”
The Captain answered. “Why, I guess likely you could,” he said. “It's straight up the road to the corner. You can see the store from the top of the hill back here. Isaiah'll show you the way. But you can 'tend to—what's that cat's name?—Oh, yes, David—you can 'tend to David right off. Isaiah'll give the critter his breakfast, and the dolls can wait 'til noontime, can't they?”
Mary-'Gusta's mind was evidently divided between inclination and duty. Duty won.
“They ain't dressed yet,” she said, gravely. “And besides they might think I'd gone off and left 'em and be frightened. This is a strange place to them, same as it is to me and David, you know. None of us have ever been visitin' before.”
So it was decided that she should wait until her family had been given parental attention, and come to the store by herself. The partners left for their place of business and she and Mr. Chase remained at the house. Her first act, after leaving the table, was to go to the barn and return bearing the cat in her arms. David ate a hearty breakfast and then, after enduring a motherly lecture concerning prudence and the danger of getting lost, was permitted to go out of doors.
Mary-'Gusta, standing in the doorway, gazed after her pet.
“I hope there's no dogs around here,” she said. “It would be dreadful if there was a dog.”
Isaiah tried to reassure her. “Oh, I cal'late there ain't no dog nigh enough to do any harm,” he said; “besides, most cats can run fast enough to get out of the way.”
The child shook her head. “I didn't mean that,” she said. “I meant it would be dreadful for the dog. David doesn't have a mite of patience with dogs. He doesn't wait to see if they're nice ones or not, he just goes for 'em and then—Oh! He most always goes for 'em. When he has kittens he ALWAYS does.”
Mr. Chase's reply to this illuminating disclosure was that he wanted to know.
“Yes,” said Mary-'Gusta, “David doesn't take to dogs, some way. Why don't cats like dogs, Mr. Chase?”
Isaiah said that he cal'lated 'twas the nature of the critters not to. Mary-'Gusta agreed with him.
“Natures are queer things, ain't they?” she said, solemnly. “I guess everybody has a nature, cats and all. Mrs. Hobbs says my nature is a contrary one. What's your kind, Mr. Chase?
“Do you suppose,” she said, a few moments later, when the cook and steward had shown symptoms of doing something beside lean against the sink and whistle, “do you suppose you could get along for a few minutes while I went up and dressed my dolls?”
Isaiah turned to stare at her.
“Well,” he stammered, “I—I cal'late maybe I could if I tried hard. If you don't beat anything ever I see! What are you doin' with that pitcher?”
The girl was holding the wash pitcher under the pump.
“I'm fillin' it,” she answered. “Then you won't have to have it on your mind any more. I'll hurry back just as fast as I can.”
She hastened out, bearing the brimming pitcher with both hands. Isaiah gazed after her, muttering a word or two, and then set about clearing the breakfast table.
She was down again shortly, the two favorites, Rose and Rosette, in her arms. She placed them carefully in the kitchen chair and bade them be nice girls and watch mother do the dishes.
“I left the others in the bedroom,” she explained. “Minnehaha ain't very well this mornin'. I guess the excitement was too much for her. She is a very nervous child.”
Isaiah's evident amusement caused her to make one of her odd changes from childish make-believe to grown-up practicability.
“Of course,” she added, with gravity, “I know she ain't really nervous. She's just full of sawdust, same as all dolls are, and she couldn't have any nerves. But I like to play she's nervous and delicate. It's real handy to say that when I don't want to take her with me. I'm a nervous, excitable child myself; Mrs. Hobbs says so. That's why I've hardly ever been anywhere before, I guess.”
She insisted upon wiping the dishes while Isaiah washed them. Also, she reminded him that the tablecloth which had been so severely criticized the previous evening had not as yet been changed. The steward was inclined to treat the matter lightly.
“Never mind if 'tain't,” he said. “It's good enough for a spell longer. Let it stay. Besides,” he added, “the washin' ain't been done this week and there ain't another clean one aboard.”
Mary-'Gusta smiled cheerfully.
“Oh, yes, there is,” she said. “There's a real nice one in the bottom drawer of the closet. I've been huntin' and I found it. Come and see.”
She led him into the dining-room and showed him the cloth she had found.
“It's a real pretty one, I think,” she said. “Shall we put it on, Mr. Chase?”
“No, no, course not. That's the best tablecloth. Don't use that only when there's company—or Sundays.”
Mary-'Gusta considered. She counted on her fingers.
“How long have we used this dirty one?” she asked.
“Eh? Oh, I don't know. Four or five days, maybe.” Then, evidently feeling that the repetition of the “we” implied a sense of unwarranted partnership in the household management, he added with dignity, “That is, I'VE seen fit to use it that long.”
The sarcasm was wasted. The girl smiled and nodded.
“That makes it all right,” she declared. “If we put this one on now it'll be Sunday long before it's time to change. And we can wash the other one today or tomorrow.”
“Oh, WE can, eh?”
“Yes, sir”
Isaiah looked as if he wished to say something but was at a loss for words. The Sunday cloth was spread upon the table while he was still hunting for them.
“And now,” said Mary-'Gusta, “if you're sure you don't need me any more just now I guess I'd like to go up and see the store. May I?”
Site found the store of Hamilton and Company an exceedingly interesting place. Zoeth and his partner greeted her cordially and she sat down upon a box at the end of the counter and inspected the establishment. It was not very large, but there was an amazing variety in its stock. Muslin, tape, calico, tacks, groceries, cases of shoes, a rack with spools of thread, another containing a few pocket knives, barrels, half a dozen salt codfish swinging from nails overhead, some suits of oilskins hanging beside them, a tumbled heap of children's caps and hats, even a glass-covered case containing boxes of candy with placards “1 c. each” or “3 for 1 c.” displayed above them.
“Like candy, do you?” asked Mr. Hamilton, noticing her scrutiny of the case and its contents.
“Yes, sir,” said Mary-'Gusta.
“How about sassafras lozengers? Like them?”
“Yes, sir.”
She was supplied with a roll of the lozenges and munched them gravely. Captain Shad, who had been waiting on a customer, regarded her with an amused twinkle.
“Sassafras lozengers are good enough for anybody, eh?” he observed.
“Yes, sir,” replied Mary-'Gusta. Then she added, politely: “Only I guess these are wintergreen.”
She stayed at the store until noon. Then she walked home with the Captain whose turn it was to dine first that day. The hiring of Annabel had been an unusual break in the business routine. Ordinarily but one of the partners left that store at a time.
“Well,” inquired the Captain, as they walked down the lane, “what do you think of it? Pretty good store for a place like South Harniss, ain't it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I bet you! Different from the Ostable stores, eh?”
“Yes, sir; I—I guess it is.”
“Um-hm. Well, how different?”
Mary-'Gusta took her usual interval for consideration.
“I guess there's more—more things in it with separate smells to 'em,” she said.
Captain Shad had no remark to make for a moment. Mary-'Gusta, however, was anxious to please.
“They're nice smells,” she hastened to add. “I like 'em; only I never smelled 'em all at the same time before. And I like the lozengers VERY much.”
The two or three days which Captain Shad had set as the limit of the child's visit passed; as did the next two or three. She was busy and, apparently, enjoying herself. She helped Isaiah with the housework, and although he found the help not altogether unwelcome, he was inclined to grumble a little at what he called her “pesterin' around.”
“I never see such a young-one,” he told his employers. “I don't ask her to do dishes nor fill pitchers nor nothin'; she just does it on her own hook.”
“Humph!” grunted Captain Shadrach. “So I judged from what I see. Does it pretty well, too, don't she?”
“Um-hm. Well enough, I guess. Yes,” with a burst of candor, “for her age, she does it mighty well.”
“Then what are you kickin' about?”
“I ain't kickin'. Who said I was kickin'? Only—well, all I say is let her do dishes and such, if she wants to, only—only—”
“Only what?”
“Only I ain't goin' to have her heavin' out hints about what I ought to do. There's two skippers aboard this craft now and that's enough. By time!” with another burst, “that kid's a reg'lar born mother. She mothers that cat and them dolls and the hens already, and I swan to man I believe she'd like to adopt me. I ain't goin' to be mothered and hinted at to do this and that and put to bed and tucked in by no kid. I'll heave up my job first.”
He had been on the point of heaving up his job ever since the days when he sailed as cook aboard Captain Shadrach's schooner. When the Captain retired from the sea for the last time, and became partner and fellow shopkeeper with Zoeth, Isaiah had retired with him and was engaged to keep house for the two men. The Captain had balked at the idea of a female housekeeper.
“Women aboard ship are a dum nuisance,” he declared. “I've carried 'em cabin passage and I know. Isaiah Chase is a good cook, and, besides, if the biscuits are more fit for cod sinkers than they are for grub, I can tell him so in the right kind of language. We don't want no woman steward, Zoeth; you hear ME!”
Zoeth, although the Captain's seafaring language was a trial to his gentle, churchly soul, agreed with his partner on the main point. His experience with the other sex had not been such as to warrant further experiment. So Isaiah was hired and had been cook and steward at the South Harniss home for many years. But he made it a practice to assert his independence at frequent intervals, although, as a matter of fact, he would no more have dreamed of really leaving than his friends and employers would of discharging him. Mr. Chase was as permanent a fixture in that house as the ship's chronometer in the dining-room; and that was screwed to the wall.
And, in spite of his grumbling, he and Mary-'Gusta were rapidly becoming fast friends. Shadrach and Zoeth also were beginning to enjoy her company, her unexpected questions, her interest in the house and the store, and shrewd, old-fashioned comments on persons and things. She was a “queer young-one”; they, like the people of Ostable, agreed on that point, but Mr. Hamilton was inclined to think her ways “sort of takin'” and the Captain admitted that maybe they were. What he would not admit was that the girl's visit, although already prolonged for a fortnight, was anything but a visit.
“I presume likely,” hinted Zoeth, “you and me'll have to give the Judge some sort of an answer pretty soon, won't we? He'll be wantin' to know afore long.”
“Know? Know what?”
“Why—why whether we're goin' to say yes or no to what Marcellus asked us in that letter.”
“He does know. Fur's I'm consarned, he knows. I spoke my mind plain enough to pound through anybody's skull, I should think.”
“Yes—yes, I know you did. But, Shadrach, if she don't stay here for good where will she stay? She ain't got anybody else to go to.”
“She is stayin', ain't she? She—she's makin' us a visit, same as I said she could. What more do you want? Jumpin' fire! This fix is your doin' anyway. 'Tain't mine. If you had paid attention to what I said, the child wouldn't have been here at all.”
“Now, Shadrach! You know you was the one that would fetch her over that very day.”
“Oh, blame it onto me, of course!”
“I ain't blamin' anybody. But she's here and we've got to decide whether to send her away or not. Shall we?”
They were interrupted by Mary-'Gusta herself, who entered the barn, where the discussion took place, a doll under one arm and a very serious expression on her face.
“Hello!” hailed Zoeth. “What's the matter?”
Mary-'Gusta seated herself upon an empty cranberry crate. The partners had a joint interest in a small cranberry bog and the crate was one of several unused the previous fall.
“There's nothin' the matter,” she said, solemnly. “I've been thinkin', that's all.”
“Want to know!” observed the Captain. “Well, what made you do anything as risky as that?”
Mary-'Gusta's forehead puckered.
“I was playin' with Jimmie Bacheldor yesterday,” she said, “and he made me think.”
Abner Bacheldor was the nearest neighbor. His ramshackle dwelling was an eighth of a mile from the Gould-Hamilton place. Abner had the reputation of being the meanest man in town; also he had a large family, of which Jimmie, eight years old, was the youngest.
“Humph!” sniffed Captain Shad. “So Jimmie Bacheldor made you think, eh? I never should have expected it from one of that tribe. How'd he do it?”
“He asked me about my relations,” said Mary-'Gusta, “and when I said I hadn't got any he was awful surprised. He has ever so many, sisters and brothers and aunts and cousins and—Oh, everything. He thought 'twas dreadful funny my not havin' any. I think I'd ought to have some, don't you?”
The partners, looking rather foolish, said nothing for a moment. Then Zoeth muttered that he didn't know but she had.
“Yes,” said Mary-'Gusta, “I—I think so. You see I'm—I mean I was a stepchild 'long as father was here. Now he's dead and I ain't even that. And I ain't anybody's cousin nor nephew nor niece. I just ain't anything. I'm different from everybody I know. And—and—” very solemnly—“I don't like to be so different.”
Her lip quivered as she said it. Sitting there on the cranberry crate, hugging her dolls, she was a pathetic little figure. Again the partners found it hard to answer. Mr. Hamilton looked at the Captain and the latter, his fingers fidgeting with his watchchain, avoided the look. The girl went on.
“I was thinking,” she said, “how nice 'twould have been if I'd had a—a brother or somebody of my very own. I've got children, of course, but they're only dolls and a cat. They're nice, but they ain't real folks. I wish I had some real folks. Do you suppose if—if I have to go to the—the orphans' home, there'd be anybody there that would be my relation? I didn't know but there might be another orphan there who didn't have anybody, same as me, and then we could make believe we was—was cousins or somethin'. That would be better than nothin', wouldn't it?”
Zoeth stepped forward and, bending over, kissed her cheek. “Never you mind, Mary-'Gusta,” he said. “You ain't gone there yet and afore you do maybe Cap'n Shad and I can think up some relations for you.”
“Real relations?” asked Mary-'Gusta, eagerly.
“Well, no, not real ones; I'm afraid we couldn't do that. But when it comes to make-believe, that might be different.” He hesitated an instant, glanced at the Captain, and then added: “I tell you what you do: you just pretend I'm your relation, a—well, an uncle, that's better'n nothin'. You just call me 'Uncle Zoeth.' That'll be a start, anyhow. Think you'd like to call me 'Uncle Zoeth'?”
Mary-'Gusta's eyes shone. “Oh, yes!” she cried. “Then I could tell that Jimmie Bacheldor I had one relation, anyhow. And shall I call Cap'n Gould 'Uncle Shadrach'?”
Zoeth turned to his companion. “Shall she, Shadrach?” he asked, with a mischievous smile.
If it had not been for that smile the Captain's reply might have been different. But the smile irritated him. He strode to the door.
“Zoeth Hamilton,” he snapped, “how long are you goin' to set here? If you ain't got anything else to attend to, I have. I'm goin' up to the store. It's pretty nigh eight o'clock in the mornin' and that store ain't open yet.”
“Want to come along, Mary-'Gusta?” asked Zoeth. “She can come, can't she, Shad?”
“Yes, yes, course she can,” more genially. “Cal'late there's some of those sassafras—checkerberry lozengers left yet. Come on, Mary-'Gusta, if you want to.”
But the child shook her head. She looked wistful and a trifle disappointed.
“I—I guess maybe I'd better stay here,” she said. “I ought to see to Minnehaha's sore throat. I'm goin' to put some red flannel 'round it; Mr. Chase says he cal'lates he knows where there is some. Good-by, Uncle Zoeth. Good-by—er—Cap'n Gould.”
The partners did not converse on the way to the store. Zoeth made an attempt, but Shadrach refused to answer. He was silent and, for him, grumpy all the forenoon. Another fortnight passed before the subject of the decision which must, sooner or later, be given Judge Baxter was mentioned by either of the pair.
CHAPTER VI
Mary-'Gusta was growing accustomed to the life in the South Harniss home. She found it a great improvement over that which she had known on Phinney's Hill at Ostable. There was no Mrs. Hobbs to nag and find fault, there were no lonely meals, no scoldings when stockings were torn or face and hands soiled. And as a playground the beach was a wonderland.
She and Jimmie Bacheldor picked up shells, built sand forts, skipped flat stones along the surface of the water at high tide, and picked up scallops and an occasional quahaug at low water. Jimmie was, generally speaking, a satisfactory playmate, although he usually insisted upon having his own way and, when they got into trouble because of this insistence, did not permit adherence to the truth to obstruct the path to a complete alibi. Mary-'Gusta, who had been taught by the beloved Mrs. Bailey to consider lying a deadly sin, regarded her companion's lapses with alarmed disapproval, but she was too loyal to contradict and more than once endured reproof when the fault was not hers. She had had few playmates in her short life and this one, though far from perfect, was a joy.
They explored the house together and found in the big attic and the stuffy, shut-up best parlor the most fascinating of treasure hordes. The former, with its rows of old trunks and sea chests under the low eaves, the queer garments and discarded hats hanging on the nails, the dusky corners where the light from the little windows scarcely penetrated even on a sunny May afternoon, was the girl's especial Paradise. Here she came to play by herself on rainy days or when she did not care for company. Her love of make-believe and romance had free scope here and with no Jimmie to laugh and make fun of her imaginings she pretended to her heart's content. Different parts of that garret gradually, in her mind, came to have names of their own. In the bright spot, under the north window, was Home, where she and the dolls and David—when the cat could be coaxed from prowlings and mouse hunts to quiet and slumber—lived and dined and entertained and were ill or well or happy or frightened, according to the day's imaginative happenings. Sometimes Home was a castle, sometimes a Swiss Family Robinson cave, sometimes a store which transacted business after the fashion of Hamilton and Company. And in other more or less fixed spots and corners were Europe, to which the family voyaged occasionally; Niagara Falls—Mrs. Bailey's honeymoon had been spent at the real Niagara; the King's palace; the den of the wicked witch; Sherwood Forest; and Jordan, Marsh and Company's store in Boston.
Jimmie Bacheldor liked the garret well enough, but imagination was not his strongest quality and the best parlor had more charms for him. In that parlor were the trophies of Captain Shadrach's seafaring days—whales' teeth, polished and with pictures of ships upon them; the model of a Chinese junk; a sea-turtle shell, flippers, head and all, exactly like a real turtle except, as Mary-'Gusta said, 'it didn't have any works'; a glass bottle with a model of the bark Treasure Seeker inside; an Eskimo lance with a bone handle and an ivory point; a cocoanut carved to look like the head and face of a funny old man; a Cuban machete; and a set of ivory chessmen with Chinese knights and kings and queens, all complete and set out under a glass cover.
The junk and the lance and the machete and the rest had a fascination for Jimmie, as they would have had for most boys, but for him the parlor's strongest temptation lay in the fact that the children were forbidden to play there. Zoeth and the Captain, having been brought up in New England families of the old-fashioned kind, revered their parlor as a place too precious for use. They, themselves, entered it not oftener than three times a year, and Isaiah went there only when he felt inclined to dust, which was not often. Shadrach had exhibited its treasures to the children one Sunday morning when Zoeth was at church, but he cautioned them against going there by themselves. “You'd be liable to break somethin',” he told them, “and some of them things in there you couldn't buy with money. They've been brought from pretty much everywheres in creation, those things have.”
But, in spite of the warning, or because of it, Jimmie was, as Isaiah would have said, “possessed” to visit that parlor. He coaxed and teased and dared Mary-'Gusta to take advantage of the steward's stepping out of the house or being busy in the kitchen to open that parlor door and go in with him and peep at and handle the treasures. Mary-'Gusta protested, but young Bacheldor called her a coward and declared he wouldn't play with cowards and 'fraid-cats, so rather than be one of those detestable creatures she usually swallowed her scruples and followed the tempter. It was a risk, of course, but a real adventure; and, like many adventurers, the pair came to grief. They took David into the parlor and the cat wriggled from its owner's arms, jumped upon the table, knocked the case containing the chessmen to the floor, and not only broke the glass but decapitated one of the white knights.
Even the mild Mr. Hamilton was incensed when Isaiah told the news at supper time. And Captain Shad, who had bought those chessmen at Singapore from the savings of a second mate's wages, lost patience entirely.
“Didn't I tell you young-ones not to go into that parlor?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” admitted Mary-'Gusta, contritely.
“Yes, by fire, I did! And you went just the same.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you fetched that everlastin'—er—Goliath in there, too. Don't you know you've been a bad girl?”
“Ye—yes, sir.”
Zoeth protested. “She ain't a bad girl, Shadrach,” he said. “You know she ain't.”
“Well—er—maybe she ain't, generally speakin'. I cal'late 'twas that Bacheldor brat that was responsible; but just the same I ain't goin' to have it happen any more. Mary-'Gusta, if you and that consarned—what's-his-name—Jimmie—go into that parlor again, unless Isaiah or one of us are with you, I—I—by the jumpin' Judas, me and Zoeth won't let you go to the Sunday school picnic. There! I mean that and so does Zoeth. Shut up, Zoeth! You do mean it, too. You know mighty well either your dad or mine would have skinned us alive if we'd done such a thing when we was young-ones. And,” turning to the culprit, “if you fetch that cat in there, I'll—I'll—I don't know what I'll do.”
The Sunday school picnic was to be held on the second Saturday in June and Mary-'Gusta wished to attend it. She had never been to a real picnic, though the other children in Ostable had described such outings in glowing colors. Now, although she, a visitor, was not a regular member of the South Harniss Methodist Sunday school, the superintendent personally had invited her to go and Zoeth and the Captain had given their consent. Not to go would be a heart-breaking calamity. She finally resolved to be very, very good and obedient from that time on.
But good resolutions are broken occasionally, even by grown-ups, and in childhood much can be forgotten in nine days. So, on the afternoon of the tenth day, which was the day before the picnic, Mary-'Gusta walking alone in the field which separated the Gould-Hamilton property from that of Abner Bacheldor, Jimmie's father—Mary-'Gusta, walking in that field, was depressed and melancholy. Her state of mind was indicated by the fact that she had left all her dolls, even Rose and Rosette, at home. She felt guilty and wicked and conscience-stricken. She had been a bad girl; only one other knew how bad she had been and he, being guilty likewise, would not betray her. But at home Isaiah Chase was, as he said, “heatin' himself to a bile” baking apple turnovers for her to take to the picnic. And Captain Shadrach had announced his intention of bringing her, from the store, candy and bananas to go into the lunch basket with the turnovers and sandwiches and cake. And the Captain had that very day called her a good girl. If he only knew!
There had been a flurry of excitement in the kitchen just after dinner. Mr. Bacheldor had appeared at the door with the request that he might “borrer the loan of Cap'n Gould's shotgun.” The day before, at a quarter after four—Mr. Bacheldor was certain as to the time because he had been “layin' down two or three minutes on the sofy afore goin' out to look at some wood there was to cut in the shed, and I'd just got up and looked at the clock afore I looked out of the settin'-room winder”—looking out of that window he had seen a cat running from his henyard with one of his recently hatched Plymouth Rock chickens in its mouth.
“If I'd had a gun then,” declared Abner, “I could have blowed the critter to thunder-and-gone. But I'll get him next time. Let me have the gun, will you, Isaiah? I know Shad'll say it's all right when you tell him.”
That shotgun was a precious arm. It had been given to the Captain years before by the officers of a sinking schooner, whom Shadrach's boat's crew, led by Shadrach himself, had rescued at a big risk off the Great South School. It had the Captain's name, with an inscription and date, on a silver plate fastened to the stock. Isaiah was not too willing to lend it, but chicken stealing is a capital offense in South Harniss, as it is in most rural communities, and the cat caught in the act is summarily executed.
So Mr. Chase went to the Captain's room and returned with the gun.
“There you be, Ab,” he said. “Hope you get the critter.”
“Oh, I'll get him all right, don't you fret. Say, Isaiah—er—er—” Mr. Bacheldor hesitated. “Say,” he went on, “you couldn't let me have two or three cartridges, could you? I ain't got none in the house.”
Isaiah looked more doubtful than ever, but he brought the cartridges. After making sure, by inquiry and inspection, that they were loaded, the borrower started to go.
“Oh, I say, Ab,” Mr. Chase called after him; “know whose cat 'twas?”
Mr. Bacheldor did not appear to hear, so the question was repeated. Abner answered without turning.
“I know,” he declared. “I know all right,” and hurried on. Isaiah looked after him and sniffed disdainfully.
“Anybody on earth but that feller,” he said, “would have been ashamed to beg cartridges after beggin' the gun, but not Ab Bacheldor, no sir! Wonder he didn't want to borrer my Sunday hat to practice shootin' at.”
Mary-'Gusta considered shooting a cat the height of cruelty and dreadfulness but she was aware of the universal condemnation of chicken stealing and kept her thought to herself. Besides, she had her own wickedness to consider.
She walked slowly on across the field, bound nowhere in particular, thinking hard and feeling very wretched and miserable. The pleasure of the next day, the day she had been anticipating, was spoiled already for her. If she went to that picnic without making a full and free confession she knew she would feel as mean and miserable as she was feeling now. And if she did confess, why then—
Her meditations were interrupted in a startling manner. She was midway of the field, upon the other side of which was a tumbledown stone wall, and a cluster of wild cherry trees and bayberry bushes marking the boundary of the Bacheldor land. From behind the wall and bushes sounded the loud report of a gun; then the tramp of running feet and an excited shouting:
“You missed him,” screamed a voice. “You never hit him at all. There he goes! There he goes! Give him t'other barrel quick!”
Mary-'Gusta, who had been startled nearly out of her senses by the shot and the shouting, stood perfectly still, too surprised and frightened even to run. And then out of the bushes before her darted a scared tortoise-shell cat, frantically rushing in her direction. The cat was David.
“He's hidin' in them bushes,” shouted the voice again. “Stay where you be, Pop. I'll scare him out and then you give it to him.”
Mary-'Gusta stood still no longer. The sight of her idolized pet running for his life was enough to make her forget fright and everything else. She too ran, but not toward home.
“David!” she screamed. “Oh, David! Come here! David!”
David may have recognized the voice, but if so the recognition made no difference. The cat kept straight on. The girl ran across its path. It dodged and darted into a beachplum thicket, a cul-de-sac of tangled branches and thick grass. Before the animal could extricate itself Mary-'Gusta had seized it in her arms. It struggled and fought for freedom but the child held it tight.
“David!” she panted. “Oh, don't, David! Please be still! They shan't hurt you; I won't let 'em. Please!”
Through the bushes above the wall appeared the freckled face of Con—christened Cornelius—Bacheldor. Con was Jimmie's elder brother.
“He must have got through,” he shouted. “He—no, there he is. She's got him, Pop. Make her put him down.”
Mr. Abner Bacheldor crashed through to his son's side. He was carrying a gun.
“You put that cat down,” screamed Con, threateningly.
Mary-'Gusta said nothing. Her heart was beating wildly but she held the struggling David fast.
“It's that kid over to Shad Gould's,” declared Con. “Make her give you a shot, Pop.”
Mr. Abner Bacheldor took command of the situation.
“Here, you!” he ordered. “Fetch that critter here. I want him.”
Still Mary-'Gusta did not answer. She was pale and her small knees shook, but she neither spoke nor moved from where she stood. And her grip upon the cat tightened.
“Fetch that cat here,” repeated Abner. “We're goin' to shoot him; he's been stealin' our chickens.”
At this accusation and the awful threat accompanying it, Mary-'Gusta forgot her terror of the Bacheldors, of the gun, forgot everything except her pet and its danger.
“I shan't!” she cried frantically. “I shan't! He ain't! He's my cat and he don't steal chickens.”
“Yes, he does, too,” roared Con. “Pop and I see him doin' it.”
“You didn't! I don't believe it! When did you see him?”
“Yesterday afternoon. We see him, didn't we, Pop?”
“You bet your life we did,” growled Abner. “And he was on my land again just now; comin' to steal more, I cal'late. Fetch him here.”
“I—I shan't! He shan't be shot, even if he did steal 'em. And I know he didn't. If you shoot him I'll—I'll tell Uncle Zoeth and—and Cap'n Gould. And I won't let you have him anyhow. I won't,” with savage defiance. “If you shoot him you'll have to shoot me, too.”
Con climbed over the wall. “You just wait, Pop,” he said. “I'll take him away from her.”
But his father hesitated. There were certain reasons why he thought it best not to be too arbitrary.
“Hold on, Con,” he said. “Look here, sis, I'm sorry to have to kill your cat, but I've got to. He steals chickens and them kind of cats has to be shot. I see him myself yesterday afternoon. I told Isaiah Chase myself that . . . why, you was there and heard me! You heard me tell how I was lookin' out of the winder at quartet past four and see that cat—”
Mary-'Gusta interrupted. Her expression changed. She was still dreadfully frightened but in her tone was a note of relief, of confident triumph.
“You didn't see him,” she cried. “It wasn't David; it wasn't this cat you saw. I KNOW it wasn't.”
“Well, I know it was. Now don't argue no more. You fetch that cat here or I'll have Con take him away from you. Hurry up!”
“I know it wasn't David,” began Mary-'Gusta. Then, as Con started in her direction, she turned and ran, ran as hard as she could, bearing David in her arms. Con ran after her.
It was the cat that saved the situation and its life at the same time. Mary-'Gusta was near the edge of the pine grove and Con was close at her heels. David gave one more convulsive, desperate wriggle, slid from the girl's arms and disappeared through the pines like a gray projectile.
Mary-'Gusta collapsed on the grass and burst into frightened, hysterical sobs. Con took one or two steps after the flying cat and gave up the chase. Mr. Bacheldor, from behind the wall, swore emphatically and at length.
“Come here, Con, you fool,” he yelled, when the expression of his true feelings had reached a temporary end. “Come here! let the kid alone. We'll get into trouble if we don't. As for that dummed cat, we'll get him next time. He'll see his finish. Come on, I tell you.”
Con reluctantly rejoined his parent and the pair departed, muttering threats. Mary-'Gusta, the tears running down her cheeks, ran home to find David and plead with Mr. Chase for her pet's safety and protection from its persecutors. But Isaiah had gone up to the store on an errand. David, however, was crouching, a trembling heap, under the kitchen stove. The girl pulled him out, fled with him to the garret, and there, with the door locked, sat shivering and sobbing until Captain Shad came home for supper that night.
The Captain's first question when he arrived was concerning Mary-'Gusta's whereabouts. Isaiah said he had not seen her for two hours or more. And just then the child herself appeared, entering the kitchen from the door leading to the back stairs.
“Hello, Mary-'Gusta!” hailed Shadrach. “Thought you was lost. Supper's about ready to put on the table. Why, what's the matter? Been cryin', ain't you?”
Mary-'Gusta went straight to him and clutched his hand. “Please, Cap'n Gould,” she begged, “will you come into the sittin'-room a minute? I—I want to ask you somethin'. I want you to do somethin' for me, will you?”
“Sartin sure I will. What is it?”
Mary-'Gusta glanced at Isaiah's face. “I'd—I'd rather tell you, just you alone,” she said. “Please come into the sittin'-room.”
She tugged at his hand. Much puzzled, he followed her through the dining-room and into the sitting-room.
“Well, Mary-'Gusta,” he said, kindly, “now what is it? What's the big secret?”
Mary-'Gusta closed the door. She was very solemn and her lip quivered but she did not hesitate.
“It's about David,” she said. “Somethin's happened to David. I—I'm goin' to tell you about it, Cap'n Gould.”
She told of her adventure and of David's peril. Shadrach listened. When he heard of the accusation which was the cause of the affair he shook his head.
“My, my!” he exclaimed. “That's pretty bad, that is. I'd hate to have your cat killed, Mary-'Gusta, land knows I would. But if the critter's a chicken thief—”
“But he ain't! I KNOW he ain't!”
“Humph! You can't always tell, you know cats are cats and—”
“But I know David wasn't the cat that did it. I KNOW he wasn't”
“Oh, you know, do you. Hm! you do seem pretty sartin, that's a fact. How do you know?”
The girl looked at him. “Please, Cap'n Gould,” she said, “I—I'd rather tell you over to Mr. Bacheldor's. That's what I wanted to ask you; won't you please go right over to Mr. Bacheldor's with me? I—I'll tell you how I know when we're there.”
Captain Shadrach was more puzzled than ever. “You want me to go to Ab Bacheldor's with you?” he repeated. “You want to tell me somethin' over there? Why not tell me here?”
“'Cause—'cause Mr. Bacheldor thinks David did it and he'll kill him. He said he would. I want HIM to know David wasn't the one. And if, if you're there when he knows, he'll know YOU know he knows and he won't dast shoot at David any more. Please come, Cap'n Gould. Please, right away.”
Shadrach tugged at his beard. “Humph!” he muttered. “There's more 'knows' in that than there is knots in a snarled fish line. You want me as a witness, nigh's I can make out. Is that it?”
“Yes, sir. Will you go with me right off?”
“Right off, eh? Can't it wait till after supper?”
“I—I don't want any supper. PLEASE!”
So supper was postponed, in spite of Isaiah's grumblings, and the Captain and Mary-'Gusta started forthwith for the home of their nearest neighbor. Mr. Chase, his curiosity aroused, would have asked a dozen questions, but Mary-'Gusta would neither answer nor permit Shadrach to do so.
The Bacheldor family were at supper when the callers arrived. Abner himself opened the door and he looked rather embarrassed when he saw the pair on the steps. Captain Shad did not wait for an invitation to enter; he walked in and Mary-'Gusta followed him.
“Now then, Ab,” said the Captain, briskly, “what's this about our cat stealin' your chickens?”
Mr. Bacheldor and Con, separately and together, burst into a tirade of invective against the offending David.
“That's all right, that's all right,” broke in the Captain, crisply. “If that cat stole your chicken it ought to be shot. But are you sure of the cat? Do you know ours did it? This girl here says 'twasn't ours at all.”
“I know a dum sight better,” began Abner, savagely. But this time it was Mary-'Gusta who interrupted.
“Cap'n Gould,” she said, “please ask him what time it was yesterday afternoon when he saw the cat run off with the chicken.”
Bacheldor did not wait to be asked.
“'Twas quarter-past four yesterday afternoon,” he declared. “I know the time.”
“I don't see what the time's got to do with it,” put in Shadrach.
“But it's got everything to do with it,” urged Mary-'Gusta. “Honest truly it has.”
“Oh, it has, eh? Why?”
“'Cause—'cause—Ask him if he's sure?”
Again Abner did not wait. “Course I'm sure,” he replied. “I told Isaiah Chase—yes, and I told that young-one, too—that I looked at the clock just afore I looked out of the window and see the critter in the very act. Yes, and Con see him too.”
Mary-'Gusta stamped her foot in triumph. “Then it wasn't David,” she said. “It wasn't David at all. 'Twas somebody else's cat, Mr. Bacheldor.”
“Somebody else's nothin'! Don't you suppose I know—”
“Hold on! Heave to, Ab. Mary-'Gusta, how do you know 'twasn't our cat?”
“'Cause—'cause David was with me from four o'clock till most five; that's how. He was in the—in our house with me. So,” triumphantly, “he couldn't have been anywhere else, could he?”
Con and his father both began a protest, but Shadrach cut it short.
“Keep still, for mercy sakes,” he ordered. “This ain't Shoutin' Methodist camp meetin'. Let's get soundin's here. Now, Mary-'Gusta, you say the cat was with you from four till five; you're sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. I know because Mr. Chase had gone out and we knew he wouldn't be back until five 'cause he said he wouldn't. So we looked at the clock before we went in.”
“Went in? Went in where?”
The girl hung her head. It was evident that the answer to this question was one she dreaded to make. But she made it, nevertheless.
“Before we went into—into the parlor,” she said, faintly.
Captain Shad was the only one of her hearers who grasped the full significance of this confession. No, there was one other, and he turned red and then white.
“The parlor?” repeated the Captain, slowly. “The best parlor?”
“Ye-yes, sir.”
“Do you mean you went into the best parlor over to our house and—AND TOOK THAT CAT IN WITH YOU?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I swan to man! Did you forget what I told you would happen if you went into that parlor again? And especially if you lugged that cat in? Did you forget that?”
“N-no, sir. I didn't forget it. You—you said I couldn't go to the picnic.”
Shadrach shook his head. “Well,” he groaned, “if this don't beat the nation! What under the sun did you do it for?”
“'Cause—'cause we wanted to play pirates with—with the swords and things,” faltered Mary-'Gusta. “And we took David 'cause he was goin' to be one of the passengers on the ship we took. But,” with a sudden return to the main point at issue, “that proves David wasn't the cat he saw, the one that stole his chicken.”
The Captain looked at her. “By fire, it does, that's right,” he muttered. Abner Bacheldor roared in indignation.
“It don't prove nothin',” he cried. “All it proves is that the kid's a liar. She's lyin' so's to save that dummed thief of a cat. All kids'll lie when they think they can make somethin' out of it.”
Shadrach grunted. “Maybe so,” he said, “but I ain't caught this one in a lie so far. And I doubt if she's lyin' now. Now, Mary-'Gusta, is there any way you can prove you was in that parlor, and—what's his name—David was there at the time you say? Is there?”
Again Mary-'Gusta hesitated. Her eyes wandered about the faces in the room, until their gaze rested upon the face of Jimmie Bacheldor. And Jimmie looked white and scared.
“N-no, sir, I—I guess not,” she faltered.
“I guess not, too,” declared Con, with a sarcastic laugh.
But the Captain was suspicious. He had seen the child's look.
“Hold on,” he commanded. “There's more to this than a blind man could see through a board fence. Mary-'Gusta, was there anybody else except David in that parlor along with you? Was there?”
Mary-'Gusta looked at the floor.
“Yes, sir,” she faltered.
“So? I kind of had an idea there might be. Who was it?”
Again the look and then: “I—I ain't goin' to tell.”
Con laughed once more. “You bet she ain't,” he exclaimed. “She can't. The whole yarn's a lie. Don't pay no attention to it, Pop.”
Shadrach turned sharply in his direction. “I'M payin' attention to it,” he snapped, “and that's enough. So you ain't goin' to tell, Mary-'Gusta, eh? Remember now, if you do tell it'll prove your story's true and David'll come out on top. Think it over.”
Evidently Mary-'Gusta was thinking it over. Her eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head.
The Captain looked down at her. “Keepin' mum, eh?” he said. “Well, that's all right. I cal'late we're pretty good guessers, some of us, anyway. Jim,” with a sudden look straight at the youngest member of his neighbor's family, who was fidgeting with his spoon and acting remarkably nervous, “what have you got to say? Have a good time in that parlor playin' pirates, did you?”
Jimmie gasped. The suddenness of the attack knocked his defenses flat. He gurgled, stammered, and then broke into a wail of distress.
“I—I didn't mean to,” he sobbed, wildly. “'Twas her. She said do it; I never. I—I—”
“Why, Jimmie Bacheldor!” exclaimed Mary-'Gusta, shocked into protest by her fellow culprit's distortion of the truth. “How can you say so! What a story! You know—”
“I guess he knows,” broke in Shadrach. “And I cal'late I know, too. Now then, Jim, what time was it when you looked at the clock? Shut up, Abner, let the boy answer. Tell us, Jim; nobody'll hurt you.”
“It—it was four o'clock,” hollered Jimmie, in agony. “I—I never done it a purpose. I won't do so no more.”
“No, I don't cal'late you will. Cal'late you won't have a chance. Well, Ab, I guess we've proved our client's case. Next time you go out cat shootin' you better be sure you're gunnin' for the right one. Come on, Mary-'Gusta.”
Con Bacheldor sprang to his feet.
“Pop,” he shouted, “be you goin' to let 'em go this way? And that cat stealin' our chickens right along. Ain't you goin' to tell 'em you'll kill the critter next time he comes on our land?”
Abner was silent. He seemed oddly anxious to see the last of his visitors. It was the Captain who spoke.
“No, Con,” he said, crisply, “he ain't goin' to tell me that. And you listen while I tell YOU somethin'. If that cat of ours gets hurt or don't show up some time I'll know who's responsible. And then—well, then maybe I'LL go gunnin'. Good night, all hands.”
All the way back across the fields and through the grove the Captain was silent. Mary-'Gusta clinging to his hand was silent too, dreading what she knew was sure to follow. When they entered the kitchen Shadrach turned to her:
“Well, Mary-'Gusta,” he said, “I'm glad your cat's turned out to be no chicken thief, but—but that don't alter what you did, does it?”
“No, sir,” stammered the girl.
“No, I'm afraid it don't. I told you what would happen if you went into that parlor, and you went just the same. I cal'late you know what to expect, don't you?”
“Ye-yes, sir,” in a low tone. “You mean I can't go to the Sunday school picnic.”
Shadrach cleared his throat. He was not enjoying this episode, as a matter of fact his unhappiness was almost as keen as the child's. But as a boy he had been reared in the old-fashioned way, and he felt that he had a duty to perform.
“I'm afraid that's what I mean,” he said, gravely. “Now set down and have your supper.”
Mary-'Gusta tried hard to be brave, but the disappointment was too great. The tears streamed down her cheeks and she ran from the room. Shadrach strode after her.
“Here!” he called. “Mary-'Gusta, where are you goin'? Come back and have your supper.”
But Mary-'Gusta did not come back. She was already on the stairs.
“I—I don't want any supper,” she sobbed. “Please, oh, PLEASE don't make me eat it.”
The Captain hesitated, turned back, and jerked his own chair to the table.
“Well,” he demanded brusquely, “the supper's here and somebody's got to eat it, I cal'late. Fetch it on, Isaiah! What are you starin' at me like that for, you dumbhead?”
Isaiah brought in the supper. Then he demanded to know what the fuss was all about. Shadrach told him. Isaiah's chief interest seemed to center on the attempted shooting.
“Why the son of a swab!” he cried, excitedly. “Of all the cheek I ever heard of in my life that Abner Bacheldor's got the heft! To borrer a man's own gun—yes, and cartridges, too—to kill that man's own cat with! Of all the solid brass! He never told me 'twas our cat. All he wanted to know was could he borrer your gun and somethin' to load it with. If I'd known—”
His employer interrupted him. “WHAT?” he roared. “Do you mean to say that Ab Bacheldor came here and borrowed MY gun to—to do what he done with?”
“Sartin sure he did. And only this very afternoon, too.”
“And did he know whose cat 'twas?”
“He said he did. Mary-'Gusta was here 'long with me when he come. I says: 'Know whose cat 'tis?' and says he, 'I know all right!' I thought he acted kind of sheepish and funny. I—Here! where you goin'?”
The Captain was on his feet and his cap was in his hand.
“Goin'!” he snarled. “I'm going to make another call on Abner. And,” with his hand on the latch, “if you hear somebody bein' murdered over in that direction you needn't call the constable, neither.”
“But—but, hold on, Cap'n Shad! You ain't finished your own supper yet and Zoeth's waiting up to the store for you to come back so's he can come down and get his.”
The reply was emphatic and, in its way, conclusive.
“To the blue brimstone with the supper!” roared Shadrach. “It can wait and so can Zoeth. If he can't he can do the next best.”
He was absent for half an hour. When he returned Mr. Hamilton was in the dining-room. Shadrach entered, bearing the precious shotgun. He stood it carefully in the corner. There was a satisfied look in his eye.
“For goodness' sake, Shadrach!” exclaimed Zoeth, “what have you been thinkin' of? There I was waitin' and waitin' and hankerin' and hankerin' and no you nor no supper. I had to lock up the store finally. 'Twas either that or starve. I ain't a fault-finder, generally speakin', but I have to eat, same as other folks.”
His partner paid not the least attention. His first remark was in the form of a question addressed to Mr. Chase.
“Look here, Isaiah,” he demanded, “did I understand you to say that Mary-'Gusta was with you when that sculpin come to borrow my gun?”
“Yup. She was here.”
“And she knew that he was goin' to shoot a cat with it?”
“Sartin, she heard him say so.”
Shadrach strode to the mantel, took from it a hand-lamp, lighted the lamp and with it in his hand walked from the room and ascended the stairs. Zoeth called after him, but he did not answer.
He entered Mary-'Gusta's room. The child was in bed, the dolls beside her. She was not asleep, however. The tear stains on her cheeks and the dampness of the pillow showed how she had spent the time since leaving the dining-room.
Shadrach put the lamp upon the washstand, pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down. He took her hand in his.
“Mary-'Gusta,” he said, gently, “you knew 'twas my gun that Ab Bacheldor was tryin' to shoot David with?”
Mary-'Gusta moved her head up and down on the pillow.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“You was here when he borrowed it?”
“Yes, sir. And then I knew it was yours when he had it there in the field. I saw the silver name thing on the handle. It kind of shined in the sun.”
“Um-hm. Yes, yes. I see. You knew it, of course. But you didn't tell me. Why on earth didn't you? Didn't you know that if I'd realized that swab had borrered my gun to kill my cat that would have been enough? If the critter had stole a million chickens 'twouldn't have made any difference if I'd known THAT. The cheeky lubber! Well, he won't shoot at anything of ours for one spell, I'll bet. But why didn't you tell me?”
Mary-'Gusta's answer was promptly given.
“Why, 'cause,” she said, “that was just it. I knew if you knew that you wouldn't care whether David stole the chicken or not. And I wanted you to know he didn't.”
“Um, I see. But if you had told me you wouldn't have had to tell about the parlor. I'D never asked a single question.”
“Ye-yes, sir; but I wanted you to know David doesn't steal chickens.”
Shadrach swallowed hard. “I see,” he said. “Yes, yes, I see. So just to clear that cat you was willin' to give up the picnic and everything.”
Mary-'Gusta sobbed: “I—I did want to go so,” she moaned.
The Captain lifted her from the pillow and put his arm about her.
“You ARE goin',” he declared, emphatically, “you just bet you're goin'.”
“Oh! Oh, am I? Am I really? I—I know I hadn't ought to. I was a bad girl.”
“You! You're a dummed good girl! The best and squarest—yes, and the spunkiest little girl I ever saw. You're a brick.”
“I'm awful sorry I went into the parlor, Cap'n Gould.”
“Blast the parlor! I don't care if you stay in there a week and smash everything in it. And—and, see here, Mary-'Gusta, don't you call me 'Cap'n Gould' any more. Call me 'Uncle Shad,' will you?”
Just before bedtime that night Mr. Hamilton broached a subject which had troubled him all day.
“Shadrach,” he said, timidly. “I—I guess I ought to tell you somethin'. I know you won't want to talk about it, but seems 's if I must tell you. I had a letter this morning from Judge Baxter. He says he can't wait much longer for an answer from us about Marcellus's girl. He's got to know what we've decided to do with her.”
Shadrach, who was smoking, took his pipe from his mouth.
“Well, give him the answer then,” he said, shortly. “You know what 'tis, well as I do.”
Zoeth looked troubled.
“I know you don't want to keep her,” he said, “but—”
“Who said I didn't?”
“Who? Why, Shadrach Gould! You said—”
“I said a good many things maybe; but that's nothin'. You knew what I meant as well as I did.”
“Why, Shadrach! You—you don't mean you ARE willin' to keep her—here, with us, for good? You don't mean THAT?”
The Captain snorted impatiently. “Don't be so foolish, Zoeth,” he protested. “You knew plaguey well I never meant anything else.”
CHAPTER VII
The next day Captain Shadrach drove to Ostable and spent several hours in consultation with Judge Baxter. Adjusting matters by correspondence is a slow process at best, and the Captain, having surrendered unconditionally, was not the man to delay.
“I can settle more in ten minutes' talk,” he told his partner, “than the three of us could in a month's letter-writin', especially if I had to write any of the letters. I never was any hand to write letters; you know that, Zoeth. And when I do write one the feller I send it to is liable to come around and ask me to read it 'cause he can't. Like as not I can't either, if it's had time to get cold, and there we are, right where we started. No, I'll go and see the Judge and when I fetch port tonight there'll have been somethin' done.”
This prophecy was fulfilled. Before the Captain left Ostable for the homeward drive a good deal had been done. Judge Baxter, in his capacity as administrator, had already been looking into the affairs of his late client and, as he had expected, those affairs were badly tangled. When the outstanding debts were paid there would be little left, a thousand or two, perhaps, but certainly no more.
“So there you are, Shadrach,” he said. “I'm mighty glad you and Zoeth have decided to keep the girl, but I'm afraid she'll come to you with very little property of her own. If she is to have the good education and all the rest that Marcellus wanted her to have I guess it'll be your money that pays for it. That's the honest truth, and I think you ought to know it.”
The Captain nodded. “That's all right,” he said. “I expected just about that, account of what you said the day of the funeral. Me and Zoeth are about, as fur from bein' rich as the ship's cat is from bein' skipper, but we've put by a little and the store fetches us in a decent livin'. We'll take the young-one and do our best by her. Land knows what that best'll be,” he added, with a dubious shake of the head. “Speakin' for myself, I feel that I'm about as competent to bring up a child as a clam is to fly.”
Baxter laughed. “Marcellus seemed confident that you and Hamilton were perfectly suited to the job,” he said.
“Um; yes, I know; Marcellus had confidence in a good many things, the stock market included. However, what is to be will be and we all have to take chances, as the feller that was just married said when he tackled his wife's first mince pie. You get those guardian papers, whatever they are, made out, and Zoeth and me'll sign 'em. As for the competent part—well,” with a chuckle, “that child's pretty competent herself. I have a notion that, take it five or six years from now, it'll be her that'll be bringin' us up in the way we should go. I feel a good deal as if I was signin' on for a long voyage with the chances that I'd finish mate instead of skipper.”
“Say, Judge,” he added, just before leaving for home, “there's one thing more I'd like to say. 'Most everybody thinks Marcellus left his stepdaughter a consider'ble sight of money, don't they?”
“Why, yes; I suppose they do.”
“All right, let 'em think so. 'Twill give 'em somethin' to talk about. They'll be guessin' how rich the child is instead of markin' off in the almanac the days afore Zoeth and me head for the poorhouse.”
“Humph! I see. You don't care to have it known that you and your partner are adopting and supporting her purely from motives of kindness and generosity.”
“Pooh! pooh! No generosity about it. Besides, Marcellus was kind and generous enough to us in the old days. Pity if we couldn't take our trick at the wheel now.”
The Judge smiled. “You're a good deal more willing to take that trick than you were when I saw you last, Captain Shad,” he observed. “You seem to have changed your mind completely.”
The Captain grinned. “Well, yes, I have,” he admitted. “Maybe 'tain't so big a change as you think; I have a habit of blowin' up a squall when I'm gettin' ready to calm down. But, anyway, that young-one would change anybody's mind. She's different from any girl of her age ever I saw. She's pretty as a little picture and sweet and wholesome as a—as a summer sweet apple. She don't pester, and she don't tease, and she don't lie—no, sir, not even when I'd consider layin' the course a p'int or two from the truth a justifiable proceedin'. She's got inside my vest, somehow or 'nother, and I did think I was consider'ble of a hard-shell. She's all right, Mary-'Gusta is. I'm about ready to say 'Thank you' to Marcellus.”
And so it was settled, and Mary-'Gusta Lathrop was no longer a visitor, but a permanent member of the odd household at South Harniss. She was delighted when she heard the news, although, characteristically, she said very little beyond confiding to her two “uncles” that she was going to be a good girl and not take David into the parlor again. The remainder of her “things” and belongings were sent over by the Judge and, in due time, the guardianship papers were signed.
“There!” exclaimed Zoeth, laying down the pen. “That settles it, I cal'late. Now, Mary-'Gusta, you're our little girl, mine and your Uncle Shad's, for good and all.”
“Not quite so long as that, Zoeth,” put in the smiling Shadrach. “We'll hang on to her for a spell, I shouldn't wonder; but one of these days, a hundred years from now or such matter, there's liable to be a good-lookin' young feller sparkin' 'round here and he'll want to marry her and take her somewheres else. What'll you say when it comes to that, Mary-'Gusta?”