Dorothy at Skyrie

CHAPTER VI

MORE PECULIAR VISITORS

"Barnaby Rudge! Fiddlesticks! That ain't his name nor nothing like it. He's Peter Piper. He's out the poorhouse or something. He ain't like other folks. He's crazy, or silly-witted, or somethin'. How-de-do, Peter?" said Alfaretta, as Dorothy, closely followed by the little Babcocks and the "apparition" himself, dashed down into the dust-clouded dairy where Mrs. Chester stood still, gazing in bewilderment at the demolished dog-churn.

Anybody might have easily been startled by the appearance of the unfortunate creature who had, also, come into the cellar; especially a girl whose head was already filled with the image of another storied "natural," as Dorothy's was. He was tall and gaunt, with an unnaturally white face and a mass of hair almost as white in color, though not from age. His narrow, receding forehead was topped by a hat bestowed upon him by some parading political band of the autumn previous, and was gay with red cock feathers and a glittering buckle polished to the last degree. His clothing was also, in part, that of a parader: a brilliant-hued coat worn over his ordinary faded suit of denim. In one hand he carried the same burnt-out torch bestowed upon him with his hat, and by the other he led a cow that might once have been a calf. He did not speak, though he evidently heard and understood Alfaretta's greeting, for he turned his protruding eyes from Dorothy to her and answered by a foolish smile.

"Why, Peter Piper, what you bringin' old Brindle up here for? Who told you to?"

Again Peter grinned and answered nothing, but he turned his gaze from Alfaretta to Mr. Chester, who had come to the window above, and stared until the gentleman fidgeted and broke the spell by saying:

"Good-afternoon, lad. 'Peter Piper,' are you? Well, I'm glad to see you;" then added in a voice only Dorothy, who had run in to stand beside him, could overhear. "Wonder if he's any relation to the man who pricked his fingers picking pickled peppers!"

"Looks as if he might be, doesn't he? Only, Dad, I feel so sorry for him."

"Oh! I'm sorry for him, too. I am sincerely. But – I'm a trifle sorry for myself, as well. I wonder – is this the beginning of things! What a power the press certainly is, if one little advertisement – Why, Martha, Martha! Come up here, please! Come right away."

Mrs. Chester promptly obeyed, surprised by the mingled mirth and vexation expressed by her husband's face. And came not only Martha but the trio of Babcocks, behind her. At which father John frowned and observed:

"I was speaking to Mrs. Chester."

"Yes, I heard you," answered Alfaretta, coolly: at which all the Chesters laughed, and she joined heartily in, not dreaming that what her host afterwards called her "perfect ease of manner" was the cause of the fun.

"Well, John, what is it? You seemed to want me."

"My dear, I always do. Never more than now when I wish you to tell me – Did you rewrite that advertisement sent to the local newspaper yesterday?"

"Rewrite it? No, indeed. Why should I? You understand such things better than I. So I just sealed it, with money inside to pay – By the way, there should be considerable change due us. I don't believe one advertisement in a country paper would cost a whole dollar: do you?"

Mr. Chester laughed now in earnest.

"No, I do not. Not that I sent, anyway. Martha, why didn't you look? Why didn't you? My dear, you wanted it brief and I made it so. But if such brevity brings such an answer, so soon, why – it will fairly rain cows before we're many hours older. Cows! And horses! And pigs! But worst of all, I've made the new Skyrie folks ridiculous in the eyes of their future townsmen."

"Tell it, John. Tell it exactly as you wrote it."

So he did; and though the lady was dismayed she couldn't help smiling under her frown, and it was a momentary relief to hear Alfaretta calmly explaining:

"That there cow don't belong to nobody. All her folks are dead. I mean all the folks she belonged to. She's a regular pest, ma says, an' 'twould be a real kindness to kill her. But nobody won't. She's too old for beef, or the butcher would; and she makes out to get her livin' without botherin' nobody much. She goes onto folkses' lawns an' nibbles till she's driv' off – summer times an' in winter, why 'most anybody 't has a barnyard and fodder give her a little. Pa he says she's a relict of a glorious past and is due her keep from a – a kermune – ity she's kep' in hot water as many years as she has. Ma she says she can recollect that old Brindle ever since she was a little girl, an' that cow has got more folks into lawsuits than any other creatur', beast or human, in Riverside villages – Upper or Lower.

"Last one took her in an' done for her was Seth Winters, that lives up-mounting here, an' goes by the name o' 'Learned Blacksmith.' He's another crank; but ma she says he's a practical Nanarchist, 'cause he lives up to his idees. He's rich, or he was; but he's give his money away an' just lives in his old shop an' the woods, same as poor folks. He treats Peter Piper same as he does old Brindle. Keeps 'em both to his place, if they want to stay; an' don't hinder 'em none when they clear out. Pa an' him both say how 'freedom' is the 'herintage' of every livin' thing, an' they both take it. Ma she says there's consid'able difference in their ways, though; 'cause Seth he works, constant, an' pa he never does a stroke. Say, Peter, did Seth Winters send you an' Brindle up here?"

Peter did not answer. As if the question had roused some unsettled matter in his clouded mind, he frowned, studied the earth at his feet, and slowly walked away. A pitiable object in the sunset of that fair summer day, with his bedraggled scarlet feathers, and his scarlet leather uniform that must have been uncomfortably burdensome in the heat.

But Brindle tarried behind and foraged for her supper by nibbling the grass from the overgrown dooryard.

Suddenly, remembered Alfaretta:

"Ma she said I was to come home in time to get the cows in from pasture and milk 'em. She 'lowed she wouldn't get back up-mounting till real dark: 'cause she was goin' to stop all along the road, and get all the news she could an' tell what she knows, back. Ma she's a powerful hand to know what's doin', 'round. So, Baretta Babcock! Claretta Babcock! Put your toes together; even now, an' make your manners pretty, like I showed you teacher learned me, and say good-by."

With that the amusing girl drew herself up to her tallest, squared her own bare feet upon a seam of the carpet, and bent her body forward with the stiffest of bows. Then she took a hand of each little sister, and said – with more courtesy than some better trained children might have shown:

"I've had a real nice visit, Mis' Chester, an' I enjoyed my victuals. I'll come again an' you must let Dorothy C. come to my house. I'm sorry I tipped Mr. Chester into the ditch an' that I couldn't done more toward cleanin' up that cellar that I did. Good-night. I hope you'll all have nice dreams. Too bad Peter Piper went off mad, but he'll get over it. Good-night. Come, children, come."

So the three Babcocks departed, and the silence which succeeded her deluge of words was soothing to her hosts beyond expression. They sat long on the west veranda of the little cottage, resting and delighting in the beauty of nature and in the presence of each other. Then Dorothy slipped away and after a little absence returned with a tray of bread and butter, a big pitcher of milk, and the jar of honey Mrs. Calvert had sent.

"Bread and honey! Fare fit for a prince!" cried father John, as the food appeared. "And princes, indeed, we are to be able to sit and feast upon it with all this glorious prospect spread out before us."

He seemed to have entirely recovered from the shock of his fall and on his fine face was a look of deep content. He had suffered much and he must still so suffer – both pain of body and of mind. Poverty was his, and worse – it was the lot of his dear ones, also. To live at all, he must run in debt; and to his uprightness debt seemed little less than a crime.

However, the present was theirs. They had no immediate needs; there was food for the morrow, and more; and leaning back in the old rocker Martha brought for him, he let his fancy picture what Skyrie should be – "Some time, 'when my ship comes in'! Meanwhile – Sing to us, Dolly darling! I hear a whip-poor-will away off somewhere in the distance, and it's too mournful a sound for my mood. Sing the gayest, merriest songs you know; and, Martha dear, please do let Dorothy bring another rocker for yourself. Don't sit on that hard bench, but just indulge yourself in comfort for once."

When they were quite settled again Dorothy sang; and in listening to her clear young voice both her parents felt their spirits soothed till they almost forgot all care. Indeed, it seemed a scene upon which nothing sordid nor evil would dare enter; yet, just as the singer uttered the last note of her father's beloved "Annie Laurie," there sounded upon the stone pathway below a heavy footstep and, immediately thereafter, an impatient pounding upon the kitchen door.

Since their arrival at Skyrie none of their few visitors had called so late in the day as this, and it was with a real foreboding that Mrs. Chester rose and went to answer the summons. At a nod from her father, Dorothy followed the housemistress and saw, standing on the threshold, a rather rough-looking man, whose impatience suddenly gave place to hesitation at sight of the pair before him.

"Good-evening," said Martha, politely, though still surprised. Then, as he did not at once reply and she remembered the absurd advertisement in the Local, she asked: "Did you come to see about work, or selling us a horse, or anything?"

"H'm'm. A – Ahem. No, ma'am. 'Twasn't no horse errand brought me, this time, though I might admit I be ruther in the horse-trade myself, being's I keep livery in Lower village. 'Twas a dog – a couple of dogs – sent me away up-mounting, this time o' day, a-foot, too, 'cause all my critters have been out so long they wasn't fit to ride nor drive, neither. Been two summer-boarder picnics, to-day, an' that took 'em. 'Shoemakers go barefoot,' is the old sayin', and might as well be 't liverymen use shanks-mares. I – "

By this time the housemistress had perceived that though the man was rough in appearance he was not unkindly in manner and that he was reluctant to disclose his errand. Also, if he had walked up the mountain he must be tired, indeed; so she fetched a chair and offered it, but only to have the courtesy declined:

"Thank ye, ma'am, but I – I guess you won't care to have me sit when I've told my job. 'Tain't to say a pleasant one but – Well, I'm the constable of Lower Riverside, and I've come to serve this summonses on that there little girl o' yourn. You must see to it that she's on hand at Seth Winterses' blacksmith shop an' justice's office, to-morrow morning at ten o'clock sharp. Here, ma'am, is the writ of subpœny 't calls for her to be a witness in a case of assault an' battery. Leastwise, to bein' known to the critters what assaulted and battered."

Before Mrs. Chester could really comprehend what he was saying or doing, the man had thrust a paper into her hand, and had vanished. He had never performed an official act of which he was more ashamed; nor can words properly express her amazement.

CHAPTER VII

AT THE OFFICE OF A JUSTICE

Fortunately the distance to the blacksmith's was not great, for Mr. Chester could not be dissuaded from accompanying his wife and daughter thither, in answer to that astounding "summons." That the document was legal and not to be ignored, he knew well enough, though mother Martha protested vigorously against paying any attention to it.

"It's some absurd mistake, John. How in the world could our Dolly be a witness in any such affair? No, indeed. Not a step will any of us take toward that shop-office! A pretty justice of the peace a blacksmith must be, anyway! I never was so insulted in my life. Instead of going there, I'm going down cellar to clean it up and made ready for our butter-making."

"First – catch your cow, wife dear! A better one than that old Brindle who has deserted us already. And as for your going, why, of course, you needn't. Dorothy C. is the important person in this case, and I'm as much her guardian as you."

"John, you mustn't! You couldn't walk so far on your crutches – "

"Oh! I must learn to walk long distances, and 'up-mounting' must be comparatively near. I remember that Alfaretta said it was 'next door to Cat Hollow,' and Cat Hollow's just beyond Skyrie. Dorothy'd better run over to Mrs. Smith's, where you get your milk, and ask directions. No use to waste any strength hobbling over the wrong route – "

"Maybe the grocer's wagon will be up before ten o'clock and he might carry you," suggested Mrs. Chester.

"He ought not to go out of his way, that clerk; besides, it would be as difficult for me to climb into his high cart as to trot along on my own wooden feet. Shall Dolly inquire?"

So Dorothy was dispatched upon the errand, duly warned not to inform the Smith household of its cause, though there was small danger of that. The girl had never been so angry in her life. "Arrested," was the way she put the matter to herself, yet why – why! She had never done anything wicked in her life! and this man, "Archibald Montaigne," what did she know about such a person or any dogs which might have run into him? Nor was she prepared for the evident curiosity with which Mrs. Smith regarded her; a curiosity greater than that her kidnapping adventures had provoked, and which angered her still more.

"The way to Seth's shop? Sure. I know it well's I know the road to my own barnyard. You go out your gate and turn toward the river and walk till you come to the corner of two roads. Take the upper road, right into the woods, and there you'll be. Don't you be afraid, Sis. Nobody can do anything to just a witness, so. The boy'll be the one'll catch it, and heavy. That Mr. Montaigne looks like a regular pepper-pod, and is, too. Why, he sent his man down here, t'other day, to warn me to keep my hens shut up and off his property. My hens! That was never shut up in their lives, nor found fault with before. But – "

"Good-morning. Thank you," interrupted Dorothy, rather rudely, but too impatient to be back at home to think about that. Arrived there she found that, like a good many other people, once given her own way mother Martha did not care to take it. Instead of ignoring the summons to court, she arrayed herself in her best street costume and duly appeared at Seth Winters's home with her crippled husband and indignant child.

There is no need to describe the "trial" which followed. It was almost farcical in its needlessness, and poor Dorothy's part in it of the slightest import. She had to tell that she did know the dogs, Peter and Ponce, and that once she had been run against and knocked down by one of them. Also, that on the morning of the "assault" these dogs had called at Skyrie and that she had lost hold of one of them, and that they had run away with one James Barlow in pursuit. Then she was dismissed; but at a nod from Mrs. Calvert, crossed the room to where that lady sat and nestled down beside her, surprised to find her in such a place and, apparently, so much amused by the scene.

The outcome of the affair was simple. Mr. Montaigne's anger had had time to cool and he was a snob. It was one thing to prosecute a helpless lad but quite another to find that the "ferocious" dogs belonged to his aristocratic neighbor, whose acquaintance he had not heretofore been permitted to make, although he had endeavored so to do. Mrs. Cecil was, practically, the very center and queen of that exclusive circle which had "discovered" the "Heights" and was the most bitterly opposed to "outsiders" possessing property thereon.

"This man Montaigne, Cousin Seth, may have much more money than brains, but we don't want him up here on our hill," she had once said to her old friend, and giving him that title of "Cousin" from real affection rather than because he had any right to it.

He had laughed at her in his genial, hearty way, which could give no offence, and had returned:

"My good Betty, you need humanizing. We can't all be old Maryland Calverts, and I like new people. Don't fancy that a man who has made millions —made it, understand – is brainless, and not well worth knowing. You know I can spend money – "

"None better, man!"

"But the gift of making it was denied me. I intend that you and I shall know this Mr. Montaigne and – like him. I shall make it my business to accomplish that fact even though, at present, he thinks a country blacksmith beneath his notice. That time will come. I have infinite patience, I can wait, but I shall hugely enjoy the event when it arrives."

This conversation had taken place the summer before, when the newcomer had begun the building of his really palatial residence, and Seth Winters had waited a whole year, little dreaming that the acquaintance he had determined upon should begin in his own office, with him as arbiter in a case between a rich man and a penniless boy.

"The complaint is withdrawn," declared the complainant, as soon as he had discovered the real state of affairs, and that now was his chance to become acquainted with Mrs. Cecil. "I – I was offended at the time, but – it's too trivial to notice. I beg to apologize, Madam Calvert, for the annoyance I've given you. Of course, the lad – "

"Don't mention it; an amusement rather than an annoyance," replied the lady, graciously. "So little of moment happens up here on our mountain that an episode of this kind is quite – quite refreshing. My Great Danes will not trouble you again. My 'Cousin' Winters, here – allow me to make you acquainted in a social as well as business way – my 'Cousin' Winters is almost as much attached to the beautiful animals as I am, and he has this very morning presented me with a pair of wonderful chains, warranted not to break. Fortunately, he had them already waiting my arrival, as a gift, and never gift more opportune."

"My 'Cousin' Winters!"

Archibald Montaigne felt as if the boards beneath his feet were giving way. That this old gentlewoman whose blood was of the bluest – and he adored "blue blood" – should claim relationship with an obscure farrier was a most amazing thing. Well, then, the next best step for himself to take in this affair was to foster the acquaintance with the smith; and thereby, it might be, gain entrance for his family and himself into "Society."

For his family first. That credit was due him. Personally, he loved better a quiet corner in his own great mansion, where he might study the fluctuations of the "market" and scheme to increase the wealth he had already compassed. And with the shrewdness which had enabled him to take advantage of mere money-making "chances," he now seized upon the social one presented.

"My dear Madam Calvert, my wife and daughter are without in my carriage. They have been a little – little lonely up here, for it's quiet, as you say. Do allow me to present them, call them in, or – if you will be so kind, so very kind, our precious Helena is an invalid, you know, you might step out to them with me. If I might appeal to your kindness for my daughter, who's heard so much about you and will be so delighted."

What could Mrs. Cecil do? Nobody had ever appealed to her "kindness" without receiving it, and though she positively hated to know these "new, upstart people," she was too well bred to show it. But as Mr. Montaigne bowed the way outward she flashed a look toward the smiling smith, which said as plainly as words:

"You've caught me in this trap! The consequences are yours!"

The glance he telegraphed back meant, as well:

"Good enough! I'm always glad to see a prejudice get its downfall. The time I waited for came, you see."

Almost unconsciously, Mrs. Cecil still retained in her own soft hand the clinging one of Dorothy C., which she had taken when she called the girl to her side; so that she now led her out of the office to the carriage before its door and to what Dorothy thought was the loveliest person she had ever seen.

This was Helena Montaigne, a blonde of the purest type, whose great blue eyes were full of a fine intelligence, but whose perfect features were marred by an expression of habitual discontent. This little lady made Dorothy think of the heads of angels painted upon Christmas cards and, also, for an instant made her stare rather rudely. The next she had recovered herself and acknowledged Mr. Montaigne's introduction with a natural grace and ease which delighted Mrs. Cecil beyond words. She was always gratified when "Johnnie's" adopted daughter proved herself worthy of the interest she had taken in her; and she now mentally compared the beauty of the two girls, with no disparagement to Dorothy C.