David Dunne Part 11

"Feedin' on them fairy stories all day. They hain't hullsome diet fer a boy."

"The Judge reads them," protested David. "He has that same book of fairy stories that Joe gave me."

"When you've done all the Jedge has, and git to whar you kin afford to be idle, you kin read any stuff you want ter."

"Can't I read them at all?" asked David in alarm.

"Of course you kin. I meant, I didn't want you stickin' to 'em like a pup to a root. You're goin' down to the fields to begin work with me this arternoon, and you won't feel much like readin' to-night. I wuz lookin' over them books of your'n last night. Thar's one you'd best start in on right away, and give the fairies a rest."

"Which one?"

"Life of Lincoln. That'll show you what work will do."

"I'll read it aloud to you, Uncle Barnabas."

When they reached the bridge that spanned the river Old Hundred dropped the little hurrying gait which he a.s.sumed in town, and settled down to his normal, comfortable, country jog.

"Uncle Barnabas," said David thoughtfully, "what is your religion?"

Barnabas meditated.

"Wal, Dave, I don't know as I hev what you might call religion exackly. I b'lieve in payin' a hundred cents on the dollar, and a-helpin' the man that's down, and--wal, I s'pose I come as nigh bein'

a Unitarian as anything."

The distribution of the purchases now began. Sometimes the good housewife, herself, came out to receive the parcels and to hear the latest news from town. Oftener, the children of the household were the messengers, for Barnabas' pockets were always well filled with candy on town days. At one place Barnabas stopped at a barn by the roadside and surrept.i.tiously deposited a suspicious looking package.

When he was in front of the next farmhouse a man came out with anxious mien.

"All right, Fred!" hailed Barnabas with a knowing wink. "I was afeerd you'd not be on the watchout. I left it in the manger."

They did not reach the farm until the dinner hour, and the conversation was maintained by M'ri and Barnabas on marketing matters. David spent the afternoon in being initiated in field work. At supper, M'ri asked him suddenly:

"To whom did you give the flowers, David?"

"I've made a story to it, Aunt M'ri, and I'm going to tell it to Janey. Then you can hear."

M'ri smiled, and questioned him no further.

When the day was done and the "still hour" had come, Janey and David, hand in hand, came around the house and sat down at her feet. It was seldom that any one intruded at this hour, but she knew that David had come to tell his story.

"Begin, Davey," urged Janey impatiently.

"One day, when a boy was going to town, his aunt gave him a big bouquet of pink roses. She told him to give them to some one who looked as if they needed flowers. So when the boy got to town he walked up Main Street and looked at every one he met. He hoped to see a little sick child or a tired woman who had no flowers of her own; but every one seemed to be in a hurry, and very few stopped to look at flowers or anything else. Those that did look turned away as if they did not see them, and some seemed to be thinking, 'What beautiful flowers!' and then forgot them.

"At last he met a tall, stern man dressed in fine clothes. He looked very proud, but as if he were tired of everything. When he saw the flowers he didn't turn away, but kept his eyes on them as if they made him sad and lonesome in thinking of good times that were over. So the boy asked him if he would not like the flowers. The man looked surprised and asked the boy what his name was. When he heard it, he remembered that he had been attorney for the boy's father. He took him up into an office marked private, and he gave the boy some good advice, and talked to him about his mother, which made the boy feel bad. But the man comforted him and told him that every time he came to town he was to report to him."

M'ri had sat motionless during the recital of this story. At its close she did not speak.

"That wasn't much of a story. Let's go play," suggested Janey, relieving the tension.

They were off like a flash. David heard his name faintly called.

M'ri's voice sounded far off, and as if there were tears in it, but he lacked the courage to return.

CHAPTER VIII

Two important events calendared the next week. The school year ended and Pennyroyal, the "hired help," who had been paying her annual visit to her sister, came back to the farm. There are two kinds of housekeepers, the "make-cleans" and the "keep-cleans." Pennyroyal was a graduate of both cla.s.ses. Her ruling pa.s.sions in life were scrubbing and "redding" up. On the day of her return, after making onslaught on house and porches, she attacked the pump, and planned a sand-scouring siege for the morrow on the barn. In appearance she was a true exponent of soap and water, and always had the look of being freshly laundered.

At first Pennyroyal looked with ill favor on the addition that had been made to the household in her absence, but when David submitted to the shampooing of his tousled ma.s.s of hair, and offered no protest when she scrubbed his neck, she became reconciled to his presence.

On a "town day" David, carrying a huge bunch of pinks, paid his second visit to the Judge.

"Did she tell you," asked the tall man, gazing very hard at the landscape without the open window, "to give these flowers to some one who needed them?"

There was a perilous little pause. Then there flashed from the boy to the man a gaze of comprehension.

"She picked them for you," was the response, simply spoken.

The Judge carefully selected a blossom for his b.u.t.tonhole, and then proceeded to draw David out. Under the skillful, schooled questioning, David grew communicative.

"She's always on the west porch after supper." He added navely: "That's the time when Uncle Barnabas smokes on the east porch, Jud goes off with the boys, and I play with Janey in the lane."

"Thank you, David," acknowledged the Judge gratefully. "You are quite a bureau of information, and," in a consciously casual tone, "will you take a note to your aunt? I think I will ride out to the farm to-night."

David's young heart fluttered, and he went back to the farm invested with a proud feeling of having a.s.sisted the fates. The air was filled with mystery and an undercurrent of excitement that day. After David had delivered the auspicious note, a private conference behind closed doors had been held between M'ri and Barnabas in the "company parlor."

David's shrewd young eyes noted the weakening of the lines of finality about M'ri's mouth when she emerged from the interview. Throughout the long afternoon she performed the usual tasks in nervous haste, the color coming and going in her delicately contoured face.

When she appeared at the supper table she was adorned in white, brightened by touches of blue at belt and collar. David's young eyes surveyed her appraisingly and approvingly, and later he effected a thorough effacing of the family. He obtained from Barnabas permission for Jud to go to town with the Gardner boys. His next diplomatic move was to persuade Pennyroyal to go with himself and Janey to Uncle Larimy's hermit home. When she wavered, he commented on the eclipse of Uncle Larimy's windows the last time he saw them. That turned the tide of Pennyroyal's resistance. Equipped with soft linen, a cake of strong soap, and a bottle of ammonia, she strode down the lane, accompanied by the children.

The walk proved a trying ordeal for Pennyroyal. She started out at her accustomed brisk gait, but David loitered and sauntered, Janey of course setting her pace by his. Pennyroyal, feeling it inc.u.mbent upon herself to keep watch of her young companions, retraced her steps so often that she covered the distance several times.

At Uncle Larimy's she found such a fertile field for her line of work that David was quite ready to return when she p.r.o.nounced her labors finished. She was really tired, and quite willing to walk home slowly in the moonlight.

It was very quiet. Here and there a bird, startled from its hiding place, sought refuge in the higher branches. A pensive quail piped an answer to the trilling call from the meadows. A tree toad uttered his lonely, guttural exclamation. The air, freshening with a coming covey of clouds, swayed the tops of the trees with mournful sound.

David, full of dreams, let his fancy have full play, and he made a little story of his own about the meeting of the lovers. He pictured the Judge riding down the dust-white road as the sunset shadows grew long. He knew the exact spot--the last bit of woodland--from where Martin, across level-lying fields, could obtain his first glimpse of the old farmhouse and porch. His moving-picture conceit next placed M'ri, dressed in white, with touches of blue, on the west porch. He had decided that in the Long Ago Days she had been wont to wear blue, which he imagined to be the Judge's favorite color. Then he caused the unimpressionable Judge to tie his horse to the hitching post at the side of the road and walk between the hedges of sweet peas that bordered the path. Their pink and white sweetness was the trumpet call sounding over the grave of the love of his youth. (David had read such a pa.s.sage in a book at Miss Rhody's and thought it very fine and applicable.) His active fancy took Martin Thorne around the house to the west porch. The white figure arose, and in the purple-misted twilight he saw the touches of blue, and his heart lighted.

"Marie!"

The old name, the name he had given her in his love-making days, came to his lips. (David couldn't make M'ri fit in with the settings of his story, so he re-christened her.) She came forward with outstretched hand and a gentle manner, but at the look in his eyes as he uttered the old name, with the caressing accent on the first syllable, she understood. A deep sunrise color flooded her face and neck.

"Martin!" she whispered as she came to him.

David threw back his head and shut his eyes in ecstatic bliss. He was rudely roused from his romantic weaving by the sound of Barnabas'

chuckle as they came to the east porch.

"You must a washed every one of Larimy's winders!"