CHAPTER XIV.
The squire laid the purse on the table with an air which spoke volumes."It certainly is mysterious how things do work out," he said. He wasalways deliberate in speech, but fortunately, he said little. Hisparticularly impressive method of procedure was to look wise.
Miss Eliza glanced at the purse. It was not attractive. Touched withmildew, soiled and almost filthy, it was rather repulsive. She hadlearned that Sam was not one to be questioned when he had a story totell. The only way was to let him go slowly and interpolate withindifferent matters of all sorts.
"There ain't much to tell about the finding of the purse," he began.Then Eliza understood. But she did not reach forward to seize what mightcontain something which would reveal Beth's identity. It came to herthat that meant losing Beth. For an instant she felt that she could notgive her up.
"We were fixing the old stone wall at Paddy's Run," continued Sam. "TheMorris Brothers have the contract, and Ab Morris came and asked me ifI'd hand--."
"No use of telling all the details," said the squire sharply. "Keep tothe point. There's no use telling what Ab said to you or you to Ab."
"Well, no need to cut me short. There's plenty of time to tell details,as you call them, and everything else that pertains to this here subjectwhich we have in hand. We've been a wantin' to know these things for tenyears and couldn't. Then what's the use of gettin' in a rush and telleverything in a minute."
"There's no danger of you ever doing those two things--getting in a rushand telling everything in a minute. You couldn't do it, Sam." The squirewas habitually sarcastic.
"We'll drive slow. It may be a rough road, and we're driving in thedark, so to speak. We were fixing the wall, anyway. Bill Yothers, he wasknocking out the loose stone, when he stops and says to me, 'Sam, thatlooks mighty like a purse, that I've knocked down there. You'd betterget it.' Well, I did. I dropped the reins and went over and picked itup. I examined it carefully before I opened it, and--."
Eliza had taken up the purse. No doubt it had dropped from the carriagewhen Old Prince took his mad leap, and had lodged among the stones inthe wall to be hidden away for over ten years. It had been partiallyprotected from the weather.
Miss Eliza opened it gingerly. It almost fell to pieces as she did so.The leather flap at the top fell from it. Within the double compartmentwere pieces of paper thick with mildew. These were intact enough to showthat they once were bills. There was a little silver, and a trunk checkof brass. This was green with corrosion, so that the number had beeneffaced.
Without a word, Eliza took it and went to the kitchen. Beth was close ather side. Neither could speak, but the atmosphere was fairly vibratingwith suppressed emotion. Eliza took down her scouring soap from theshelf and began rubbing the check.
"This will do little good," she said after a moment. "I'll dip it in lyeand scour it with ashes."
"Yes," said Beth, hurrying into the wash-house and returning with thecan of lye. Eliza put the check on a saucer and covered it for aninstant with the lye. Then she rubbed it with wood ashes.
The men had grown impatient and had followed her into the kitchen. Theycame to the door just as Eliza had finished her inspection. "It hasBaltimore on it," she said. "The number is 4536. It's very plain."
"Little good it will do you," said Sam. "That just shows you that it waschecked from there. It doesn't show who sent it."
"It may tell us a great deal," said Eliza. Keeping the check in herhand, she led the way back into the living room. The men followed andseated themselves. She had been wishing that they would go. She wantedto be alone and think of the matter. She could see that Beth was verymuch excited, although she sat very quiet.
But the fire was too comfortable for Sam to leave. He had taken the mostcomfortable chair in the room. He put his legs far apart, bent over sothat his elbows could rest on his knees, and his chin in turn upon theupturned palm. He began a recital of all the incidents of the day whenOld Prince went wild, and he had first found Eliza and the child, and hecontinued telling how strange it seemed that he should be the one tofind the purse.
"But there'll nothing come of it now," he concluded. "And to my way ofthinking, it's just as well. The little girl has been well took care of.Her mother's dead, we know that. We buried her out there in the oldWells' lot, alongside of your own parents, Eliza. If she had a father,no doubt he's gone and married again and has other children. It's justas well not to try to hunt 'em up."
Eliza thought so, too, for other reasons. She could not give her up. Shewould be too lonely without her. She simply could not live without her.While these thoughts were in her mind, another slipped in there too. Shewas not conscious that it was there. "The tramp would leave in thespring." He had said that weeks before. She never called him that anymore, nor had she permitted Beth to do so.
In her own thoughts she had no name for him. He was just "he," nothingmore. She told herself that she would miss his magazines and his helpabout her flowers. She had kept up with Beth in all her studies. She hadread Latin, and worked out Algebra. Now this would be gone. There wouldbe nothing at all left to her, except her stories, which she had stillcontinued, and her club in town. But what would they mean, with Beth andhim gone?
While she thought over these matters, Sam Houston kept up his monologue.Now and then Squire Stout flung in a sharp word, but Eliza heard nothingwhich was being said.
At length the men rose to go. Sam was yet busy narrating the events thatled up to the find. The squire led him away. Eliza came to the door withthem and held a lamp high in her hand to light the way. She heard Samtalking, as the two men walked on down the slope.
Turning back into the room, she went to where Beth sat huddled up andtook a seat close to her.
"This has disturbed us," she said. "But it should not. I think the checkwill mean nothing at all. It will make no difference to you or me. Youand I have been happy so far and we can continue to be. You will alwaysbe my little girl."
"I know, Adee, I know." The tears would have fallen, had not Beth bypure force of will kept them back. Her lips trembled so that she couldnot speak. She was silent a moment, until she was able to controlherself. Then she said again, "I know, I know, Adee, that you willalways want me for your little girl; but it is dreadful to have nopeople of your own."
Eliza could not debate that. It was true, and could not be disputed. Sheput her arm about Beth and drew her close. Thus they sat without sayinga word for a long, long time. The log in the grate burned out. ThenEliza broke the silence.
"Go to bed now, Beth. I must attend to some work before I come up."
Beth obediently arose, kissed Adee good-night and left the room. Shewent to bed, but could not sleep. She could hear Adee moving about inthe room below. When it grew quiet, Beth closed her eyes. She was yetwide awake, but she could see plainly a picture that had come to heragain and again for as long as she could remember. It was a little whitebed in which she herself lay, and a beautiful woman with flowers in herhair and a long, soft, shimmering gown stood over her. "That issomething that I saw often before I came to Adee's," she told herself."It is so clear. Always the woman's face slips away. I cannot see it."
Meanwhile Eliza in the room below strengthened herself to do her duty.She wanted to keep Beth--oh, how much she wanted her; but if she couldfind out from where she came, it was only right, for the child's sake,to do so. If Beth had kin living, it was Eliza's duty to do everythingto find them, even if her own heart-strings were torn to shreds in doingso.
After reaching this decision, she went to her writing desk and wrote tothe baggage agent of that particular road, at Baltimore. She told himthe circumstances of the check and asked him to spare no pains to findout where it came from or where the trunk was now.
"There may be letters or clothing in the trunk which will lead us to herpeople," she told herself as she sealed the letter.
Neither she nor Beth could sleep much that night. They were twosorry-looking individuals the following morning. They were h
eavy-eyed,tired and listless. They had little to say at the breakfast table. Theyhad worn themselves out with lying awake and letting their minds dwellon the matters which lay nearest their hearts.
There is an old adage that "troubles never come singly." Better changeit to suit the new philosophy of the day, "Joys never come singly."Sometimes lives may move serenely on for months and months, or evenyears. They are like a broad stretch of level plain. They would growmonotonous after a time. The finest are lands interspersed with valleysand mountains. So it is with life--here the valley of humiliation, therethe mountain of joyful exultation.
Eliza mailed her letter. She lost no time, but sent Beth off to thepost-office immediately after breakfast, lest she regret and prove weakenough to keep it back.
That evening the "tramp" came up the slope earlier than usual. Theground was white with snow. The drifts were deep in the ravine, but hehad kept the path broken. He stepped more briskly than usual. Hewhistled and sang exultingly. He carried a milk-bucket and had under hisarm several letters and magazines. In one hand was a great bouquet ofcrimson roses, wrapped in oiled paper to keep them from the biting cold.His feet were eager to reach the Wells home. He sang and then laughedaloud to himself. He was a most peculiar sort of tramp. One could tellthat from the great coat he wore. Rough cloth on the outside and black,shaggy fur within. Wind and weather never kept him back. There wassomething unusual in the air this night. He was fairly bubbling overwith excitement.
He knocked at Miss Eliza's door and entered before she could respond. Hecame directly to where she stood, removed the oiled paper and let ascore of crimson roses nod and smile at her.
"I want to be the first to lay my homage at the feet of the famous one,"he said. "Permit me, madam, to present the roses to her who is makingher name a household word."
He thrust the flowers between her hands. Eliza was confused. His mannerwas strange. Then, too, no one had ever offered her homage, or hadbought her roses. Roses with the mercury ten degrees below zero. Elizahad never seen roses except in June.
Her face grew crimson. She tried to speak, but could find no words.
"You're all at sea. This will explain." Opening one of the magazines, helaid it on the table, holding it with finger and thumb that it might notclose.
"Why--why--it's our house," cried Beth.
"And it's our Adee," said the man, turning the page where was a pictureof Eliza herself standing under the trees with the leaves about her.
"I had my camera set for a week before I could get that," he criedtriumphantly. "I was bound to get it by fair means or foul."
Eliza was mechanically turning the leaves with one hand. The other heldthe roses close in her arm. She could not understand. She tried to readthe titles. A few lines, and the understanding came.
"You have printed my foolish little stories," she said.
"The editors did not think they were foolish," he said. "You'll find anumber there. Here are the checks for them. My, my, you'll become abloated capitalist. Poor Beth and I will take a back seat. It will beawful hard on the nerves, Beth, to live with a celebrity."
That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's: A Story for Young People Page 14
