Chapter 7

Now Steve had never in his college days, ranked as an athlete, but as he flew over the ground that night, with the long rope that bridged the difference betwixt himself and Sarah Maria quite taut, he had an injured feeling, as of one to whom injustice had been done. Not even the champion runner had ever made such time.

The violence of his gait would have proved exhaustive had it been too long continued, but Sarah Maria was merciful, and ere long Steve came upon her standing in her box-car attitude. She loosened up by-and-by and again started toward home with the speed of a race-horse, but this time Steve was in front, and could his friends have seen how well he kept in front they would have covered him with adulation.

Before long the rope was taut once more, and Steve's sense of security was in such marked and delightful contrast to his feelings when it slackened that he told Sarah Maria repeatedly to take her time--he was in no hurry whatever. Neither was Sarah, apparently, for between balking and running, and capering about in a truly extraordinary manner she passed the better portion of the night. Finally, in despair, Steve laid the case before her and asked if she would look at the matter dispassionately and consider the lateness of the hour and their distance from the domestic roof--would she, he urged, keep this great central truth in sight?

She said that she would not, and she said it so rudely that Steve felt hurt. When he had gotten up and given himself a good rubbing, he found that Sarah Maria, like some little angel, had gone before, and he hobbled after her as fast as his bruises would permit.

They reached home at last, and a late moon glowered down at them with calm severity. Truth to tell, both Steve and Sarah looked as if they had been on a spree, and both were callous as to appearances. Their one idea was to part company as soon as possible.

Out of respect to the Society for the Prevention, and so forth, Steve decided to give his interesting companion a drink; then he would have done with her forever. Having secured her to a near tree, he approached the pump, pail in hand.

But Sarah Maria was watching him narrowly, and as she looked there rankled in her seemingly quiet breast the memory of her wrongs. There was still a twist in her tail, left over from the box-car, and several kinks in her temper, and influenced by these she approached Steve just as he bent to lift the pail, and slipping her horns under him, dexterously lifted him from the ground and sent him crashing through the nearest window, which chanced to be that of his chamber.

"For the love of mercy!" screamed Nannie, starting up from her sleep in the next room, "what is happening now?"

"I'm coming to bed," said Steve.

XI

Steve was so used up by his rural experiences that he could scarcely get out of bed the next day. And that was not the worst of it: his temper was bruised as well as his body, as was manifest by the way he behaved. Not that he stormed or sulked; Steve was above anything of this kind; but he did speak very decidedly, for him, as he rose from his late breakfast.

"Nannie," he said, "you may do as you wish about the cow. I think it might be well to sell her for beef--she is in good condition. But do as you wish about that--she is yours; but I really cannot undertake to have anything more to do with her."

For some time after Steve left the house Nannie sat staring in the direction in which he had disappeared. She was as much amazed as she had been the day he fought the Andersonvilles, but less elated.

"Well," she said to herself at last, "the upshot of it all is, he's given Sarah Maria notice. I wonder if he will give me notice next?"

She walked slowly into the kitchen, where a stout, red-faced woman was at work.

"Bridget," she said, "can you milk?"

"Shure I kin; an' why?"

"Because Mr. Loveland won't milk Sarah Maria any more."

"No more wud I, an' he's stud it so long. Shure he's been loike a lamb beside her, an' she hookin' him full o' holes till his poor body cud be used for a sieve."

"Oh, what shall I do!" cried Nannie pettishly. "You're all of you as mean as you can be! I won't sell her for beef! I just won't!"

"No more you needn't, me darlint! There, now, don't take on so. Shure it's mesilf'll manage it wid yez somehow, though it's loike the both of us will nade the praste an' extrame unction before we're t'rough wid her."

Nothing daunted Nannie sallied forth, followed by Bridget, who grumbled all the way.

"Faith, in ould Oireland it's mesilf milked twinty cows at wan sittin', an' they standin' forninst me widout a word loike lambs till I was ready fer the nixt wan."

"Well, now, that's great!" interrupted Nannie. "Steve has left her right out here. I wonder why he did that?"

Mrs. Maria stared fixedly at her, once in awhile tossing her horns. There was a glare in her eye, by the light of which one might read her thoughts.

"Just here," she was saying to herself, "Steve and I fought to a finish, and I saw the last of him as he flew through yonder window."

"Set a pail of food forninst her now, Miss Nannie, an' she'll run to the cow-yard," called Bridget.

This ruse proved successful. As soon as she saw the food the delighted Sarah kicked up her heels and, flourishing her head in such a manner that it seemed to comprehend everything in its wide swath, ran into the cow-yard, where Nannie skillfully lassoed her and tied her to the fence just as she plunged her nose into the pail.

Meanwhile Bridget, terrified by these lively humors, had started toward the house, and her desire for speed exceeding her physical ability, she soon measured her length upon the ground, where she lay, roaring lustily, under the impression that the enemy was upon her.

"What are you howling for, you old goose?" shouted Nannie.

"It's the cow!" screamed Bridget. "Take her off! Oh, howly Mither! I'm kilt entirely."

"The cow is half a mile from you!" laughed Nannie. "She didn't even look toward you."

"Shure I felt her horns go into me back, an' as the saints live in glory, I see thim come out at me brist."

"Well, I wish I could see you come out at the cow-yard with that milk pail."

Bridget picked up her pieces, put herself together, and discontentedly ambled toward the cow-yard, averring that in spite of all Nannie might say, she knew she had a hole an inch wide in her left lung; she could feel the wind whistle through it.

"There's nothing the matter with your lungs," said Nannie, "as all the neighborhood knows by this time."

With a long, solemn countenance and a tear in each eye, Bridget approached Sarah Maria, who was breakfasting in a hasty, unhygienic manner.

"It's me life I take in me hand," murmured Bridget.

"Drop your life and take your pail instead, or are you going to milk into your apron?" said Nannie imperiously.

"Oh, me pail! Shure the head of me is turned intirely, bad cess to that cow! or I believe there's a hole through it, loike there is in me lung."

"Your head turned!" said Nannie scornfully. "I should say it was--turned inside out and emptied entirely."

But Bridget was wooing Mrs. Maria now.

"Aisy, now! Aisy, I say!" she muttered as she cautiously lowered herself onto the milking stool.

But by some mysterious law of opposites, as she went down the pail went up. Sarah Maria never ceased munching for a moment, but Nannie, who was fixedly regarding her and trying to calculate how much longer her breakfast would last, heard the crash, and looking around saw the pail on its way upward.

"Now may the saints forgive me if I imperil me life anny longer!" cried Bridget from a safe distance.

"And may Sarah Maria forgive you for sitting down on the wrong side of her, you old goose!" screamed Nannie in her rude way.

"Howly Mither defind us! Did I do that now? Shure the twinty cows I milked in ould Oireland preferred that side, an' they were very particular about it, ivery last wan of thim."

"Now, don't crawl along that way," said Nannie impatiently as Bridget crept up to her, "and take hold as if you weren't afraid."

"Shure if I had a shillalah wid a sucker on the ind of it, it's milk her I wud, widout anny loss of me color, though she thritened me wid twinty horns an' as manny hind legs."

"Oh, you've got several bees in your bonnet, that's what's the matter with you!" exclaimed Nannie.

"Is it bees, ye say? Air they loose too?" screamed Bridget, jerking off her sunbonnet and tearing down her hair. "Is it bees as well as cows in me hid, an' ye standin' laffin loike ter kill yersilf at the very idee of me bein' murdered in cold blud!"

By this time her hair was distraught and her face flaming with excitement and exertion, and altogether she so closely resembled some avenging spirit that even Sarah Maria began to tremble before her.

As soon as Nannie could control herself she informed her that the terrifying words she used were merely a figure of speech.

"Clothed or not clothed----" Nannie began, but Bridget burst forth:

"An' I wuldn't hev belaved that anny young leddy wid a dacent raisin' wud use figgers of spache, widout clothes at that. It's Bridget O'Flannigan'll see if----"

But here Nannie's screams of laughter interrupted her.

"I believe you've a brick in your bonnet as well as a bee," she exclaimed.

This time Bridget understood, and clapping her sunbonnet (upside down) onto her disrumpled head, she wabbled toward the house.

This would never do, so Nannie ran and planted herself in front of her.

"Come, now, Bridget--dear Bridget, don't be mad with me," she said coaxingly.

Bridget had come to Mrs. Lamont's when Nannie was little more than eight years of age, and through the succeeding years of childhood and girlhood had been her stanch friend and her confidante in many a time of trouble.

"What shall I do with my cow? You surely will help me out!"

The fire faded from Bridget's flaming countenance, and she paused, irresolute as to her course.

"You won't desert me, Bridget, I know!" pleaded Nannie softly.

"Sure it's not Bridget O'Flannigan will desart an orphin child; but I make it distinct, an' ye hear me now, that I'm a respictable woman, not given to takin' a dhrop too much or too little, an' I won't stan' an' be insulted, an' me twilve years over from ould Oireland come Saint Patrick's Day. An' even if I am doin' disrespictful work now, milkin' an ould cow in which the divil has taken up his risidince, I want yez still ter handle me character wid care."

No doubt Sarah Maria was awed by this address, or else the very uncomplimentary manner in which she herself was alluded to startled her into a realization of the steep down which she was rushing and toward what pit her path inclined. Be that as it may, she contentedly munched the second pail of food which Nannie brought her, and granted the trembling Bridget peace and quiet in which to extract the cream and invoke the saints.

XII

Soon after the milking ordeal was at an end Nannie started over to the house of her cousins, the Misfits. It chanced that she happened upon this ill-mated couple in the nick of time.

"Glad to see you, Nan," exclaimed Mr. Misfit. "I have a day off, and Mrs. Misfit wants to take the boat trip. You must go with us."

"Yes, we've never been, and I told Henry we really ought to go! I am tired of being asked if I don't think it's pleasant, and having to say I don't know anything about it."

"You'll have to fly around and get ready, then, for we must take the next train in if we want to catch that boat. You'll go," he added as his wife slipped away to dress, "won't you, Nannie?"

Nannie stood regarding him with one of her elfin looks.

"You need me, don't you?" she said.

He laughed rather awkwardly. He always felt uncomfortable when Nannie looked at him that way.

"Why, yes, of course. We shall be glad of your company."

"I know why you wanted me to-day," said Nannie later on, when she was sitting out on the deck of the boat with him while Mrs. Misfit was taking a nap in the saloon.

He turned and looked at her, and saw it would be of no use to try to evade.

"There's something uncanny about this girl," he said to himself.

"You wanted me--you and Lillie both wanted me to stand between you. You couldn't endure each other's company for a day. It would bore you to death."

"You are right," he said simply. "It would bore me. I don't know about Lillie."

"Well, I can tell you," said Nannie, speaking in no uncertain tone. "You are just as uninteresting to her as she is to you."

He caught his breath.

"You are complimentary, I must say."

"I know all about it. It's something like this with Steve and me. We don't bore each other, but we don't know what to say."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

Nannie sat silent for a moment. Evidently she was revolving matters mentally. Finally she turned to her companion, and with a roguish smile, which shone like a sunbeam out from overhanging curls, said:

"I suppose I'll have to 'perk up' a little."

"I don't speak Hindoostanee," he replied.

"Well, Steve's above me, you know."

He nodded, but Nannie took no offense. He was thinking. "That's our trouble. I'm above Lillie."

"And I must try to reach him somehow."

"If Lillie would do that----" he began, but Nannie cut him short.

"It's not Lillie, it's _you_! Lillie is above you!"

Again he caught his breath, this time with a gasp, but he was forced to be silent. It would be a strange man indeed who could enter into an argument to prove his wife inferior to himself. He might be thoroughly convinced of this; might even have taken it for granted that others realized the fact, but he could hardly have the face to bring his voluminous arguments on this point to the attention of an outsider.

"I know what you're thinking," said Nannie, and she looked uncanny again. "I can't say these things as well as some people could, but you think because you know books you're better than Lillie. The books can't be the first things, because there must always be men before there can be books; and there must always be some real things, true things, before there can be men. These were there first. The books don't make them, but just refer to them, and the people that have the real things are higher than the books. That's what makes Lillie higher than you."

The man sat thinking for a few moments, then he tried to laugh.

"Really, Nannie," he said, "if one were ill with that horrid disease called Conceit, a quiet half hour with you on the deck of a boat would restore him to health."

Nannie gazed at him defiantly, but said nothing.

"No, I'll tell you, little one, how it all came about," he said rather patronizingly. "Lillie and I married when we were boy and girl. She was seventeen and I was twenty. Lillie was very pretty and that attracted me, and I--well, I don't know just what she saw in me!"

"I've often wondered," said Nannie.

He gave one look of blank amazement and then dropped his hands in dismay.

"Well, I suppose you were more interesting then than you are now," Nannie went on comfortingly.

"I hope so," he said humbly, "but we neither of us knew the other. Our tastes were not formed; our characters were not matured. I grew one way, she grew another; now we care for entirely different things, and as a result we are walking through life together and each is utterly alone."

He was looking off over the big lake now. He had forgotten the annoyances and unpleasant surprises of their conversation. He no longer saw Nannie. A dreary never-ending waste was all that held his mental vision.

Nannie's voice recalled him.

"That's no excuse," she insisted.

He started like a man rudely awakened.

"Who thought of making excuses?" he said rather gruffly.

But down in his heart lay the testimony that convicted him. By this it was proven that he had for thirteen years been excusing himself.

"If you would take an interest you could do something for Lillie and she could do something for you."

He did not jest this away. He was taking an interest now and doing some humiliating thinking, and as a result of all this he stood before himself in a clear, new light, in which it could readily be seen that he was less in need of sympathy than of pardon.

On her way home that afternoon Nannie called at Mrs. Earnest's house, and was boisterously welcomed by the two little ones of the family, Mamie and Jim.

"A story! A story!" they shouted.

"Oh, I can't," said Nannie. "I haven't any in my head."

"Yes, you must! You promised!" urged Jim in an extremely moral tone (he himself was a shocking transgressor in the matter of promises). "You promised! You know you did! You've got to!"

"Well, what shall it be about?"

"Indians!" screamed Jim, "and let them do a lot of killing!"

"No. I want a kitty story," said Mamie.

"I won't have a kitty story--I want a bloody Indian story!" said Jim stoutly.

"I don't know any bloody Indian story, and I wouldn't tell one if I did," said Nannie in her abrupt, decisive way.

"I won't listen, then," pouted Jim.

"Very well. You may go to Kamchatka if you like. Mamie and I are going to have a kitty story."

Mamie cuddled up to Nannie, while Master Jim stalked out of the room. It was observed, however, that he was not above taking up a squatter's claim in the hall and listening through the crack of the door.

"Once upon a time," Nannie began in the old way so fascinating to children--"once upon a time there lived a dear little kitty."

Just at this point the front door opened and Mr. Earnest walked in. Now, Nannie had never fancied this gentleman, and to-night, as she noted his glowering look, she felt a savage desire to annoy him.

"Hello, chick," he said, brusquely In answer to little Mamie's greeting. "Good-evening, Nannie," he added, taking out his paper and seating himself.

As he did so Mrs. Earnest came into the room. She always seemed ill at ease in her husband's presence, though she strove to appear the contrary.

"Why, good-evening, dear," she began. "Are you home?"

"No, I'm not," he said roughly. "Can't you see?"

"I thought I recognized you," she replied, forcing a little laugh.

He made no reply.

"Did you bring the sugar, dear?" she asked presently.

"No, I didn't."

She was depending on this for preserving, and she wanted to ask why he failed, but did not quite dare.

"Can you bring it to-morrow?" she inquired after an awkward pause.

"I don't know," he said gruffly.

Again she hesitated. She was very gentle and naturally timid, and his treatment had increased the latter tendency. At last she mustered strength to say:

"I need it very much."

There was no reply, and directly she left the room.

Now, not one iota of this domestic scene was lost upon Nannie. From the day she had listened to that story told by Constance Chance to her young friend (Mrs. Earnest's oldest child) she had been looking about her sharply. The first direction of eyes newly opened is outward. We see our neighbors--see that instead of performing their part like men they are skulking through life--men as churls, snarling, or it may be stalking, automaton fashion; men as sticks, walking, and we hasten to correct their errors. Our own correction comes afterward, if at all, for as the poet has told us, it were easier to tell twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to do it.

Nannie fastened her eyes upon Mr. Earnest, but as he was now absorbed in his paper he lost the benefit of her fierce glances.

"Why don't you tell?" urged Mamie, who did not relish this interruption to her story.

"Well, once there lived a horrid pig."

"Why, that's not it," said the child pettishly. "It's a kitty."

"No, it's a pig," reiterated Nannie with emphasis. "A horrid, selfish pig!"

"I don't like that," pouted Mamie. "You begin about a kitty, and just as I'm getting interested in her you go off on a pig."

"Well, then, once there was a big, horrid cat."

"You said a dear little kitty," cried Mamie.

"He was a dear little kitty once, I suppose, but he grew up to be a big selfish, glowering, tortoise-shell tomcat."

"Was there any mama kitty?" asked Mamie, who yearned for a gentle element in the story.

"Yes, and she was lovely, so unselfish and kind, but the big, ugly one bullied her all the time till she was afraid to call her soul her own."

"Did they have any teeny weeny kitties?" asked Mamie.

"Yes, three of them. The oldest was very sweet and the next was rather good sometimes, but showed signs of being horrid like the big one when he grew up, and the littlest of all was very cunning and good."

"Did they have a little house?"

"Yes, but it was awfully hard to keep it, because when Mrs. Kitty wanted anything she was afraid to ask old Mr. Cat for it, and when he forgot things, instead of begging her pardon, as he should have done, he would glare at her until she was afraid of her life. Oh, he was an odious old thing! He thought he was very big and handsome, but he was horrid-looking, and everybody hated him and he made everybody wretched. Well, one day Mrs. Kitty was going to give a birthday party for the weeniest kitty. They none of them wanted old Mr. Cat to come, because nobody could have a good time when he was around, but they didn't know how to get rid of him without making him angry--he was always angry at somebody or something.

"Now the family who owned these kitties had some rabbits, and lately something had been killing the rabbits, and they wanted to find out what it was, so they set a trap. Well, on the birthday Mrs. Kitty prepared a nice little dinner; she had some new milk, and a little meat and a bit of cheese, and six little mice. The table was so pretty, and everybody sat down, and there was no end of the fun going on, until suddenly they all stopped talking and laughing, for they saw hateful Mr. Cat. He came sulking and glowering along, as if somebody outside had whipped him and he wanted to take it out of his family. Mrs. Kitty begged him to sit down, and the little kitty told him it was her birthday party.

"'What can I help you to?' asked Mrs. Kitty in her pretty voice, trying not to look frightened.

"'None of this stuff,' he growled. 'Haven't you anything decent to eat?'

"'I'm afraid we haven't anything but this,' said Mrs. Kitty, her teeth chattering with dread for fear he'd pounce on the table and break the dishes. 'Do please take something,' she begged.

"But he only made a great hateful ts-s! and turned away as mad as he could be, and then down he hopped right into the rabbit trap, which happened to be near.

"Out came one of the boys of the family, hallooing and shouting to the others that he had heard the trap go off and knew they'd caught the thief, and the poor little kitties ran away as fast as their small legs would carry them, not stopping to see that horrid old Mr. Cat was held fast."

"What became of Mr. Cat?" asked Mamie.

"He came to a bad end, as all such creatures do," said Nannie in a terrible voice.

At this point Jim's interest outran his pride, and he swung open the door so that he could hear better.

"What became of him?" persisted Mamie.

"He received a sound trouncing," said Nannie.

Just at this juncture of affairs she caught sight of Mr. Earnest's eyes peering at her above his paper. Had they been filled with tears or dark with remorse she might have relented, but, shocking to relate, they were fairly twinkling with merriment, and Nannie perceived that she was amusing her auditor hugely, instead of reading him a terrible lesson, and in her anger she all but lost control of herself.

"Wasn't anything else done to him?" asked Jim in a rather disappointed tone.

"Yes," said Nannie, glaring at Mr. Earnest in a fierce, defiant manner.

"Oh, that's enough to do to him," pleaded little Mamie.

"No, it isn't," said Jim. "He ate up the rabbits."

"Maybe he didn't eat the rabbits," urged tender-hearted Mamie.