Dorothy at Skyrie

"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.

Indeed, the dark eyes, the tumbled curly head, – where the brown hair was just recovering from the rough shearing Miranda Stott had given it, while her young prisoner was ill with the measles, – and the trim, erect little figure, had already become in the eyes of this childless old lady a very dear and charming picture.

Helena's manner was that of a grown young lady, which, indeed, she quite fancied herself to be. Was she not fourteen and, on state occasions, promoted to the dignity of having her abundant hair "done up" by her mother's own hairdresser? And as for skirts, they had been lengthened to the tops of her boots: and by another year she would have her dinner frocks made en train. Her own manner was rather disdainful, as if the people she met were not her equals; yet this contempt was for their "general stupidity." She had not her father's love of money nor her mother's timidity concerning her own behavior; for the fear that she should not conduct herself according to the "best usages of polite society" was the bane of gentle Mrs. Montaigne's existence. By nature extremely simple and sweet, she tormented herself by her efforts to be haughty and "aristocratic" – not quite understanding the true meaning of the latter term.

Money had come to her too late in life for her to become accustomed to the use of, and indifferent to, it; and, though she revered her husband on account of his ability to make it, their wealth was a burden for her, at times almost too heavy to bear.

On the other hand, Helena and Herbert, her brother, two years older, could not remember when they had not more money at their command than they knew how to use. The boy was not as clever as his sister, but he was more generally liked, though his insolence, sometimes, was most offensive. He rode up, at this moment, upon a spirited black horse, and called out, noisily:

"Well, dad! How'd the trial go? Hope you walloped that lumpkin good; and the old woman owns the dogs – "

"Herbert! Herbert!" warned Mr. Montaigne, in distress. Whereupon his son came round from the corner of the shop, which had hidden him from sight of all the party save his father, and found himself in the presence of the very "old woman" herself. He had none of his parents' ambition to know her or any other of the "exclusives" of the Heights, being quite sufficient unto himself; but he had been trained in the best schools and knew how to conduct himself properly. Besides, he was more frank by nature than the others of his family and, having found himself "in a box," escaped from it by the shortest way possible.

"Hello! I've done it now, haven't I? I beg your pardon, Mrs. Calvert, and dad's and everybody's;" saying which, the lad pulled his hat from his head, and checked his horse to a standstill beside the carriage where his mother and sister sat.

He was a handsome boy, of the same fair type as Helena, but much more rugged in strength; and his blue eyes danced with merriment instead of frowning with the disdain of hers. He adored her yet quarreled with her continually, because she had so little interest in "sensible, outdoor things"; and his gaze now turned upon Dorothy with instant perception that here was a girl worth knowing and no nonsense about her.

His gay debonair manner and his ready apology for his own blunder pleased Mrs. Calvert. She liked honesty and did not mind, in the least, having been termed an "old woman." This boy was worth all the rest of the Montaignes put together, she decided, and thereupon showed her good will by admiring his thoroughbred mount.

"That's a fine beast you have there, lad. Needs a little exercise to get him into shape, but I reckon a few trips up and down this mountain will fetch him right."

She had herself walked to her old friend's shop and now stepped forward to examine at closer range the good points of the horse, stroking his velvet nostrils with an affectionate touch, and patting his shoulder approvingly.

Herbert stared and exclaimed:

"Why, that's strange! Cephy hates women. Won't let mother nor sister come near him, or wouldn't if they tried – which only Helena has done – once! You must like horses, ma'am, and understand 'em a lot."

"I ought to. I was brought up with them. They've been my best company many and many a time. I was put into a saddle when I was but a year and a half old. Held there, of course; but took to the business so well that by the time I was five I could take a fence with my father, any time he wanted to ride over the plantation. I'm glad to see you like them, too. But I must be going. I'm sorry, Mr. Chester, that I didn't drive over; then I could have taken you home, but. I didn't expect to have the pleasure of meeting you here. I – "