CHAPTER XVII. THE HOUSE WITH LOG STEPS.
Richmond must soon have seemed far behind Grandma Padgett's littlecaravan, had not Fairy Carrie still drowsed in the carriage, keepingthe Richmond adventures always present.
They had parted from J. D. Matthews and the Virginian and his troop.Jonathan and Thrusty Ellen were somewhere on the road ahead, but at apoint unknown to Robert and Corinne. They might turn off towards thesouthwest if all the emigrants agreed to forsake the St. Louis route.No one could tell where J. D. might be rattling his cart.
The afternoon which finally placed Richmond in diminishingperspective, Robert rode with Zene and lived his campaign over again.This was partly necessary because little Carrie lay on the backcarriage-seat. But it was entirely agreeable, for Zene wanted to knowall the particulars, and showed a flattering, not to say astimulating anxiety to get a good straight look at Bobaday's prowessin rescuing the distressed. Said Zene:
"But what if her folks never turn up?"
"Then my pa will take her to live with us," said Robert Day, "andGrandma Padgett will do by her just as she does by aunt Krin and me.She isn't a very lively little girl. I'd hate to play Blind Man withher to be blinded; for seems as if she'd just stand against the walland go to sleep. But it'll be a good thing to have one still childabout the house: aunt Corinne fidgets so. I believe, though, herfolks are hunting her. Look what a fuss there was about us I Whenpeople's children get lost or stolen, they hunt and hunt, and don'tgive it up."
In the carriage, aunt Corinne sitting by her mother, turned her headat every fifth revolution of the wheels, to see how the strangelittle girl fared.
"Do you s'pose she will ever be clear awake, Ma Padgett?" inquired,aunt Corinne.
"She'll drowse it off by and by," replied Ma Padgett. "The rubbing Igive her this morning, and the stuff the Richmond doctor made herswallow, will bring her out right."
"She's so pretty," mused aunt Corinne. "I'd like to have her hair ifshe never wanted it any more."
"That's a covetous spirit. But it puts me in mind," said GrandmaPadgett, smiling, "of my sister Adeline and the way she took to getdoll's hair."
Aunt Corinne had often heard of sister Adeline and the doll's hair,but she was glad to hear the brief tale told again in the pleasantdrowsing afternoon.
The Indiana landscape was beautiful in tones of green and stretchesof foliage. Whoever calls it monotonous has never watched its varyingcomplexions or the visible breath of Indian summer which neverdeparts from it at any season.
"Mother came in from meeting one day," said Grandma Padgett, "andwent into her bedroom and threw her shawl on the bed. She had companyto dinner and was in a hurry. It was a fine silk shawl with fringelonger than my hand. Uncle Henry brought it over the mountains as apresent. But Adeline come in and saw the fringe and thought what nicedoll hair it would make. So by and by mother has an errand in thebedroom, and she sees her shawl travelling down behind the bed, anddoesn't know what to think. Then she hears something snip, snip, andlifts up the valance and looks under the bed, and there sets Adelinecutting the fringe off her shawl! She had it half cut off."
"And what did Grandma do then?" aunt Corinne omitted not to ask.
"Oh, she punished Adeline. But that never had any effect on her.Adeline was a funny child," said Grandma Padgett, retrospectivetenderness showing through her blue glasses. "I remember once she gotto eatin' brown paper, and mother told her it would kill her if shedidn't quit it. Adeline--made up her mind she was going to eat brownpaper if it did kill her. She never doubted that it would come trueas mother said. But she prepared to die, and made her will anddivided her things. Mother found it out and put a stop to thebusiness. I remember," said Grandma Padgett, laughing, "that I wasdisappointed, because I had to give back what she willed to me! yet Ididn't want Adeline to die. She was a lively child. She jumped out ofwindows and tom-boyed around, but everybody liked her. Once I hadsome candy and divided fair enough, I thought, but Adeline after sheate up what she had, said I'd be sorry if I didn't give her more,because she was going, to die. It worked so well on my feelings thatnext time I tried that plan on Adeline's feelings, and told her ifshe didn't do something I wanted her to do _she'd_ be sorry; forI was going to die. She said she knew it; everybody was going to diesome day, and she couldn't help it and wasn't going to be sorry forany such thing! Poor Adeline: many a year she's been gone, and I'mmovin' further away from the old home."
Grandma Padgett lifted the lines and slapped them on the backs ofold Hickory and Henry. Rousing themselves from coltish recollectionsof their own, perhaps, the horses began to trot.
THE LAWYER.]
In Indiana, some reaches of the 'pike were built on planks insteadof broken stone, and gave out a hollow rumble instead of a flintyroar. The shape and firmness of the road-bed were the same, but theends of boards sometimes cropped out along the sides. In this day,branches of the old national thoroughfare penetrate to every part ofthe Hoosier State. The people build 'pikes instead of what are calleddirt roads. There are, of course, many muddy lanes and by-ways. Butthey have some of the best drives which have been lifted out of theMississippi Valley.
Though the small caravan had lost time, and Son Tip might be waitingat the Illinois line before they reached that point, Grandma Padgettsaid they would all go to morning meeting in the town where theystopped Saturday night, and only drive a short piece on Sundayafternoon. She hated to be on expense, but they had much to returnthanks for; and the Israelites made Sabbath day's journeys when theywere moving.
The first Sunday--which seemed so remote now--had been partiallyspent in a grove where they camped for dinner, and Grandma Padgettread the Bible, and made Bobaday and Corinne answer their catechism.But this June Sunday was to be of a thanksgiving character. And theyspent it in Greenfield.
At Cambridge City little Carrie roused sufficiently to eat withevident relish. But no such recollection of Dublin, Jamestown calledJimtown for short, by some inhabitants, and only distinguished by itslocation from another Jamestown in the State---Knightstown andCharlottesville, remained to her as remained to Bobaday and Corinne.The Indiana village did not differ greatly from the Ohio villagesituated on the 'pike. There were always the church with a bonnylittle belfry, and the schoolhouse more or less mutilated as to itsweather boarding. The 'pike was the principal street, and such housesas sat at right angles to it, looked lonesome, and the dirt roadsweedy or dusty.
Greenfield was a country seat and had a court house surrounded bytrees. It looked long and straggling in the summer dusk. Zene, ridingahead to secure lodgings, came back as far as the culvert to tellGrandma Padgett there was no room at the tavern Court, was session,and the lawyers on the circuit filled the house. But there wasanother place, near where they now halted, that sometimes took intravellers for accommodation's sake. He pointed it out, a roomybuilding with a broad flight of leg steps leading up to the frontdoors. Zene said it was not a tavern, but rather nicer than a tavern.He had already prevailed on the man and woman keeping it to take inhis party.
Robert and aunt Corinne scampered up the log steps and GrandmaPadgett led Fairy Carrie; after them. A plain tidy woman met them atthe door and took them into a square room. There were the homemadecarpet, the centre-table with daguerreotypes standing open andglaring such light as they had yet to reflect, samplers and coloredprints upon the walls, but there was also a strange man busy withsome papers at the table.
His hat stood beside him on the floor, and he dropped the sortedpapers into it. He was, as Grandma Padgett supposed, one of thelawyers on the circuit. After looking up, he kept on sorting andfolding his papers.
The woman went out to continue her supper-getting. In a remote partof the house bacon could be heard hissing over the fire. Robert andCorinne sat upright on black chairs, but their guardian put Carrie ona padded lounge.
The little creature was dressed in aunt Corinne's clothing, giving ita graceful shape in spite of the broad tucks in sleeve, skirt andpantalet, which kept it from draggling ove
r her hands or on the floor,She leaned against the wall, gazing around her with half-awakenedinterest. The dark circles were still about her eyes, but her pallorwas flushed with a warmer color, Grandma Padgett pushed the dampcurls off her forehead.
"Are you hungry, Sissy?" she inquired.
"No, ma'am," replied Carrie. "Yes, ma'am," she added, after amoment's reflection.
"She actually doesn't know," said Bobaday, sitting down on thelounge near Carrie. Upon this, aunt Corinne forsook her own blackchair and sat on the other side of their charge.
"Do you begin to remember, now?" inquired Robert Day, smoothing thelistless hands on Carrie's lap.
"How we run off with you--you know," prompted aunt Corinne, dressinga curl over her finger.
The child looked at each of them, smiling.
"Don't pester her," said Grandma Padgett, taking some work out ofher dress pocket and settling herself by a window to make use of thelast primrose light in the sky.
"If we don't begin to make her talk, she'll forget how," exclaimedaunt Corinne. "Can't you 'member anything about your father and mothernow, Carrie?"
THE "YOUNG MAN WHO SOLD TICKETS" APPEARS AT THE DOOR.]
The man who was sorting his papers at the table, turned an attentiveeye and ear toward the children. But neither Bobaday nor Corinneconsidered that he broke up the family privacy. They scarcely noticedhim.
"Grandma," murmured Carrie vaguely, turning her eyes toward theirguardian by the window.
"Yes, that's Grandma," said Bobaday. "But don't you know where yourown pa and ma are?"
"Papa," whispered Carrie, like a baby trying the words. "Mamma.Papa--mamma."
"Yes, dear," exclaimed aunt Corinne. "Where do they live? She's bigenough to know that if she knows anything."
"Let's get her to sing a song," suggested Bobaday. "If she canremember a song, she can remember what happened before they made hersing."
"That papa?" said Carrie, looking at the stranger by the table.
"No," returned aunt Corinne, deigning a glance his way. "That's onlya gentleman goin' to eat supper here. Sing, Carrie. Now, BobadayPadgett," warned aunt Corinne, shooting her whisper behind the curledhead, "don't you go and scare her by sayin' anything about that pig-man."
"Don't you scare her yourself," returned Robert with a touch ofindignation. "You've got her eyes to stickin' out now. Sing a prettytune, Carrie. Come on, now."
The docile child slid off the lounge and stood against it, pipingdirectly one of her songs. Yet while her trembling treble arose, shehad a troubled expression, and twisted her fingers about each other.
In an instant this expression became one of helpless terror. Shecrowded back against the lounge and tried to hide herself behindBobaday and Corinne.
They looked toward the door, and saw standing there the young manwho sold tickets at the entrance of the pig-headed individual's show.His hands were in his pockets, but he appeared ready to intone forth:
"Walk right in, ladies and gentlemen, and hear Fairy Carrie, thechild vocalist!" And the smoky torch was not needed to reveal hissatisfaction in standing just where he did.