Chapter XIII
THE ADVENT OF THE PILLIGS
The next day the painters left for good. Hard Cider had completed histasks, Mike had no further need for his son Joe till haying time,and I no longer had an excuse for putting off my departure from Bert'sand my embarkation upon the dubious seas of housekeeping with Mrs.Pillig at the wheel and son Peter as cabin boy. So I sent word toMrs. Pillig to be ready to come the next morning, asked Mrs. Bert toorder for me the necessary stock of groceries from the village, andgave myself up to the joys of transplanting. It was a cloudy day, withrain threatening, so that Mike assured me I could not find a bettertime. Miss Goodwin worked by my side, her task consisting of a carefulperusal of the seed catalogue and a planting table. What colour werethe flowers? How far apart should the plants be set? How tall did theygrow? My ignorance was as profound as hers. But perhaps that added tothe pleasure. It did to mine, at any rate. I was experimenting with theunknown.
I've set many a seedling since and needed no table to tell me how, butI have never recaptured quite the glee of that soft, cloudy June morning,when my shiny new trowel transferred unknown plants to the flats on thewheelbarrow, and a voice beside me read:
"'_Phlox Drummondi_. This is one of the finest annuals, being hardy,easy of cultivation, and making as a summer bedding plant an effectiveand brilliant display. The flowers are of long duration and of mostgorgeous and varied colours. One foot. One fourth ounce, specialmixture; contains all the finest and most brilliant colours.' Wait,now, P--ph--phlox--my, this is like the dictionary! Here we are! Planttwelve inches apart. My goodness, if you plant all those twelve inchesapart, you'll fill the whole farm! Where are you going to put them?"
"Why not around the sundial?" said I. "They appear to be low and of asuperlative variety of brilliant colour. And they're an old-fashionedposy."
"Everything is superlative in a seed catalogue, I observe," she smiled."Peter Bell could never have written a successful catalogue, couldhe? Yes, I think they'd be lovely round the sundial, with somethingtall on the outside, in clumps. Something white, like the pillar, to showthem off."
We wheeled out the phlox plants and set them in the circular beds ringingthe sundial, working on boards laid down on the ground, for my grassseed was sprouting, if rather spindly and in patches. Then we returnedfor something tall and white. Alas! we went over the catalogue once,twice, three times, but there was nothing in my seed bed which woulddo! The stock was little higher than the phlox. White annual larkspurwould have served, if there had been any--but there wasn't.
"It's the last time anybody else ever picks my seeds for me!" Ideclared. "Gee, I'll know a few things by next year."
"Gee, but you must fill up those sundial beds, _this_ year," said she."Oh, dear, I did want some tall clumps of white on the outside!"
"Well, here are asters. Asters are white, sometimes. See if these are.Giant comet, that sounds rather exciting. Also, debutante. They ought tobe showy. Most debutantes are nowadays."
She scanned my box of empty seed envelopes. "Oh, dear, the giant cometsare mixed," she said. "But"--with a look at the catalogue--"thedebutantes are white. They grow only a foot and a half, but they arewhite."
"Well, they'll have to fox trot round the dial, then," said I.
I dug them up, and we put them in clumps in the irregularities on theoutside edges of the beds, first filling the holes part full of water,as I had seen Mike do with the cauliflower plants.
"Let me do some," she pleaded. "Here I've been reading the oldcatalogue all the morning, while you've been digging in the nice dirt."
She kneeled on the board, holding a plant caressingly in her hand, andwith her naked fingers set it and firmed it in the moist earth. Then sheset a second, and a third, holding up her grimy fingers gleefully.
"Oh, you nice earth!" she finally exclaimed, digging both hands eagerlyin to the wrists.
After dinner we spaded up little beds at the foot of each pillar of therose arch, and put flowers in each of them, facing the house, set arow of _Phlox Drummondi_ along the line where the grape arbour was tobe, to mark more clearly the western edge of the lawn, and finally tooka load of the remaining seedlings, of various sorts, down to the brook,just below the orchard, where I planned some day to build a pool anddevelop a lovely garden nook. Here the soil was black and rich for afoot or more in depth, and after spading and raking out the weeds andgrasses we had four little beds, though roughly and hastily made, twoon each side of the stream, with the future pool, as it were, in thecentre. These we filled with the remaining seedlings, helter skelter,just for a splash of colour, and watered from the brook itself.
Then we straightened our stiff backs, and scurried for shelter from thecoming rain. We reached Bert's just as the first big drops began to fall.
"Nice rain!" she cried, turning to look at it from under the porch."You'll give all the flowers a drink, and they'll live and bebeautiful in the garden of Twin Fires."
"Do you like flowers as well as philology, really?" I asked.
"I don't see what's to prevent my liking both," she smiled, as shedisappeared up the stairs.
The next day it was still raining. I set off alone to make ready for thearrival of the Pilligs. I was standing on my kitchen porch talking toMike when they arrived. It was a memorable moment. I heard the soundof wheels, and looked up. A wagon was approaching, driven by an oldman. Beside him, beneath a cotton umbrella, sat a thin woman in black,with gray hair and a worried look. Behind them, on a battered trunk,sat Peter, who was not thin, who wore no worried look, and who chewedgum. Beneath the wagon, invisible at first, trotted a mud-bespatteredyellow pup. The wagon stopped.
"Good morning, Mr. Upton," said Mrs. Pillig. "This is me and Peter."
"Where's Buster?" said Peter.
At the word Buster, the yellow pup emerged from beneath the cart,wagging the longest tail, in proportion to the dog, ever seen on acanine. It would be more correct to say that the tail wagged him, forwith every excited motion his whole body was undulated to the ears,to counterbalance that tail.
I went out and aided Mrs. Pillig to alight, and then Mike and I liftedthe trunk to the porch. I looked at the dog, which had also joined us onthe porch, where he was leaving muddy paw marks.
"Do I understand that Buster is also an arrival?" said I.
"Oh, dear me, Mr. Upton, you must excuse me," Mrs. Pillig criedanxiously. "Mrs. John Barker's boy Leslie gave Buster to Peter amonth ago, and of course I sent him right back, but he wouldn't stayback, and yesterday we took him away again, and this morning he justsuddenly appeared behind the wagon, and I told Peter he couldn't come,and Peter cried, and Buster wouldn't go back, and I'll make Petertake him away just as soon as the rain stops."
"Well, I hadn't bargained on Buster, that's a fact," said I. Ididn't like dogs; most people don't who've never had one. But hewas such a forlornly muddy mongrel pup, and so eloquent of tail, that Ispoke his name on an impulse, and put out my hand. The great tail waggedhim to the ears, and with the friendliest of undulations he was all atonce close to me, with his nose in my palm. Then he suddenly sat up onhis hind legs, dangled his front paws, looked me square in the eyes, andbarked.
That was too much for me. "Peter," said I, "you may keep Buster."
"Golly, I'd 'a' had a hard time not to," said that young person,immediately making for the barn, with Buster at his heels.
Mrs. Pillig and I went inside. While she was inspecting the kitchen, Mikeand I carried her trunk up the back stairs.
"I hope your bed comes to-day," said I, returning. "You see, the houseis largely furnished from my two rooms at college, and there was hardlyenough to go around."
Mrs. Pillig looked into the south room. "Did you have all them books inyour two rooms at college?" she asked.
I nodded.
"They must 'a' been pretty big rooms," she said. "Books is awfulthings to keep dusted."
"Which reminds me," I smiled, leading her over to my desk, at whichI pointed impressively. "Woman!" said I
, in sepulchral tones, "thatdesk is never to be dusted, never to be touched. Not a paper is to beremoved from it. No matter how dirty, how littered it gets, _never touchit under pain of death!_"
She looked at me a second with her worried eyes wide open, and then asmile came over her wan, thin face.
"I guess you be n't so terrible as you sound," she said. "But Iwon't touch it. Anything else I'm not to touch?"
"Yes," I answered. "The ashes in those two fireplaces. _The ashesthere are never to be taken out_, no matter if they are piled a footthick, and spill all over the floor. A noble pile of ashes is a room'sbest recommendation. Those are the only two orders I have. In all else,I'm at your mercy. But on those two points you are at mine--and I havenone!"
"Well, I reckon I'll wash the kitchen windows," said Mrs. Pillig.
I was sawing up a few more sticks from the orchard, when the express mandrove up with the beds, the crockery, and so on. I called son Peter,who responded with Buster at his heels. "Peter," said I, "you andI'll now set up the beds. You ought to be in school, though, by the way.Why aren't you?"
"Hed ter bring maw over here," said Peter.
"That's too bad. Aren't you sorry?"
Peter grinned at me and slowly winked. I was very stern. "Nevertheless,you'll have a lesson," I said. "You shall tell me the capitals of allthe states while we set up your bed."
Peter and I carried the beds, springs, and mattresses upstairs, andwhile we were joining the frames I began with Massachusetts and madehim tell me all the capitals he could. We got into a dispute over thecapital of Montana, Peter maintaining it was Butte, and I defendingHelena. The debate waxed warm, and suddenly Buster appeared upon thescene, his tail following him up the stairs, to see what the troublewas. He began to leave mud tracks all over the freshly painted floor,so that we had to grab him up and wipe his paws with a rag. Peter heldhim while I wiped, and we fell to laughing, and forgot Montana.
"You'll have to get rubbers for him," said I.
This idea amused Peter tremendously. "Gee, rubbers on a dog!" he cried."Buster'd eat 'em off in two seconds. Say, where's Buster goin' tosleep?"
We had to turn aside on our way downstairs for more furniture to makeBuster a bed in a box full of excelsior in the shed. We put him in it,and went back to the porch. Buster followed us. We took him back, andput him in the box once more. He whacked the sides with his tail, as ifhe enjoyed the game--and jumped out as soon as we turned away.
"Gee, he's too wide awake now," said Peter.
So we fell over Buster for the rest of the morning. I never saw a dogbefore nor since who could so successfully get under your feet asBuster. If I started upstairs with the frame of a pine bureau on myback, Buster was on the third step, between my legs. If I was carrying ina stack of plates from the barrel of crockery, Buster was wedged inthe screen door, pushing it open ahead of me, to let it snap back inmy face. When I scolded him, he undulated his silly yellow body, sprangupon his hind legs, and licked my hands. If I tried to kick him, heregarded it as a game, and bit my shoe lace. Peter's shoe laces, Inoted, were in shreds. But Buster disappeared after a time, and Peterand I got the china and kitchenware all in, and Mrs. Pillig had itwashed and in the cupboards before he reappeared. He came down thefront stairs with one of my bath slippers in his mouth, and, with aprofoundly proud undulation of tail and body, laid it at my feet for meto throw, barking loudly. We all laughed, but I took the slipper andbeat him with it, while Peter appeared on the verge of tears.
"No, Buster," I cried. "You keep out of doors. Peter, put him out."
Peter resentfully deposited the pup on the porch, and took my slipperback upstairs. Meanwhile, Buster, after looking wistfully through thescreen door a second, pushed it open with his nose and paw and reentered,immediately sitting up on his hind legs and gazing into my eyes with themost human look I ever saw.
"Buster," said I, "you are the limit. Very well, stay in. I give up!"
Buster plopped down on all fours, as if he understood perfectly, andtook a bite at my shoe string. I patted his head. I had to. The pup wasirresistible.
"And what time will you have your dinner?" asked Mrs. Pillig."There's no meat in the house. Guess you forgot to order the butcherto stop; but there's eggs."
"Eggs will do," said I, "and one o'clock. Bert has his at twelve,but I want mine at one. Maybe I shall have a guest."
"A guest!" she cried. "You wouldn't be puttin' a guest on me thefirst mornin'!"
"Well, it's doubtful, I'm afraid," I answered. "Perhaps I'll waittill to-morrow night, and have three guests for supper--just Bert andhis wife and their boarder--sort of a housewarming, you know. I want youto make a pie."
"Well, I reckon I can wait on table stylish enough for Mrs. Temple,"said she, "and I'll make a lemon pie that'll make Bert Temple sorry hedidn't marry _me_."
"I shouldn't want you to wreck Bert's domestic happiness," said I,"but make the pie, just the same!"
I went into the south room, and sat at my desk answering some letters,while I waited for dinner. I could hear the rattle of dishes in thekitchen--the first of those humble domestic sounds which we associatewith the word home. Through the house, too, and in to me, floated thearoma of bacon and of coffee, faintly, just detectable, mingled with thesmell of earth under June rain, which drifted through an open window.Presently I heard the front door open very softly. As I guessed thatPeter had his instructions in behaviour from his mother, I knew it mustbe Miss Goodwin. My pen poised suspended over the paper. I waited forher to enter the room, in a pleasant tingle of expectation. But shedid not enter. Several minutes passed, and I got up to investigate,but there was no sign of her. The front door, however, stood ajar. ThenMrs. Pillig called "Dinner!"
I walked into my dining-room, and sat down at the table, which wascovered with a new tablecloth and adorned with my new china. Besidemy plate was the familiar, old-fashioned silver I had eaten with when aboy, and the sight of it thrilled me. Then I spied the centrepiece--aglass vase bearing three fresh iris buds from the brookside. Here was thesecret, then, of the open door! Mrs. Pillig came in with the platterof eggs and bacon, and she, too, spied the flowers.
"Well, well, you've got yourself a bookay," she said]
"Well, well, you've got yourself a bookay," she said.
"Not I," was my answer. "They just came. Mrs. Pillig, there's afairy lives in this house, a nice, thoughtful fairy, who does thingslike this. If you ever see her, don't be frightened."
Mrs. Pillig looked at me pityingly. "I'll bring your toast and coffeenow," she said.
The coffee came in steaming, and it was good coffee, much betterthan Mrs. Bert's. The eggs were good, too. But best of all was thecentrepiece. She had come in so softly, and gone so quickly, and nobodyhad seen her! She had been present at my first meal in Twin Fires,after all, and so delicately present, just in the subtle fragrance offlowers and the warm token of thoughtfulness! My meal was a veryhappy one, happier even, perhaps, than it would have been had shesat opposite me in person. We are curious creatures, who can onoccasion extract a sweeter pleasure from our dreams of others inloneliness than from their bodily presence. Mrs. Pillig fluttered in andout, to see if I was faring well, and though her service was not that ofa trained waitress it sufficed to bring me dessert of some cannedpeaches, buried under my own rich cream, and to remind me that mywants were solicitously cared for. Out on the porch I could see Peterplaying with Buster and hear that ingratiating pup's yelps of caninedelight. Before me stood the purple iris blooms, with golden hearts justopening, their slender stems rising from the clear water in the vase,and spoke of her whose thought of me was so gracious, so delicatelyexpressed, so warming to my heart. The spoon I held bore my mother'sinitials, reminding me of my childhood, of that other home which deathhad broken up ten years before, since when I had called no place homesave my study and bedroom high above the college Yard. I thought of theYard--pleasantly, but without regrets. I looked through the windowas my last spoonful of dessert was eaten, and saw the sky breaking
intoblue. I folded my new napkin, put it into the old silver ring which borethe word "John" on the side, failed utterly to note the absence of afinger-bowl, and rose from my first meal in Twin Fires.
"I have a home again," said I, aloud; "I have a home again after tenyears!"
Then I went up the road toward Bert's.
The Idyl of Twin Fires Page 13