The guests exclaimed with delight over their food. They said they had lived in hotels all winter and it was just wonderful to get back to home cooking again, and what wonderful ham! Was it really ham, just ham? And how did she do it? Could she give them the recipe? And then Joyce, as she came and went with relays of hot biscuits and peas and potatoes, heard Mrs. Bryant tell carefully how she rubbed the mustard into the meat and poured the milk on, through all the performance just as she had done it, and finish up with, “Yes, we think it is the best way in the world to cook ham,” just as if she had been doing it that way all her life. She smiled to herself over the salad as she arranged the ice-cold tomatoes on the crisp lettuce leaves. Well, it was a pretty dinner, and she was proud to think she had helped make it so. The poor burnt chops were utterly forgotten now, lying in the grass at the kitchen door, and sometime within the next few hours, she would get a chance to sit down, perhaps to lie down somewhere, on the grass if nowhere else, and rest. Oh, that would be wonderful!
She took the plates out and brought in the salad, adding some crackers she had found in the pantry, and then slipped out to see what the men were doing.
“What a very superior waitress you seem to have, Aunt Mattie,” remarked a niece, eyeing the door through which Joyce had passed. “You don’t want to let me steal her and take her up to New York, do you? I’d certainly give a good deal to get one that looked like that. She seems a real lady.”
“She is,” said Mrs. Bryant shortly. “She’s not a waitress at all. She’s just a neighbor who came in to help me so that I could have all my time with you instead of running out to the kitchen all the time.”
There was something innately grimly honest about Mattie Bryant. She might claim the credit of a well-cooked ham, but she would never let a young girl who had been kind to her be treated like a servant. It wasn’t in her. She would have liked to have posed as having well-trained servants, but she couldn’t.
“A—a neighbor, did you say, Mother?” asked Mr. Bryant. “Why, I don’t seem to remember her. Where does she live?”
“No, I guess you don’t. Father, she’s mostly been here when you were away. She lives on this street. Cornelia, won’t you have another cup of coffee?”
And then there came a shuddering, sliding sound, and a dull, reverberating thud that vibrated along the floor and seemed to make the dinner table shiver a tiny bit, and everybody looked up and said, “What, what is that? An earthquake?” And only Mrs. Bryant kept her cool indifference and went on pouring coffee. But outside, the little vine-covered house had slid into place between the two maples and settled to rest exactly where it had been aimed by the three men who had put it there, and Joyce was out in the sunset fluttering three five-dollar bills from her precious hoard and smiling her wistful, wild rose smile. “I wish I could give you ten times as much,” she said. “If I only had it! You’ve been so kind.”
The old chief stood a minute and watched her as she went in, looked at the bill, half folded it to put it in his pocket, thought better of it, and stepped inside the building. He glanced around, fumbled a pin from the lapel of his old coat, and pinned it up on the wall opposite the door. Tom watched him from a distance, squinting his eyes thoughtfully, and busied himself with his dinner pail and pickax till the chief was around the corner. Then he slipped into the cottage, took a look around, stood thoughtfully a minute, and deliberately took out his own five-dollar bill and pinned it beside the other. Then he went out quickly and followed his chief down the street.
Over in the kitchen, Joyce, too weary to eat much supper, had taken a bite and gone at the dishes pell-mell. She was a swift worker and used to turning things off rapidly, but the last two days had been more strenuous than any in her short life, and now that the immediate excitement of the dinner and the house was over, she was beginning to feel that she had reached her limit.
Mrs. Bryant slipped away from her guests long enough to smile upon her and tell her to eat a good supper, that everything was wonderful and she couldn’t thank her enough; then went back to the parlor where the chatter of relatives long separated with many years to catch up in a short time made a din almost amounting to a church social. There was the uncle who had certain jokes that he had to tell over, the cousin who boated, the cousin who wanted to recount all the past, and the aunt who wanted to forget the past and go on at great length about her house in New York and her place in Maine and her winter in Florida and the trip she was going to take abroad this summer, and with it all the poor, eager little Bryants hardly got in a word. The strange young woman in the kitchen might naturally be forgotten under such circumstances, especially as they were planning to take all their guests into the city in time for the late train.
So Joyce washed out the dish towels and slipped out the back door with only the moon to light her way to her little new house.
Chapter 11
Joyce wondered, as she went cautiously through the grass lest she stumble in the darkness, whether her house was going to be at all habitable, and what she should do if it were not. She had no mind to trouble Mrs. Bryant any further, neither did she care to have that good woman know how thoroughly she was adrift in the world without a spot to lay her head. Very likely Mrs. Bryant might offer her a bed for the night; it would be like her good nature, and yet she was an utter stranger, and she shrank from accepting such a favor. Taking an entire stranger into one’s home was a big thing to do when one had no introduction whatever except that one could cook.
She had no time to look out at her new purchase while it was being placed, and now was not even sure they had set it evenly on its floor. It might be on end or toppled onto its roof for all she knew, and when this thought presented itself, she walked on in growing dismay. But the streetlight just opposite proved a boon and shone right between the two trees to the little white building that was nestled all properly on a level spot, floor down and even as a die, with its little front porch facing the street and set back about fifteen feet from the fence. When she put her hand on the porch rail, it seemed to be standing solidly. She could see, on stooping down, that it was set on some stones with fresh cement. The men had taken trouble to make it right and firm for her. How kind they were! She must try to hunt them up tomorrow and thank them. Then she remembered the vine and, as tired as she was, stepped around to see how it had fared on its journey. Behold, it had been taken out of its lard can and set in the ground! They had even found some water and watered it, for drops were glistening on the leaves and an empty tin can lay on the ground. Somehow it brought sudden tears to think that these two rough men had taken so many pains to set out the vine for her, a stranger.
“It is just God,” she said to herself as she went back to the front porch. “God is taking care of me!” Then she lifted her eyes to the stars and said in a soft voice as she stood on her own little stoop, “Dear Father in heaven, bless this little house, and me, and take care of me here for Christ’s sake.”
It occurred to her as she turned toward the door that it might be locked, and then where would she find a key to fit it? But the knob turned and the door opened without any trouble, and she stepped inside and closed it softly after her. For a moment, she could see nothing. Then her eyes became accustomed to the semidarkness, and the patches of light on the floor that came through the little diamond panes of the windows and door showed the room to be empty except for a wooden box in the middle of the floor and a great stack of newspapers in one corner.
Joyce had brought a few matches with her from Mrs. Bryant’s, and now she struck one and looked around carefully. The place was tolerably clean. The floor was dusty, of course, and a few peanut shells were scattered here and there, but nothing very bad. The walls were lined with compo board and painted white, and in the flare of a few matches presented no unpleasant features. The box was empty, and the pile of newspapers seemed to be different lots left over from some newsstand. They were of old dates, folded but once, and quite clean. There did not even seem to be spiderwebs in tha
t corner, and only the top papers were dusty.
Having satisfied herself so far, she deposited the remaining matches on the windowsill for a possible time of need in the night and set to work. Those newspapers were her only chance, and she was thankful for them. She must make a bed out of them.
Her first act was to drag the box across the floor to block the door. There was no key, and she had no mind to sleep in a strange place with a door that could be opened by anyone in the night. The box was just high enough to reach under the knob and heavy enough so that the door could not be opened without making a good deal of noise; and after she had placed it, she felt quite secure in her new shelter.
She covered the top of the box with a clean newspaper and put her hat and handbag upon it. Then she attacked the pile of newspapers. She unfolded them sheet by sheet and crumpled them thoroughly, throwing them into the corner, and when she had covered a space on the floor about six feet long by three feet wide with these crumpled papers crowded close together, she laid several open sheets smoothly over them, tucking the edges well underneath, and began again crumpling papers and putting on the top another layer.
These in turn had several whole newspapers laid smoothly on the top and then another layer, until she had quite a comfortable bed of springy paper. She even opened out a couple of papers and filled them with crumpled pieces for a pillow.
There were still plenty of newspapers left, and she spread them out, overlapping one another in layers, until she had a coverlet of good proportions. Then she folded their edges back to hold them together.
“Now I shan’t freeze if it turns cold in the night,” she thought gleefully.
Next she went to her little new windows and wrestled with them. They were casements, swinging in, but it required much pounding and pulling to make them swing at all at first. At last she had them all open wide, letting in the sweet night air. She looked out into the garden a trifle dubiously, it is true. It did seem a little uncanny to sleep there alone with windows wide and the street so close, with not even a curtain to shelter her, but she must have air, and there was nothing else to be done. She must just wake up early in the morning before folks were astir. Curtains were among the first things she must purchase. Of course there were the newspapers, but they would shut out the air.
She knelt for a moment beside the wooden box in the path of moonlight that came through her window and prayed for strength and guidance. It seemed a strange thing she was doing, now that she had done it, this buying a little house and daring to set up a home of her own on practically no money at all. A sense of awe was upon her as she brought her deed before God and tried to see it in the light of His wisdom. Had she done wrong to fly off at the unpleasant words of her cousin and seek a new environment? Somehow her soul rang true, however, as she cast once more a retrospective glance back and asked approval and guarding. She seemed so alone as she knelt there in the little empty room in the moonlight. Aunt Mary gone. The death angel standing ever between them and the dear old life they had lived together; the hometown with its dear friends who loved her and whom she loved, forever lost to her because of the presence there of the cousins who had nothing in common with her and who were possessed to spoil everything she tried to do, who were jealous of all her communication with the old friends. There was simply no one or nothing left but God, and she must cling closely to Him.
She glanced out her little open window as she rose from her knees, and dismay seized upon her as she heard footsteps coming along the pavement. The street was so near. It was almost as if she were standing in the way of the oncomer. She held her breath, and the steps paused for a full minute in front of the new little house in its strange setting, and she shivered nervously as they finally passed on.
Then there came to her mind, as if a sweet voice had spoken, the old words she had learned with Aunt Mary one Sunday afternoon long years ago: “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him and delivereth them…. I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.”
She crept into her strange, rattling bed and drew the crackling coverlet up around her, laid her head upon her rattly pillow, and closed her weary eyes, resting her heart upon the words of the book as upon a pillow of peace. Then suddenly, without warning, the tears came stinging into her eyes, as she remembered how alone in the world and desolate she was, and how she longed for her dear aunt and her old home. There in her strange little bed she cried for a few minutes as if her heart would break. Then into the confusion of her sad thoughts came the words, “Even Christ had not where to lay His head.”
“And I have!” she said to herself severely. “I ought to be glad and thankful. He gave me this house. It was just as plain as if I had heard Him offer it to me.”
So she turned over the little damp spot on her pillow where the tears had fallen and deliberately settled herself to sleep, forcibly putting away all thoughts of her strange experiences for another time and addressing herself to rest. There might be dangers passing on the street, but God had promised to care for her, and she knew she could trust Him. She needed the rest and must take it. So she slept, and night settled down around the little cottage under the maples.
A hundred miles away in the darkness, a man stole like a shadow through the night, walking noiselessly down a deserted road to the graveyard, and vanished among the graves into the velvety blackness under the trees. Appeared a point of light like a darting firefly fitfully now and then, lighting up the spectral marbles for a gleam and going out again as if it had not been there. A soft sound of stirring among the growing things on a grave as one knelt beside it and worked, breathing hard, the light shining once more steadily for an instant on trailing vines and glowing berries then ceasing entirely. Steps to the back of the graveyard, and strange, muffled sounds dying away into silence and midnight.
Later, in a city cellar lair, a meeting of angry, puzzled, incredulous men, and one, resolute, calm, fearless, indifferent, and determined, dominating them all. Money going around, more than they had expected, yet only arousing suspicion; and then, before they could protest, the lead going out into the night alone, leaving them to voice their suspicions and plot against him.
Chapter 12
When Judge Peterson woke up in the morning after a night of restless tossing and an early morning doze, he called to his wife with a voice much like his old-time vigor.
“Miranda, bring me my pants. I want to try how it seems to sit up. I’ve got to get out of here and find that little girl. There’s something strange about this business, and I reckon it’s up to me to study it out.”
The anxious face of Miranda Peterson that had been creased all night with tormenting fears suddenly relaxed, and a gleam of joy came into her eyes. This was her old-time husband back again. The visitors hadn’t done him so much damage after all, perhaps had only given him an added incentive to get well. With a spring in her step and a light in her eye, she swung the old-fashioned wardrobe door open and revealed his baggy trousers hung up by their suspenders just where she had put them the night he was taken sick.
“All right, Father,” she said briskly, “there they are. You have your breakfast, and as soon as the doctor comes, we’ll ask him if you can put ’em on. There’s ham and eggs this morning. Do you feel for ham or only eggs?”
“Both!” declared the indomitable old man. “I’ve got a lot to do today, and I want strength. Mother, did you ever think that Mary Massey suspected her son’s wife of not being—well—exactly loyal to the family?”
Miranda Peterson paused in the open doorway. “Yes, I did, Father. The last time I was up there before she died, she kind of tried to apologize to me for asking me to close the door while we talked. She said she knew Nan wasn’t very fond of Joyce, and she didn’t want her to know we were talking about her future; it might cause jealousy. She said Nan had accused her of thinking more of Joyce than she did of her own son’s wife, as of course she did. How could she help it? But I c
ould see she was real uneasy about how they would get on when she was gone, especially when they found out about the house. She said then she was going to explain it all to Eugene right away. But, you know, she took worse that night, and I suppose she never did get the chance. I think myself it was a great mistake, letting the children grow up without knowing all about it, but of course Mary Massey felt she must keep her sister’s dying request, and her sister hadn’t wanted Joyce to know she had money coming to her till she was twenty-one. She said she was afraid it would spoil her. Well, she isn’t spoiled, that’s one thing certain, but it always seems to me when you work real hard to escape one trouble, you’re like as not to run head-on to another that’s about as bad. Look what’s happened now. I don’t blame Joyce Radway one little mite for not standing that Nannette. She’s got a tongue like a hissing serpent, and she can wind that light-minded, weak-chinned, bullheaded husband of hers around her little finger. How that poor bag of meal ever came to be Mary Massey’s son, I can’t figure, even with a husband like Hiram Massey, for Mary Massey was the salt of the earth. Talking about salt, do you want your eggs on toast? And hot milk? Yes, I know. I’ll have ’em here in the jerk of a lamb’s tail, and then you’ll be ready to talk to the doctor when he comes.”
“All right, Mother. And say, send Dan down. He’s about, isn’t he? Well, I want him to go on an errand. Send him in.”
Dan appeared, clean shaven, kindly eyed, with a square jaw like his father’s and a determined set to his shoulders.
Not Under the Law Page 10