Reels and Spindles: A Story of Mill Life

"We're living in 'Charity,' Goodsoul. And I've observed that, look out of window when I will, there's always a yellow headed Jones-let ascending to us by the easy road you've fixed. Belinda, the small, is apt to lead the way. She likes it up here. She likes it very much."

"Hmm, that's what the mother be's sayin'. But is that any reason at all, avick, why they should be let?"

"Mrs. Jones thinks it is. She feels that we are flattered by the preference her offspring show for our society; but between ourselves, Cleena, I think it's more raisin-bread than affection. You made a dire mistake in beginning to feed them."

"An' isn't it I that knows it? Now, this baby – "

"Yes, that baby. What's happened to him? He's spotted white and black, like a coach-dog. What's he licking from his fingers?"

"It's spoilin' the bakin' o' bread is he the day. Takin' the coals from the bucket, each by each, an' pressin' them deep in that beautiful dough. Will I wash his face, eh? Never a wash I wash, but home to his mother he goes the same as he is. If the sight does not shame her, I'd know."

"I'll take him, Cleena, and I'll bring back the milk for the day."

So with her pail in one hand and the other guiding the still uncertain steps of William Gladstone, Amy started.

"It's a pity, Sir William, it really is a pity that you ever learned how to climb. You've progressed so alarmingly. First time you tried it you could only stumble and fall backward. Now – you hitch along famously. Heigho! here's Victoria. All the high personages of Merrie England are honoring us 'the day.' Well, Victoria Regina, what's the errand now?"

"Nothing, only thought I'd tell you about that old Quaker man you like."

"Everybody likes. What about him?"

"He's gone away. Ma says he won't never live to come back again."

"Victoria – Jones, what are you saying?"

"That Mr. Quaker Burn, up Clove way, had been took to Ne' York."

"I guess you're mistaken. We would have heard about it if it were so. Now, if you please, though, I should like Master Gladstone to be 'took' home. If you'll hold his other hand we'll get him there the quicker."

"I guess I'll go up and set a spell; you take him," remarked Victoria, and turned to ascend the slope.

Amy sighed: "Something must be done to stop this!" Then she lifted her eyes and scanned the white dusty road which circled Bareacre knoll, and across which lay the Jones's cottage. A wagon was driving leisurely along this highway, and it had a most familiar appearance. A moment's watching showed it to belong to the Clove Farm, and it was Adam Burn's "hired man" who was driving in it. Her heart sank. What if Victoria had spoken the truth?

So she hurried her young charge to his home, and waiting only to have her pail filled with the milk, ran back to intercept the approaching vehicle.

"Good morning, Israel. How's dear old Adam?"

"Only the Lord knows. Sarah Jane's got him."

"She hasn't! Don't tell me!"

"But she has, though."

"Where?"

"York."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?"

"Same old story. If she hadn't gone to Europe, she'd had him last year. I knew how 'twould be when she come home this summer an' begun to send him the letters. She's the powerfulest hand to do her duty that ever was. Everything else has to give way."

Amy's hand trembled so that her milk began to trickle over the sides of her pail.

"That's what it meant, then, that dear, precious old fellow. He knew he was going to leave us, that First Day we spent at the farm. That was why his words in the meeting-house were so like a farewell. It is too bad! It must have broken his heart."

"No, it didn't. He didn't want to go, not a mite; but there wasn't no heart-break, not in sight. If there was, he kept it hid. But he went all round the place, into every shed and building, pointing out things that should be done, and being most particular about the flowers and garden. He told me to take care of everything just as if he was coming back to-morrow. But he'll never. He'll never."

"Israel, you shall not say that! He must come back!"

"Oh, he'll come, of course, one way: that's feet foremost. He's a sight feebler 'n he ever let on, an' this riotous livin' at York, what with balls and parties and wine suppers, he won't last long. They'll kill him out of hand amongst 'em."

"Oh, Israel, the idea of Adam Burn at 'balls and parties and wine suppers,' when he's so simple and sweet and abstemious. I don't believe he ever tasted wine during all his pure, beautiful life. I'm not worrying about that. It's the leaving the things he loved will hurt him so. Why couldn't Sarah Jane have left him in peace? O dear! O dear! This will be a fresh sorrow for mother."

"So I suppose. For all of us, too. It's going to be lonesome for me, I reckon. Though Mis' Boggs won't have so much to do. She wants to give up the job, an' go live with our son, Jim. But Sarah Jane told us to stay, an' so we'll have to."

"Is this dreadful woman who's spirited Adam away any kin to you?"

"Course not. But you needn't laugh. You don't know that lady. She's masterful, and she's rich – 'rich as Cr[oe]sus,' – and don't know what to do with her money. When the old man was lookin' around an' chargin' me 'bout things, she broke in with: 'Oh, don't worry, father-in-law. The trumpery stuff isn't worth so much thought. I'm not a relic hunter, and let it go,' says she. Then he reminds her that he wanted it kept right for – Whew! I near let the secret out, didn't I? He told me he wrote you a letter. He gave it to you, didn't he? Well, if you'll carry the message for me, I won't climb 'Spite' hill this morning. There's a few things to fetch up in the open wagon, and I'll see your folks about hauling that muck. Good-by. The spirit's taken clean out of me. Twenty-five years me and him has lived together, and to part sudden like this. Twenty-five years by the clock, and a better man than him never trod the footstool."

With that Israel brought the mare around, and giving a mournful nod of his head drove dejectedly away.

Amy flew up the hill. She paid little heed now to the spilling of the milk, for she began to realize in all its force the calamity which had befallen them; and she burst into her mother's sitting room flushed and indignant, demanding: —

"What right had Sarah Jane to take him away?"

Mrs. Kaye's heart sank. She understood what this hysterical question implied. It had been a contingency long foreboded by her, though against its justice she could find nothing to say.

"Every right, dear. She is his son's widow. She is acting, no doubt, as she thinks her husband would wish."

"But he didn't want to go."

"She probably felt he was too old to live alone, without relatives. Indeed, I know that she would have taken him long ago, if she had been living in this country herself. As soon as she came home she has attended to her – her duty, as she sees it. As I suppose, anybody would see it, who was indifferent whether he went or stayed. I hope, though, that she'll bring him back to Burnside in the spring."

"Do you know her, mother?"

"Not well. When we were both younger I used to see her sometimes. She was never very fond of Burnside, however. It was too quiet for her. She is a wealthy woman, who likes to do a great deal of good. She is at the head of many charitable associations, and she has always had wonderful executive ability."

"Does that mean being what Israel called 'masterful'?"

"About the same thing."

"Will she be good to our dear Adam?"

"Certainly. She will see that he has every comfort possible. He will, doubtless, have a servant especially appointed to wait upon and care for him, and he will be made to share in all the enjoyments of the house. She believes that it is the duty of all to live actively in the world and do good aggressively, so to speak. But Adam is so old and feeble, he has passed his days in such simplicity, I can feel what a change for him it will be. Still, if he were to fall seriously ill, he would be better off at his daughter-in-law's than here. Ah, yes. I suppose it is for the best – for him. For us – well, it will be hard to think of Burnside without his gracious presence. He was my parents' oldest, closest friend, as he has been mine."

Mrs. Kaye rose, folded up her mending, and left the room. "I must tell Cuthbert," she remarked, as if to herself, and her face was very sad.

When Amy found her brother and told him the news his comment was: —

"That's a bad business for us, girlie."

"Of course. Don't you suppose I feel it?"

"As long as Adam Burn was near, mother would never have been allowed to really suffer for anything. I mean that he would have managed to keep an eye upon her and have helped us out, till we could help ourselves. Do you know where that letter is he gave you? Have you read it? I should think this might be that 'right time' of which he spoke."

"The letter? In my other dress pocket. I'll get it."

But when she had searched not only in her pockets but in every other possible place, the letter could not be found; and though Mrs. Kaye assured them that there was probably very little of importance in it, her children could not help imagining something quite to the contrary; and to learn the unread message became the great desire of their hearts.

"Well, in any case, we have what he said to you, Hal, about soul growth and that."

"Humph! Such talk is all well enough, but how is it going to help when we reach our last dollar? Did you ever think, Amy, seriously think how we are going to live? Just where our actual bread and butter is to come from?"

"No. Why, no, not really."

"Then it's high time you did."

CHAPTER XIII.

AMY PAYS A BUSINESS CALL

At about the same moment, on a "Saturday-half" in November, Amy Kaye and Gwendolyn Jones left each her own home to visit that of the other. They met on the slope of "Bareacre" and paused for mutual greetings.

"How do? I was just going up to your house," said Gwendolyn, turning her back to the wind that just then blew strongly.

"Good afternoon. Were you? And I was going to yours."

"My! How cold it is. Winter'll be here before we know it. Makes a body think about her clothes. That's why I was coming. I thought, maybe, you'd like to go shopping with me."

"You're forgetting, I fancy, that I told you I never did that. I shouldn't know how to shop, nor scarcely what it means," laughed Amy.

"That's what me and ma was saying. You seem such a little girl, yet 'Bony' says you're 'most as old as I am."

"But I don't feel old, do you? I wish I might never grow a day older, except that if I do I may be more useful to my people."

"Won't you go, then?"

"Maybe, if you will do something for me, too. I'm not on the road to buy anything, but to sell. I thought that you might know of somebody who would like a burro. Do you?"

"I'd like one myself, first-rate, only I'm saving for a wheel. I'm buying it on the instalment plan. I pay a dollar a week, and after I get my winter things I'll pay more. Do you ride?"

"Nothing so fine as a bicycle; just either Pepita or Balaam."

"It's awful hard to have to walk everywhere, and the good thing about a wheel is that it don't have to eat."

"And the bad thing about a burro is that it does."

"Are you in earnest? Do you want to sell it?"

"No; I don't want to at all, but I'm going to if I can. Do you know anybody who really might buy Pepit?"

"Guess I do. Guess the 'Supe' would."

"The 'Supe' – Mr. Metcalf?"

"Yes; I heard him say he'd like to get such a pair of mules or donkeys, or whatever they are, for his children. He's got a slew of them, and he gets 'em every conceivable thing. I wouldn't wonder if he did, if you was to ask him."

"Will he be at the mill to-day?"

"No; he's at his house, I guess. The mill's shut up, only the watchman there. The 'Supe' don't hang around there himself so much since the new 'boss' came."

"Maybe his house would be out of your way. If you'll tell me how to find it, I can go by myself. I wouldn't like to give you trouble."

"Oh, 'twouldn't be a mite. I'd like it. There'd be time enough afterward for Mis' Hackett's. She keeps open till near midnight, Saturdays. She gets lots of the mill trade, and she'd like to have it all. But Wallburg's far nicer. Don't you love Wallburg?"

"I was never there except once, when father had a guest from town. Then mother sent for a carriage, and they took their friend to see the city. Hallam and I rode our burros, but we were very tired when it was over. Even then we passed through the residence streets only."

"Pshaw! It's where the stores are that I like. I always wish I was made of money when I'm in a store. They do have such lovely things."

"Doesn't your mother buy your clothes?"

"My mother? My mother? Well, I guess not. The idea! If a girl earns her own money and pays for all she has, I guess she's a right to pick 'em out. Don't you?"

"Why – yes. I suppose she has a right, if her mother allows. But I should think it would be very trying to select one's own things. I should be so afraid I wouldn't choose correctly, and not please her taste."

"My land! What if you didn't? It's you that has to wear them, isn't it? Have a piece of this gum. It's a new sort. Mis' Hackett keeps it and charges two cents a stick. Other kinds are only one cent, but this is prime."

Gwendolyn was kind-hearted. She was also very vain. She felt that it was a fine thing to be acquainted with "aristocratics" like the Kayes; yet in her heart she was rather ashamed of Amy's plain attire, the simplicity of which seemed to Gwendolyn a proof of Mrs. Kaye's incapacity to "shop"; and its being white – though of soft warm wool – of her want of taste. She supposed, also, that any girl who could, would buy gum, and decided that her new acquaintance must be very poor indeed.

"Take it. I can get plenty more. I earn real good wages now."

"Do you?" asked Amy, so wistfully that the other was confirmed in her opinion of the poverty.

"I should think you would like to work in the mill, wouldn't you? If your folks have lost their money, it would seem real handy to have a little coming in."

"Yes, it would, indeed. But I couldn't do it."

"Why not? You're strong enough, I guess, if you aren't so big."

"Yes, I'm strong and well. But father has forbidden me to think of it."

"Pshaw! He'd come round. If you want to do it, I would; and once you were settled he wouldn't care, or he couldn't help himself, anyway. He's kind of queer, isn't he? I've heard that."

"Queer? Yes; just as queer as a splendid gentleman like him must always seem to common people," flashed the daughter, all the more disturbed because she realized that there had been once, if not now, just a little truth in the suggestion.

"Pshaw! I didn't mean to make you mad. O' course, I hadn't ought to have spoke so about your own father. I s'pose I'd be mad, too, if anybody said things about pa. They do, sometimes, or about ma, their naming us children by fancy names, as they did. You see, they're English, pa and ma are, and so they named us after English aristocratics. Ma's a master hand for reading novels, too, and she gets notions out of them. We take the Four Hundred Story Paper, and the Happy Evening Gazette. Do you take them?"

"No; I never heard of them."

"My land! you didn't? Ain't that queer? Why, they're splendid. They have five serial stories running all the time. As fast as one is finished another is commenced. Umm, they're awful exciting. You can't hardly wait from week to week to get the new instalments. Trouble is, ma says, we'd ought to each of us have a copy, we're so crazy to get hold of it when it comes. Some of the girls take fashion papers, and we lend them 'round. Some lend, I mean. Some are stingy, and won't. They have patterns in them. You can get some of the patterns free, and some cost ten or fifteen cents. Say, how do you like my dress?"

Amy looked critically at her companion's attire. She admired it far less than Gwendolyn had her own simple frock, and she found the question difficult to answer without giving offence. She compromised by saying: —

"Your mother must be very industrious to have made it, with all the housework and the children."

"If you ain't the greenest girl I know! My mother couldn't make a dress like this to save her life."

"O – oh!" stammered Amy.

"Indeed, she couldn't. This was made by a dressmaker. The best one in Ardsley, too. She charged me five dollars, and ma said it was too much. I think it was, myself, but what can you do? You must look right, you know; if you don't the girls will make fun of you, and the boys won't take you any place. Is there any boy you like, much?"

"Why, of course; though I know only three. Is this the way, around the corner?"

"Three? Who're they?"

"Hallam, and Fayette, and William Gladstone. Doesn't the mill village look cosy? The cunning little houses with their porches and gardens and neat palings. Such a lot of folks living together should have good times, I think."

"Oh, they do; prime. That's the 'Supe's' house, that big one, upon that little hill. That whole row belongs to the different 'bosses,' – of the setting room, the weavers, and the rest. The 'Supe' is real nice, I think, though some say he's stuck up. He was a poor boy, once, – as poor as a church mouse. Say, don't you feel sort of afraid to call on him, after all?"

"Why? No, indeed. Afraid? Why should I?"

"Oh, because."

Amy laughed and hastened forward. Nothing more was said until they reached the door, shadowed by vines from which not even yet all the leaves had fallen. The whole place had a sheltered, homelike appearance, which spoke well for the taste and kindliness of its owners.

"Yes; Mr. Metcalf is in. Would you like to see him? Ah, Gwendolyn, is it you? Walk in." Yet even Amy noticed that the maid's manner in welcoming her companion was less cordial than in welcoming herself. She concluded that there might be some truth in the assertion of this family considering themselves rather better than their neighbors.

They were ushered into a cheery sitting room, which seemed also a sort of library, for there were bookcases around the walls, and a table was spread with the current literature of the day. The room was small by comparison with those to which Amy had been accustomed, but what it lacked in size it made up for in comfort. A coal fire glowed on the hearth, a bird sang in its cage before the window, and about the floor were scattered the playthings that told that it was the resort of children.

The girls were not kept waiting. Mr. Metcalf entered almost at once, nodded kindly to Gwendolyn, and cordially extended his hand to Amy.

"I am very pleased to see you, Miss Amy. Sit nearer the fire, for it's right cold to-day."

"Thank you, but I'm not cold, and I don't wish to detain you. Gwendolyn tells me that it is your holiday, too, and that you go to Wallburg."

Mr. Metcalf glanced across at the other girl, who bridled and simpered as she adjusted her hat and settled her skirts.

"She goes there herself, I fear, rather too much. Eh, Gwendolyn?"

"I go when I please," answered the mill girl, pertly. She resented something in the tone of her superintendent, feeling that out of work hours he had no authority over her.

"Oh, of course. By the way, there's the stage just ready for the other end of the village. Do you see it, Miss Amy? The shop mistress, Mrs. Hackett, sends one over every Saturday afternoon to carry our folks free to her place of business. She's an enterprising person, but, unfortunately, as soon as she had adopted this plan, two other merchants of the town set up rival stages also. It's very funny, sometimes, to see the respective drivers' efforts to secure passengers, and therefore custom."

At the mention of stages, Gwendolyn rose and looked through the window. Then she turned toward Amy like a person in great haste.

"Tell the 'Supe' what you came for, Amy, so we can get a ride over, – that is, if you want to go shopping with me after all."

But poor Amy could not reply just then. It had come over her with a rush what her errand really meant to her, and she was wholly indifferent to the charms of a stage or even "shopping."

"Don't wait for me, please, – that is, of course, I will keep my word, but – "

"All right, then, some other day. I'll be up to see how you made out, and if Mr. Metcalf don't want it maybe I'll hear of somebody else who does. By, by. Good day, sir," and off she tore, banging the door and shouting loudly to the driver of Mrs. Hackett's stage.

Mr. Metcalf watched her in silence till she had climbed the steps at the rear of the omnibus, and then he remarked: —

"That girl has so much sense that she ought to have more."

"That's a doubtful compliment, isn't it?" asked Amy, smiling.

"I suppose so, though it's quite true. She is warmhearted, generous to a fault, and as silly as they make them. However, she has given me the pleasure of seeing you to-day, and I hope that you will tell me how I can be of use to you. From Gwendolyn's words I judge that you came upon some special errand."

"Yes; I came to ask if you would like to buy my white burro."

"Ah, you are tired of her? I mean you wish to sell her? Has she been misbehaving or interfering with 'Bony' again?"

"No, she has been very, very good, and I don't at all wish to part with her; but I want some money very badly, and that is the only thing – the only way I could get it."

"I am very glad you came to me. Ever since I made Miss Pepita's acquaintance, that day at the mill, I've wished I could find another like her for my little Nanette. How much do you ask for the burro?"

"I don't ask anything. That is, I don't know how much she is worth."

"I think you told me that she was a gift to you?"

"Yes, from my uncle in California."

"Hmm, I've heard of him," commented the gentleman, briefly. "Now, I am almost as much in the dark in regard to the value of such animals as you are, but, at a rough estimate, I will offer you fifty dollars. Then I will make inquiries, and if I find I have named too small a price, I will add the balance. Is that satisfactory?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. Thank you. I – I shall be glad to have Pepita in such a nice place."

At home Amy had spoken to none save Cleena about this intention of hers, and that good creature had sighed and wiped her eyes, but had not uttered one word of protest. The girl sighed, too, now, and the superintendent felt it would be kind to cut the matter short.

"When can I send for her?"

"Oh, at – at any time, I suppose. Or, if you don't mind, I'd like to ride her here myself. Just once more."

Mr. Metcalf looked at his watch.

"In a few moments John will be passing by Bareacre on his way to the other village. You might drive up with him and ride her down here afterward. There will be ample time before dark, and you must tell your people not to be anxious, should there be any delay."

"Very well; and maybe Hallam, my brother, will come, also. Though he hasn't been told yet, and might not – "

"Very well. Excuse me for a moment. I will speak to John."

He did not add, nor Amy reflect, that it was a very long and roundabout way to reach "the other village," by passing over rough and steep Bareacre hill; but John was willing enough to take it, when he was told who was to be his companion on the route. He had liked Amy from the first, and had grown to know her fairly well during his time of helping the Kaye household to settle.

"All right, boss. Sorry the little thing is to give up her donkey. She set a powerful store by it, I 'low. Well, all ready? How do, Miss Amy? So me an' you're going to take a trip together, eh? Then I can find out for myself how the well is doing. Don't see much of 'Bony' since your folks took him in hand. Giddap, there, Jinny! Here we go!"

To pass the time agreeably John talked of everything which he imagined might be of interest to the silent girl beside him, but he elicited few replies, and had the stream of his words flow, for once, without interruption. Yet it seemed a very, very slow ride to Amy, and when it came to an end, she scarcely waited to thank John for his "lift" before she sped to the shed where Pepita was tied, and shutting the door behind her, threw her arms around the neck of the gentle beast, to cry as freely as she pleased.