Treasure Valley Part 5

"Hoots, toots!" cried Uncle Hughie, in gentle remonstrance. "Charity!

It would jist be a bit of a neighborly act, man! Come away, now, come." His voice was coaxing. "Here is the doctor, now, waiting to help you. Yes, yes, a fine new doctor, indeed," he added enticingly.

"Come," said Gilbert authoritatively. "You must have food and shelter at once. You can't stay here."

The man opened his eyes again. "I haven't a cent of money," he said weakly, but defiantly. "But if you will take me to some place I can rent, I will earn money and pay for it after. But I will enter no man's house. I will stay here and die--it would be best, anyway." He closed his eyes indifferently.

Old Hughie suddenly plucked the puzzled young doctor's sleeve. "There will be an old shanty down the glen here, a wee step," he whispered, "jist by the Drowned Lands. It belongs to Sandy McQuarry, but he would be giv----" He paused, for the fierce eyes opened upon him--"renting it," he subst.i.tuted hastily.

"I will go there," whispered the sick man, and Gilbert stooped and raised him gently.

"And what will your name be?" asked Uncle Hughie, striving in his pity to say something friendly which this strange man would not resent.

"My name," said the man slowly, "my name"--he stood and looked about him in a dazed way--"yes, yes, it's McIntyre--John McIntyre." He wavered a moment, then fell, fainting, in the young doctor's arms.

CHAPTER IV

THE ORPHAN ARRIVES

O little wild feet, too softly white To roam the world's tempestuous night, The years like sleet on my windows beat, Come in and be cherished, O little wild feet.

My heart is a house deep-walled and warm, To cover you from the night and storm.

--C. G. D. ROBERTS.

Miss Arabella Winter and her parrot lived alone in a tiny house, next door to her brother's home, and were "managed," in company with the rest of the village, by her smart sister-in-law. In all Susan Winters'

realm there was no more obedient subject than the meek little lilac lady.

She had been very pretty in her youth, and much of her girlhood's beauty lingered yet in the faint pink of her cheeks and the droop of her long lashes. Her golden-brown hair was still abundant and wavy, though in accordance with her sister-in-law's instructions she pulled it back so tightly that its undulations were quite smoothed out. And just so Miss Arabella tied down and smoothed out all the beauty curves of her life to suit the rigid lines of Susan's methods. That she ever longed for more breadth and freedom could never have entered the head of any one in the village. But then the village did not know the real Miss Arabella.

She was hurrying through her morning's work, for a column of smoke curling up from the other side of her next neighbor's orchard told that the Sawyers had returned; and if Susan did not mind, she hoped she might run over and see what kind of baby Jake and Hannah had brought home.

She shook the breakfast tablecloth out at the back door, and the hens came running to pick up the crumbs. Like all houses in Elmbrook, Miss Arabella's front door looked out upon the narrow confines of the village street, with its double row of elms and maples; but her back door commanded a view of a whole world of sky and field and wood. High up in an apple-tree of the Sawyers' orchard a bluebird was caroling joyously. Miss Arabella had never heard of the man who said that the bluebird carried the sky on his back, but she involuntarily glanced from the brilliant azure dot in the tree-top to the vivid blue of the heavens. "They're awful alike," she whispered, with a smile; then she glanced inside, "and it's the same color, too! I've a good mind"--she paused guiltily and glanced toward her brother's house. "I'll just take one glimpse," she added hurriedly. She put the tablecloth away in its drawer and ran into the little sitting-room. The old floor, under its gay covering of rag-carpet and home-made rugs, sank and creaked with even her light weight. At the sound a querulous voice from the veranda called "Arabella, Arabella!"

Miss Arabella looked severe. "Polly!" she cried, appearing at the door. "Now, Polly, be good. You were jist awful yesterday, when the doctor was pa.s.sing. You'll try not to say that awful thing, won't you, Polly?"

"Oh, Annie Laurie, Annie Laurie, Annie Laurie!" gabbled Polly, walking along her perch head downward. "I'll be good, I'll be good."

Thus a.s.sured, Miss Arabella slipped into her spare bedroom. It was a tiny room, with a close, hushed air. Most of the s.p.a.ce was taken up by a huge feather-bed, whose white surface bulged up like a monstrous baking of bread. Against the crinkly spars of the low headboard two stiff pillow-shams stood erect, like signboards, each bearing the legend, worked in red, "Sweet Dreams." The floor was covered with a home-made rug, displaying a branch of yellow roses, upon which stood a mathematically straight line of purple-breasted robins. The one window was draped in stiff, white lace curtains that fell from the ceiling in a billowing cascade and flowed out into the middle of the room. Here the flood was dammed, very appropriately, by two large, pink-tinted seash.e.l.ls. In one corner stood a high, old-fas.h.i.+oned chest of drawers, covered with a white cloth worked in red to match the "Sweet Dreams" on the pillows. It held a small looking-gla.s.s flanked by a couple of china figures; a gay Red Riding-Hood, with a pink wolf, set primly opposite a striped Bo-peep and a sky-blue lamb. There were pebbles and sh.e.l.ls and pieces of coral, and baskets of beadwork, and many other ornaments dear to Miss Arabella's heart. She closed the old, creaking door, placed the one chair against it, and trembling as though she were about to commit a burglary, she stealthily opened the lowest drawer of the dresser and took from it a large parcel. She sat down on the low rocker and carefully untied the string. Her breath was coming fast, her eyes were s.h.i.+ning. The stiff paper opened, and revealed a roll of bright blue silk, just the tint of the May skies. Miss Arabella touched it lovingly.

"You're the very color," she whispered; "you've never faded a bit, and it's been such a long time--oh, an awful long time!" She sighed deeply; her little face looked wan and old.

"But you haven't started to ravel yet." Her fingers had been running carefully up and down the silk, and she stopped with a start of dismay.

She hurried to the low window. Yes, there along several of the folds, the blue fabric was showing signs of wear! Miss Arabella sank back into her chair and sat motionless, gazing at the bright heap in her lap. Slowly two big tears gathered, and slipped down her cheeks. She hastily covered the precious silk from possible damage, wiped her eyes with her ap.r.o.n, and replaced the bundle in the drawer.

"It must be a sign," she whispered tremulously. "It 'ud never 'a'

begun to wear if it was goin' to be any use to me. It's a sign!" She locked the drawer, and went out slowly. Her little figure had a more p.r.o.nounced droop, her eyes were very piteous.

She went back to her tasks in the tiny kitchen with a dull, hopeless air. She had just set a pail of soapy water on the back doorstep, preparatory to scrubbing the porch floor, for Susan insisted that this must be done once a week, no matter how clean it might be, when Polly's voice reached her. It was raised in uttering that shocking phrase which her mistress had forbidden, and which Polly refused to unlearn.

Miss Arabella hurried out to the front veranda, fearful lest the minister or the new doctor might be within earshot.

"Good-morning, Arabella!" called a sweet voice from the other side of the cedar hedge.

Miss Arabella ran joyfully to the gate. "Oh, Elsie, is it you? Come away in and sit a minute; do, now."

"No, thank you, Arabella; not this morning. Mother sent me up to see what sort of baby Jake and Hannah have adopted. Come with me."

"I'd like to." Miss Arabella glanced wistfully across the orchard, but the vision of her sister-in-law hoeing in the garden quenched the light of hope in her eyes. "I can't go for a little bit," she added. "I haven't done the back stoop yet."

The girl stood looking down at her, a splendid contrast, in her strong, erect beauty, to the little, drooping figure. Miss Arabella looked up at her with adoring eyes. There was a strange comrades.h.i.+p between these two.

"Oh, Arabella, dear," cried the girl, half pityingly, half laughingly, "why don't you run away?"

Miss Arabella looked up with a sudden fire in her eyes and a flush on her cheek. "Oh, Elsie! You don't mean it--really?"

"Of course I don't really mean it, Arabella," she answered, half alarmed at the unexpected effect of her words. "Where would you run?

Only I do wish you didn't have so much managing."

Miss Arabella's head drooped. She seemed ashamed of her sudden outburst. "Oh, I'm all right," she said, in some confusion, and then, to hide it, added: "It seems awful nice to have you back, Elsie. I missed you dreadful."

The girl patted her hand affectionately. "Well, you're not likely to miss me any more for a long time," she said, with rather a forced smile.

"I s'pose you've learned near everything there is to know about singing now, anyway, haven't you?" asked Miss Arabella comfortably.

Elsie Cameron laughed. "I feel as if I'd just begun to get the faintest notion of it."

"Well, well, well! Music must be awful slow work. Is that why you got tired of it?"

"Tired of it?"

"Yes; your ma was saying you didn't want to go back, though they'd all coaxed you."

The girl looked down the long, elm-bordered street; her golden-brown eyes had a hurt look, but her mouth was firm. She turned again to Miss Arabella with a faint smile. Her answer was apparently irrelevant.

"Don't you remember how Uncle Hughie used to be always telling us never to 'rastle' against the place we're put in?"

Miss Arabella looked at her, uncomprehending. In contrast to her narrow experience, Elsie Cameron seemed to possess all that heart could desire.

"Your Uncle Hughie's a wonderful wise man, Elsie," she said vaguely; then, with a deep sigh, "I suppose it's wicked to be always wantin' to do things you ain't doin'; but--I--it ain't very bad to pretend you're doin' them, so long as you do the real things, is it?" Her color was rising, and the girl looked at her with a kind curiosity. Even she knew little more of the real Arabella than the rest of the village did.

"Do you know, Arabella," she cried merrily, "I've long suspected you of leading a double life. And why shouldn't you? Why, Uncle Hughie says it's one of his greatest blessings. When he gets tired or racked with pain, he just pretends he's a chieftain of the Clan Cameron, living on his estates, and he says he's far happier than if he really were."

Miss Arabella smiled almost tearfully. It was the first time in her life she had heard her romantic day-dreaming condoned.

"Now I must run, Arabella. Good-by, Polly. Are you good to-day?"

"Oh, Annie Laurie, Annie Laurie," cried Polly, "I'll be good, I'll be good!"