Chapter VII: Part 7

“One thing first,” interrupted Jarvis; “did she tell you—what had passed between us of her own free will?”

David burst into a laugh.

“Oh, that’s where the shoe pinches, is it?” he said good-humoredly. “Well, I don’t mind informing you that Barbara didn’t tell me a single thing about you—not at first. She’s a good little scout, Barbie is, and she saved your pride all right for you. She’d never have told me, I guess; but I taxed her with it, and, of course, she couldn’t deny it. Some girls would have snapped you up quick, with all your money and everything, and with me supposedly buried up in the Klondyke. But not Barbara. She’s worth while, that girl.”

“Yes,” mused Jarvis, “she is—worth while.”

“You wouldn’t catch me loafing around this dead and alive hole for many women,” David went on, drumming with his fingers on the edge of his chair. “As it is, I’ve had about all I can stand of it; and she won’t give in and marry me—won’t even wear my ring, till that client of yours—that peculiar, hard-to-get-along-with individual you’re representing—can be either bought off, or disposed of in some way. Naturally, neither of us want to be under obligations to—_you_!” he finished dramatically.

“Does she—suppose that I——”

David laughed again.

“No,” he said. “Oh, no! Barbie isn’t gifted with a very keen imagination. She swallowed all you told her about that singular, out-of-town client of yours. She seems to have implicit faith in you.”

A subtle lightning flash leaped from Jarvis’s eyes.

“She’s quite right to trust me,” he said calmly. “I’ll be glad if you can do the same.”

“Oh, come now, it’s too late for any more joking between us!” cried David roughly. “You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. You gave her that money, Jarvis, you know you did. And you did it just so as to tie her down. It’s a damned shame!”

Jarvis had risen, and David sprang eagerly from his chair to face him. The two men were of equal height, and for an instant David’s boyish blue eyes strove to master Jarvis, glance to glance. Then he drew back, baffled, furious.

“You aren’t going to stick to that cock-and-bull story a minute longer with me,” he blustered. “You know very well where the money came from!”

Jarvis bowed ceremoniously.

“Certainly I know,” he acknowledged.

“Didn’t you give it to her?”

“I shall not answer you.”

“Well, you did, and I can prove it.”

“How?”

David sprang forward with a triumphant laugh and snatched a small object from the desk.

“I have been sitting where I could look at your writing traps,” he exulted. “And I saw—this!”

Jarvis appeared quite unmoved.

“That is my seal,” he observed, “with my family crest. What of it?”

“What of it?” shouted David. “Why, it’s the thing that was used to sign that damned contract. It’s proof positive. That’s what it is!”

“My client,” said Jarvis coolly, “did not wish to use his own name. I suggested the seal. He used it—at my request.”

“Well, you’re the man, anyway,” David retorted violently. “I insist that you release her—at once. Do you hear? At once!”

“So that she can be free to marry you?” Jarvis asked. His eyes were fixed and glittered strangely.

“Yes! Why not? She’s my promised wife.”

Jarvis stood silent for a long minute, as if considering David’s words. Then he looked up, moving a little toward the door with the manifest intention of bringing the unfruitful interview to an end.

“I cannot say more at present than that I will endeavor to so arrange matters with my client as to meet Miss Preston’s wishes,” he said.

He looked calmly, dispassionately at David, and again the young man felt himself vaguely humiliated. He had meant to say more, much more; but quite unexpectedly he found himself bidding Jarvis good-night. The door closed quietly upon his wrath and discomfiture.

Stephen Jarvis did not at once resume the reading of the thin blue volume which lay face down in the bright circle of lamp-light. Instead he walked slowly up and down the room, his brows knit, his sinewy hands locked behind him. He was trying as conscientiously as possible to look at the situation from the view-point of the young man; to find, if possible, in his own conduct some valid excuse for the (to him) intolerable behavior of Whitcomb. While he yet strove with himself a second visitor was announced.

Jarvis received this person with visible reluctance, bade him be seated, and sat down himself, before he opened the conversation with a tentative, “Well!” rather impatiently uttered.

“I arrived this afternoon, Mr. Jarvis, and quite fortunately fell in at once with the person in question,” the newcomer said.

“Yes,” said Jarvis dryly.

“As I understand my commission,” pursued Mr. Todd, “I am to inform myself as to the person’s past, his present occupation and habits, and——”

Jarvis made an impatient gesture of assent.

“I want to know all about him,” he said. “It is important that I should be informed as to whether he is fitted for a position of trust.”

The other man nodded.

“I understand,” he said.

“I want to know,” pursued Jarvis in a harsh voice, “if the man is truthful, honest, temperate. If, in short, he is the man to be implicitly trusted with—interests of the highest value and importance.”

Mr. Todd again assented, his sharp ferret eyes taking in the details of his employer’s face and person with professional acumen.

“Mercantile?” he asked briskly, “or professional? There’s a difference, you know. Now a man might be something of a braggart, addicted to cigarette smoking, not averse to a temperate use of intoxicants, an occasional—er——”

“Do you see all this in him already?” demanded Jarvis.

Mr. Todd considered.

“I dined with the young man,” he said slowly, “and acquired certain information which may or may not have a bearing on your case.”

Jarvis leaned forward, glistening drops of moisture starting out on his forehead.

“Is the man merely a weak fool—weak because untried by any of the deeper experiences of life, and foolish only because he is young? or is he—worse?” he asked, in a low voice; “that is what I want to know. Temperamentally the person in question is at odds with myself. I—don’t like him. But, understand, I must not rely on my likes and dislikes in this matter. I—am obliged to be—fair to him, at all costs.”

“I understand, Mr. Jarvis,” assented the detective. “And I will tell you frankly that my own initial impressions—and I have learned to rely somewhat on first impressions as being in the main correct—are that the person referred to is somewhat inconstant, easily led, excitable, with all the faults of youth and—quite possibly”—he paused to again study the face before him, “—many of its virtues. He is, on his own testimony, selfish, extravagant, passionate.” He shook his head slowly. “I should not,” he went on, “care to trust such a man with interests calling for a high degree of business sagacity or—er—let us say sober industry. I believe it was something of the sort you questioned.”

Jarvis threw himself back in his chair. His haggard eyes met the detective’s squarely.

“Is the fellow fit to marry a good and pure woman?” he asked. “Could he command her respect and hold her affection? That’s test enough for me.”

Mr. Todd moved uneasily in his chair.

“Oh, as to that,” he hesitated, “there are all sorts of women, you know. Some of ’em like a man all the better—or appear to—if he—well; if he isn’t too good, you know. I’ve known a woman,” he went on strongly, “to marry a man who’d drink and abuse her, and yet she’d love him and stick to him to the last. There’s something queer about women, when it comes to loving a man. His character doesn’t seem to count for so much as you’d suppose.”

Jarvis assented dryly.

“You think the person in question would be likely to—do as you suggested?”

“It would be a toss-up,” said Mr. Todd thoughtfully, “as to whether he’d settle down into a steady, respectable sort of a citizen, or—” he paused to button his coat painstakingly “—the opposite. I’ll follow him up a while longer,” he went on, “and report from day to day. In a case like this, where you don’t feel like trusting your own judgment, it’s best to let facts talk.”

Mr. Todd looked searchingly into the depths of his hat.

“Facts will talk, you know,” he said confidently. “They’re bound to. Sooner or later, something comes along that tells the story. I’ve shadowed many a person in the past as could tell you that, sir, from behind prison bars.”

XX

PEG MORRISON emulating (through the long summer months) the shining examples reported in the agricultural papers, found himself half-owner of a prodigious yield of onions in the early autumn. Day after day he had toiled amid the long lines of odorous shoots; weeding, when weeding was a back-breaking task under pitiless summer suns, and early and late stirring the baked soil—for the onion specialists laid great stress on intensive cultivation. Viewing the great heaps of shining bulbs, red, yellow, and silver-hued, spread out in the various barns to dry, Mr. Morrison felt inclined to break forth into singing, moved by something of the same exultant spirit which has prompted successful agriculturists from the days of the first harvests, reaped from the bosom of the virgin earth.

“Let everlastin’ thanks be thine,
Fer sech a bright displa-a-y [he chanted]
Es makes a world o’ darkness shine
With beams o’ heavenly da-a-y!”

Martha Cottle, her maiden countenance coyly shaded by a ruffled pink sun-bonnet, and bearing the egg-basket ostentatiously in one hand, paused on the threshold of the barn.

“Why, Mis-ter Morrison,” she exclaimed, “what a wonderful harvest of onions! I never saw anything like it.”

“This ain’t all of ’em, either,” quoth Peg, pausing long enough in his labors to wipe the beaded perspiration from his forehead. “The only thing that gits me is what to do with ’em, now ’t I’ve got ’em. The’ ain’t a quarter of ’em out the ground yit.”

“You should have thought of that before,” Miss Cottle said wisely. “If you keep them too long they’ll rot or freeze out here.”

“They sure will,” agreed Peg, with some anxiety. “I’ve got to do somethin’ with ’em quick. I’ll bet,” he added, “that I’ve got nigh onto three thousand bushels—two, anyhow. The’d ’a’ b’en more, only part of ’em didn’t come up, an’ some was spoiled b’ the dry weather. I didn’t put in more’n half I intended to, neither. I d’clar I don’t see how that thar John Closner of Hidalgo, Texas, made out to plant an’ cultivate thirty-two acres of onions; an’ what in creation he done with twenty-eight thousan’ eight hunderd bushels when he got ’em raised beats me. The’s an awful lot o’ onions in a hunderd bushels, seems t’ me.”

Miss Cottle reflected, her eyes on Mr. Morrison’s heated countenance.

“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you’d care to take any advice from _me;_ but I know what _I’d_ do, if I’d raised all those onions.”

“I ain’t proud,” Mr. Morrison confessed handsomely. “I’d take advice f’om a Leghorn hen, ef it p’intedly hit the nail on the head. Fire away, ma’am. Ef you’ve got any good idees, it’s reelly wrong t’ keep ’em to yourself, they’re kind o’ scurse these days.”

He looked whimsically at the lady, whose earnest attention appeared to be divided pretty evenly between the shining heaps of vegetables and himself.

“I don’t believe I shall ever smell onions again without thinking of you, Peleg,” Miss Cottle observed sentimentally.

“‘’Tis sweet to be remembered,’” quoted Peg gallantly.

Miss Cottle sighed deeply; then started as if suddenly frightened by her own thoughts.

“What,” she demanded, dropping her basket, which was fortunately empty, “did I say?”

“W’y, nothin’ in pertic’lar, ma’am,” replied Peg. “You was speakin’ o’ disposin’ o’ th’ onions, an’——”

“Yes; but I called you by your Christian name. I called you—_Peleg!_ What _must_ you think of me?”

“Ev’rybody mostly calls me Peleg, er Peg. I ain’t pertic’lar es t’ that. But how ’bout them onions? You was sayin’——”

“I was about to inform you that my brother-in-law’s nephew is connected with the Washington Market in New York City,” said Miss Cottle, with a long, quivering sigh. “I had thought of writing to him, if you cared to have me. I should be _glad_ to do _something_—for you, Peleg. There! I’ve said it again.”

“It’s mighty kind of you to write t’ your relation. I’m bleeged t’ you, ma’am. Washin’ton Market, Noo York City, soun’s good t’ me. But d’ye s’pose the’s folks enough thar t’ eat all them onions?”

He shook his head doubtfully.

“The loft t’ the kerridge house is full of ’em, an’ the hay barn floor’s covered, an’ the’s a lot more in the ground, es I was sayin’.”

Miss Cottle seated herself on an upturned bushel-basket and gazed earnestly at the successful grower of onions.

“I wish to talk to you _seriously_, Mr. Morrison, on a subject _very near my heart_,” she said. “Will you not sit down on this box”—indicating a place at her side—“and listen?”

“I’d ought t’ be gittin’ them onions out th’ groun’,” protested Peg, with a wary glint in his eye. But he sat down gingerly on the edge of the box.

“I’ve been thinking _deeply_ on the situation here on the farm,” pursued Miss Cottle. “I do not feel that I am doing _right_ to remain here longer, _under the circumstances_.”

Peg fumbled the rampant locks behind his left ear, in a fashion he had when perplexed.

“Under the circumstances,” he repeated dubiously. “The circumstances is all right; ain’t they?”

“I appear to have dropped into the position of hired girl to Barbara Preston,” pursued the spinster acidly. “She did her own work previous to my coming; now I do most of it. But that isn’t all; I was engaged as housekeeper and caretaker for that boy. She was to go away and _stay_ for five years.”

“Mebbe she’ll go soon now,” hazarded Peg. He shook his head slowly. “Kind o’ funny ’bout that business,” he murmured. “I dunno who in creation bid her in.”

“I shouldn’t mind that so much,” pursued Miss Cottle, “but——”

She paused dramatically to allow the full force of her remark to fall on the unsuspecting man.

“There’s been considerable talk in the village lately—_about you and me_. It’s come to me straight.”

“No!” exclaimed Peg, hastily gaining his legs and feeling for his pipe in his rear breeches pocket with agitated haste.

“Don’t you believe it, ma’am.”

“Can you deny,” intoned Miss Cottle strongly, “that the subject of your attentions to me was brought up and discussed in Hewett’s grocery store less than a week ago?”

“I said it wa’n’t so, ma’am; I told ’em the’ wa’n’t nothin’ in it.”

“_You_ told them, Peleg Morrison? _You_ denied that you intended to marry me? How could you?”

“W’y, ma’am, you know——”

“You should, at least, have afforded _me_ the opportunity of denying the report—if it was to be denied.”

Miss Cottle buried her face in her hands.

“I supposed,” she went on, in a smothered voice, “that you had more regard for the sacred feelings of a good woman. I thought, Peleg, you—cared—a little—for me.”

“Oh, my! Gosh—goll—durn—what—in—thunder——”

Miss Cottle’s strong, determined hand shot out and fastened tentacle-like upon the unfortunate Peleg’s sleeve.

“I shall leave this very day—_never_ to return,” she said, in a hollow voice, “unless you and I come to an understanding. I cannot endure it longer.”

“O Lord!” exclaimed Peg prayerfully.

“I _love_ that _dear_ little boy as if he was my _own_,” pursued Miss Cottle sentimentally, “and I _feel_ that my _duty_ calls me to remain and care for him; but——”

“I reelly hope you won’t go on my ’count, ma’am,” faltered Peg, moved by these protestations and once more mindful of Barbara’s exhortations.

“_Peleg!_” exclaimed Miss Cottle beatifically, and instantly relaxed upon his shoulder.

“Say, ma’am! You know—reelly, I——”

“I am _so_ happy, Peleg!” gurgled the spinster.

“Wall, I ain’t; I——”

“I knew you would understand my feelings.”

“But I don’t, ma’am. Kindly set down, an’——”

“I shall remain _now_ and do my duty with a _light heart_. I feel that the arrangement will be _much better_ for _all_ concerned, and I can make you _so_ comfortable, Peleg. You need half a dozen new shirts, and shall I confess it? I have them nearly completed already.”

Mr. Morrison, looking wildly about for a means of escape, caught sight of Jimmy running past the door, a brace of puppies frolicking at his heels.

“Hello, thar, Cap’n!” he called, “don’t you want t’ step in here an’——”

“The _dear_ child,” murmured Miss Cottle, wiping her eyes on her apron. “He shall be the first to share our happiness. I am going to be married to your kind old friend here, James; aren’t you _glad_, my boy?”

Jimmy gazed doubtfully at the pair from under puckered brows.

“Married?” he echoed. “What for?”

“Say, Cap’n, you’ve struck the nail on the head, es usual!” cried Peg, regaining his composure with an effort. “I guess the lady don’t altogether know her own mind. She was kind o’ calc’latin’ on bein’ married t’ me. But she’s thought better of it b’ now, an’ I’m bearin’ up es well es I kin under the circumstances. The’ ain’t goin’t’ be no weddin’. No, sir! She’s changed her mind sence she come in here. D’ye hear, ma’am? You couldn’t put up with ol’ Peg Morrison. Y’ tried to, f’om a strict sense o’ duty; but y’ reelly couldn’t do it.”

“_Peleg!_” exclaimed Miss Cottle sharply. “You must have taken leave of your senses!”

“No, ma’am, I ain’t. The Cap’n here’ll bear witness that I said you’d give me up. That’ll put a stop t’ the talk—ef the’ is any. You c’n tell ’em that. I won’t deny it. I c’n stan’ it.”

A light as of tardy victory dawned in Miss Cottle’s eyes.

“You won’t deny that we’ve been engaged to be married?” she said slowly.

“No, ma’am; you c’n say anythin’ you’ve a mind to. It’s all the same t’ me, now ’t you’ve give me up. I feel turrible bad—all broke up; but I’m a-goin’ t’ stan’ it the best I kin. Religion ’ll help some, I guess. It gene’lly does. I’ll try it, anyhow.”

“I might reconsider,” observed Miss Cottle, “before”—she added darkly—“the affair becomes public. I fear the notoriety will be very hard for you to bear, Peleg.”

“It will, ma’am,” replied Peg with alacrity; “but I’m goin’ t’ try an’ endure it.”

Miss Cottle meditatively stirred the onions with one foot clad substantially in rusty leather.

“I shall hold you to the engagement which you have acknowledged,” she said firmly, “unless——”

“What? Fer goodness sake don’t keep me on tenter-hooks, ma’am! W’y, say, you don’t want me! I ain’t fit t’ wipe m’ feet on your door-mat; you’ve said so lots o’ times; ain’t she, Cap’n? I’m an ornary cuss; more ornary ’n you hev any idee of; an’ I’m humbly’s a hedge-fence, ’n’—’n’ bad-tempered; m’ disposition’s somethin’ fierce. The Cap’n here c’n tell you that. W’y, land, I dunno but what I’d be drove to drink, ef I was t’ git married! I’ll bet I would. An’ what with my t’bacco—y’ know y’ hate that like pison, an’ m’——”

“If my brother-in-law’s nephew should make you an offer for these onions, I feel that I ought to have a share in the proceeds,” said Miss Cottle, suddenly abandoning sentiment for business. “If we were to carry out our engagement of marriage, of course I should reasonably expect to profit by the arrangement.”

“No, ma’am; you wouldn’t, not whilst I was alive. I’m downright stingy. That’s another thing I fergot t’ mention. Stingy? W’y, I’m closter ’n the bark t’ a tree. ’Nough sight closter, ’cause the bark’ll give when the tree grows. But not Peleg Morrison; no, ma’am! I’ll bet you wouldn’t git ’nough t’ eat, with me fer a pervider. An’ I’ve made up my mind long ago to leave ev’rythin’ I’ve got t’ the Cap’n here. M’ will’s all made. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you—a hunderd dollars cash, ef I sell the onions, ’n ef you——”

“Make it two hundred, and I’ll agree to let you off. You couldn’t do me out of my widow’s third, anyway you’d fix it.”

Peg stared at the determined spinster in silence for a long minute. Then with a muttered exclamation, he dashed out of the barn and disappeared.

Miss Cottle’s eyes sparkled with animosity.

“If I was to sue him for breach of promise, and I could do it, too, I guess he——”

She paused in her meditations to stare wrathfully at the spectacle of the recalcitrant Peleg returning at full speed, a small, yellow-leaved book in his hand.

“Here we be, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “Now we’ll see whar we’re at. I gene’lly find somethin’ t’ fit the ’casion, an’ I’ll bet I kin this time.”

He rapidly turned the pages with a moistened thumb and fingers.

“‘Receipt fer horse linament.’ No; that won’t do. ‘Foot an’ mouth disease,’ ‘How t’ git fat; an’ how not t’ git fat,’ ‘Blind staggers, ‘n’ how t’ pervent,’ ‘Jell-cake—— ’”

“What,” demanded Miss Cottle sharply, “is that book? And what possible connection does it have with our affairs?”

Mr. Morrison paused, his thumb in his mouth.

“W’y, this,” he explained, “is my book of vallable inf’mation. It’s got ev’rythin’ to do with ’em, ma’am. I ain’t never be’n exactly in this ’ere fix b’fore; but I’ll bet the’s inf’mation in this ’ere book ’at’ll fit the case all right. You jus’ set down, ma’am, an’ make yourself comf’table, while——”

“This is outrageous!” snapped Miss Cottle.

“Maybe I’d better run and get my book, too,” volunteered Jimmy, who had been an interested but sadly puzzled spectator of the scene. “P’raps there’ll be somethin’ vallable in mine.”

“All right, Cap’n; run ’long,” said Peg briskly. “Now, listen t’ this, ma’am. ‘The sleepin’ fox ketches no poultry.’ That’s good; but the trouble is you ’pear to be wide-awake. Hold on; don’t git ’xcited. Here’s a little inf’mation on the subjec’ o’ fools. I copied it out the almanac nigh onto twenty years ago, an’ it can’t be beat. ‘’Xperience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.’ An’ this, ’t I got out o’ a story book, ‘The’ ain’t nothin’ so becomin’ t’ a fool es a shet mouth.’ An’ mebbe this here has some bearin’s on the case: ‘Don’t meddle with these three things: a buzz-saw, a kickin’ mule, an’ a woman’s ’at’s mad clear through.’ They’re all alike in one pertic’lar——”

“I shall certainly sue for breach of promise!” announced Miss Cottle, treading recklessly among the onions on her way to the door.

“No, ma’am; you won’t,” quoth Peg placidly. “‘Whar the’s be’n no promise thar c’n be no breach.’ I wrote that down ’bout the year fifty-nine. I wa’n’t ’s old’s I be now; but I’ve kep’ it in mind pretty constant. You fix it so ’t I’ll sell them onions at a fair profit ’n’ I’ll give ye a hunderd dollars. ’N’ you c’n tell your lady friends that ol’ Peg Morrison’s sech a scalawag ’at you couldn’t hear t’ marryin’ him, not ef he was the las’ man on earth. An’ that’s the truth. You couldn’t hear t’ it, an’ you c’n bet I wouldn’t.”

“I shall leave this house to-day.—_To-day_, Peleg Morrison; do you _hear_?”

Peg glanced up from his anxious scrutiny of the pages of accumulated lore with a look of deep thankfulness.

“Sho! you don’t say so?” he exclaimed. “Wall, take this ’long with you t’ med’tate over: ‘A blue-bottle fly makes a turrible sight of loud buzzin’, but take notice ’at it don’t git anywhar.’ An’ this: ‘Run your head into a stone wall, ef you feel like doin’ it; but don’t blame the wall none fer what happens.”

Jimmy running blithely toward the barn with his book of Vallable Inf’mation in one hand and his cherished bottle of red ink in the other, met the irate Miss Cottle on the way.

“I’m a-going to do _once_ what I’ve been simply _achin’_ to do ever since I set foot onto this place!” she cried shrilly; and seizing the child by the shoulder she gave him a violent shaking, concluding with a hard-handed slap or two over the ear.

“Take _that_, you little tyke, you! If I’d ’a’ had you in hand for five years steady, with her gone, I’d ’a’ taken some of the laugh and smartness out of you! But now I wash my hands of you and her and him!”

The child, too astonished to cry out, writhed out of the spinster’s bony grip.

“I ’spise you,” he sputtered, “you ol’—ol’—Cottle woman! ’n’—’n’—I’ll put it in my Vallable Inf’mation book ’at you—slapped me when I was good!”

Miss Cottle made another dive at him, and was met by a copious shower of red ink from the loosely corked bottle, which Jimmy discharged at his assailant with the practised aim of the small boy. Then he took to his heels, to be received into asylum by Peg Morrison, who was watching the proceedings from the barn-door.

“Wall, Cap’n,” he said, “you sure did put that red ink to good use. Don’t you cry, son; I’ll git ye another bottle twict es big b’fore sun-down.”

He chuckled deep within his capacious chest as he smoothed the little boy’s ruffled curls with his big, horny hand.

“You an’ me’ll hev to write out a little vallable inf’mation on the subjec’ o’ females,” he said slowly. “The’s all kinds an’ varieties of wimmin-folks; ’n’ t’ git ’em all sorted an’ labelled, so ’t ye won’t git teetotally fooled ’ll take the better part of a lifetime.”

XXI

BARBARA was shut into her chamber looking over her wardrobe with a view to approaching winter. In the autumn the call would come, Jarvis had told her. Already the ripening apples glowed like live coals along the laden orchard boughs, and the brisk September winds scattered drifts of yellowing leaves about the feet of the early dying locusts below her windows. Martha Cottle was gone, after a stormy scene in which she had exacted redress and largesse of the most lavish description. Barbara had drawn a long breath of relief when the last echo of the spinster’s strident voice and the last militant thump of her flat-heeled shoes had died away.

Peg and Jimmy had openly exulted in the final retreat of the enemy; and Peg took occasion to exhort his dearly beloved mistress anew concerning the inscrutable yet invariably benevolent workings of Providence, as signally evidenced in the hasty departure of Martha Cottle.

“Ef it hadn’t be’n fer them onions,” he declared, “she’d never have took a fancy t’ me. ’N’ ef I hadn’t ’a’ heard o’ John Closner of Hidalgo, Texas, ’s like’s not I’d ’a’ never took t’ raisin’ ’em. Them onions kinder drored Marthy’s ’tention t’ me—she thinkin’ ’at mebbe I’d git a heap o’ money fer ’em, ’n’ then be accommodatin’ ’nough t’ die an’ go t’ heaven immediate. Yes, ma’am, she’d got it all worked out in her own mind, even t’ widow’s thirds. Then, y’ see, the Cap’n’s red ink fitted right in t’ the scheme o’ salvation; an’ here we be. I figger it this way: the Lord hes be’n ’quainted with Marthy Cottle fer a spell longer’n we hev, an’ _He_ knew she wa’n’t fit t’ b’ left in charge o’ the Cap’n, t’ say nothin’ o’ things in general.”

“But what shall I do with Jimmy?” murmured Barbara, wrinkling her forehead perplexedly. “It won’t be long now before I shall be obliged to leave him.”

“Don’t you worry none ’bout that,” advised Peg. “Everythin’s a-comin’ out all right. I’ll bet a dollar’n a half,” he went on, raising his voice to a high argumentative pitch, “that the Lord hes got his plans all made a’ready. W’y, Miss Barb’ry, it’ll do you a heap o’ good t’ jus’ take notice o’ the way the Lord kind o’ fetches things ’round in this ’ere world. I’ve got so ’t I don’t put in a minute worryin’. Daytimes I’m too blamed busy, an’ nights I’m too sleepy ’n’ tired; ’n’ I’ve learned f’om a long life of experience ’at worryin’ ain’t no kind o’ use, anyhow. Things is bein’ worked ’round fer you, nigh an’ fur, an’ the fust thing you know you’re gittin’ ’long all hunky-dory. Mebbe doin’ the very thing you wanted to do all the while, but thought you couldn’t, nohow you’d fix it.”

“I wish I could believe it,” sighed Barbara.

“All you’ve got t’ do is t’ begin t’ take notice,” urged Peg. “You don’t have t’ make no speshul effort. Keep yer eyes peeled an’ watch out. I ain’t worryin’ none ’bout the Cap’n. You bet I ain’t.”

Barbara was thinking about Peg’s homely and comfortable philosophy as she laid the last neatly folded garment into the till of her trunk; and mingled with her dubious musings on the scope and nature of that mysteriously active power, known in current phrase as “Providence,” and as commonly reckoned hostile, in the world’s judgment, were thoughts of David. Not altogether happy were these uppermost reflections in Barbara’s mind, as evidenced by her brooding eyes and the downward droop of her red mouth. She loved David (she assured herself) yet she could not but be conscious of inward reserves, tremors, even resentments. She constantly caught herself explaining, excusing, defending him before the bar of that clear-eyed self which had never yet yielded to his hot kisses and close embraces. She loved him (she was sure) but she also pitied him, for his evident weaknesses, his frequent deflections from her own high ideals of manhood, for his multiplied offenses against her maiden modesty. Almost insensibly she had been forced into an attitude of watchfulness, guarding herself against his too ardent and careless approaches, soothing the gloom and irritation which alternated with not infrequent periods of coldness and neglect, when he chanced to be feeling sorry for himself, in view of what he was pleased to regard as the sacrifice of his future.

David had not acquainted Barbara with the result of his latest interview with Jarvis. He hated Jarvis, and he took small pains to conceal the fact; but he jealously hid his unshaken conviction with regard to the money, which he had made up his mind Jarvis had given to Barbara. After a little he even concluded that it need not be repaid.

“Miserly old crab,” he told himself. “It won’t hurt him to let Barbara have that much out of his pile.”

Something of this thought colored his words when he discussed the question with Barbara.

“You’ll marry me in November, won’t you?” he pleaded, “if the fellow doesn’t show up before then? We can pay him all right—if we have to.”

“If we have to?” echoed Barbara, with a straight look at him. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s a good bit of money—four thousand dollars. Perhaps some—er—philanthropical jay gave it to you outright, Barbie. I shouldn’t be so very much surprised.”

He laughed at the proud curl of her lips.

“You wouldn’t care, would you?” he persisted, “if some old duffer had taken it into his noddle to do a good deed? Once we are married, I shan’t bother to unearth him, you’d better believe. I’m in favor of letting sleeping philanthropists lie—eh, Barbie?”

“We’ll not be married,” Barbara said, in a low voice, “till——”

He caught her suddenly about the waist and stopped her words with one of his close kisses.

“You shan’t say it,” he murmured, his lips still on hers.

She twisted sharply out of his grasp, her face crimsoning slowly.

“I wish—you wouldn’t, David.”

“Wouldn’t what, little wife?” he drawled, reaching for her lazily from his comfortable seat in the corner of the sofa.

“I am not your wife,” she said coldly.

“Pretty near,” he laughed; “too near for such little exhibitions of prudery.”

His eyes, vividly blue and sparkling under their long curling lashes, met hers with a look which she silently resented.

“I have sold the apples on the trees,” she said presently, seating herself near the window, under pretence of getting a better light on her sewing.

David yawned audibly, and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets.

“You have—eh?”

“Yes; and for a good price, as prices go, Peg says.”

“How much?” he wanted to know.

She told him, and he shook his head.

“Do y’ know, that old Morrison is a fool. I mean to get rid of him, when I take charge here.”

Barbara was silent.

“The old chap doesn’t know enough to last him over night,” pursued David. “I don’t believe you’d ever have gotten into such a hole financially, if it hadn’t been for his running things into the ground. What you want is a couple of capable young men about the place. Of course we’ll keep some decent horses. I’ve bought one already, a beauty! Come out and look at him, Barbie. Or, say, put on your hat and I’ll take you for a spin. We’ll take in the county fair, if you say so. It’s in full blast to-day.”

She arose and folded her work.

“Not to-day, David; I’ve bread to bake. But I’ll come out and look at your horse.”

“You’re getting so confoundedly difficult, Barbara. I never know how to take you,” complained David, as they walked, a little apart, along the gravel path.

He turned to look at her and was struck afresh by her beauty. During the long days of the summer that was past, she seemed to have bloomed into a new and more vivid loveliness. He drew his breath sharply as his eyes lingered on the rich red of her mouth, the full column of her round white throat, and the soft undulations of her figure as she moved slowly under the dazzling light of the September sky.

“If you weren’t such a tearing beauty,” he said, under his breath, “I don’t know as I could stand for it long. You’re forever treading on a fellow’s toes; did you know it, Barbie? Now, I like a woman to be sweet and—er—yielding.”

He smiled at the vision of Jennie, the pink-cheeked waitress at the Barford Eagle, which chose to obtrude itself at the moment. The humble, almost suppliant look of adoration in her childish blue eyes had lately, afforded David a vast amount of indolent amusement.

“A woman,” he went on, didactically, “ought not to be always thinking of herself.”

“I know that, David,” Barbara said meekly. “I try not to. But——”

“That’s just it!” he broke in quickly; “there’s always a ‘but’ in your mind and in your attitude towards me, and always has been. You needn’t deny it,” he added, openly complacent, in view of his own cleverness. “I know women.”

The girl looked at him in silence, a mutinous question behind her closed lips.

David smiled down at her brilliantly, his eyes, his tawny hair, his white teeth, and his ruddy color suggesting the magnificent youth and virility of a pagan deity, newly alighted on the common earth.

“The fact is, Barbara,” he went on confidently, “you’ve lived here so long practically alone that you’re a bit spoiled. What you need is to give up trying to control everything and everybody and just be a sweet little wife. Didn’t you know that?”

Her eyes drooped under the blue fire of his gaze. David laughed aloud.

“I’ll make you happy,” he said, possessing himself of her hand. “You won’t know yourself a year from now, little girl. All this worry will be over; and I’m never going to allow you to bother your dear little head again over farm-products and such things as cows, pigs, and chickens. I mean to give up a lot of that sort of farming. It doesn’t pay, and it’s a whole lot of useless bother and expense. There! what do you think of my horse? Isn’t he a beauty? Look at his head and eyes, will you? and the build and color of him? There’s blood for you, and I tell you he’s a hummer on the road!”

Barbara passed a knowing little hand over the satin neck, and the horse turned his large, full, intelligent eyes upon her with a whinny of welcome.

“He likes you, Barbie; first thing. Perhaps you can drive him after a while. But just now he’s like a certain little woman I know, a bit restive and needing a strong hand to guide and control. You don’t mind my seeing it so clearly, do you, dear?”

Barbara threw back her head and looked at him from under lowered lashes.

“I mind your saying it,” she said. “And I may as well tell you—now—that I don’t intend to discharge Peg; and I must always have a voice in the management of the farm. It is Jimmy’s farm, you know.”

“I’ve heard you say so before,” he said sulkily. “But why isn’t half of it yours, I’d like to know?”

“Because Jimmy is the last Preston, and father wanted it so. I shall have all that comes off of it till Jimmy is of age. We——”

She hesitated, with a doubtful look at him. “There is other good land near. We shall, perhaps, be able to acquire it; start fresh orchards, and——”

“Perhaps—perhaps!” he echoed irritably. “I’ll tell you straight it’s all nonsense. Under the law you’re entitled to half. Ask old Jarvis, if you don’t believe me.”

He watched the quick color rise in Barbara’s face, with a low laugh of arrogant amusement.

“Jarvis is a curious old duffer,” he added, lazily stroking the smooth shoulder of his horse. “But he knows rather better than to tackle me on certain subjects.”

His eyes were fastened on Barbara, narrowly watching her.

“He’s tried it once or twice; but I called his bluff each time. He hasn’t been here lately, has he?”

“No,” said Barbara faintly.

“Well, he’d best keep his distance; that’s all.”

He turned quickly at sound of a boyish whoop from behind.

“Oh, hello, Jimmy!” he said carelessly. “How’s your majesty’s highness to-day?”

“I’m pretty well, ’xcept that bof my front teef are loose,” replied the little boy seriously. “I can’t eat corn or apples, ’cept wiv my side teef.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time you taught that boy to speak the English language, Barbara? It’s _teeth_ and _with_, my boy. Don’t let me hear you make that babyish blunder again.”

The child hung his head, his face flushing to a shamed scarlet under his thatch of yellow hair.

“I’m going to try,” he said manfully.

“Want to take a ride with me, old man?” asked David. “Your sister says she can’t.”

Jimmy looked up eagerly into Barbara’s face for the coveted permission.

“I’m going to drive over to the fair,” pursued David. “I’d like to take my best girl along pretty well; but you’ll do, Jimmy.”

Barbara hesitated, her eyes averted.

“Of course, if you’re afraid to trust him with me——” mocked David. “I’ve a tolerably fast horse here, and I’m supposed to be a reckless——”

“It isn’t that,” she interrupted hurriedly. “He may go, if he’d like to.”

Jimmy burst into a shout of joy.

“I guess I’d better brush my hair,” he exulted, “and put on my best clo’es! Shall I, Barbara?”

“You’re well enough as you are,” David said peremptorily. “Jump in, boy, and we’ll be off!”

She stood watching them as they drove away, the little boy’s yellow hair blowing about his rosy face.

“Good-bye, Barbara!” he shouted. “We’re going awful fast!”

David’s attention seemed centred upon his horse. He did not once look at the girl, as she waved her hand in token of a cheerful good-bye.

XXII

DAVID was quite his expansive, good-humored self again by the time he and Jimmy reached the fair-grounds. He joked with the little boy about his capacity for pink lemonade and peanuts as he drove his spirited young horse carefully into the crowded enclosure; and Jimmy, all eager and glowing with joyous anticipation, gazed with round eyes at the stirring scene. Everywhere flags fluttered merrily in the wind, and the crash and blare of band-music mingled with the shouts of vendors, the trampling of feet, and the hum of many voices.

“Hello, Dave! Goin’ t’ trot that nag o’ yourn?” called a voice from among the crowd of men and boys lined up along the race-track.

“Oh, hello, Bud Hawley! That you?” responded Dave, pulling in his horse. “Why, no; I hadn’t thought of it. It’s too late to enter; isn’t it?”

The Barford liveryman, tipping a solemn wink at the men near him, slowly advanced and stood, his hat pulled low over his eyes, examining David’s horse. He passed an experienced hand over his withers, felt his hock-joints, lifted his feet, and stared critically at the frogs and the setting of his shoes. Then he sauntered around in front and looked the animal full in the face, his cautious hand still feeling, caressing, sliding from neck to powerful shoulder, from shoulder to slender foreleg.

“Say, Dave,” he drawled at length, “that ain’t a half bad horse. ’F I was you, I’d enter him. Like ’s not you’d pull off some money; mebbe enough t’ buy a new buggy. The’s a free-fer-all comin’ off ’bout four-thirty. I’ll see t’ enterin’ him fer you, if you say so. ’N’ I dunno but what I’d back him t’ the extent of a few dollars. What d’ you say t’ lettin’ me drive him, ’n’ go shares on possible winnin’s?”

David laughed arrogantly.

“I’d say ’no’ to that last,” he said. “I’ll drive him myself, if I enter him at all. Where’s the office?”

Mr. Hawley thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets, where he thoughtfully jingled some loose silver.

“Better let me handle the ribbons,” he advised. “I c’n git the paces out o’ him without ha’f killin’ him, ’n’ that’s more’n some folks c’n do. I ain’t anxious, though, ’s fur’s that’s concerned. But you’d have the fun o’ lookin’ on from the grand stand.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted David.

“If y’ never drove in a race,” pursued Mr. Hawley, “y’ don’t want t’ begin t’-day. There’ll sure be a ruck o’ horses in that free-fer-all.”

David glanced over the rail at the spectacle of half a dozen horses hitched to light sulkies and driven at a furious rate of speed, which at that moment dashed past.

“Them’s the two-year-olds,” vouchsafed Mr. Hawley. “I ain’t speshully int’rested in seein’ ’em go it. Don’t b’lieve in racin’ colts m’self. It’s too much like givin’ a man’s work t’ a boy. Breaks ’em down, like es not, b’fore they’ve had a fair chance.”

He glanced kindly at Jimmy.

“Well, son,” he went on, “how d’ you like the fair?”

“I like it,” Jimmy said shyly. “I like the music an’ the horses an’ the flags ’n’—’n’ everythin’.”

“Want to get out, old man, and take in the side-shows?” asked David.

“What are side-shows?” Jimmy demanded guilelessly.

Mr. Hawley laughed heartily.

“A little bit of everythin’,” he answered. “The’s the agercult’ral exhibit—I seen some o’ your apples an’ a pile o’ them onions Peg Morrison’s be’n raisin’ in there. An’ there’s the woman’s tent, with the bigges’ lot o’ patchwork an’ jell’-cake an’ canned fruit y’ ever saw. I jus’ come f’om there. Y’ c’n hitch over yonder, if y’ wan’ to, Dave.”

David’s eyes had been roaming somewhat impatiently over the gay scene. He thrust his hand into his pocket.

“See here, boy,” he said to Jimmy, “you take this small change and go around to suit yourself. I don’t care anything about all that sort of thing. But you can take it in as long as you’ve a mind to.”

“What! All b’ my lone?” asked Jimmy, a frightened look in his brown eyes. “I guess I’d rather stay wiv you, David.”

“Nonsense!” said David sternly. “You’re not a baby, are you? Can’t you walk around and look at pigs and chickens and patchwork quilts without a guardian? You’ve got to quit being such a molly-coddle, my boy, and we’ll begin right now. Come! jump out, and I’ll look you up after a while. You couldn’t get lost, if you tried. Run along now and have a good time.”

“Her brother, ain’t it?” inquired Mr. Hawley, as David lifted the child to the ground.

“Get in, won’t you?” David said, ignoring the question. “We’ll look into that race proposition. I don’t know but what I’ll go in for it. I wouldn’t mind making a little money on the side.”

Mr. Hawley accepted the invitation with a backward glance at Jimmy, who stood watching them forlornly, his rosy mouth half open, the silver pieces tightly clutched in one moist little hand.

“Kind o’ small, ain’t he, to be goin’ ’round by himself in a place like this?” he ventured. “I’ll bet his sister wouldn’t like it over an’ ’bove.”

“He’s been pretty well spoiled,” David said sharply. “I intend to make a man of him, and this is as good a way to begin as any. There’s nothing to hurt him around here.”

“You may ’xperience some trouble in locatin’ him after a spell,” opined Mr. Hawley, shaking his head. “I remember m’ wife let me bring one o’ our boys t’ the fair once, a number o’ years ago, when Lansing, our oldest boy, was ’bout five. I was lookin’ at the live-stock, an’ Lance, he got kind o’ tuckered out, an’ I sez to him——”

“Oh, cut out the details,” David interrupted. “You didn’t lose the kid for good, did you?”

“No; I got him after a while; but it pretty near scared the life out o’ me an’ him both, I remember; ’n’ m’ wife——”

“Come,” said David, with some impatience, “and we’ll enter the horse.”

He turned and stared sharply at the other man.

“You ought to know what you’re talking about, Hawley, when you say my horse stands a good show to win. Suppose I change my mind and allow you to drive him, and you let him be beaten. What then?”

The liveryman shrugged his shoulders.

“You ain’t no sport, Dave; it’s easy t’ see that,” he drawled. “If I drive your horse, I’ll do my best, o’ course. I dunno what sort o’ horses ’ll be entered in that free-fer-all. But judgin’ from past seasons and what I seen outside in the way o’ horseflesh, I sh’d say——”

He paused and winked solemnly at David.

“Try me an’ see,” he advised. “‘F I lose, I won’t sen’ you no bill fer las’ month’s liv’ry. An’ it ’u’d naturally be a stiff one.”

“All right,” said David. “Done! and we’ll have a drink on it.”

“Lemonade fer mine, ’f I’m a-goin’ t’ drive,” said Mr. Hawley.

But David drank something stronger. He felt the need of it, he said.

Later, having settled the preliminaries of the race, David sauntered forth with a hazy notion of looking up Jimmy and taking him up to the grand stand. To this end he walked slowly through the agricultural “pavilion,” with its exhibits of mammoth vegetables and pyramids of red, green, and russet fruit; but nowhere did he catch a glimpse of Jimmy’s yellow head topped with its scarlet tam. There was a crowd of women in the next place of exhibition, where the pine and canvas walls were covered with quilts of wonderful and complicated design, varied with areas of painted tapestries, home-made lace, worsted and crochet work; while the narrow shelves below were occupied with brown loaves, raised biscuit, and frosted cakes, interspersed with jellies of brilliant hues and luscious fruits preserved in lucent syrups. There were many children here, clinging to maternal hands and skirts; but no Jimmy.

“Little nuisance,” muttered David irritably. “He ought to have stayed where I told him to.”

He was elbowing his way through a group of women engaged in an excited discussion concerning the merits of two rival lace counterpanes, when a small figure placed itself directly in his path.

He stopped short and looked down into the babyish blue eyes uplifted timidly to his.

“Why, hello, Jennie!” he said, smiling. “Where did you come from?”

The girl was very becomingly dressed in dark-blue serge, the jacket thrown jauntily wide, revealing a waist of cheap white lace, which in its turn permitted glimpses of the pink skin and rounded contours beneath. A hat of dark-blue straw, wreathed with small pink roses, rested coquettishly on her light-brown curly hair. At the moment of meeting David thus unexpectedly, the light of youth and love shone vividly over the girl’s insignificant face and figure, irradiating them into a beauty almost noble.

David could hardly help noticing the half infantile, wholly adorable curve of her young brows and the clear blue light of the eyes beneath. Then his curious eyes slowly swept the soft oval of pink cheek and the rosy mouth, parted a little to ease the tumultuous heart-beats which shook the transparent stuff at her throat.

“I didn’t know as you’d want to speak to me, Mr. Whitcomb,” murmured the girl.

Her eyes wandered uncertainly past him into the crowd.

“I s’pose,” she added, thrusting out her pink lips in a pout, “that _she’s_ here somewheres.”

“No,” laughed David. “‘She’ doesn’t happen to be along to-day.”

A wayward impulse prompted his next words.

“What do you think, Jennie? I asked her and she wouldn’t come with me.”

“Wouldn’t come—with you?”

The girl’s voice held wonder, incredulity, longing. Her eyes said more.

“You wouldn’t treat me that way, would you, Jennie?”

The girl looked down, an unsuspected delicacy sealing her lips.

David looked at the pretty shadowy circle of the long lashes on the smooth pink cheek.

“You wouldn’t; now, would you, Jennie?” he persisted.

The girl glanced at him sidewise, and tossed her head.

“What do you want t’ know for?” she demanded. “If you don’t like the way she treats you, you c’n tell her so, can’t you?”

David bit his lip.

“Don’t you want some ice cream, Jennie?” he asked.

The girl hesitated.

“I came t’ the fair with Gus Bamber,” she said. “An’ what do you think, we hadn’t no more’n got here when Sutton got after Gus t’ help him in the refreshment booth. Said the other fellow he’d hired wasn’t no good at mixin’ drinks; an’ so nothin’ would do but he must have Gus t’ help. Both of us was awful mad; but we didn’t das’ say so to old Sutton. He’s somethin’ fierce if you don’t do ’xactly as he says.”

“Who’s Gus?” asked David.

“Well, that’s pretty good!” giggled the girl. “I guess you’d ought t’ know Gus Bamber b’ this time. He waits on you often enough at the Eagle.”

“Oh, you mean Sutton’s barkeep—Gus; yes, that’s so. I didn’t know his name was Bamber, though.”

“It is,” the girl said. “Augustus Bamber. I think it’s a real nice name, too. But I don’t like it ’s well’s I do yours.”

“That’s kind of you,” drawled David. “_Mrs._ Augustus Bamber sounds pretty well, though—eh, Jennie?”

The girl moved her shoulders gently.

“Not on your life!” she said positively. “‘N’ I’ve told him so more’n fifty times already, I guess.”

She lifted her eyes to David’s with innocent coquetry.

“I don’t b’lieve in gettin’ married t’ anybody ’nless you’re awfully in love with ’em. That’s what I keep tellin’ Gus, but he says——”

“Are you coming with me to get that ice cream?” asked David, stifling a yawn.

“I dunno whether I’ve got the nerve,” murmured the girl. “The ice cream’s in the same booth where Gus is; it’s right acrost from where Sutton’s got his concession. ’F he should see me—with you——”

“What do you suppose he’d do about it?” inquired David. “Gus—er—went off and left you, didn’t he?”

He paused to laugh sourly; then added, “And my girl wouldn’t come with me; so I guess it’s up to us to do the best we can to have a good time, Jennie. If you’ll come along with me, we’ll take in the whole darned show.”

“If you think it would be all right, Mr. Whitcomb.”

“Why shouldn’t it be all right, I’d like to know?”

“I don’t know, only——”

“Only what? Out with it, little girl.”

“I—I’m kind of scared of you, Mr. Whitcomb,” faltered the girl. “You—you’re so—tall—’n’—’n’ handsome, ’n’ you——”

David laughed outright. The girl’s eyes and voice conveyed so delicious a flattery that he could not help the tenderness that crept into his words.

“Why, you dear little goose, you,” he said in her ear, “I won’t hurt you, and nobody else shall, either, when I’m around. Come, we’ll go and eat that ice cream, right where Augustus Bamber, Esquire, can see us; then we’ll take in the other attractions. Have you seen anything yet?”