CHAPTER XIII. POMONA'S NOVEL.
It was in the latter part of August of that year that it becamenecessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St.Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to meas the fit person, for I understood the particular business better thanany one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether liketo do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter farinto the regulation sleeping-hours.
There were very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I wouldnot think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the firstplace, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, totake the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. Wehad never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country wewould see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakesand Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But thenwe would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and howcould we do that?
This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care ofour garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicatedbelongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetableswere coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactorycondition--altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables--for whichI had labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerfulanticipations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard,--with Euphemia away,--thesubject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we wouldgive up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this mostdesirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would comeand take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could notrun itself for three weeks.
We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did notfeel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends;but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea ofhanding over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For mypart, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;but, then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that shewould rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed inregard to the disqualifications. So, when I went to the office the nextmorning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could findsome one to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returnedfrom the office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis. Bythis time, I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interferevery much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If inthat time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not,Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, andPomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved wefelt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangementwas exactly what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it, ourconsciences were easy.
We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward wouldbe with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily wellable to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case sheneeded him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night.Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series ofdirections for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters, anddirected her to keep a careful record of everything note worthy thatmight occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life,and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such aresponsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.She was very proud of it.
Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it wouldbe, and successful in every way; and yet, although we enjoyed every hourof the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our way home than we became sowildly anxious to get there, that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday,whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrivedearly in the afternoon and walked up from the station, leaving ourbaggage to be sent in the express wagon. As we approached our dear home,we wanted to run, we were so eager to see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate waslocked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then Inoticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the letteringwas large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read:
TO BE SOLD
For TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
"What does this mean?" said I. "Has our landlord--"
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place mightpass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not putthe thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got overthe fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. Thiswas more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much aboutits difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions.I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windowswere shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more thananything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had HE been sold?
Before we reached the back part of the house, Euphemia said she feltfaint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I hadmade a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass and I ranto the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper whichalways hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a traveling-cup inmy pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was anair of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, butI know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and beganto pump.
At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in thedirection of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came LordEdward. Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believethe glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water.He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running fromthe barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were twofriends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.
Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put aquestion to her, she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.
"You know," said she, "you said you wasn't comin' till to-morrow. Ifyou only HAD come then--I was goin' to have everything just exactlyright--an' now you had to climb in--"
And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been awonderful thing for Pomona to do.
"Tell me one thing," said I. "What about--those taxes?"
"Oh, that's all right," she cried. "Don't think another minute aboutthat. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I'll getyou some lunch in a minute."
We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was "all right"in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know allabout the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her anyquestions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked us, as aparticular favor, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself,and then, said she, "I'll have everything looking just as if it wasto-morrow."
We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointmentto her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-roomuntil she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about.We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried tothe chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. AsI went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passingthe pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about thechair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.
"Would you rather," said she, "hear it all together, when you come in,or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was soanxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather waitand hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order,--thegarden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it hadnot been for that cloud on the front
fence, I should have been happyenough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paidthe taxes--however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said shewas in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in, and wesat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing somesheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.
"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she, "asyou told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I'd make it like anovel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I suppose youdon't mind?"
No, we didn't mind. So she went on.
"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one outto-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the firstchapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my earlyadventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you wasaway, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that'swritten here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to you, but I've putit into novel language because it seems to come easier to me."
And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as ifthe "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:
"Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I leftalone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kineand water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal repast, Iclos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past andalso foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. Islept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpiredwhich afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tonguecan tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast,the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-osene oil and a halfa pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well thein-sid-ious foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent himhome with a empty can. For two long days I wander-ed amid the ver-dantpathways of the gar-den and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-tycall-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o'er-spreadthis happy pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizonalthough I saw it not.
"It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of aThursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do withthe butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was greencorn and lima-beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use.And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for asmy employer had advis-ed and order-ed I had put the steed to grass. Andhere was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or eventhe curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-ced vender. With thetruck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load that wagon--"
"O, Pomona," interrupted Euphemia. "You don't mean to say that you werethinking of doing anything like that?"
"Well, I was just beginning to think of it," said Pomona, "but of courseI couldn't have gone away and left the house. And you'll see I didn't doit." And then she continued her novel. "But while my thoughts were thusemploy-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter--"
At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona didnot seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.
"I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the gate.Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, 'Wilt open this gate?' I hadfasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every steal-able ar-ticle from theyard."
Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of therustic seat and the dipper.
"Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the dog(for he it was), roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-ercebull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold, untohim, 'No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are nowfrom home. What do you want?' Then says he, as bold as brass, 'I'vecome to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate.' 'Whatrods?' says I. 'The rods as was ordered,' says he, 'open the gate.' Istood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. Iknew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods,and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-abletrash that would attrack the light-ening, instead of keep-ing it off.Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be kept,and pay demand-ed. 'No, sir,' says I. 'No light-en-ing rods upon thishouse whilst I stand here,' and with that I walk-ed away, and let LordEdward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-edfire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the dog hedid forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed the fowls;but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the blood with-in myveins--"
"The dog didn't kill him?" cried Euphemia.
"Oh no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "You'll see that that wasn't it. At onecorn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed thisman, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ingto hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of alight-en-ing rod-der had brought a lad-der to the other side of thehouse, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What horrorsfill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This," continued Pomona, "is theend of the novel," and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had justreached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yetabout that affair of the taxes.
"You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out thechapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, thatI hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happenedafter that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so she went on,much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of thelightning-rod man.
"There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rods andhammerin' away for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over the sidefence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside,couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, an' then I know'd I hadhim. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to thebull-dog's collar, an' dragged him out and fastened him to the bottomrung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with LordEdward's chain, for I knew that if he got at that bull-dog there'd betimes, for they'd never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I tothe boy, 'I'm goin' to tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid of hisjumpin' over the fence,'--which he couldn't do, or the boy would havebeen a corpse for twenty minutes, or may be half an hour. The boy kinderlaughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to thegate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an' offhe starts, as good as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy, he saidsomethin' or other pretty bad, an' away he goes after him; but the horsewas a-trottin' real fast, an' had a good start."
"How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?" saidEuphemia. "That horse might have upset the wagon and broken all thelightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many people."
"But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout," said Pomona. "I wasa-defendin' the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happento him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the manjust coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go off, and whenhe got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the bull-dog, he wasmadder than ever you seed a lightnin'-rodder in all your born days.'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me. 'No, I wont, says I. 'Inever see a girl like you since I was born,' he screams at me. 'I guessit would 'a' been better fur you if you had,' says I; an' then he wasso mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as hecould, and when he saw just how long the rope was,--which was prettyshort,--he made a jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went ondreadful because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away; and Iwouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the tendons outof that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boilingpassion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdlin' grunts.An' I don't see
how the rodder would 'a' got his ladder at all if thedog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. Itjust missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other endof it, and began pullin' it away, dog an' all. 'Look-a-here,' says I,'we can fix him now; and so he cooled down enough to help me, and Iunlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladderin, dog and all; an' then I shut the door as tight as it would go, an'untied the end of the rope, an' the rodder pulled the ladder out while Iheld the door to keep the dog from follerin', which he came pretty neardoin', anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin'again about his wagon; but when he looked out an' see the boy comin'back with it,--for somebody must 'a' stopped the horse,--he stoppedstormin' and went to put up his ladder ag'in. 'No, you don't,' says I;'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot ofyour ladder, you'll never come down.' 'But I want to go and take downwhat I put up,' he says; 'I aint a-goin' on with this job.' 'No,' saysI, 'you aint; and you can't go up there to wrench off them rods and makerain-holes in the roof, neither.' He couldn't get no madder than he wasthen, an' fur a minute or two he couldn't speak, an' then he says, 'I'llhave satisfaction for this.' An' says I, 'How? 'An' says he, 'You'll seewhat it is to interfere with a ordered job.' An' says I, 'There wasn'tno order about it;' an' says he, 'I'll show you better than that;' an'he goes to his wagon an' gits a book. 'There,' says he, 'read that.''What of it? 'says I 'there's nobody of the name of Ball lives here.'That took the man kinder aback, and he said he was told it was the onlyhouse on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane heoughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladderin his wagon, and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He lefta trail of his baleful presence behind him.
"That horrid bull-dog wouldn't let me come into the house! No matterwhat door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let him stay tillnearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good.He'd got an awful spite ag'in me. I found something to eat down cellar,and I made a fire outside an' roasted some corn and potatoes. That nightI slep' in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from the house, for Iknew it was safe enough, with that dog in it and Lord Edward outside.For three days, Sunday an' all, I was kep' out of this here house. I gotalong pretty well with the sleepin' and the eatin', but the drinkin'was the worst. I couldn't get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty ofmilk."
"Why didn't you get some man to come and attend to the dog?" I asked."It was dreadful to live that way."
"Well, I didn't know no man that could do it," said Pomona. "The dogwould 'a' been too much for Old John, and besides, he was mad about thekerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and theirlittle girl in a push-wagon, come here, and I told 'em you was goneaway; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them adrink; an' I had nothin' to give it to them but an old chicken-bowl thatI had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an' I told 'emeverything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must 'a'thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn't a-goin' to saynothin' about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it.So as soon as they'd gone, I went down into the cellar,--and it's luckythat I had the key for the outside cellar door,--and I got a piece offat corn-beef and the meat-axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in,with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might takehis choice. I know'd he must be pretty nigh famished, for there wasnothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he camerunnin' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked asort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all rightthen."
"Oh, my!" said Euphemia, "I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid younever got in. But we saw the dog--is he as savage yet?"
"Oh no!" said Pomona; "nothin' like it."
"Look here, Pomona," said I, "I want to know about those taxes. When dothey come into your story?"
"Pretty soon, sir," said she, and she went on:
"After that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so thatthey'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as notI'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fightin', and leave meto settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin'-rodder. So, as I know'd ifthey once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they'd begood friends afterwards, I thought the best thing to do would be to let'em fight it out, when there was nothin' else for 'em to do. So I fixedup things for the combat."
"Why, Pomona!" cried Euphemia, "I didn't think you were capable of sucha cruel thing."
"It looks that way, ma'am, but really it aint," replied the girl. "Itseemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have thething settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed andunchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called thebull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and his blood-shot eyes,and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin' from the mount'in blast, hemade one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there was! Theyrolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chipsa-flyin' all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minuteor two; but he didn't, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and theywas havin' it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me,and turnin' quick, there was the 'Piscopalian minister, 'My! my! my!'he hollers; 'what a awful spectacle! Aint there no way of stoppin' it?''No, sir,' says I, and I told him how I didn't want to stop it, and thereason why. Then says he, 'Where's your master?' and I told him how youwas away. 'Isn't there any man at all about?' says he. 'No,' saysI. 'Then,' says he, 'if there's nobody else to stop it, I must do itmyself.' An' he took off his coat. 'No,' says I, 'you keep back, sir. Ifthere's anybody to plunge into that erena, the blood be mine;' an' Iput my hand, without thinkin', ag'in his black shirt-bosom, to hold himback; but he didn't notice, bein' so excited. 'Now,' says I, 'jist waitone minute, and you'll see that bull's tail go between his legs. He'sweakenin'.' An' sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and wasa-shakin' the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edwardby the collar. 'Drop it!' says I, and he dropped it, for he know'd he'dwhipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog, he trottedoff with his tail a-hangin' down. 'Now, then,' says I, 'them dogs willbe bosom friends forever after this.' 'Ah me!' says he, 'I'm sorryindeed that your employer, for who I've always had a great respect,should allow you to get into such habits.' That made me feel real bad,and I told him, mighty quick, that you was the last man in the world tolet me do anything like that, and that, if you'd 'a' been here, you'd'a' separated them dogs, if they'd a-chawed your arms off; that you wasvery particular about such things; and that it would be a pity if he wasto think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman, when I'd often heard you saythat, now you was fixed an' settled, the one thing you would like mostwould be to be made a vestryman."
I sat up straight in my chair.
"Pomona!" I exclaimed, "you didn't tell him that?"
"That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was;an' he says, 'Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very goodthing. I'll speak to some of the members about it. There's two vacanciesnow in our vestry."
I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightestlight.
"Perhaps it may all turn out for the best," she said, "and you may beelected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funnything for a dog-fight to make you a vestry-man."
I could not talk on this subject. "Go on, Pomona," I said, trying tofeel resigned to my shame, "and tell us about that poster on the fence."
"I'll be to that almost right away," she said. "It was two or three daysafter the dog-fight that I was down at the barn, and happenin' to lookover to Old John's, I saw that tree-man there. He was a-showin' hisbook to John, and him and his wife and all the young ones was a-standin'there, drinkin' down them big peaches and pears as if they was all real.I know'd he'd come here ag'in, for them fellers never gives you up; andI didn't know how to keep h
im away, for I didn't want to let the dogsloose on a man what, after all, didn't want to do no more harm than totalk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice, as I came to thehouse, how kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought perhapsI might make it look worse, and he wouldn't care to deal here. So Ithought of puttin' up a poster like that, for nobody whose place wasa-goin' to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So I run inthe house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And sure enough, the man hecome along soon, and when he looked at that paper, and tried the gate,an' looked over the fence an' saw the house all shut up an' not a livin'soul about,--for I had both the dogs in the house with me,--he shook hishead an' walked off, as much as to say, 'If that man had fixed his placeup proper with my trees, he wouldn't 'a' come to this!' An' then, as Ifound the poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other peoplefrom comin' a-botherin' around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin'to be sure and take it down before you came."
As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomonashould postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said thatthere was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did notfeel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was veryparticular.
When we were alone, I said to Euphemia:
"If we ever have to go away from this place again--"
"But we wont go away," she interrupted, looking up to me with as brighta face as she ever had, "at least not for a long, long, long time tocome. And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman."