Dorothy's House Party

“No, they were not disgusting, simply natural. They’ve been half-starved most of their lives and food seems to them, just now, the highest good;” said Aunt Betty, as the carriage door was shut upon them and they set out for home. “I cannot call it a wasted morning, since that timid little woman was made glad and two homeless ones have come into their own. But – my guess was wide of the mark. It isn’t remorse ails my miller neighbor but some mystery still unsolved. Ah! me! And I thought I was beautifully helping Providence!”

“So you have, Aunt Betty. Course. Only how we shall miss those twins! Seems if I couldn’t bear to quite give ’Phira up. Deerhurst will be so lonesome!”

“Lonesome, child! with all you young folks in it? Then just imagine for an instant what Heartsease must have been to that poor wife. Shut up alone with such a glum, indifferent husband, in that big house. I saw no other person anywhere about, did you?”

“No, and, since you put it that way, of course I’m glad they’re to be hers not Molly’s and mine.”

“The queer thing is that he was so indifferent. I thought, I was prepared to have him rage and act – ugly, at my interference in his affairs; but he paid no more attention than if I had dropped a couple of puppies at his fireside. Hmm. Queer, queer! But if I’m not mistaken his young relatives will wake him up a bit before he’s done with them.”

After all, though Dorothy had hated to leave the other young folks on such an errand, through such weather, and in some fear of further “lectures,” the ride to Heartsease had proved delightful. She wouldn’t have missed the rapture on lonely Dorcas Sands’s pale face for the wildest frolic going and, after all, it was a relief to know the “twinses” could do no more mischief for which she might be blamed; and it remained now only to appease the wrath of Molly Breckenridge when she was told that her adopted “son” had been removed from her authority without so much as “By your leave.”

Naturally, Molly said nothing in Mrs. Calvert’s presence, but vented her displeasure on Dorothy in private; until the latter exclaimed:

“You would have been glad, just glad, Molly dear, to hear the way the poor old lady said over and over again: ‘Rose’s children! Rose’s children!’ Just that way she said it and she was a picture. I wish I was a Quaker and wore gray gowns and little, teeny-tiny white caps and white something folded around my shoulders. Oh! she was just too sweet for words! Besides – to come right to the bottom of things – neither of us could adopt a child, yet. We haven’t any money.”

“Pshaw! We could get it!”

“I couldn’t. Maybe you could; but – I’m glad they’re gone. It’s better for them and we shouldn’t have been let anyway, and – where’s Helena?”

“Up garret, yet. They’re all up there. Let’s hurry. They’ll have all the nicest things picked out, if we don’t.”

They “hurried” and before they knew it the summons came for luncheon. After that was over Danny Smith and Alfaretta Babcock mysteriously disappeared for a time; returning to their mates with an I-know-something-you-don’t sort of an air, which was tantalizing yet somehow suggested delighted possibilities. The afternoon passed with equal swiftness, and then came the costume parade in the barn; the charades; and, at last, that merry Roger de Coverly, with Mrs. Betty, herself, and Cousin Seth leading off, and doing their utmost to teach the mountain lads and lassies the figures.

All the servants came out to sit around and enjoy the merry spectacle while old Ephraim, perched upon a hay-cutter plied his violin – his fiddle he called it – and another workman plunked away on his banjo till the rafters rang.

“Oh, such a tangle! And it seems so easy!” cried Jane Potter, for once aroused to enthusiasm for something beside study. “Come on, Martin! Come half-way down and go round behind me – Oh! Pshaw! You stupid!”

Yet uttered in that tone the reproof meant no offense and Jane was as awkward as her partner, but the dance proved a jolly ending for a very jolly day. Only, the day was not ended yet; for with a crisp command:

“Every one of you get your places an’ set round in a circle. It’s Danny’s and my turn now, and – Come on, Daniel!” Alfaretta vanished in the harness room.

Danny followed, rather sheepishly, for despite his love of fun he didn’t enjoy being forced into prominence; and from this odd retreat the pair presently emerged with great pans of snowy popped-corn, balanced on their heads by the aid of one hand, while in the other they carried each a basket of the biggest apples even Melvin had ever seen; yet the wonder of the Nova Scotian apples had been one of his proudest boasts.

“Jump up, Jim, in your ‘Uncle Sam’ clothes and fetch the jugs out. Fresh sweet cider, made to farmer Smith’s this very day! There’s nuts in there all cracked, for some of you other fellows to bring and tumblers and plates ’t Aunt Malinda let us take. We’ve had ice-cream and plum-puddin’ and every kind of a thing under the sun and now we’re going to have just plain up-mounting stuff, and you’ll say it’s prime! Danny and me done this. We planned it that night Monty got stuck – Oh! my soul, I forgot!”

“Never mind. I don’t care,” said Monty; and, maybe to prevent another doing so, promptly related for Mrs. Calvert’s benefit the tale of his misadventure. Indeed, he told it in such a funny way that it was plain he was no longer sensitive about it; and he finished with the remark that:

“If Deerhurst folks don’t stop feeding me so much I may even get stuck in that big door!”

The quiet sitting and talking after so much hilarity was pleasant to all and tended to a more thoughtful mood; and finally clapping her hands to insure attention Molly Breckenridge demanded:

“A story, a story! A composite story! Please begin, Mrs. Calvert: ‘Once upon a time – ’ Then let Helena, my Lady of the Crinoline take it up and add a little, then the next one to her, and the next – and so on all around the ring. The most fun is to each say something that will fit – yet won’t make sense – with what went just before. Please!”

“Very well: ‘Once upon a time and very good times they was, there was a Mouse and a Grouse and a Little Red Hen and they all lived in the one house together. So wan day, as she was swapin’ the floor, they met a grain o’ cor-run.’ ‘Now, who’ll take that to the mill?’ ‘I won’t,’ says the Mouse. ‘Nayther will I!’ say the Grouse. ‘Then I’ll aven have to do it mesel,’ says the Little Red – Next!”

Irish Norah was in ecstasies of laughter over her mistress’s imitation of her own brogue, and all the company was smiling, as Helena’s serious voice took up the tale:

“’Twas in the dead of darksome, dreadful, dreary night, when the Little Red Hen set forth on her long, lonely, unfrequented road to the Mill. The Banshees howled, the weird Sisters of the Night made desperate attempts to seize the Grain of Corn – Next!”

“Which, for safe keeping the fearless Little Red Hen had already clapped into her own bill – just like this! So let the Banshees howl, the Weird Sisters Dree their Weird – for Only Three Grains of Corn, Alfy! Only Three Grains of Corn!” cried Monty, passing his empty plate; “and I’ll grind them in a mill that’ll beat the Hen’s all hollow! while Jane Potter – next!”

“For the prisoner was terrified by the sounds upon the roof and after brief deliberation and close investigation he came to the conclusion, ’twas a snare and a delusion to toy with imagination and fear assassination till the hallucination became habituation and his mental aberration get the better of his determination toward analyzation of the sound upon the roof. Of the pat, pat, patter and the clat, clat, clatter of small claws upon the roof! Then with loud cachinnation – Next!”

“To drive the Little Red Hen off from the roof he sprang up and bumped his head against it; and the act was so unexpected by said Hen that she flew off, choked on her grain of corn and – Next!” cried Jim, while everybody shouted and Mrs. Calvert declared that she had never heard such a string of long words tied together and asked:

“How could you think of them all, Jane?”

“Oh! easily enough. I’d rather read the dictionary than any other book. I’ve only a school one yet but I’ve most enough saved to buy an Unabridged. Then – ”

“Oh! then deliver us from the learned Jane Potter! Problem: If a small school dictionary can work such havoc with a young maid’s brain will the Unabridged drive her to a lunatic asylum? or to the mill where the Little Red Hen – Next!” put in Herbert, as his contribution.

“The little Red Hen being now corn-fed, and the Mill a thing she never would reach, the Mouse and the Grouse thought best to put an end to her checkered career and boil her in a pot over a slow fire; because that’s the way to make a fowl who had traveled and endured so much grow tender and soft-hearted and fit to eat, corn and all, popped or unpopped – Pass the pan, Alfaretta! while the pot boils and the Little Red Hen – Next!” continued Littlejohn Smith, with a readiness which was unexpected; while Molly B. took up the nonsense with the remark that:

“The Little Red Hen has as many lives as a cat. All our great-great-great-grandmothers have heard about her. She was living ages and – and eons ago! She was in the Ark with Noah – in my toy Ark, anyway; and being made of wood she didn’t boil tender as had been hoped; also, all the lovely red she wore came off in the boil and – what’s happening? ’Tother side the ring where Dolly Doodles is holding Luna with both hands and staring – staring – staring – Oh! My! What’s happening to our own Little Red Hen!”

What, indeed!

CHAPTER XVI

THE FINDING OF THE MONEY

In this instance the Little Red Hen was Luna. As always when possible she had seated herself by Dorothy, who shared none of that repugnance which some of the others, especially Helena, felt toward the unfortunate. She had been cleanly if plainly clothed when she arrived at Deerhurst, but the changes which had been made in her attire pleased her by their bright colors and finer quality.

The waif always rebelled when Dinah or Norah sought to dress her in the gray gown she had originally worn or to put her hair into a snug knot. She clung to the cardinal-hued frock that Dorothy had given her and pulled out the pins with which her attendants tried to confine her white curls. In this respect she was like a spoiled child and she always carried her point – as spoiled children usually do.

Thus to-night: To the old nurse it had seemed wise that the witless one should go to her bed, instead of into that gay scene at the barn. Luna had decided otherwise. Commonly so drowsy and willing to sleep anywhere and anyhow, she was this night wide awake. Nothing could persuade her to stay indoors, nothing that is, short of actual force and, of course, such would never be tried. For there was infinite pity in the hearts of most at Deerhurst, and a general feeling that nothing they could do could possibly make up to her for the intelligence she had never possessed. Also, they were all sorry for her homelessness, as well as full of wonder concerning it. The indifferent manner in which she had been left uncalled for seemed to prove that she had been gotten rid of for a purpose. Those who had lost her evidently did not wish to find her again. Yet, there was still a mystery in the matter; and one which Mrs. Calvert, coming fresh upon it, was naturally resolved to discover. The poor thing was perfectly at home at Deerhurst now, and judging by her habitual smile, as happy as such an one could be. But though the mistress of the mansion felt that her household had done right in sheltering the wanderer and in allowing her to partake of all their festivities, she did not at all intend to give a permanent home to this stranger. She could not. Her own plans were for far different things; and since she had, at last, been so fortunate as to bestow the twins in their legitimate home, she meant to find the same for Luna.

So the guest who was both child and woman had carried her point and was one in the ring of story-tellers. She paid no heed to what was going on but amused herself with folding and unfolding her red skirt; or in smoothing the fanciful silk in which Dorothy appeared as a belle of long ago.

The pair were sitting on a pile of hay, leaning against a higher one, and Dorothy had been absorbed in listening to the composite story and wondering what she should add to it. Her head was bent toward Luna and she dreamily watched the movements of her neighbor’s tiny wrinkled hands. Suddenly she became aware that there was a method in their action; that they were half-pulling out, half-thrusting back, something from the fastening of the scarlet blouse.

This something was green; it was paper; it was prized by its possessor, for each time Dorothy moved, Luna thrust her treasures back out of sight and smiled her meaningless smile into the face above her. But Dorothy ceased to move at all, and the dreaminess left her gaze, which had now become breathlessly alert and strained.

She watched her opportunity and when again Luna drew her plaything from her blouse, Dorothy snatched it from her and sprang to her feet, crying:

“The money is found! The money is found! My lost one hundred dollars!”

Strangely enough Luna neither protested nor noticed her loss. The drowsiness that often came upon her, like a flash, did so now and she sank back against her hay-support, sound asleep.

All crowded about Dorothy, excited, incredulous, delighted, sorely puzzled.

“Could Luna have stolen it, that foolish one?”

“But she wasn’t in the house the night it was lost. Don’t you remember? It was then that Dolly found her out by the pond. It couldn’t have been she!”

“Do you suppose it blew out of the window and she picked it up?”

“It couldn’t. The window wasn’t opened. It stormed, you know.”

Such were the questions and answering speculations that followed Dorothy’s exclamation, as the lads and lassies found this real drama far more absorbing than the composite tale had been.

Mrs. Calvert and Mr. Seth alone said nothing, but they watched with tender anxiety to see Dorothy’s next action. That it satisfied them was evident, from the smiles of approval gathering on their faces and the joyous nodding of the gray heads. Their girl hadn’t disappointed them – she was their precious Dorothy still.

She had gone straight to where old Ephraim and his cronies now sat in a distant part of the barn, enjoying their share of the good things Alfy and Danny had provided, and kneeling down beside him had laid the roll of money on his knee. Then audibly enough for all to hear, she said:

“Dear Ephraim, forgive me, if you can. This is the money I lost, the ten crisp ten-dollar bills. Count them and see.”

“No, no, li’l Missy! No, no. An’ fo’ de lan’, doan you-all kneel to a pore ole niggah lak me! Fo’ de lan’, Missy, whe’-all’s yo’ pride an’ mannehs?”

Her posture so distressed him that she rose and said, turning to her friends that all might hear:

“It was I, and I alone, who put that money out of sight. I remember now as clearly as if it were this minute. That red frock was the one I wore that night when Luna came. There is a rip in it, between the lining and the outside of the waist. It was an oversight of the maker’s, I suppose, that left it so, but I never mended it, because it made such a handy pocket, and there was no other. I remember plain. When the crash came I gathered up the money and thrust it into that place. Instinct told me it was something to be cared for, I guess, because I’m sure I didn’t stop to think. Then when I went to bed I must have been too excited to remember about it and left it there. The next day I gave that frock to Luna and she has worn it ever since. How long before she found the ‘pocket’ and what was in it, she can’t tell us. We’ve heard the ‘help’ say how quickly she noticed when money was around and I suppose she’s been afraid we’d take it from her; although she didn’t resent it just now when I did. Oh! I am so ashamed of myself, so ashamed!”

Nobody spoke for a moment, till Ephraim rose and taking his fiddle solemnly played the Doxology. That wasn’t speaking, either, in a sense; but it told plainer than words the gratitude of the simple old man that the shadow on his character was banished forever.

Seth Winters nodded his own gray head in understanding of the negro’s sentiment, while Dorothy sped with the bills to lay them in her Aunt Betty’s lap, and to hide her mortified countenance upon the lady’s shoulder. Thence it was presently lifted, when Mrs. Calvert said:

“Now the lost is found, I’d like to inquire what shall be done with it? It’ll never seem just like other money to me or to my forgetful darling here. Let’s put it to vote. Here’s my notebook, Dolly; tear out a few leaves and give a scrap of the paper to each. Pass the pencil along with them and let each write what she or he thinks the most beneficent use for this restored one hundred dollars.”

So it was done; even those among the servants grouped inside the great doors, having their share of the evening’s sport, even among these those who could write put down their wish.

Then Jim Barlow collected the ballots and sorted them; and Seth Winters’s face shone with delight when it proved the majority had voted:

“For the old man at St. Michael’s.”

So at once they made him take the money in charge; and it made all glad to hear him say:

“That will keep the poor old chap in comfort for many a day,” for he would not damp their joy by his own knowledge that Hiram Bowen’s days could not be “many,” though he meant that they should be the most comfortable of all that pain-tormented life.

“Well, our rainy day has proved a blessed one! Also, the storm is over and to-morrow should bring us fair weather for – the County Fair! All in favor of going say Aye!” cried the Master.

The rafters rang again and again, and they moved doorwards, regretful for the fun just past yet eager for that to come; while there was not a young heart there but inwardly resolved never again to harbor suspicion of evil in others, but to keep faith in the goodness of humanity.

Meanwhile, what had this rainy day seen at Heartsease Farm? Where the twins of evil names had been left to their new life, and their maternal grandfather had so coolly turned his back upon them, while they satisfied their material little souls with such cookies as they had never tasted before.

Dorcas let them alone till they had devoured more than she felt was good for them, and until Ananias turning from the table demanded:

“Gimme a drink.”

“Gimme a drink!” echoed his mate; and the old lady thought it was wonderful to hear them speak so plainly, or even that they could speak at all. But she also felt that discipline should begin at once; and though not given to embellishment of language she realized that their “plain speech” was not exactly that of the Friends.

“Thee tell me thy name, first. Then thee shall drink.”

“A-n an, a, ana, n-i ni, a-s as, Ananias.”

“S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, r-a ra,” glibly repeated the girl, almost tripping over her brother in her eagerness to outdo him.

Dorcas Sands paled with horror. Such names as these! Forced upon the innocent babes of her Rose! It was incredible!

Then, in an instant, the meekness, the downtroddenness of the woman vanished. Her mission in life was not finished! Her sons had gone out from her home and her daughter was dead, but here were those who were dearer than all because they were “brands” to be saved from the burning.

“Hear me, Rose’s Babies! Thee is Benjamin, and a truth-teller; and thee is Ruth. Let me never hear either say otherwise than as I said. Now come. There is the bench and there the basin. The first child that is clean shall have the first drink – but no quarreling. Birthright Friends are gentle and well mannered. Forget it not.”

The sternness of mild people is usually impressive. The twins found it so. For the rest of that day, either because of the novelty of their surroundings or their difficulty in mastering – without blows – the spelling of their new names, they behaved with exceptionable demureness; and when, in some fear their grandmother dispatched Benjamin to Oliver’s office to announce dinner, the miller fairly stared to hear the midget say:

“Thee is to come to dinner, Oliver. Dorcas says so. Thee is to make haste because there is lamb and it soon cools. Dorcas says the lamb had wool once and that thee has the wool. Give it to me; Oliver. B-e-n ben, j-a ja, m-i-n min, Benjamin. That’s who I am now and I’m to have anything I want on this Heartsease Farm because I’m Rose’s baby. The Dorcas woman says so. Oliver, did thee know Rose?”

This was the “plain speech” with a vengeance! The miller could scarcely credit his own ears and doubting them used his eyes to the greater advantage. What he saw was a bonny little face, from which looked out a pair of fearless eyes; and a crown of yellow hair that made a touch of sunlight in that dark room. “Did he know Rose?”

For the first time in many a day he remembered that he had known Rose; not as a rebellious daughter gone astray from the safe fold of Quakerdom, but as a dutiful innocent little one whom he had loved. Rising at last after a prolonged inspection of his grandson, an inspection returned in kind with the unwinking stare of childhood, he took the boy’s hand and said:

“Very well, Benjamin, I will go with thee to dinner.”

“But the wool? Can I have that? If I had that I could wrap it around Sap – I mean R-u ru, t-h thuh, Ruth, when it’s cold at night and Him’s off messagin’.”

“Yes, yes. Thee can have anything if thee’ll keep still while we ask blessing.”

The face of Dorcas glowed with a holy light. Never had that silent grace been more earnestly felt than on that dark day when the coming of “Rose’s babies” had wrought such a happy effect on her husband’s sorrowful mood. True she also was sorrowful, though in less degree than he; but now she believed with all her heart that this one righteous thing he had done – this allowing of the orphans to come home – would in some way heal that sorrow, or end it in happiness for all.

All afternoon she busied herself in making ready for the permanent comfort of her new-found “blessings.” She hunted up in the attic the long disused trundle-bed of her children; foraged in long-locked cupboards for the tiny sheets and quilts; dragged out of hiding a small chest of drawers and bestowed the twins’ belongings therein, bemoaning meanwhile the worldliness that had selected such fanciful garments as a trio of young girls had done. However, there was plenty of good material somewhere about the house. A cast-off coat of Oliver’s would make more than one suit for Benjamin; while for little Ruth, already the darling of her grandmother’s soul, there were ample pieces of her own gowns to clothe her modestly and well.

“To-morrow will be the Fifth day, and of course, though he seems so indifferent we shall all go to meeting. And when the neighbors ask: ‘Whose children has thee found?’ I shall just say ‘Rosie’s babies.’ Then let them gaze and gossip as they will. I, Dorcas, will not heed. There will be peace at Heartsease now Rosie has come home – in the dear forms of her children.”

Thus thought the tender Friend, sitting and sewing diligently upon such little garments as her fingers had not touched for so long a time; but the “peace” upon which she counted seemed at that moment a doubtful thing.

The day had worn itself out, and the miller had tired of indoors and his own thoughts. From the distant living-room he had been conscious of a strange sound – the prattle of childish voices and the gentle responses of his wife. His heart had been softened, all unknown to himself even, by a sorrow so recent it absorbed all his thought and kept him wakeful with anxiety; yet it was rather pleasant to reflect, in that gloomy afternoon, that he had given poor Dorcas her wish. Those twins would be a great trouble and little satisfaction. They were as much Bowen as Sands; still Dorcas had been good and patient, and he was glad he had let her have her wish.

Ah! hum! The clouds were lifting. He wondered where those children were. He began to wonder with more interest than he had felt during all that endless week, what his workmen were doing. Maybe he would feel better, more like himself, if he went out to the barn and looked about. By this time the cows should be in the night-pasture, waiting to be milked, those which were not now in the stalls of the County Fair.