Caddie Woodlawn

by Carol Ryrie Brink

  “Mother, if you want to see something, you just come here with me as fast as you can,” she cried.

  On the way to the barn she gave Mrs. Woodlawn a brief but graphic account of the riding lesson and the sheep salting. When they reached the haymow, Annabelle was still sobbing.

  “Oh, Aunty Harriet!” she cried. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s squishy. I can’t—oh dear! I can’t bear squishy things!”

  “You poor child!” said Mrs. Woodlawn, examining the back of Annabelle’s blouse, and then, in an ominous voice, she announced: “It’s egg.” With a good deal of tenderness Mother got Annabelle to the house and put her into Clara’s capable hands. Then she turned with fury on the three culprits. But it was Caddie whom she singled out for punishment.

  “Caroline Woodlawn, stand forth!” she cried. Caddie obeyed.

  “It was only a joke, Mother,” she said in a quivering voice. Mrs. Woodlawn took a little riding whip which hung behind the kitchen door and struck Caddie three times across the legs.

  “Now go to your bed and stay until morning. You shall have no supper.”

  “Ma, it was as much my fault as hers,” cried Tom, his ruddy face gone white.

  “No, Tom,” said Mrs. Woodlawn. “I cannot blame you so much. But that a daughter of mine should so far forget herself in her hospitality to a guest—that she should be such a hoyden as to neglect her proper duties as a lady! Shame to her! Shame! No punishment that I can invent would be sufficient for her.”

  As Caddie went upstairs, she saw Father standing in the kitchen door and she knew that he had witnessed her disgrace. But she knew, too, that he would do nothing to soften the sentence which Mother had spoken, for it was an unwritten family law that one parent never interfered with the justice dealt out by the other.

  For hours Caddie tossed about on her bed. The upper room was hot and close, but an even hotter inner fire burned in Caddie. She had some of her mother’s quick temper, and she was stung by injustice. She would have accepted punishment without question if it had been dealt out equally to the boys. But the boys had gone free! All the remorse and the resolves to do better, which had welled up in her as soon as she had seen Annabelle’s tears, were dried up now at the injustice of her punishment. Hot and dry-eyed, she tossed about on the little bed where she had spent so

  many quiet hours. At last she got up and tied a few things which she most valued into a towel. She put them under the foot of her mattress and lay down again. Later she would slip down to the kitchen and get a loaf of bread and Father’s old water bottle which she would fill at the spring. At least they could not begrudge her that much. They would soon cease to miss her. Perhaps they would adopt Annabelle in her place.

  Her anger cooled a little in the fever of making plans. It would have been much easier if she had known just where the Indians were. But at this season the woods were full of berries and there would soon be nuts. John’s dog would protect her and she could live a long time in the woods until she could join the Indians. She knew that they would take her in, and then she would never have to grow into that hateful thing which Mother was always talking about—a lady. A lady with fine airs and mincing walk who was afraid to go out into the sun without a hat or a sunshade! A lady, who made samplers and wore stays and was falsely polite no matter how she felt!

  A soft blue twilight fell, and still Caddie tossed, hot, resentful, and determined. There was the clatter of supper dishes down below, and no one relented enough to send her a bite of bread. A velvet darkness followed the twilight and, through the window, summer stars began to twinkle. Presently Hetty and Minnie came up to bed. Hetty came and stood by Caddie’s bed and looked at her. Caddie could feel the long, wistful look, but she did not stir or open her eyes. Hetty was a tattletale. It was torture to have to lie so still, but at last the little sisters were breathing the regular breath of sleep, and Caddie could toss and turn again as much as she pleased. She must keep awake now until the house was all still and the lights out, and then she would be free to run away. Her heart beat fast, and with every beat something hot and painful seemed to throb in her head. A cooler breeze began to come in at the window. How long it took the house to grow quiet tonight! How tiresome they were! They wouldn’t even go to bed and let her run away!

  Then the door creaked a little on its hinges, there was a glimmer of candlelight, and Father came in. He went first and looked at Minnie and Hetty. He put a lock of hair back from Minnie’s forehead and pulled the sheet up over Hetty’s shoulder. Then he came and stood by Caddie’s bed. She lay very still with tightly closed eyes so that Father should think her asleep. It had fooled Hetty, but Father knew more than most people did. He put the candle down and sat on the side of the bed and took one of Caddie’s hot hands in his cool ones. The he began to speak in his nice quiet voice, without asking her to wake up or open her eyes or look at him.

  “Perhaps Mother was a little hasty today, Caddie,” he said. “She really loves you very much, and, you see, she expects more of you than she would of someone she didn’t care about. It’s a strange thing, but somehow we expect more of girls than of boys. It is the sisters and wives and mothers, you know, Caddie, who keep the world sweet and beautiful. What a rough world it would be if there were only men and boys in it, doing things in their rough way! A woman’s task is to teach them gentleness and courtesy and love and kindness. It’s a big task, too, Caddie—harder than cutting trees or building mills or damming rivers. It takes nerve and courage and patience, but good women have those things. They have them just as much as the men who build bridges and carve roads through the wilderness. A woman’s work is something fine and noble to grow up to, and it is just as important as a man’s. But no man could ever do it so well. I don’t want you to be the silly, affected person with fine clothes and manners whom folks sometimes call a lady. No, that is not what I want for you, my little girl. I want you to be a woman with a wise and understanding heart, healthy in body and honest in mind. Do you think you would like to be growing up into that woman now? How about it, Caddie, have we run with the colts long enough?”

  There was a little silence, and the hot tears which had not wanted to come all day were suddenly running down Caddie’s cheeks unheeded into the pillow.

  “You know, Caddie,” added Father gently and half-apologetically, “you know I’m sort of responsible for you, honey. I was the one who urged Mother to let you run wild, because I thought it was the finest way to make a splendid woman of you. And I still believe that, Caddie.”

  Suddenly Caddie flung herself into Mr. Woodlawn’s arms.

  “Father! Father!”

  It was all she could say, and really there was nothing more that needed saying. Mr. Woodlawn held her a long time, his rough beard pressed against her cheek. Then with his big hands, which were so delicate with clockwork, he helped her to undress and straighten the tumbled bed. Then he kissed her again and took his candle and went away. And now the room was cool and pleasant again, and even Caddie’s tears were not unpleasant, but part of the cool relief she felt. In a few moments she was fast asleep.

  But something strange had happened to Caddie in the night. When she awoke she knew that she need not be afraid of growing up. It was not just sewing and weaving and wearing stays. It was something more thrilling than that. It was a responsibility, but, as Father spoke of it, it was a beautiful and precious one, and Caddie was ready to go and meet it. She looked at the yellow sunshine on the floor and she knew that she had slept much longer than she usually did. Both Hetty’s and Minnie’s bed were empty, but as soon as Caddie began to stir around, Hetty came in as if she had been waiting outside the door.

  “Oh, say, Caddie,” she said, “I’m awful sorry I went and told on you yesterday. Honest, I am. I never thought you’d get it so hard, and I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to be a tattler ever any more, I’m not. But, say, Caddie, I wanted to be the first to tell you Father took Tom and Warren out to the barn yesterday afternoon and he gave ’em both a th
rashing. He said it wasn’t fair that you should have all the punishment when the same law had always governed you all, and Tom said so, too, although he yelled good and plenty when he was being thrashed.”

  “It’s all right, Hetty,” said Caddie. “I guess we won’t be playing any more silly jokes on people.”

  “What’s this?” asked Hetty, pulling at the corner of a queer bundle that stuck out under the corner of Caddie’s mattress. Out came a knotted towel with an odd assortment of Caddie’s treasures rattling around inside.

  “Oh, that!” said Caddie, untying the knots and putting the things away. “Those are just some things I was looking at yesterday when I had to stay up here alone.”

  22. A Letter with a Foreign Stamp

  That day everything went on as usual. Caddie was grateful to them for that. Mother gave her a brief smile and then went on about her morning duties as if nothing had happened. Father had put the boys to work at some useful task in the barn. Under the pine trees Clara and Annabelle had set up the quilting frame and were busily at work on the quilt which Clara had been piecing all winter.

  Caddie stood in the doorway and looked out at them. She was not sure how the girl who couldn’t bear “squishy” things would treat her today.

  “Oh, Caddie, come and see,” cried Clara. “Cousin Annabelle has taught me the loveliest new quilting pattern. It’s a rose and scroll.”

  Caddie came and looked. She stood with her feet wide apart and her hands in her apron pockets like a boy. But for once she was not scornful of women’s skill. “Do you think I could learn how?” she asked.

  “Of course you could,” said Annabelle with a generous smile. “Look here, I’ll give you my needle and you shall sit beside me and learn.”

  So Caddie’s awkward fingers took up the needle, and, when Father came by a little later, he smiled at her and nodded his head in approval.

  “I guess if I can mend clocks, I ought to be able to quilt,” said Caddie a little defiantly, and nobody contradicted her, because she was quilting very well. By noon she was quite as good as Clara or Annabelle and so pleased with herself that she thought quilting one of the greatest sports in the world. When Tom and Warren came up from the barn, she hailed them enthusiastically and began to exhibit her skill.

  “Golly! I could do that, too!” said Tom. “Girls think they’re so smart with their tiny stitches. Where’s a needle?”

  “Me, too!” said Warren, and before Clara knew what was happening to her precious quilt, the boys had taken possession, and the three erstwhile adventurers were making riotous scrolls and roses all over it.

  “Mother,” she complained, running breathless into the kitchen, “you’ve got to make them stop. Their hands are all dirty!”

  “Let be! Let be, Clara,” said Mrs. Woodlawn, smiling. “The quilt will wash. The quilt will wash.”

  So it turned out that, when Caddie began to learn to be a housewife, the boys became housewives, too. Of course, they wouldn’t have admitted it for worlds, but, after all, the three of them had had their fun together for so long that it was hard to break the habit. The kitchen often rang now with their shouts of laughter, and Mrs. Conroy complained that they were always under foot. But their mother only smiled and nodded.

  “Caddie’s beginning to take an interest in the house,” she said. “That’s enough for me. A little housework will not harm the boys.”

  Thus life went on for about a week, and then something happened which was strange and exciting.

  Father had been to the mill at Eau Galle and on the return had gone to Dunnville to get what mail the Little Steamer had brought in that day. When he drove up the lane to the house, the children were all out under the pines in front of the house where they often spent the hot August afternoons. Usually Father had some gay remark to call out to them, and usually they swarmed around him for a ride to the barn. But today, when they came clamoring for a ride, it seemed as if Father did not see them. His face had an odd look, which made him appear somehow a stranger, and in his hand he held a large envelope on which the seal was broken.

  “Tom,” he said, tossing the reins to his son, “put up the horses.” One look at Father’s strange face and Tom obeyed without a word. Father strode across the grass and opened the front door. “Harriet!” he called, “Harriet, come into the parlor with me.”

  The children gasped. The parlor was a sacred room, used only for weddings and funerals, or Christmas day or special visitors, or when the circuit rider held a neighborhood prayer meeting. It was a special-occasion room. But it had one other use, and that was special, too. When Father and Mother wanted to speak together very privately and on important matters, they went into the parlor and closed the door behind them. They did this now, and the young Woodlawns stood outside and wondered.

  “Did you see the queer, big letter he had?” asked Hetty. “I guess that’s what they’re talking about.”

  “It had foreign stamps on it,” said Caddie. “I noticed. They weren’t United States’.”

  “I saw,” said Cousin Annabelle, “and I know what they were. They were English. I know because Mamma has a cousin who lives in England, and she sends us letters. Yes, it must have been a letter from England! But whoever would be writing to Uncle John from across seas?”

  The Woodlawn children looked at each other with startled faces.

  “Our father was born in England, you know,” said Caddie slowly, “but I can’t guess who would be writing him from there.” Tom came back from “putting up” the horses, and they all sat around the doorstep, unable to take up their play again where they had left it. Only Cousin Annabelle seemed unaffected by Father’s strangeness. Having thought of England, her cultivated voice rambled on and on in praise of Boston and England. According to Annabelle, England was very nearly as well civilized and delightful as Boston, and, if she were not fortunate enough to marry a Boston clergyman, she thought that an English lord would perhaps do just as well.

  “Children!” They turned to see Mother standing behind them in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. “Children, your father wishes to speak to you in the parlor. Annabelle, dear, don’t you want to run to the spring and get yourself a cool drink? The children will be out again in a moment.”

  “Us in the parlor!” whispered Warren. “Golly! He must have sumpin’ to say!”

  Yes, he had. Father sat behind a little table on which was spread the open letter which had come across the sea. His face was very grave.

  “Children,” he said, “we have come to a crossroad in our lives. Today I have received a letter from a source which I had thought closed to me. Once this letter could have meant a great deal to me, but now it has come almost too late.”

  “Oh, no, Johnny!” cried Mother quickly.

  “Perhaps Mother is right,” he went on. “The letter can still do much for us if we wish it. Children, an uncle, whom I have never seen, has died in England. He was Lord Woodlawn after my grandfather. Since his death, it appears that the family lawyers have spent some time in tracing his successor. At last they have found him. He turns out to be the son of a little seamstress, a boy who used to dance in red breeches and clogs to keep from going hungry. It seems, however oddly, that I may be the next Lord Woodlawn.”

  “You, Father!” the children cried, and Clara clasped her hands and said: “Oh, the big house with the peacocks, Father, will it be yours?”

  “Yes, the big house with the peacocks, Clara,” said Father slowly.

  Caddie thought of the big house with the peacocks, too, and she tried to see in her mind just how it looked. But try as she would to see it clearly, the iron bars of a closed gate were always between, just as they had been when Father had first described it.

  “There is one condition, however,” continued Father, “which I must tell you about. The title and estates in England come to me only if I will give up my American citizenship and all my American connections and return to England to live. This requirement was a part o
f the late Lord Woodlawn’s will, and if I do not wish to comply with it, the land and title will pass on to another more distant relative who is living now in England.”

  “But, of course, you will,” said Mother and Clara together.

  “I suppose it would be foolish not to,” said Father slowly, and he passed his hand across his forehead as though he were brushing away a cobweb or an unruly bit of hair. Then he folded the letter and put it back in the envelope and stood up, smiling. “In any case our decision must not be hasty,” he said. “We must be sure that we are right.”

  “But it seems to me in a case like this that there can be only one right thing to do!” cried Mother warmly.

  Father laid his hand on her arm, and looked deeply into her eyes. “Think, Harriet. Think before you speak,” he said.

  “Couldn’t we ever come back here to the farm?” asked Tom.

  “No, Tom.”

  “Who’d see to the mill at Eau Galle?”

  “They’d get another man. The machinery is all installed. Anyone else could keep it in order.”

  “Would we have to leave Betsy and the animals?” asked Caddie.

  “Yes, Caddie. Probably there would be many fine horses awaiting us in England.”

  Then another thought occurred to Caddie. “Father, how soon would we have to go? Would it be before John came back for his dog and scalp belt?”

  “Yes, Caddie, I think it would. If we go, it will be soon.”

  “If” cried Clara. “Father, how can you say an if to such a splendid thing!”

  “It is only right to look at all the sides of an important question, Clara.”

  When they came out into the sunshine again, they were a little dazzled. The parlor had been dark and cool, and, in the few moments they had stood there in dark coolness, the whole future had suddenly changed for the little Woodlawns. How strange, how unbelievable it was! No wonder they blinked at the sun when they came out. But suddenly Tom saw something which brought him out of his daze. Hetty was setting off across the fields toward Maggie Bunn’s.