Part 8

“Planted t’ onions,” he went on, still addressing his observations to the horses, whose heads drooped sleepily toward the fresh-smelling ground, “this ’ere ten acres ’ll net, anyway you figger it, four hunderd an’ fifty dollars t’ the acre; an’ that’ll total—l’me see, somethin’ like——”

Mr. Morrison’s gaze being wholly introspective at this stage of the mental problem under consideration, he failed to notice the man who came swinging along the road at a smart rate of speed. At sight of the old man leaning meditatively against the fence, a spent dandelion stalk in his mouth, the pedestrian halted.

“Why, hello, Peg!” he called out in a clear and somewhat authoritative voice.

The stranger wore a rough suit of weather-stained tweeds; and his felt hat, set at a becoming angle on his curly head, shaded a face bronzed by sun and wind almost to the color of the full brown beard curling away from his red mouth with a careless boldness repeated in the humorous blue eyes which roved over the shabby old figure by the fence.

He laughed outright at the puzzled look in Morrison’s face.

Then he folded his arms on top of the fence.

“Well, how goes it, old man?” he inquired. “Same lazy old horses—eh? Same job, same season of the year, same old clothes, I should say—even to the red and white bandanna. Makes me feel as if I’d been dreaming. Maybe I have; who knows?”

“Who be ye?” demanded Peg. “Seems ’s ’o I’d seen ye somewhars; but I can’t think whar.”

“Don’t be hasty, my friend,” advised the other, pulling his hat over his laughing eyes. “You’ve forgotten me, and so, apparently, has everyone else. I saw Al Hewett at the station and he told me Miss Preston was unmarried and still at home, and that old Don Preston had gone to his reward a couple of years ago.”

“I c’n see you used t’ live ’round here,” hazarded Peg, shaking his head, “but I can’t seem t’ rec’lect who ye be; ’nless—— If I didn’t know he was dead I might think you was the young feller ’at used t’ teach school in th’ village. Whitcomb, his name was. But he’s been dead a matter o’ three years.”

“That being the case,” said the stranger coolly, “perhaps you’ll tell me about the auction up at the farm. I heard some women asking questions about it at the station.”

“Auction?” repeated Peg. “The’ ain’t no auction at our place—not yet. But you sure do remind me o’ that young school-teacher feller. He got gold crazy, an’ went off——”

“Yes, I know; and got lost on a trail and froze to death,” interrupted the stranger. “So I heard. Sad, wasn’t it? Did they find the body?”

“Not,” said Peg, his puzzled eyes still searching the stranger’s face, “as I heerd tell of.”

“Then you think the coast is clear up at the farm? Is Barbara—Miss Preston—at home?”

“Miss Barb’ry was to home when I come away at six-thirty this mornin’. Say, are you——?”

“I’ll walk over and call on her,” interrupted the young man, with some impatience. “Perhaps Barbara will remember an old friend. Her eyes used to be bright enough.”

Peg unhitched the harrow with fine deliberation.

“Hold on a minute,” he requested, “an’ I’ll step ’long with ye. It’s gittin’ ’long towards noon, anyhow.”

He was furtively studying the younger man’s face and figure, as he let down the bars and drove his horses through.

“B’en doin’ any school-teachin’ sence ye left these parts?” he drawled, as the two struck the road at a pace commensurate to the unhurried gait of the old horses.

“No,” said the stranger. He plunged his hands deep in his pockets, the merriment suddenly gone from his face and eyes.

“Ye look consid’ble older’n ye did,” observed Peg mildly, “an’ the whiskers gives ye a diff’rent look; but come t’ take notice, most anybody’d know ye, though ye must hev knocked ’round consid’able. Hev any luck minin’?”

Whitcomb laughed, throwing back his head as if the question afforded him a vast deal of amusement.

“Luck?” he echoed. “Certainly; a man’s bound to strike luck of one sort or another.”

“That’s a fac’,” agreed Peg sententiously, “an’ you can’t most always sometimes tell one sort f’om the other. What passes fer the worst sort o’ luck ’ll frequent turn out to be fust-rate. I knew a man once——”

He stopped short, his jaw dropping at sight of the numerous vehicles congregated near the house which they were approaching. “I swan!” he ejaculated. “It sure does look like—— But Miss Barb’ry never said nothin’ t’ me. She never tol’ me——”

“I’m going in,” said David Whitcomb, scowling.

Several women congregated near the door stared at him with a resentful air as he made his way masterfully among them.

At one end of the long, low room, his back to the open windows, stood Thomas Bellows, a small bare table in front of him, on which he rested the flat of his outspread hands while haranguing the company ranged on either side, the women for the most part comfortably seated, the men standing in the rear, as if half ashamed to be present.

“Eight hunderd, do I hear?” inquired the auctioneer in a tone of passionate protest, “it bein’ understood there’ll be a five years’ lease on the prop’ty in question? Ladies an’ gents, that ain’t right! Eight hunderd ain’t a patch on what she’s worth. I’ve told you what sort of goods you’re biddin’ on an’ you’ve had the opportunity to see fer yourselves. Eight hunderd ten, do I hear? Who’ll make it a fifty? Eight hunderd fifty; who’ll make it nine hunderd? Come! let me hear some good lively biddin’ on the part of the lady in the green dress. This lady is lookin’ fer an honest, permanent hired girl; she told me so b’fore the biddin’ begun. She’s had a terrible time with hired help; she’s paid ’em high wages, an’ they break her china dishes, steal her clo’es, an——

“That’s right! eight hunderd sixty-five from the young man in the comer. That gentleman knows what’s what; an’ he’s lookin’ fer an A number one helper t’ take west t’ help his wife do the cookin’. W’y, this is the opportunity of a lifetime, an’ if you let it pass—eight hunderd seventy dollars I’m offered, who’ll make it nine hunderd? I’ll tell ye, straight, ladies, this perfec’ly healthy, honest, willin’, agreeable, faithful young woman ain’t goin’t’ be knocked down t’ any of ye at nine hunderd dollars. Don’t think it fer a minute! She’s goin’ to git her price, an’ I know what it is.”

“For God’s sake, what’s going on here?” asked Whitcomb of a man in a fashionable light suit, with a diamond in his shirt-front. “What is the man selling?”

By way of answer the man held up his two hands, the fingers outstretched.

“There you are, ten hunderd dollars I’m offered; one thousand dollars! Who’ll make it eleven? A thousand dollars may sound like a pretty good sum t’ slap down all at once, ladies; but do a little figurin’, if you please! You pay eighteen, twenty, twenty-five dollars a month for a raw, untrained foreigner; can’t speak English, can’t cook, can’t do nothin’, an’ once you get her trained off she goes’s lively’s a flea. Five years of domestic peace in yer home! Five years of perfec’ happiness! Ain’t it worth more’n a measly thousand dollars? The gentleman in the comer says it is; he bids ten hunderd fifty. Ten hunderd fifty, ten hunderd sixty! Oh, come, let’s run ’er up faster! I can’t stan’ here all day foolin’. The gentleman in the corner again. Yes, sir, eleven hunderd! Who’ll make it twelve?”

“Stop long enough to tell me what you’re selling, man,” called the latest comer, in a loud, clear voice. “I didn’t get here in time to find out, and no one will tell me.”

A general murmur of protest arose all over the room. A tall woman, with a high-peaked nose set midway in a large expanse of purplish-red face, arose.

“I’m through!” she announced acidly. “Let me out of here.”

“No, you ain’t, ma’am. Kindly set down in that nice comf’table cheer you’ve been occupyin’ fer about ten minutes longer. I’ll answer this gentleman quick an’t’ the p’int an’ we’ll go on with the biddin’. I’m auctionin’ off five years o’ faithful work an’ service; I’m auctionin’ peace an’ happiness in the home; I’m auctionin’ the educated brains an’ han’s an’ feet of the smartest young lady in this ’ere United States of Ameriky! An’ that’s Miss Barbara Preston. Do you want to bid? Eleven hunderd dollars I’m offered; who’ll make it twelve?”

“It’s an outrage on civilization!” cried the man who had interrupted. “I protest against the sale!”

“Put him out! Put him out!” shouted a dozen voices.

In the midst of the tumult some one signalled twelve hundred, and Thomas Bellows caught the figures. Pounding on the table with his mallet, he commanded order.

“The sale will be continued, and I’m offered twelve hunderd dollars; remember, gentlemen; remember, ladies, your bids will be cancelled if you do not live up to your part of the previous agreement. Spot cash before you leave the room, and a guarantee of honorable service and kind treatment. Gentlemen! Ladies! Your attention, please! Twelve hunderd dollars I’m offered! Twelve hunderd, going! Twelve hunderd dollars! Twelve hunderd, fifty? Yes, sir! Twelve hunderd, sixty! Thirteen hunderd dollars I’m bid by the gentleman by the door. Come down front where we can all see you, sir. Thirteen hunderd, going!—Fourteen hunderd! Now this is something like! Isn’t there any lady present who’ll make it fifteen?”

The woman in the green dress rose in her place.

“This is preposterous!” she cried. “No servant is worth——”

“Be quiet, madam,” commanded the auctioneer. “I’m runnin’ this sale. Fourteen hunderd dollars. Is there any lady or gent in the room who’ll raise it? Fourteen hunderd fifty. Fifteen hunderd!”

“Sixteen hundred!”

The young man in the travel-stained tweeds shook his fist in the face of the small, seedy man, who drawled out his bids in a hoarse, scarcely audible voice.

“Sixteen hunderd I’m offered by the gentleman who has just arrived. Sixteen hunderd, going!”

“Two thousand!” piped the little man in the creased checked suit.

“Twenty-one hundred!” shouted the latest comer, his eyes blazing.

“Twenty-three hundred!” said the engineer in a dogged monotone.

“Twenty-five hundred!” wheezed the man in checks, squinting through his glasses at the paper on which he was setting down the bids with painstaking neatness.

“Twenty-five hunderd dollars I’m offered!” shrilled the auctioneer. “Do you raise it?” He turned to Whitcomb.

“Twenty-six hundred!” cried the engineer excitedly.

“Three thousand!” the hoarse voice of the shabby little stranger interposed.

“Three thousand, one hundred!” snapped Whitcomb.

“Three thousand one hunderd! Who’ll make it four thousand?” The old auctioneer’s voice trembled. He leaned far out over the table, brandishing his mallet wildly.

The man in the checked suit nodded.

“Four thousand dollars I’m bid; who’ll raise it to five?”

The young fellow who had tacitly acknowledged himself to be David Whitcomb groaned aloud.

“I can’t do it!” he said.

There was a general stir and turning of heads as Peg Morrison forced his way through the excited crowd.

“Hold on thar!” he cried, in a loud, tremulous voice. “I’ve been up an’ got my money an’ counted it. I’ll bid on Miss Barb’ry myself. She ain’t a-goin’ t’ leave this ’ere farm t’ go with nobody, ’f I c’n help it! I bid fifty-eight dollars an’ sixty-five cents on Miss Barb’ry, an’ it’s all I’ve got in the world!”

“Four thousand dollars I’m bid!” cried Mr. Bellows, his professional tones easily dominating the babel of voices. “Four thousand dollars, going! Four thousand dollars, going! Four thousand dollars, gone! And sold to this ’ere gentleman. Your name, please!”

The small man, in the checked clothes, cleared his throat weakly and blinked, as he strapped the leathern memorandum book.

“My name’s Smith,” he said, in an apologetic whisper.

“Well, Mr. Smith, you c’n settle right here and now, an’ I’ll give you a signed receipt.”

“Hold on!” blustered Whitcomb, his face flushed to a wrathful crimson. “Who is this fellow, and what does he mean to do with—Barbara?” The last word was a groan of rage and disappointment.

“Excuse me, sir; I’ve got a bad cold an’ can’t talk. I’ll explain to Mr. Bellows here in private. Yes, sir; I’ve got the money all right.”

The woman in the jetted turban and the tall lady in green advanced in a determined way, backed up by three women of the village, burning with neighborly zeal; the countenances of all five expressed blended curiosity and disapproval. The small man in the checked suit endeavored to shrink behind Mr. Bellows’ portly person, but the lady in the jetted turban fixed him with her glittering eye.

“I command you to tell me at once why you bid four thousand dollars for the services of the young person in the other room,” said this person in a militant voice. “I suspect your motives, sir! I doubt your respectability.” She turned to the other women. “Tell me,” she demanded, “does this man look honest?”

Mr. Smith blinked weakly at his inquisitors.

“I’m all right, ma’am,” he said hoarsely, “an’ puffec’ly honest. An’ I ain’t biddin’ for myself, but for another party.”

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the five women in unbelieving chorus. “Who is your principal?” snapped the indignant lady in green. “Of course we all know the girl can’t be worth eight hundred dollars a year, in any respectable employment.”

The little man coughed apologetically.

“She’s wanted,” he said, “by a responsible party to look after a little boy—a very nice, respectable little boy.”

“Is he a widower?” shrieked the ladies in unison.

“No, ma’am,” replied the little man, ducking his head fearfully and edging away. “He ain’t old enough to be married yet.”

“Not old enough to be married? Oh! you mean the boy?”

“Come on, sir, an’ we’ll settle,” put in the auctioneer, taking Mr. Smith by the arm, as if he feared he might be planning an escape.

But Mr. Smith appeared entirely ready, even anxious, to settle. In the privacy of the kitchen he counted off from a sizable roll four thousand dollars in bills of large denominations, repeating in a painstaking manner what he had already told the women.

“Yes, sir; the young woman’s wanted to look after a child.”

“Whereabouts?” inquired the auctioneer.

“W’y, I don’t rightly know,” wheezed Mr. Smith. “M’ asthma’s terrible bad this morning.”

“So I see! so I see,” observed Mr. Bellows, rubbing his chin dubiously. “An’ you can’t tell me——”

“The young woman is to stay right here till she’s called for,” repeated the gentleman in checks. “No, sir; I couldn’t say when that ’ll be. She must be ready to start most any day. But she’s to stay right here till called for. You tell her. Yes, sir. I’ve got references. Everythin’ O.K. Tell her that, will you? An’, say, you’ll pass the money right over to her, will you? To-day; yes.”

“Less fi’ per cent,” said Mr. Bellows unctuously. “Pretty good mornin’s work,” he added, rubbing his hands. “I never thought o’ such a thing’s runnin’ her up to such a figure. An’ you’d ’a’ bid more, I take it, if you’d had to? As ’twas, you was kind of reckless towards the last.”

“Mebbe I did go a little higher’n I needed to,” acknowledged Mr. Smith mildly. “But I thought I might as well.” He coughed and blinked weakly. “It didn’t make no difference to me,” he said. “I wuz prepared to secure the services of the young woman at any figure. Yes, sir.”

XII

“I CONGRATULATE ye, ma’am, on the success o’ your idee,” Thomas Bellows said, when an hour later he handed to Barbara the roll of bills from which he had complacently peeled off his own tidy commission. “This ’ere ’ll pay off the lien on your prop’ty, I take it, an’ leave you a pretty good nest-egg besides.”

“Who,” said Barbara, her face pale and troubled, “bought—me?”

“W’y, as t’ that,” confessed the auctioneer, “I can’t tell you exactly. I was asked to hand you this ’ere letter. It contains further perticklers, I persoom.”

He produced a thick square envelope bearing her name and address in type-written characters.

“You was to stay right here on call, I was asked t’ inform you. No, ma’am; it wa’n’t any o’ them folks that wrote t’ you beforehand. A man, name of Smith; said he was the agent of the party as bid you in. You’re to stay right here till called for.”

Barbara had opened the envelope and was scanning the few lines of type-writing in the middle of the large square sheet.

“Miss Barbara Preston [she read] will hold herself in readiness to enter upon the term of her service, previously understood to be five years. It is impossible, at the present instant, for the writer to state when the call will come; but the term of service will be reckoned from this eighteenth day of May, 19——. Miss Preston’s duties will comprise the conduct of a home, and the care and guardianship of a little child.”

There was also enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope, containing a paper drawn up in legal form, binding one Barbara Preston, spinster, for and in consideration of the sum of four thousand dollars (herein acknowledged), to a term of continuous service, beginning on the eighteenth day of May, 19— and terminating on the same day of the month in the year 19—. The document was duly witnessed and bore, in lieu of signature, the imprint of a seal, with a device of crossed battle-axes and the single word _Invictus_.

“You’re t’ sign right here,” said Mr. Bellows, indicating with his blunt forefinger the space below the seal. “Me an’ Peg Morrison ’ll witness the signature. I told him to wait outside, in case the’ was papers to sign. I’ll see to forwardin’ it for you. Le’ me see that there envelope; likely it’ll shed a little light on th’ identity o’ the party.”

But the envelope bore merely the number of a post-office box, in a distant city.

Mr. Bellows scratched his head and squinted his eyes into puzzled slits as he surveyed this unsatisfactory bit of evidence from every possible angle.

“Wall, I don’t know,” he burst out at length, “es I’d trust that proposition teetotally, if it wasn’t fer the references. The man as bid ye in satisfied me the party he was representin’ was O.K. es t’ character an’ intentions.”

He glanced shrewdly at the girl; but Barbara asked no questions. She was beginning to realize that while the shackles which had bound her to Jarvis were about to be loosed, this unknown master of her future had forged a new and perhaps heavier fetter. But her composed features betrayed nothing while she wrote her name clearly—Barbara Allen Preston—below the red seal, with its short but significant motto.

Thomas Bellows went away after a little, taking with him the contract, duly signed, sealed, and ready to deliver, and Barbara, left quite alone in the disordered house, quietly locked the money away in a drawer of her desk.

She turned to find Peg Morrison staring at her with eyes full of grief and consternation.

“Miss Barb’ry,” he began, “why in creation didn’t ye tell me what you was goin’ t’ do? Sellin’ yourself—sellin’ your own flesh an’ blood, like you was an Aferc’n slave! What d’you s’pose your folks ’d a said t’ what took place in this ’ere house t’-day—huh? I’ll bet your grandmother Preston ’d think you’d gone crazy. Where be you goin’? What you goin’ t’ do with th’ Cap’n? Whar do I come in in this ’ere deal? Them’s questions ’at I want answered right now. I’ve a notion,” he added darkly, “that you be kind o’ cracked. ’N’ I don’t wonder at it much.”

Barbara was putting the furniture in place, straightening the rugs, and otherwise restoring to its wonted order the scene of the recent auction. Her cheeks and lips were bright with color; her eyes sparkled as she faced the old man.

“You are entirely mistaken, Peg,” she said impatiently. “Just listen, will you? If I had waited a few days longer we should have been sold out under the hammer—farm, house, furniture, stock. Now we shan’t be. Do you understand? This very day I’m going to settle with the Honorable Stephen Jarvis [her red lips curled a little over the words], and I’ll pay Abe Hewett, too, and all the others. Oh! I’m glad I did it—glad! Jimmy will have the farm, and there’ll be plenty left to fix the fences, and buy the fertilizers we need and mend the broken roof and maybe paint the house. Don’t you see, Peg, what a splendid thing it will be?”

“But where are you goin’, Miss Barb-ry?” The old man’s voice held the sound of tears. “An’ who’s goin’ to take care o’ the Cap’n?”

Barbara compressed her lips sternly.

“I don’t know where I shall go,” she said, “but wherever I am I can write to—to Jimmy; and Peg, I want you to stay, just as you have; only I shall pay you good wages. I shall pay up all that I owe you, too, and——”

“Will I hev charge o’ the Cap’n?” inquired the old man anxiously. “Five years is a long time, Miss Barb’ry, he’ll be—l’ me see. W’y, the Cap’n ’ll be ’leven years old time you’re at liberty.”

Barbara drew her fine dark brows together.

“I’ve engaged Martha Cottle to come here and keep house and take care of Jimmy,” she said. “She’s coming this afternoon.”

Mr. Morrison’s jaw dropped.

“Marthy Cottle!” he ejaculated. “W’y, that female—she don’t know no more ’bout little boys ’an—’an a Holstein steer. She’s an old maid schoolmarm, cut an’ dried.”

“She can help Jimmy with his lessons,” Barbara said doggedly. “She’s good and honest, and she’ll do her best to——”

“Gosh!” murmured the old man, shaking his head. “She’ll do her best, mebbe, but—wall, I’ll do what I kin fer the Cap’n t’—keep him f’om gittin’ too awful lonesome an’ discouraged. Marthy Cottle! Huh! We’ll hev t’ make out the best we kin after you’re gone. Does—the Cap’n know—hev you tol’ him you’re a-goin leave him?”

“No,” said Barbara, in a harsh voice. “I haven’t, and I don’t intend to, either. I—I’ll leave word. I—couldn’t, Peg.”

Her young voice broke in an irrepressible sob.

“Don’t you feel bad, Miss Barb’ry,” the old man essayed to comfort her. “You meant it fer the best, I know you did, Miss Barb’ry. An’ mebbe it’ll turn out all right. I wouldn’t cross no bridges till I got to ’em, ef I was you. I s’pose,” he went on, his shrewd eyes on her face, “‘at you seen young Dave Whitcomb this mornin’—him ’at used to teach school in th’ village?”

Barbara’s face whitened.

“You don’t mean——” she faltered.

“Dave was here t’ the auction,” pursued Mr. Morrison. “I heerd him put in two or three big bids on ye. He was ready to pass out his entire pile t’—save ye f’om bein’ took away; I’ll say that much fer Dave.”

He turned, with his hand on the door.

“I didn’t hev nothin’ when it come t’ biddin’,” he groaned. “I might ’a’ saved m’ breath t’ cool m’ porridge. But I’d ’a’ give the best fi’ years off’n m’ life t’ ’a’ kep’ ye right here at home, where ye b’long. I swan I would, Miss Barb’ry.”

“I know you would, Peg,” Barbara said gently. Her eyes, the beautiful clear eyes of her father in his first unspoiled youth, were misty with tears, but she smiled bravely. “Five years isn’t long,” she reminded him. “It’ll soon be over. And you can raise five crops of those wonderful onions while I’m gone.”

Stephen Jarvis was at home and alone in his library that afternoon when Barbara asked to see him. It might even have been inferred that he expected her; but if he did, he made no sign. His manner was cool and calm, quite in keeping with the business of the hour, as he took pains to explain to her a number of details connected with the accumulated interest upon interest, delinquent tax accounts, and other matters pertaining to the estate which Barbara, in her poverty, had been forced to ignore.

“I can pay it all,” she said to him, the fruit of her triumph sweet upon her lips. “That is why I am here—to pay—everything I owe.”

He looked at her quietly.

“You are doubtless to be congratulated upon the success of your scheme,” he said. “I hear you realized quite a handsome sum on the sale of——” he hesitated for the fraction of a minute—“your future.”

“It will be only five years,” Barbara said defiantly. “I shall be glad to work—hard, for Jimmy.”

“When,” he asked, “do you expect to leave town?”