Once, indeed, she had run away, but circumstances had brought her and Bob to the pleasant home of the town police recorder, and Mr. and Mrs. Bender had proved themselves true and steadfast friends to the boy and girl who stood sorely in need of friendship. It was the Benders who had exacted a promise from both Bob and Betty that they would not run away from Bramble Farm without letting them know.
Betty had been instrumental in causing the arrest of two men who had stolen chickens from the Peabody farm, and at the hearing before the recorder something of Mr. Peabody’s characteristics and of the conditions at Bramble Farm had been revealed.
Anxious to have Betty and Bob return, Joseph Peabody had practically agreed to treat them more humanely, and for a few weeks, during which the Benders had gone away for their annual vacation, matters at Bramble Farm had in the main improved. But they were gradually slipping back to the old level, and this morning, when Peabody had gored the cow with his pitchfork, Bob had thought disgustedly that it was useless to expect anything good at the hands of the owner of Bramble Farm.
As he and Betty tramped back after delivering the cow, Bob’s mind was busy with plans that would free him from Mr. Peabody and set him forward on the road that led to fortune. Bob included making a fortune in his life work, having a shrewd idea that money rightly used was a good gift.
“Where do you suppose your uncle is?” he asked Betty, coming out of a reverie wherein he bade Bramble Farm and all the dwellers there with a single exception a cold and haughty farewell.
“Why, I imagine he is in Washington,” returned Betty confidently. “His last letter was from there, though two days ago a postal came from Philadelphia. I think likely he went up to see his lawyer and get his mail. You know it was held there while he was out West. I hope he has all my letters now, and last night I wrote him another, asking him if I couldn’t leave here. I said I’d rather go to the strictest kind of a boarding school; and so I would. I’ll mail the letter this afternoon in Glenside.”
“It’s too long a walk for you to take on a hot afternoon,” grumbled Bob. “I’m going over to Trowbridge, and I’ll mail it there for you.”
Betty pulled the letter from her blouse pocket and handed it to him.
“Where’s Trowbridge?” she asked, as they came in sight of the boundary line of Bramble Farm and sighted Mr. Peabody in conversation with the mail carrier at the head of the lane. “Can I go with you?”
“We’d better hurry,” suggested Bob, quickening his steps. “Trowbridge is four miles beyond Laurel Grove. You’ve never been there. No, you can’t go, Betty, because I have to ride the sorrel. I suppose in time old Peabody will buy another wagon, but no one can tell when that will come to pass.”
The wagon house had burned one night, and the master of Bramble Farm could not bring himself to pay out the cash for even a secondhand wagon. As a result, the always limited social activities of the farm were curtailed to the vanishing point.
“What are you going for?” persisted Betty, who had her fair share of feminine curiosity with the additional excuse that interesting events were few and far between in her present everyday life.
Bob grinned.
“Going to a vendue,” he announced. “Now how much do you know?”
Betty tossed her head, and elevated her small, freckled nose.
“A vendue?” she repeated. “Why, a vendue is a—a—what is it, Bob?”
“A sale,” said Bob. “Some farmer is going to sell out and Peabody wants a wagon. So I have to ride that horse fourteen miles and back—and he has a backbone like a razor blade!—to buy a wagon; that is, if no one bids over me.”
“And Mr. Peabody won’t pay more than six dollars; he said so at the supper table last night,” mourned Betty. “You’ll never be able to buy a wagon for that. I wish I could go, too. Bob, I never saw a country vendue. Please, can’t I?”
“You cannot,” replied Bob with unaccustomed decision. Betty usually wheedled him into granting her requests. “Haven’t I just told you there is nothing to go in? If you see yourself perched on that raw-boned nag with me, I don’t, that’s all. But I tell you what; there’s a sale to-morrow at a farm this side of Glenside—I’ll take you to that, if you like. I guess Peabody will let me off, seeing as how there are wagons advertised. We can easily walk to Faulkner’s place.”
This promise contented Betty, and she ate her dinner quietly. Bob rode off on the old horse directly after dinner, and then for the first time Betty noticed that Mrs. Peabody seemed worried about something.
“Don’t you feel well? Won’t you go upstairs and lie down and let me do the dishes?” urged the girl. “Do, Mrs. Peabody. You can have a nice, long rest before it’s time to feed the chickens.”
“I feel all right,” said Mrs. Peabody dully. “Only—well, I found this card from the new minister back of the pump this morning. It’s a week old, and he says he’s coming out to call this afternoon. There’s no place in the house I can show him, and I haven’t got a decent dress, either.”
Betty swallowed her first impulse to say what she thought of a husband who would make no effort to see that his wife received her mail, and instead turned her practical mind to consideration of the immediate moment. The so-called parlor was hopeless she knew, and she dismissed it from the list of possibilities at once. It was a sparsely furnished, gloomy room, damp and musty from being tightly closed all summer, and the unpainted, rough boards had never been carpeted.
“There’s the porch,” said Betty suddenly. “Luckily that’s shady in the afternoon, and we can bring out the best things to make it look used. You let me fix it, Mrs. Peabody. And you can wear—let me see, what can you wear?”
Mrs. Peabody waited patiently, her eyes mirroring her explicit faith in Betty’s planning powers.
“Your white shirtwaist and skirt,” announced the girl at length. “They’re both clean, aren’t they? I thought so. Well, I’ll lend you a ribbon girdle, and you can turn in the high neck so it will be more in style. You’ll see, it will look all right.”
While Mrs. Peabody washed her dishes with more energy than usual because she had a definite interest in the coming hours, Betty flew to the shabby room that was titled by courtesy the parlor. She flung up the windows and opened the blinds recklessly. She would take only the plain wooden chair and the two rockers, she decided, for the stuffed plush furniture would look ridiculous masquerading as summer furnishings. The sturdy, square table would fit into her scheme, and also the small rug before the blackened fireplace.
She dashed back to the kitchen and grabbed the broom. She did not dare scrub the porch floor for fear that it would not dry in time, but she swept it carefully and spread down the rug. Then one by one, and making a separate trip each time, she carried out the table and the chairs. With a passing sigh for the bouquet abandoned in the field and probably withered by this time, she managed to get enough flowers from the overgrown neglected garden near the house to fill the really lovely colonial glass vase she had discovered that morning.
“It looks real pretty,” pronounced Mrs. Peabody, when she was brought out to see the transformed corner of the porch. “Looks as if we used it regular every afternoon, doesn’t it? Do you think it will be all right not to ask him in, Betty?”
“Of course,” said Betty stoutly. “Don’t dare ask him in! If he wants a drink of water, call me, and I’ll get it for him. You must be sitting in your chair reading a magazine when he comes and he’ll think you always spend your afternoons like that.”
“I’ll hurry and get dressed,” agreed Mrs. Peabody, giving a last satisfied glance at the porch. “I declare, I never saw your beat, Betty, for making things look pretty.”
Betty needed that encouragement, for when it came to making Mrs. Peabody look pretty in the voluminous white skirt and stiff shirtwaist of ten years past, the task seemed positively hopeless. Betty, however, was not one to give in easily, and when she had brushed and pinned her hostess’s thin hair as softly as she could arrange it
, and had turned in the high collar of her blouse and pinned it with a cameo pin, the one fine thing remaining to Mrs. Peabody from her wedding outfit, adding a soft silk girdle of gray-blue, she knew the improvement was marked. Mrs. Peabody stared at herself in the glass contentedly.
“I didn’t know I could look that nice,” she said with a candor at once pathetic and naive. “I’ve been wishing he wouldn’t come, but now I kinda hope he will.”
Betty gently propelled her to the porch and established her in one of the rocking chairs with a magazine to give her an air of leisure.
“You’ll come and talk to him, won’t you?” urged Mrs. Peabody anxiously. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen a stranger I won’t know what to say.”
“Yes, you will,” Betty assured her “I’ll come out after you’ve talked a little while. He won’t stay long, I imagine, because he will probably have a number of calls to pay.”
“Well, I hope Joseph stays out of sight,” remarked Joseph Peabody’s wife frankly. “Of course, in time the new minister will know him as well as the old one did; but I would like to have him call on me like other parishioners first.”
CHAPTER III
BOB HAS GREAT NEWS
The new minister proved to be a gentle old man, evidently retired to a country charge and, in his way, quite as diffident as Mrs. Peabody. He was apparently charmed to be entertained on the porch, and saw nothing wrong with the neglected house and grounds. His near-sighted eyes, beaming with kindness and good-will, apparently took comfort and serenity for granted, and when Betty came out half an hour after his arrival, carrying a little tray of lemonade and cakes, he was deep in a recital of the first charge he had held upon his graduation from the theological seminary forty years before.
“There, that’s over!” sighed Mrs. Peabody, quite like the experienced hostess, when the minister’s shabby black buggy was well on its way out of the lane. “You’re dreadful good, Betty, to help me through with it. He won’t come again for another six months—it takes him that long to cover his parish, the farms are so far apart. Let me help you carry back the chairs.”
Betty longed to suggest that they leave them out and use the porch as an outdoor sitting room, but she knew that such an idea would be sure to meet with active opposition from the master of Bramble Farm. Long before he came in to supper that night the chairs had been restored to their proper places and Mrs. Peabody had resumed the gray wrapper she habitually wore. Only the vase of flowers on the table was left to show that the afternoon had been slightly out of the ordinary. That and the tray of glasses Betty had unfortunately left on the draining board of the sink, intending to wash them with the supper dishes.
“Whose glasses, and what’s been in ’em?” demanded Mr. Peabody suspiciously. “There’s sugar in the bottom of one of ’em. You haven’t been making lemonade?” He turned to his wife accusingly.
Bob had not come home yet, and there was only Ethan, the hired man, Betty, and the Peabodys at the supper table.
“I made lemonade,” said Betty quietly. “Those are my own glasses I bought in Glenside, and the sugar and lemons were mine, too. So were the cakes.”
This silenced Peabody, for he knew that Betty’s uncle sent her money from time to time, and though he fairly writhed to think that she Could spend it so foolishly, he could not interfere.
As soon as it was dark the Peabody household retired, to save lighting lamps, and this evening was no exception. Betty learned from a stray question Mrs. Peabody put to Ethan, the hired man, that Bob was not expected home until ten or eleven o’clock. There was no thought of sitting up for him, though Betty knew that in all likelihood he would have had no supper, having no money and knowing no one in Trowbridge.
She was not sleepy, and having brushed and braided her hair for the night, she threw her sweater over her dressing gown and sat down at the window of her room, a tin of sardines and a box of crackers in her lap, determined to see to it that Bob had something to eat.
There was a full moon, and the road lay like a white ribbon between the silver fields. Betty could follow the lane road out to where it met the main highway, and now and then the sound of an automobile horn came to her and she saw a car speed by on the main road. Sitting there in the sweet stillness of the summer night, she thought of her mother, of the old friends in Pineville, and, of course, of her uncle. She wondered where he was that night, if he thought of her, and what would be his answer to her letter.
“Is that a horse?” said Betty to herself, breaking off her reverie abruptly. “Hark! that sounds like a trotting horse.”
She was sure that she could make out the outlines of a horse and rider on the main road, but it was several minutes before she was positive that it had turned into the lane. Yes, it must be Bob. No one else would be out riding at that hour of the night. Betty glanced at her wrist-watch—half-past ten.
The rhythmic beat of the horse’s hoofs sounded more plainly, and soon Betty heard the sound of singing. Bob was moved to song in that lovely moonlight, as his sorry mount was urged to unaccustomed spirit and a feeling of freedom.
“When in thy dreaming,
moons like these shall shine again,
And, daylight beaming,
prove thy dreams are vain.”
Bob’s fresh, untrained voice sounded sweet and clear on the night air, and to Betty’s surprise, tears came unbidden into her eyes. She was not given to analysis.
“Moonlight always makes me want to cry,” she murmured, dashing the drops from her eyes. “I hope Bob will look up and know that I’m at the window. I don’t dare call to him.”
But Bob, who had stopped singing while still some distance from the house, clattered straight to the barn.
Betty hurried over to her lamp, lit it, and set it on the window sill.
“He’ll see it from the barn,” she argued wisely, “and know that I am not asleep.”
Her reasoning proved correct, for in a few minutes a well-known whistle sounded below her window. She blew out the light and leaned out.
“Oh, Betty!” Bob’s tone was one of repressed excitement. “I’ve got something great to tell you.”
“Have you had any supper?” demanded Betty, more concerned with that question than with any news. “I’ve something for you, if you’re hungry.”
“Hungry? Gee, I’m starved!” was the response. “I didn’t dare stop to ask for a meal anywhere, because I knew I’d be late getting home as it was. The horse was never cut out for a saddle horse; I’m so stiff I don’t believe I can move to-morrow. Where’s the eats?”
“Here. I’ll let it down in a moment,” answered Betty, tying a string to the parcel. “Sorry it isn’t more, Bob, but the larder’s getting low again.”
Bob untied the can and cracker box she lowered to him, and Betty pulled in the string to be preserved for future use.
“Thanks, awfully,” said Bob. “You’re a brick, Betty. And, say, what do you think I heard over in Trowbridge?”
“Don’t talk so loud!” cautioned Betty. “What, Bob?”
“Why, the poorhouse farm is this side of the town,” said Bob, munching a cracker with liveliest manifestations of appreciation. “Coming back tonight—that’s what made me late—Jim Turner, who’s poormaster now, called me in. Said he had something to tell me. It seems there was a queer old duffer spent one night there a while back —Jim thought it must have been a month ago. He has a secondhand bookshop in Washington, and he came to the poorhouse to look at some old books they have there—thought they might be valuable. They opened all the records to him, and Jim says he was quite interested when he came to my mother’s name. Asked a lot of questions about her and wanted to see me. Jim said he was as queer as could be, and all they could get out of him was that maybe he could tell me something to interest me. He wouldn’t give any of the poorhouse authorities an inkling of what he knew, and insisted that he’d have to see me first.”
“Where is he?” demanded Betty energetically. “I hope you d
idn’t come away without seeing him, Bob. What’s his name? How does he look?”
“His name,” said Bob slowly, “is Lockwood Hale. And he went back to Washington the next day.”
Betty’s air castles tumbled with a sickening slump.
“Bob Henderson!” she cried, remembering, however, to keep her voice low. “The idea! Do you mean to tell me they let that man go without notifying you? Why I never heard of anything so mean!”
“Oh, I’m not important,” explained Bob, quite without bitterness. “Poorhouse heads don’t put themselves out much for those under ’em—though Jim Turner’s always treated me fair enough. But Lockwood Hale had to go back to Washington the next day, Betty. There honestly wasn’t time to send for me.”
“Perhaps they gave him your address,” said Betty hopefully. “But, oh, Bob, you say he was there a month ago?”
Bob nodded unhappily.
“He hasn’t my address,” he admitted. “Jim says he meant to give it to him, but the old fellow left suddenly without saying a word to any one. Jim thought maybe he had the name in mind and would write anyway. I’d get it, you know, if it went to the poorhouse. But I guess Hale’s memory is like a ragbag—stuffed with odds and ends that he can’t get hold of when he wants ’em. No, Betty, I guess the only thing for me to do is to go to Washington.”
“Well, if you don’t go to bed, young man, I’ll come down there and help you along,” an angry whisper came from the little window up under the roof. “You’ve been babbling and babbling steady for half an hour,” grumbled the annoyed Ethan. “How do you expect me to get any sleep with that racket going on? Come on up to bed before the old man wakes up.”
Thankful that it was Ethan instead of Mr. Peabody, Bob gathered up his sardines and the remnants of the crackers and tiptoed up the attic stairs to the room he shared with the hired man.
Betty hastily slipped into bed, and though Bob’s news had excited her, she was tired enough to fall asleep readily.
In the morning she watched her chance to speak to Bob alone, and when she heard him grinding a sickle in the toolhouse ran out to tell him something.
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 239