Reels and Spindles: A Story of Mill Life

"It's like it, yet it isn't. We had something left to pay our debts. It wasn't money, but it was money's worth. We paid them. We are left poor indeed, but we haven't mortgaged our future. That's all. But we are too young to talk so wisely. If your parents approve, they probably know best. Hark! there is a wagon coming."

They all paused, and drew aside out of the road to let the vehicle pass. It was so dark that they could distinguish nothing clearly, and the lantern fastened to the dashboard of the buggy seemed but to throw into greater shadow the face of the occupant. To their surprise, the traveller drew rein and saluted them: —

"Hello. Just getting home, eh?"

All recognized the voice. It belonged to Mr. Wingate.

"Yes, just getting home," answered Amy, cheerily.

"Growing pretty dark, isn't it? Hmm, yes. Heard you lost your donkey, Hallam."

"For the time, I have, sir," responded the lad, rather stiffly. He hated this man "on sight," or out of it, and it was difficult for him to conquer his aversion. All the kindness he had felt toward him, on the night of Mr. Wingate's first unwelcome visit to Fairacres, had been forgotten since; because in his heart he believed that his mother's death was due to her removal from her home. Yet he wished to be just, and he would try to feel differently by and by. Meanwhile, his unused strength was fast waning. He had met with a great disappointment that day, for he was going home empty-handed. He had lost his beloved Balaam, and he had nothing to show for it. In all his life he had never walked so far as from the mill to the Bareacre knoll, and even his crutches seemed to wobble and twist with fatigue. Amy had noticed this, and made him pause to rest more than once; but the night was cold, and he felt it most unwise to risk taking cold by standing in the wind. Poverty was teaching Hallam prudence, among many other excellent things.

"None of us can afford to be sick now," he reflected.

"Hmm. That half-witted fellow ought not to be allowed to go free. He's done me a lot of mischief, and I guess he injures everybody who befriends him. The last thing he ought to be trusted with is horse-flesh, or mule-flesh either. Well, I'm going your way, and it's a tough pull on a pair of crutches. If you'll get in, I'll give you a lift as far as the bars."

Everybody was astonished, and everybody waited for Hallam's reply in some anxiety. Amy knew his mind, and she knew, also, that he was very weary. She hoped that he would say: —

"Thank you; I'll be glad to accept," but his answer was a curt: "Thank you; I would rather walk."

"Very well. Suit yourself."

The horse was touched sharply, and bounded up the hill road at an unusual pace.

"Oh, Hal, why didn't you ride? You are so tired."

"Well – because."

"You'd better. Old man don't like to have his favors lost," remarked Gwendolyn. "I've heard lots say that, even though he hasn't been at Ardsley so very long."

Now, in the lad's heart, besides his unwillingness to "accept favors from an enemy," there had been another motive. Until that evening he had not realized how lonely and dark was the homeward walk for his sister, after her long day of toil, and even with the company of Gwendolyn. In this his first experience it had come upon him with a shock, that it was neither pleasant nor safe for Amy, and he resolved she should never again be left without his escort, if he were possibly able to be with her.

But he could not, or felt that he could not, tell this to the girls; much less to Mr. Wingate, finding it easier to be misjudged than to explain. Yet had the mill owner known the fact, it would have gone far toward propitiating him, and toward rousing his admiration for his young kinsman.

So with the best intentions all around, the breach between Fairacres and "Charity House" was duly widened.

The trio of mill workers trudged wearily upward, and the mill master hurried recklessly through the gloom toward a home he had coveted, but found a lonely, "ghost-haunted" solitude. For though there are no real spectres to frighten the eye, there are memories which are sadder to face than any "haunt" would be.

"Stir up the fire, man. Don't you know it's a bitter night outside?" he cried, as he entered it.

The master's tone boded ill for the servant if obedience were not prompt. So though a great blaze roared upon the wide hearth in the old room where we first met this gentleman he was not content, nor was the good dinner which followed appreciated. Nothing was right that night for Archibald Wingate.

Nothing? Yes, one thing gave him great satisfaction, so that, late in the evening, sitting before the blaze he had complained of, he rubbed his hands with a quiet glee.

"If you please, sir, there's a black donkey wandered into the place to-night. It went straight to the stable and to one of the box stalls on the west. It seemed to know the way. The stable boy says it's one of them belonged to the – the folks was here before we came. I thought you'd like to know, sir; and, if you please, is it to remain?"

"Yes, Marshall, it is to remain."

And again the old gentleman smiled into the dancing flames and rubbed his smooth palms.

CHAPTER XX.

IN THE OLD HOME

After one o'clock on the afternoon before Christmas was a mill holiday; and while the great looms were silent, those who usually toiled at them took their way into Wallburg city to do their Christmas shopping. Though a few, indeed, were able to satisfy their needs at the local stores, and among these, for once, was Gwendolyn. She had come up the knoll after dinner hour, to invite Amy's presence at the gift buying, and concluded her invitation by saying: —

"Even if you won't get anything yourself, you might come and look at the pretty things. It's surprising how many you find you can pick out in a few minutes. They've the loveliest dolls there 't I'm going to get for Beatrice and Belinda. Victoria's so big she's outgrown doll – "

Cleena could hold her tongue no longer.

"Toys, is it, alanna! Better be shoes for their feet; an' as for Queen Victory an' her dolls, more's the shame to you as sets her the example o' growin' up before her time. Vases for the mother, is it? An' she after patchin' the sheets off her bed. Pardon unasked advice, which same is unsavory, belike, an' get the makin' of a new pair. That's sense, so it is."

It was sense. As such it commended itself to Gwendolyn, during her walk to the village, and bore results for the comfort of her family; for though she did run in debt to make her Christmas gifts, at least she now altered her usual habit completely, and for each member of the household provided some article of use. Even Mrs. Hackett paused in her busy attendance upon the crowd of customers to remark: —

"Well, now, Gwen, that's a good plan. I guess your folks will be proud of what you're giving them this year. Yes, I'm more 'n willing to trust you for 'em. A girl that'll spend her money as you are, isn't going to cheat me in the long run. Yes, the wagon'll be going out late to-night and will fetch 'em all for you. Flannel and sheeting and such are a mighty sight heavier to carry than notions. But say, I'll put in a little candy for the youngsters, seeing they're disappointed of their dolls."

Meanwhile, up at "Charity House," Amy had drawn Cleena into a corner to discuss their own plans, and especially to ask concerning a proposed trip to the city, by her father, and immediately after the holidays.

"You know, Goodsoul, that he hasn't been there alone in a long time. Is it safe for him to go now? If he should have one of his attacks, what would happen? Should Hallam go with him? and – worst of all – how can we spare the money?"

"Faith, Miss Amy, I'd leave the master be. It's the fine sense he's gettin' the now. It would hearten the mistress could she see how he does be pickin' up. Always that gentle I d' know, as if the sorrow had been a broom sweepin' his soul all free of the moilder an' muss was in it long by. Only yesternight, whilst I was just washin' off me table afore layin' me cloth, into the kitchen he steps an' sits himself down by the door, lookin' out toward Fairacres. It was as soft as summer, like it is this eve, but faith! a 'green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.'"

The very word made them both silent for a moment, and then Amy resumed: —

"Father has packed up a half a dozen or more of his small canvases, studies of heads most of them are, I believe, and all are unframed. What do you suppose he means to do with them?"

"Sell them. What for no?"

"But mother never liked to have him. These are all pictures he did long ago."

"The quicker they'll go off the hand then."

"Do you approve?"

"With all me heart."

Amy dropped her face on her palms and considered the matter. Even with her habit of dealing with facts rather than fancies, she still found life a most perplexing and complex affair. The only help she gained toward understanding it was that clew taught her by her mother of matching the days and the events as one matches a fascinating puzzle. Out of this thought she spoke at last, though quite to the bewilderment of honest Cleena.

"It seems as if our losing all that belonged to us were making us sturdier folks, improving us all. Mother needed no improvement, so she hadn't to face the battle long. Well, one thing I know, she would be glad for us all, and some way I feel her very near to-day. Only, if I could just talk with her and ask her things."

"Sure ye can, me colleen. I mind it's no far to the land where she's gone. But about the money. See here; how got I this?"

And Cleena whipped out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and unfolded it with utmost care. In this were a number of silver pieces, from half-dollars to dimes, and added together made the "smart decent sum" of five dollars and fifteen cents.

"Why, Cleena! Where? I thought all ours was spent as soon as earned."

"Where? An' I to be mendin' a few clothes for me neighbors. Even that man John fetches me a blouse now an' again, to put in a fresh pair o' sleeves or set on a button that's missin'. Sure, ye didn't think Cleena was one would be leavin' her childer bring in all the wage. Only – " and the good creature's fine face clouded dismally.

Amy's arms were around the other's neck, and her soft cheek pressed against the shoulder that had borne so many burdens for her and hers.

"Only what, you darling Scrubbub?"

"Only I was mindin' to buy a few trinkets for you an' Master Hal. 'Tis Christmas comes but once a year, an' sure me heart should give good cheer – "

"Cleena, Cleena! A poet! What next?"

"Arrah musha, no! Not one o' them sort. But it's in the air, belike. Christmastide do set the blood running hitherty-which. So they say in old Ireland. It's this way, me darling. Gifts for you an' Hal – or the trip to town for the master. Which, says you? For here's the silver will pay either one, an' it's you an' him shall decide."

"Then it's decided already. At least, I'm sure Hallam will so agree when he comes in. You know he's stopped at Mr. Metcalf's to see some books on designing. Hallam thinks that either he might learn to do it or that perhaps even father might give some odd moments to it, though I don't know as he would hardly dare propose it. The idea was Mr. Metcalf's, and he hasn't much 'sentiment' about him. He said that if there was any way in which father could make a living, he would be happier if so employed. It sounded dreadful to me at first, and then it seemed just sensible."

"That last it was, and so I b'lieve the master'll say himself. But child, child, you do be gettin' too sober notions into your bonny head. Oh, for that Balaam the spalpeen stole! But since ye can't ride, why then it's aye ye must walk. Either way, get into the open. There's not many such a day 'twixt now and Easter. Away with ye! Haven't I me pastry to make an' to-morrow Christmas? Go where ye've no thought, an' let the spirit carry ye. Then there'll be rest. But be home by nightfall, mind."

"Cleena, you dear, the kindest, truest, best woman left in this world!"

"Indeed, that's sweet decent speech, me dear; but seein' your 'world's' no bigger nor Ardsley township, I 'low I'll not be over set up by that same. Run away, child, run away!"

"Cleena, you're watching down the road. Why? Why? – I demand; and you talk of pastry, the which hasn't been in 'Charity House' since we came to it, save and except that dried apple pie sent in by Mrs. Jones."

"Ugh!" cried Cleena, making a face of contempt. "The match o' that good soul's pastry for hardness an' toughness isn't found this side of the Red Sea."

"Cleena, is that old John coming here to-day? Is it he you are watching for?"

"Why for no? If a man's more nor his share an' nobody to cook it, why shouldn't he be a bringin' it up an' lettin' a body fix it eatable? Sure, it's John himself. Ye're too sharp in the wits, an' I don't mind tellin' ye; it's all charity, Miss Amy. Him livin' by his lone an' gettin' boardin'-house truck. If he says to me, says he, 'Shall I fetch the furnishin' o' the best Christmas dinner ever cooked an' you be after preparin' it,' says he, 'only givin' me one plateful beside your nice kitchen fire,' says he, could I tell the man no, and me a good Christian? Ye know better, Miss Amy. Think o' the master, an' Master Hal, to-morrow comes. What's the good o' John, then, but to find food for me folks? Run along!"

Mr. Kaye had already gone off for one of his long tramps, over the fields and through the woods, to which he was now much given. He had taken such, at first, to subdue the restlessness which followed upon his wife's death, and as some sort of break in his unutterable loneliness. But nature had helped him more than he had dreamed; and to the pure air, the physical fatigue, and consequent sound sleep was due much of the cure of his mental illness that all who knew him now noticed.

So there was nobody who needed Amy just then, and she set off from "Charity House" at a brisk pace, resolved, as Cleena had advised, to forget all worry and labor, and "just have one good, jolly time."

She took the road upward toward the woods behind Fairacres, meaning to gather a bunch of late ferns for the decoration of the morrow's dinner table, since Cleena promised it should be a feast day, after all.

Before she quite realized it even, she had deflected from her course, remembering just then a certain glen in the grounds of her old home where rare ferns grew to prodigious size, and where no cold of winter seemed to harm them. Then once upon the familiar path every step was suggestive of some bygone outing, and led her to explore farther and still farther.

"Ah, the frost-bleached maiden-hair. Nowhere else does it last like this. It's almost as white as edelweiss, and far more graceful. I must put that in my basket, if nothing else." So she pulled it gently and with infinite care, lest she should break the delicate fronds that had outlasted their season by so long. Then there were others, dainty green and still fragrant, which she gathered eagerly; with here and there a bit of crimson-berried vine, or a patch of velvet moss.

Always she kept to the depth of the little ravine, through which ran a tiny, babbling brook. This had long ago been named "Merrywater," nor had it ever seemed gayer and more winsome than then. It was like reunion with some old beloved playmate, and Amy forgot everything but the present enjoyment as she stooped and dabbled in the water here and there. Sometimes she came to the fantastic little bridges which Hallam had used to lie upon the bank and construct out of the roots and pebbles she brought him. Where these had fallen into decay she repaired them; and at one time was busily endeavoring to force a grapevine into place when she heard a sound that made her pause in her task and spring to her feet.

"Ah-umph! A-h-u-m-ph! A-H-U-M-P-H!!!"

"Pepita! No – Balaam! Balaam, Balaam – Balaam!"

She was off up the bank in another instant. The sound was from the old stable, so dear, so familiar to her. As she ran she caught up here and there great tufts of sweet grass, such as had been neglected by the mowers, but were dear to donkey appetites.

"Oh, the precious! The blessed little beast! Won't Hallam be glad! Won't this be a Christmas gift indeed, to bring him back his own pet! How glad I am I took this way to walk, and how queer it is that he should be back in his very own old home. Is it so queer, though? Wouldn't I come, too, if I were just a burro and were set free to follow my own will? I can hardly wait to reach him."

In a moment she had done so, and had filled the manger with the still luscious grass, while climbing upon its front she had thrown her arms about the animal's neck and was assuring him, as she might a human being, that he had been sadly missed and would be most welcome home.

On his part the burro was fortunately silent, though his great, dark eyes looked volumes of affection, and he laid his big ears gently back to be out of Amy's way, while she caressed him. She smoothed his forelock, ran her fingers through his mane, patted his shaggy head, and told him that his "big velvet lips were the softest things on earth."

"Ahem!"

This remark, if such it could be called, fell upon Amy's ears so suddenly that she half tumbled backward from her perch upon the manger, and just saved herself by springing lightly down, or she thought it was lightly, until she wheeled and faced the intruder.

None other than Archibald Wingate, making a horrible grimace, and holding up one of his pudgy feet as if he were in great pain.

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't know it was your foot, or you were you – I thought it was only the hay on the floor."

"Ugh! Great goodness! Umm. If you ever have the gout, young woman, you will understand how it feels to have anybody jump down full force upon your toes. Ouch! O dear! O dear!"

Amy had never been accustomed to seeing people make ado over physical suffering. She did not understand this man before her, and a thrill of distress ran through her own frame, like the touch of an electric battery.

"Oh, I am so sorry! I wouldn't have done it for anything if I had known. Can't I do something now to help you? Let me rub it or – or – lead you. You look – " In spite of her good intentions, the horrible contortions by which Mr. Wingate's countenance expressed his feelings affected her sense of the ridiculous, and she smiled. As instantly ashamed of the smile, she buried her face in her hands, and waited what would come next.

"Huh! Yes, you look sorry, of course you do, laughing at an old man after you've nearly broken his foot in two. Hmm. You're a sorry lot, the whole of you; yes, you are! O-oh!" Yet he, too, and in spite of himself, laughed; but it was at his own pitiful joke about his kinsmen being a "sorry lot."

Fortunately, Amy did not understand a jest of this nature, but she was swift to see the brightening of his face. She put her hand on his arm, and tried to draw his hand within her own.

"Maybe it won't be so bad. Lean on me, and I'll help you to a seat or to the house. And thank you, thank you so much for putting Balaam in the stable, and taking such good care of him. If Hal had known, he wouldn't have worried so about the little beast. He's been so tenderly cared for, we couldn't bear to think of him as off in the open fields with nobody but Fayette."

Mr. Wingate said not a word. He simply ceased groaning and grimacing, and he slipped his arm through Amy's, while a curious expression settled on his face. He did not lean at all heavily upon her, however, and he merely glanced toward the burro as the pair walked to the stable door. Then the animal thought it time to protest. Amy had brought him fresh grass, but she had dropped it all outside his manger, where he could not reach it. This was aggravation in the extreme. More than that, whenever, in the old days, she had been afflicted with one of these outbursts of affection, there had generally been a lump of sugar connected with it. To lose affection, hay, and sugar, all in one unhappy moment, was too much even for donkey patience.

"AH-UMPH! H-umph! A-h-u-m-p-h!"

"Whew! he's split my ears open. Plague take the beast!" cried Mr. Wingate, hurrying forward, and now stepping with suspicious freedom from lameness.

Amy hurried, too, wondering at his sudden recovery. "Oh, do you dislike his talk? I love it. I always laugh when I hear it, it is so absurd, and Pepita's was even funnier. She had a feminine note, so to speak, and she whined like a spoiled baby."

"What do you know about spoiled babies?"

"Why – nothing – only William Gladstone, he's a trifle self-willed, I think."

"William Gladstone! What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Are you all crazy together?"

"Not the English statesman, certainly. Just Mrs. Jones's youngest son. And I don't think we're crazy."

"I think you are, the whole lot. Well, will you come into the house with me? How did you know the donkey was here? Who told you?"

"He told me," laughed Amy. "Yes, I'll go in if you wish, if I can help you."

"How did he tell you?"

"I was gathering these ferns in the glen, and I heard him bray. See, aren't they beautiful? They're for the table to-morrow. The prettiest ferns in all Fairacres grow along the banks of 'Merrywater.'"

"Yes, I know. I used to gather them when I was a child. My grandmother liked them, though she called them plain 'brakes.' So you're not afraid to trespass, then? And you're able to have a dinner-party even so soon after – and with all the pretended devotion. But Cuthbert – "

Amy's hand went up to her kinsman's lips. It was a habit of hers, sometimes playfully sometimes earnestly used, to ward off anything she did not wish another to say to her, and she had done it before she thought; but having so done she would not withdraw her silent protest. This man should never say, nor would she ever hear, a word against her father. Of that she was determined, even though she must be rude to prevent.

For a moment Archibald Wingate resented the girl's correction. Then, as her hand dropped to her side and her gaze to the ground, he spoke: —

"You are right. I had no business to so speak. I honor you for your filial loyalty and – Come into the house. I have something I wish to discuss with you. So you want to thank me for taking care of Balaam, do you? You may feel differently after you have heard what I have to say. Oh, you did give me a twinge, I tell you!"

"Would it relieve the pain if I bathed the foot for you? Or is there anybody else to do it?"

"Would you do that for me?"

"Certainly."

"Ring that bell."

Amy obeyed. It was the familiar one which summoned, or had summoned, Cleena from her kitchen.

A man answered the call.

"Marshall, have a foot-bath brought in here. This young lady is going to dress my foot for me. For once there'll be no blundering heavy-handed servant to hurt me."

Over and over and over Amy washed and soothed the red, misshapen foot. The repugnance she had felt to touching it had all vanished when she saw how acute must have been the old man's suffering and his now evident relief.

"I thought you made a big fuss. Now I don't see how you walk about at all."

"I walk on my will," answered he, grimly. "You're a good girl; yes, you are. You're a real Kaye. Our women were all good nurses and tender-handed. It's a pity – such a pity!"

Amy thought the prodigious sigh that moved his mighty breast was for his own distress, and echoed his regret sincerely. "Yes; it is a pity. It seems to me it should be cured. I wish it could."

"So do I. Say, little woman, suppose you and I try to cure it."

Amy looked up. She had been speaking simply of his disease. She now saw that he had not been thinking of that at all. For the moment, while she so gently manipulated the swollen ankle and bound it with the lotions Marshall handed her, he had been quite comfortable, and the keen twinkle in his eye set her thinking. Was it the family feud he wished might be healed? He, who was the very foundation and cause of it?

She caught his hand in both hers, eagerly.

"Do you mean that we might live at peace; in love, as kinsfolk should? Now – this peace day – when the Christ child comes? Is it that?"

But Marshall made a little motion which might be warning or contempt. The old man's face hardened again.