Part 14

“I understand, Mr. Jarvis,” assented the detective. “And I will tell you frankly that my own initial impressions—and I have learned to rely somewhat on first impressions as being in the main correct—are that the person referred to is somewhat inconstant, easily led, excitable, with all the faults of youth and—quite possibly”—he paused to again study the face before him, “—many of its virtues. He is, on his own testimony, selfish, extravagant, passionate.” He shook his head slowly. “I should not,” he went on, “care to trust such a man with interests calling for a high degree of business sagacity or—er—let us say sober industry. I believe it was something of the sort you questioned.”

Jarvis threw himself back in his chair. His haggard eyes met the detective’s squarely.

“Is the fellow fit to marry a good and pure woman?” he asked. “Could he command her respect and hold her affection? That’s test enough for me.”

Mr. Todd moved uneasily in his chair.

“Oh, as to that,” he hesitated, “there are all sorts of women, you know. Some of ’em like a man all the better—or appear to—if he—well; if he isn’t too good, you know. I’ve known a woman,” he went on strongly, “to marry a man who’d drink and abuse her, and yet she’d love him and stick to him to the last. There’s something queer about women, when it comes to loving a man. His character doesn’t seem to count for so much as you’d suppose.”

Jarvis assented dryly.

“You think the person in question would be likely to—do as you suggested?”

“It would be a toss-up,” said Mr. Todd thoughtfully, “as to whether he’d settle down into a steady, respectable sort of a citizen, or—” he paused to button his coat painstakingly “—the opposite. I’ll follow him up a while longer,” he went on, “and report from day to day. In a case like this, where you don’t feel like trusting your own judgment, it’s best to let facts talk.”

Mr. Todd looked searchingly into the depths of his hat.

“Facts will talk, you know,” he said confidently. “They’re bound to. Sooner or later, something comes along that tells the story. I’ve shadowed many a person in the past as could tell you that, sir, from behind prison bars.”

XX

PEG MORRISON emulating (through the long summer months) the shining examples reported in the agricultural papers, found himself half-owner of a prodigious yield of onions in the early autumn. Day after day he had toiled amid the long lines of odorous shoots; weeding, when weeding was a back-breaking task under pitiless summer suns, and early and late stirring the baked soil—for the onion specialists laid great stress on intensive cultivation. Viewing the great heaps of shining bulbs, red, yellow, and silver-hued, spread out in the various barns to dry, Mr. Morrison felt inclined to break forth into singing, moved by something of the same exultant spirit which has prompted successful agriculturists from the days of the first harvests, reaped from the bosom of the virgin earth.

“Let everlastin’ thanks be thine, Fer sech a bright displa-a-y [he chanted] Es makes a world o’ darkness shine With beams o’ heavenly da-a-y!”

Martha Cottle, her maiden countenance coyly shaded by a ruffled pink sun-bonnet, and bearing the egg-basket ostentatiously in one hand, paused on the threshold of the barn.

“Why, Mis-ter Morrison,” she exclaimed, “what a wonderful harvest of onions! I never saw anything like it.”

“This ain’t all of ’em, either,” quoth Peg, pausing long enough in his labors to wipe the beaded perspiration from his forehead. “The only thing that gits me is what to do with ’em, now ’t I’ve got ’em. The’ ain’t a quarter of ’em out the ground yit.”

“You should have thought of that before,” Miss Cottle said wisely. “If you keep them too long they’ll rot or freeze out here.”

“They sure will,” agreed Peg, with some anxiety. “I’ve got to do somethin’ with ’em quick. I’ll bet,” he added, “that I’ve got nigh onto three thousand bushels—two, anyhow. The’d ’a’ b’en more, only part of ’em didn’t come up, an’ some was spoiled b’ the dry weather. I didn’t put in more’n half I intended to, neither. I d’clar I don’t see how that thar John Closner of Hidalgo, Texas, made out to plant an’ cultivate thirty-two acres of onions; an’ what in creation he done with twenty-eight thousan’ eight hunderd bushels when he got ’em raised beats me. The’s an awful lot o’ onions in a hunderd bushels, seems t’ me.”

Miss Cottle reflected, her eyes on Mr. Morrison’s heated countenance.

“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you’d care to take any advice from _me;_ but I know what _I’d_ do, if I’d raised all those onions.”

“I ain’t proud,” Mr. Morrison confessed handsomely. “I’d take advice f’om a Leghorn hen, ef it p’intedly hit the nail on the head. Fire away, ma’am. Ef you’ve got any good idees, it’s reelly wrong t’ keep ’em to yourself, they’re kind o’ scurse these days.”

He looked whimsically at the lady, whose earnest attention appeared to be divided pretty evenly between the shining heaps of vegetables and himself.

“I don’t believe I shall ever smell onions again without thinking of you, Peleg,” Miss Cottle observed sentimentally.

“‘’Tis sweet to be remembered,’” quoted Peg gallantly.

Miss Cottle sighed deeply; then started as if suddenly frightened by her own thoughts.

“What,” she demanded, dropping her basket, which was fortunately empty, “did I say?”

“W’y, nothin’ in pertic’lar, ma’am,” replied Peg. “You was speakin’ o’ disposin’ o’ th’ onions, an’——”

“Yes; but I called you by your Christian name. I called you—_Peleg!_ What _must_ you think of me?”

“Ev’rybody mostly calls me Peleg, er Peg. I ain’t pertic’lar es t’ that. But how ’bout them onions? You was sayin’——”

“I was about to inform you that my brother-in-law’s nephew is connected with the Washington Market in New York City,” said Miss Cottle, with a long, quivering sigh. “I had thought of writing to him, if you cared to have me. I should be _glad_ to do _something_—for you, Peleg. There! I’ve said it again.”

“It’s mighty kind of you to write t’ your relation. I’m bleeged t’ you, ma’am. Washin’ton Market, Noo York City, soun’s good t’ me. But d’ye s’pose the’s folks enough thar t’ eat all them onions?”

He shook his head doubtfully.

“The loft t’ the kerridge house is full of ’em, an’ the hay barn floor’s covered, an’ the’s a lot more in the ground, es I was sayin’.”

Miss Cottle seated herself on an upturned bushel-basket and gazed earnestly at the successful grower of onions.

“I wish to talk to you _seriously_, Mr. Morrison, on a subject _very near my heart_,” she said. “Will you not sit down on this box”—indicating a place at her side—“and listen?”

“I’d ought t’ be gittin’ them onions out th’ groun’,” protested Peg, with a wary glint in his eye. But he sat down gingerly on the edge of the box.

“I’ve been thinking _deeply_ on the situation here on the farm,” pursued Miss Cottle. “I do not feel that I am doing _right_ to remain here longer, _under the circumstances_.”

Peg fumbled the rampant locks behind his left ear, in a fashion he had when perplexed.

“Under the circumstances,” he repeated dubiously. “The circumstances is all right; ain’t they?”

“I appear to have dropped into the position of hired girl to Barbara Preston,” pursued the spinster acidly. “She did her own work previous to my coming; now I do most of it. But that isn’t all; I was engaged as housekeeper and caretaker for that boy. She was to go away and _stay_ for five years.”

“Mebbe she’ll go soon now,” hazarded Peg. He shook his head slowly. “Kind o’ funny ’bout that business,” he murmured. “I dunno who in creation bid her in.”

“I shouldn’t mind that so much,” pursued Miss Cottle, “but——”

She paused dramatically to allow the full force of her remark to fall on the unsuspecting man.

“There’s been considerable talk in the village lately—_about you and me_. It’s come to me straight.”

“No!” exclaimed Peg, hastily gaining his legs and feeling for his pipe in his rear breeches pocket with agitated haste.

“Don’t you believe it, ma’am.”

“Can you deny,” intoned Miss Cottle strongly, “that the subject of your attentions to me was brought up and discussed in Hewett’s grocery store less than a week ago?”

“I said it wa’n’t so, ma’am; I told ’em the’ wa’n’t nothin’ in it.”

“_You_ told them, Peleg Morrison? _You_ denied that you intended to marry me? How could you?”

“W’y, ma’am, you know——”

“You should, at least, have afforded _me_ the opportunity of denying the report—if it was to be denied.”

Miss Cottle buried her face in her hands.

“I supposed,” she went on, in a smothered voice, “that you had more regard for the sacred feelings of a good woman. I thought, Peleg, you—cared—a little—for me.”

“Oh, my! Gosh—goll—durn—what—in—thunder——”

Miss Cottle’s strong, determined hand shot out and fastened tentacle-like upon the unfortunate Peleg’s sleeve.

“I shall leave this very day—_never_ to return,” she said, in a hollow voice, “unless you and I come to an understanding. I cannot endure it longer.”

“O Lord!” exclaimed Peg prayerfully.

“I _love_ that _dear_ little boy as if he was my _own_,” pursued Miss Cottle sentimentally, “and I _feel_ that my _duty_ calls me to remain and care for him; but——”

“I reelly hope you won’t go on my ’count, ma’am,” faltered Peg, moved by these protestations and once more mindful of Barbara’s exhortations.

“_Peleg!_” exclaimed Miss Cottle beatifically, and instantly relaxed upon his shoulder.

“Say, ma’am! You know—reelly, I——”

“I am _so_ happy, Peleg!” gurgled the spinster.

“Wall, I ain’t; I——”

“I knew you would understand my feelings.”

“But I don’t, ma’am. Kindly set down, an’——”

“I shall remain _now_ and do my duty with a _light heart_. I feel that the arrangement will be _much better_ for _all_ concerned, and I can make you _so_ comfortable, Peleg. You need half a dozen new shirts, and shall I confess it? I have them nearly completed already.”

Mr. Morrison, looking wildly about for a means of escape, caught sight of Jimmy running past the door, a brace of puppies frolicking at his heels.

“Hello, thar, Cap’n!” he called, “don’t you want t’ step in here an’——”

“The _dear_ child,” murmured Miss Cottle, wiping her eyes on her apron. “He shall be the first to share our happiness. I am going to be married to your kind old friend here, James; aren’t you _glad_, my boy?”

Jimmy gazed doubtfully at the pair from under puckered brows.

“Married?” he echoed. “What for?”

“Say, Cap’n, you’ve struck the nail on the head, es usual!” cried Peg, regaining his composure with an effort. “I guess the lady don’t altogether know her own mind. She was kind o’ calc’latin’ on bein’ married t’ me. But she’s thought better of it b’ now, an’ I’m bearin’ up es well es I kin under the circumstances. The’ ain’t goin’t’ be no weddin’. No, sir! She’s changed her mind sence she come in here. D’ye hear, ma’am? You couldn’t put up with ol’ Peg Morrison. Y’ tried to, f’om a strict sense o’ duty; but y’ reelly couldn’t do it.”

“_Peleg!_” exclaimed Miss Cottle sharply. “You must have taken leave of your senses!”

“No, ma’am, I ain’t. The Cap’n here’ll bear witness that I said you’d give me up. That’ll put a stop t’ the talk—ef the’ is any. You c’n tell ’em that. I won’t deny it. I c’n stan’ it.”

A light as of tardy victory dawned in Miss Cottle’s eyes.

“You won’t deny that we’ve been engaged to be married?” she said slowly.

“No, ma’am; you c’n say anythin’ you’ve a mind to. It’s all the same t’ me, now ’t you’ve give me up. I feel turrible bad—all broke up; but I’m a-goin’ t’ stan’ it the best I kin. Religion ’ll help some, I guess. It gene’lly does. I’ll try it, anyhow.”

“I might reconsider,” observed Miss Cottle, “before”—she added darkly—“the affair becomes public. I fear the notoriety will be very hard for you to bear, Peleg.”

“It will, ma’am,” replied Peg with alacrity; “but I’m goin’ t’ try an’ endure it.”

Miss Cottle meditatively stirred the onions with one foot clad substantially in rusty leather.

“I shall hold you to the engagement which you have acknowledged,” she said firmly, “unless——”

“What? Fer goodness sake don’t keep me on tenter-hooks, ma’am! W’y, say, you don’t want me! I ain’t fit t’ wipe m’ feet on your door-mat; you’ve said so lots o’ times; ain’t she, Cap’n? I’m an ornary cuss; more ornary ’n you hev any idee of; an’ I’m humbly’s a hedge-fence, ’n’—’n’ bad-tempered; m’ disposition’s somethin’ fierce. The Cap’n here c’n tell you that. W’y, land, I dunno but what I’d be drove to drink, ef I was t’ git married! I’ll bet I would. An’ what with my t’bacco—y’ know y’ hate that like pison, an’ m’——”

“If my brother-in-law’s nephew should make you an offer for these onions, I feel that I ought to have a share in the proceeds,” said Miss Cottle, suddenly abandoning sentiment for business. “If we were to carry out our engagement of marriage, of course I should reasonably expect to profit by the arrangement.”

“No, ma’am; you wouldn’t, not whilst I was alive. I’m downright stingy. That’s another thing I fergot t’ mention. Stingy? W’y, I’m closter ’n the bark t’ a tree. ’Nough sight closter, ’cause the bark’ll give when the tree grows. But not Peleg Morrison; no, ma’am! I’ll bet you wouldn’t git ’nough t’ eat, with me fer a pervider. An’ I’ve made up my mind long ago to leave ev’rythin’ I’ve got t’ the Cap’n here. M’ will’s all made. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you—a hunderd dollars cash, ef I sell the onions, ’n ef you——”

“Make it two hundred, and I’ll agree to let you off. You couldn’t do me out of my widow’s third, anyway you’d fix it.”

Peg stared at the determined spinster in silence for a long minute. Then with a muttered exclamation, he dashed out of the barn and disappeared.

Miss Cottle’s eyes sparkled with animosity.

“If I was to sue him for breach of promise, and I could do it, too, I guess he——”

She paused in her meditations to stare wrathfully at the spectacle of the recalcitrant Peleg returning at full speed, a small, yellow-leaved book in his hand.

“Here we be, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “Now we’ll see whar we’re at. I gene’lly find somethin’ t’ fit the ’casion, an’ I’ll bet I kin this time.”

He rapidly turned the pages with a moistened thumb and fingers.

“‘Receipt fer horse linament.’ No; that won’t do. ‘Foot an’ mouth disease,’ ‘How t’ git fat; an’ how not t’ git fat,’ ‘Blind staggers, ‘n’ how t’ pervent,’ ‘Jell-cake—— ’”

“What,” demanded Miss Cottle sharply, “is that book? And what possible connection does it have with our affairs?”

Mr. Morrison paused, his thumb in his mouth.

“W’y, this,” he explained, “is my book of vallable inf’mation. It’s got ev’rythin’ to do with ’em, ma’am. I ain’t never be’n exactly in this ’ere fix b’fore; but I’ll bet the’s inf’mation in this ’ere book ’at’ll fit the case all right. You jus’ set down, ma’am, an’ make yourself comf’table, while——”

“This is outrageous!” snapped Miss Cottle.

“Maybe I’d better run and get my book, too,” volunteered Jimmy, who had been an interested but sadly puzzled spectator of the scene. “P’raps there’ll be somethin’ vallable in mine.”

“All right, Cap’n; run ’long,” said Peg briskly. “Now, listen t’ this, ma’am. ‘The sleepin’ fox ketches no poultry.’ That’s good; but the trouble is you ’pear to be wide-awake. Hold on; don’t git ’xcited. Here’s a little inf’mation on the subjec’ o’ fools. I copied it out the almanac nigh onto twenty years ago, an’ it can’t be beat. ‘’Xperience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.’ An’ this, ’t I got out o’ a story book, ‘The’ ain’t nothin’ so becomin’ t’ a fool es a shet mouth.’ An’ mebbe this here has some bearin’s on the case: ‘Don’t meddle with these three things: a buzz-saw, a kickin’ mule, an’ a woman’s ’at’s mad clear through.’ They’re all alike in one pertic’lar——”

“I shall certainly sue for breach of promise!” announced Miss Cottle, treading recklessly among the onions on her way to the door.

“No, ma’am; you won’t,” quoth Peg placidly. “‘Whar the’s be’n no promise thar c’n be no breach.’ I wrote that down ’bout the year fifty-nine. I wa’n’t ’s old’s I be now; but I’ve kep’ it in mind pretty constant. You fix it so ’t I’ll sell them onions at a fair profit ’n’ I’ll give ye a hunderd dollars. ’N’ you c’n tell your lady friends that ol’ Peg Morrison’s sech a scalawag ’at you couldn’t hear t’ marryin’ him, not ef he was the las’ man on earth. An’ that’s the truth. You couldn’t hear t’ it, an’ you c’n bet I wouldn’t.”

“I shall leave this house to-day.—_To-day_, Peleg Morrison; do you _hear_?”

Peg glanced up from his anxious scrutiny of the pages of accumulated lore with a look of deep thankfulness.

“Sho! you don’t say so?” he exclaimed. “Wall, take this ’long with you t’ med’tate over: ‘A blue-bottle fly makes a turrible sight of loud buzzin’, but take notice ’at it don’t git anywhar.’ An’ this: ‘Run your head into a stone wall, ef you feel like doin’ it; but don’t blame the wall none fer what happens.”

Jimmy running blithely toward the barn with his book of Vallable Inf’mation in one hand and his cherished bottle of red ink in the other, met the irate Miss Cottle on the way.

“I’m a-going to do _once_ what I’ve been simply _achin’_ to do ever since I set foot onto this place!” she cried shrilly; and seizing the child by the shoulder she gave him a violent shaking, concluding with a hard-handed slap or two over the ear.

“Take _that_, you little tyke, you! If I’d ’a’ had you in hand for five years steady, with her gone, I’d ’a’ taken some of the laugh and smartness out of you! But now I wash my hands of you and her and him!”

The child, too astonished to cry out, writhed out of the spinster’s bony grip.

“I ’spise you,” he sputtered, “you ol’—ol’—Cottle woman! ’n’—’n’—I’ll put it in my Vallable Inf’mation book ’at you—slapped me when I was good!”

Miss Cottle made another dive at him, and was met by a copious shower of red ink from the loosely corked bottle, which Jimmy discharged at his assailant with the practised aim of the small boy. Then he took to his heels, to be received into asylum by Peg Morrison, who was watching the proceedings from the barn-door.

“Wall, Cap’n,” he said, “you sure did put that red ink to good use. Don’t you cry, son; I’ll git ye another bottle twict es big b’fore sun-down.”

He chuckled deep within his capacious chest as he smoothed the little boy’s ruffled curls with his big, horny hand.

“You an’ me’ll hev to write out a little vallable inf’mation on the subjec’ o’ females,” he said slowly. “The’s all kinds an’ varieties of wimmin-folks; ’n’ t’ git ’em all sorted an’ labelled, so ’t ye won’t git teetotally fooled ’ll take the better part of a lifetime.”

XXI

BARBARA was shut into her chamber looking over her wardrobe with a view to approaching winter. In the autumn the call would come, Jarvis had told her. Already the ripening apples glowed like live coals along the laden orchard boughs, and the brisk September winds scattered drifts of yellowing leaves about the feet of the early dying locusts below her windows. Martha Cottle was gone, after a stormy scene in which she had exacted redress and largesse of the most lavish description. Barbara had drawn a long breath of relief when the last echo of the spinster’s strident voice and the last militant thump of her flat-heeled shoes had died away.

Peg and Jimmy had openly exulted in the final retreat of the enemy; and Peg took occasion to exhort his dearly beloved mistress anew concerning the inscrutable yet invariably benevolent workings of Providence, as signally evidenced in the hasty departure of Martha Cottle.

“Ef it hadn’t be’n fer them onions,” he declared, “she’d never have took a fancy t’ me. ’N’ ef I hadn’t ’a’ heard o’ John Closner of Hidalgo, Texas, ’s like’s not I’d ’a’ never took t’ raisin’ ’em. Them onions kinder drored Marthy’s ’tention t’ me—she thinkin’ ’at mebbe I’d git a heap o’ money fer ’em, ’n’ then be accommodatin’ ’nough t’ die an’ go t’ heaven immediate. Yes, ma’am, she’d got it all worked out in her own mind, even t’ widow’s thirds. Then, y’ see, the Cap’n’s red ink fitted right in t’ the scheme o’ salvation; an’ here we be. I figger it this way: the Lord hes be’n ’quainted with Marthy Cottle fer a spell longer’n we hev, an’ _He_ knew she wa’n’t fit t’ b’ left in charge o’ the Cap’n, t’ say nothin’ o’ things in general.”

“But what shall I do with Jimmy?” murmured Barbara, wrinkling her forehead perplexedly. “It won’t be long now before I shall be obliged to leave him.”

“Don’t you worry none ’bout that,” advised Peg. “Everythin’s a-comin’ out all right. I’ll bet a dollar’n a half,” he went on, raising his voice to a high argumentative pitch, “that the Lord hes got his plans all made a’ready. W’y, Miss Barb’ry, it’ll do you a heap o’ good t’ jus’ take notice o’ the way the Lord kind o’ fetches things ’round in this ’ere world. I’ve got so ’t I don’t put in a minute worryin’. Daytimes I’m too blamed busy, an’ nights I’m too sleepy ’n’ tired; ’n’ I’ve learned f’om a long life of experience ’at worryin’ ain’t no kind o’ use, anyhow. Things is bein’ worked ’round fer you, nigh an’ fur, an’ the fust thing you know you’re gittin’ ’long all hunky-dory. Mebbe doin’ the very thing you wanted to do all the while, but thought you couldn’t, nohow you’d fix it.”

“I wish I could believe it,” sighed Barbara.

“All you’ve got t’ do is t’ begin t’ take notice,” urged Peg. “You don’t have t’ make no speshul effort. Keep yer eyes peeled an’ watch out. I ain’t worryin’ none ’bout the Cap’n. You bet I ain’t.”

Barbara was thinking about Peg’s homely and comfortable philosophy as she laid the last neatly folded garment into the till of her trunk; and mingled with her dubious musings on the scope and nature of that mysteriously active power, known in current phrase as “Providence,” and as commonly reckoned hostile, in the world’s judgment, were thoughts of David. Not altogether happy were these uppermost reflections in Barbara’s mind, as evidenced by her brooding eyes and the downward droop of her red mouth. She loved David (she assured herself) yet she could not but be conscious of inward reserves, tremors, even resentments. She constantly caught herself explaining, excusing, defending him before the bar of that clear-eyed self which had never yet yielded to his hot kisses and close embraces. She loved him (she was sure) but she also pitied him, for his evident weaknesses, his frequent deflections from her own high ideals of manhood, for his multiplied offenses against her maiden modesty. Almost insensibly she had been forced into an attitude of watchfulness, guarding herself against his too ardent and careless approaches, soothing the gloom and irritation which alternated with not infrequent periods of coldness and neglect, when he chanced to be feeling sorry for himself, in view of what he was pleased to regard as the sacrifice of his future.

David had not acquainted Barbara with the result of his latest interview with Jarvis. He hated Jarvis, and he took small pains to conceal the fact; but he jealously hid his unshaken conviction with regard to the money, which he had made up his mind Jarvis had given to Barbara. After a little he even concluded that it need not be repaid.

“Miserly old crab,” he told himself. “It won’t hurt him to let Barbara have that much out of his pile.”

Something of this thought colored his words when he discussed the question with Barbara.

“You’ll marry me in November, won’t you?” he pleaded, “if the fellow doesn’t show up before then? We can pay him all right—if we have to.”

“If we have to?” echoed Barbara, with a straight look at him. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s a good bit of money—four thousand dollars. Perhaps some—er—philanthropical jay gave it to you outright, Barbie. I shouldn’t be so very much surprised.”

He laughed at the proud curl of her lips.