CHAPTER II.
It was now clear day. The ample spaces of blue between the thin cloudsoverhead grew pure, as if new bathed. The sun was not yet visible overthe woods, but sent level shafts of radiance through the sparserleafage. Barbara's face was westward, and her prow, as the nervouscunning of her paddle urged it forward, threw off the water on eitherside in long, polished, fluted furrows, dazzlingly bright at the top ofthe curve and steel-dark in the depression. Child as she was, and of afairy slightness, Barbara's wrists were strong and she was master ofher paddle. Her tears presently dried themselves as she noted withexultation, by the growing depth and abruptness of these furrows fromher prow, that she was making a speed that did credit to hercanoe-craft. In a few minutes her parting pangs were all forgotten,and she was absorbed in racing, as it were, against herself. She kneltlow, working her shoulders freely like a squaw, and bent every energyto making the passage of the open before a wind out of the morningshould awake to hinder her progress.
A low, green point, deep-plumed with sedge, thrust out from the nearingshore to meet her. At its tip, motionless, and eloquent of ancientmystery, poised the dream-like shape of a blue heron. Nearer andnearer slipped the canoe, till Barbara could discern the round,unwinking jewel of the great bird's eye, watching her inscrutably.Then, with leisurely spread of spacious wings, it rose and flappedaway, to renew its not wholly disinterested contemplations in a furtherreed-bed.
Behind the point of sedges Barbara swept the canoe on a fine curve, andinto the channel of a little river, the quiet outlet of the lake.Alders, osiers, and thick-starred draperies of clematis came down overeither bank. The stream was not twenty paces wide, and its deepcurrent was so gentle that the long weeds on the bottom were hardlyunder compulsion to show which way it flowed.
The ancient wood at this place gave back several hundred yards from thelake, save for scattered outposts and thickets. Rounding the firstcurve of the stream,--which, indeed, seemed all curves in itsreluctance to forsake the parent water,--the canoe ran into a flock ofgray-and-white geese dabbling along the weedy margin. The birds werenot alarmed, but they lifted their heads and clamoured a sonorouswarning; and straightway from behind the screen of leafage came aquacking of ducks, a cackling of hens, and the excited barking of apuppy. Then a cock crowed shrilly. The stream rounded to a widerstretch, and its western bank, flooded with sunshine, showed a grassyclearing of perhaps two acres in extent, at the back of which, closeagainst the primeval trees, huddled a low, gray cabin, with wide eavesand a red door. A hop-vine covered one end of the cabin and sprawledover the roof. Along the base ran a "banking" about two feet high, ofrough boards with the bark on, supported by stakes and filled in withearth--a protection to the cellar against winter frosts. Leaned up tothe sun, along the banking, stood wooden tubs and an iron pot; and on abench beside the door another tub. In front of the door was a space ofchips, littered with axe, buck-saw, feed-troughs, parts of a brokenhand-sled, a large wicker basket with the bottom gone, andindeterminate waifs and strays of human use. From this space of debrisa foot-path ran down through short grass to the waterside, where aclumsy punt was hauled up. The place was alive with ducks andchickens; and as Barbara came in view a stately turkey-cock swelled,strutted, and gobbled defiance to her intrusion.
Sitting on the door-step in the sun was a sturdy old woman in greenishhomespun petticoat and bodice, with a dull red kerchief crossed uponher shoulders and a cap of greenish-yellow linen on her head,--the softdye of the "yaller-weed" juice. She was busy cutting coloured ragsinto strips for mat-hooking. At her side sat a small yellow puppy,with head cocked and one ear alertly lifted, curious but doubtful as tothe visitor.
Barbara turned her birchen prow to the landing-place, and ran it gentlyashore in the soft mud beside the punt. At the same moment Mrs.Deborah Blue--known to Barbara and to all the village of SecondWestings as 'old Debby'--dropped her knitting on the stoop, snatched upa stout stick that leaned against the door-post, and hobbled with aheavy briskness down the path to meet the visitor. The yellow pupfrisked interestedly at her heels.
Barbara had indeed run her prow ashore, but that was for the sake ofstability merely. She was in haste, and had no idea of stopping now toindulge her inclination for a gossip with old Debby. She rested insilence, one brown hand on the gunwale of the punt, her full, young,wilful lips very scarlet, her gray-green eyes asparkle with mystery andexcitement, as the old woman hobbled down to greet her.
"Ain't ye comin' in to set awhile, an' eat a cooky, Miss Barby?"inquired Mrs. Blue, wondering at the child's inscrutable look. The olddame's face was red and harsh and strongly lined. Her chin was squareand thrust forward aggressively, with a gray-bristled wart at one sideof its obtrusive vigour. A lean and iron-gray wisp of hair, escapedfrom under her hat, straggled down upon her red neck. But her shrewd,hard, pale-blue, dauntless old eyes beamed upon the child withunfeigned welcome. She spoke a little wheezingly, being out of breathfrom haste; and Barbara was the only soul in all the township of SecondWestings for whom old Debby would condescend to hasten.
"No, Debby dear, I can't stop one minute. I'm not coming ashore. I'mrunning away from Aunt Hitty, and I'm going down the river to UncleBob. I just stopped to say good-bye to you, you old dear, and to askyou to take this letter for me to Aunt Hitty. I didn't dare to leaveit in my room, for fear she'd find it and know where I'd gone, and sendafter me before I'd got a good start. I don't like Aunt Hitty, youknow, Debby, but she's been good to me in her way, and I don't want herto be worrying!" She held out a folded paper for the old dame to take;but she held it tentatively, as if she did not want to surrender it atonce.
Knowing Barbara as no one else in the township of Second Westings knewher, old Debby betrayed neither surprise nor disapproval. She noddedseveral times, as if running away were the most reasonable, and indeedthe most ordinary, thing in the world for a little girl of fourteenyears to do when she found aunts and environments uncongenial. OldDebby's smile, at this moment, had just the right degree of sympathy.Had ever so little of amusement glimmered through its weather-beatencreases, she knew that the sensitive and wilful girl before her wouldhave been off in a second with her venture all unexplained.
"I'd take it fer ye, my sweeting, ef I'd got to crawl on my knees allthe way 'round the lake," the old dame answered promptly; but at thesame time, scheming to prolong the interview, and knowing that if onceBarbara started off again there would be no such thing as luring herback, she kept both hands clasped on top of her stick and made no moveto accept the missive.
"Ain't ye goin' to read it to me?" she went on, coaxingly. "I'd give asight to hear what ye're sayin' to yer Aunt Hitty."
Now this was just what Barbara wanted, in spite of her haste. Shewanted to hear how her letter would sound. She wanted to try it on oldDebby, in whom she felt sure of a eulogistic critic. Without a wordshe untied the yellow ribbon, opened the packet, and began to read,with a weighty impressiveness in her childish voice:
"MY DEAR AUNT HITTY:--This is to say farewell for ever, for I have runaway. I do not think it would be good for me to live with you anylonger, so I am going to Uncle Bob. He loves me, and does not think Iam bad. And I think he needs me, too, because I understand him. Iknow I have often been bad, and have made you unhappy very often, AuntHitty. But I don't think you ever understand me--and I don'tunderstand you--and so we cannot be happy together. But don't beworried about me, for I will be all right. And I thank you for all thetrouble you have taken about me. I don't want any of my old clothesexcept what I have brought with me, so please give them to MercyChapman, because she is poor and just about my size, and always kind toanimals, and I like her. I have taken your nice basket you got fromthe squaw last Saturday, to carry my kittens in; but I know you won'tmind, because you offered to give it to me when I did not know I wasgoing to need it. I have taken the canoe, too, but I want to pay forit, of course, Aunt Hitty. Please keep enough to get a new one, andpaddles, out of the money you are
taking care of for me, and send therest right away to Uncle Bob, because I'll need some new frocks when Iget to the city, and I don't know whether Uncle Bob has any money ornot. Good-bye, Aunt Hitty, and I am so sorry that we could notunderstand each other.
"Your niece, "BARBARA LADD."
She looked up, proud, but a little anxious, and eager for commendation.Old Debby rose to the circumstances.
"Law, how you kin write, Miss Barby," she said, with a nod and chuckle."The parson nor Doctor Jim couldn't 'a' done no better. I reckon AuntHitty'll understand ye now, a sight better'n she's given to understandfolks as don't jest think as she do. Give me the letter!"
Barbara's face flashed radiantly. With a sudden impulse she sprang up,skipped ashore, thrust the letter into the old woman's hand, and criedin a high key:
"Oh, I'm so hungry, Debby! I can't stop a minute, but do give me somebreakfast, there's a dear. I was too excited to eat before I left.And do give my kittens a drop of milk. I've got nothing but cold meatfor them to eat on the journey, poor babies!"
Without waiting for a reply, she skipped back to the canoe, grabbed upthe covered basket, and flew up the path to the cottage; while the oldwoman limped after her with astonishing speed, chuckling and wheezingout a disjointed invitation. She followed Barbara into the cabin,shutting the door to keep out the puppy, who whined in an injured voiceupon the stoop. Then, thinking of the kittens first,--and therebyshowing her deep knowledge of the kittens' mistress,--she set down abowl of milk in the middle of the floor; and Barbara, uncovering thebasket, lovingly lifted out three plump, moon-faced little cats, ayellow-and-white, a black-and-white, and a gray-and-white. While thethree, with happy tails erect, lapped at the milk, Barbara made hasteto devour thick slices of brown bread and butter, spread to a lusciousdepth with moist, sweet-scented maple sugar. She had no time to talk.She sat on the edge of the big four-post bed, swinging her slim legs,and kicking her heels against the dingy, gay patchwork quilt whoseample folds hung to the floor. The hidden space under the bed was aplace of piquant mystery to Barbara, containing, as it did, boxes onboxes of many-coloured rags, out of which, earlier in the season, oldDebby would bring forth precious goose-eggs, duck-eggs, turkey-eggs,and the specially prized eggs of certain pet and prolific hens,gathered against the time of setting. While Barbara broke her fast,old Debby refrained from questions, having shrewdly grasped the wholesituation. She knew that Mr. Robert Glenowen, Barbara's uncle, hadlately come north on an errand which nobody seemed to understand, andhad taken a house at Stratford. Of a nomadic spirit in her youngerdays, Debby had moved much here and there throughout her nativeConnecticut, and over the bordering counties of New York andMassachusetts; and she had not only a rough idea of the distance fromSecond Westings to Stratford, but a very vivid realisation of theperils of the journey which Barbara, in her innocence, had soconfidently undertaken. Till she saw that the appetites of Barbara andthe kittens were nearing satisfaction, she talked with a sort of casualenthusiasm of her luck with the chickens, the goslings, the youngturkeys, and depicted the prowess of an old speckled hen which hadengaged and defeated a marauding hawk. Then, when at last Barbarasprang up, bundled the satiated kittens into the basket, and turned toher for a fond and final good-bye, the crafty old dame broke intopassionate farewells. She kissed the child, and even wept over her,till Barbara's self-centred exaltation was very near collapse.
"_You_ love me, don't you, Debby dear?" she exclaimed, with awistfulness in her voice, searching the old woman's face with hergreat, eager, strangely alien eyes. Barbara was one of those whocolour the moods of others by their own, and who are therefore apt tobe at fault in their interpretation of another's motives. This gaveher, even in childhood, a strangeness, an aloneness of personality,which she, as well as those who loved her, could seldom break down. Itwas with a kind of heart-break that she now and again, for an instant,became dimly aware of this alien fibre in her temperament. It made herboth misunderstanding and misunderstood.
"I can trust you, can't I?" she went on, leaning childishly for amoment upon the old woman's comfortable breast.
"Trust old Debby, my sweeting!" cried the old dame, in tones whichcarried conviction. "Ye hain't got no lovinger nor faithfuller friendalive than me. Don't ye never forgit that, Miss Barby."
For answer Barbara clutched her fiercely around the neck, sobbed andclung to her for a moment, cried extravagantly, "Yes, you are the bestfriend I've got in all the world!" then gathered up her basket ofkittens and fled wildly down the path to the canoe. Impetuously shepushed off, the world a golden blur before her eyes; and without oncelooking back, she disappeared around the next winding of the stream.Old Debby stood for some minutes gazing after this meteor-like--andvery Barbara-like--exit. There was amusement now, unhindered, on herhard old face, but a kind of fierce devotion withal. When the stern ofthe canoe had vanished behind the leafage, she muttered to herself:"Well! Well! Well! was ever sech a child! When ye set yer fingeronto her, she ain't there! I reckon that mincing-mouthed Aunt Kitty'shed her bad times, too. But the sooner I git 'round to see Doctor Jimthe better it's goin' to be fer the little wild witch. Land's sakesalive! But 'twon't be 'Debby dear' to me agin fer awhile. How themeyes'll blaze! I'll not go nigh her till she's hed time to git over itan' to know who's really her friends. No, Pippin, ye can't come withme! Go 'way!"
Turning into the long lean-to of a shed which stretched behind thecabin, she brought out two stumpy oars. These under her left arm, herstalwart stick in her right hand, she limped with massive alertnessdown to the waterside, shoved off the punt, climbed into it with anicety of balance remarkable in one of her weight, clicked the oarsinto the rowlocks, and pulled up-stream toward the lake whence Barbarahad come.
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