He Fell In Love With His Wife, Edward Payson Roe [children's books read aloud .TXT] 📗

shield her from a disagreeable fact, he said quickly, “do you know

that for over a year I steadily went behind my expenses . And that your butter

making has turned the tide already? I’m beginning to get ahead again.”

 

“I’m SO glad,” and her face was radiant.

 

“Yes, I should know that from your looks. It’s clearer every day that I got

the best of our bargain. I never dreamed, though, that I should enjoy your

society as I do—that we should become such very good friends. That wasn’t in

the bargain, was it?”

 

“Bargain!” The spirited way with which she echoed the word, as if thereby

repudiating anything like a sordid side to their mutual relations, was not

lost on her wondering and admiring partner. She checked herself suddenly.

“Now let me teach YOU how to make butter,” and with the tray in her lap, she

began washing the golden product and pressing out the milk.

 

He laughed in a confused delighted way at her piquant, half saucy manner as he

watched her deft round arm and shapely hand.

 

“The farmers’ wives in Oakville would say your hands were too little to do

much.”

 

“They would?” and she raised her blue eyes indignantly to his. “No matter, you

are the one to say about that.”

 

“I say they do too much. I shall have to get Jane to help you.”

 

“By all means! Then you’ll have more society.”

 

“That was a home shot. You know how I dote on everybody’s absence, even

Jane’s.”

 

“You dote on butter. See how firm and yellow it’s getting. You wouldn’t

think it was milk-white cream a little while ago, would you? Now I’ll put in

the salt and you must taste it, for you’re a connoisseur.”

 

“A what?”

 

“Judge, then.”

 

“You know a sight more than I do, Alida.”

 

“I’m learning all the time.”

 

“So am I—to appreciate you.”

 

“Listen to the sound of the rain and the water as it runs into the

milk-cooler. It’s like low music, isn’t it?”

 

Poor Holcroft could make no better answer than a sneeze.

 

“Oh-h,” she exclaimed, “you’re catching cold? Come, you must go right

upstairs. You can’t stay here another minute. I’m nearly through.”

 

“I was never more contented in my life.”

 

“You’ve no right to worry me. What would I do if you got sick? Come, I’ll

stop work till you go.”

 

“Well then, little boss, goodbye.”

 

With a half suppressed smile at his obedience Alida watched his reluctant

departure. She kept on diligently at work, but one might have fancied that

her thoughts rather than her exertions were flushing her cheeks.

 

It seemed to her that but a few moments elapsed before she followed him, but

he had gone. Then she saw that the rain had ceased and that the clouds were

breaking. His cheerful whistle sounded reassuringly from the barn, and a

little later he drove up the lane with a cart.

 

She sat down in the kitchen and began sewing on the fine linen they had jested

about. Before long she heard a light step. Glancing up, she saw the most

peculiar and uncanny-looking child that had ever crossed her vision, and with

dismal presentiment knew it was Jane.

 

Chapter XXVIII. Another Waif

 

It was indeed poor, forlorn little Jane that had appeared like a specter in

the kitchen door. She was as wet and bedraggled as a chicken caught in a

shower. A little felt hat hung limp over her ears; her pigtail braid had lost

its string and was unraveling at the end, and her torn, sodden shoes were

ready to drop from her feet. She looked both curiously and apprehensively at

Alida with her little blinking eyes, and then asked in a sort of breathless

voice, “Where’s him?”

 

“Mr. Holcroft?”

 

Jane nodded.

 

“He’s gone out to the fields. You are Jane, aren’t you?”

 

Another nod.

 

“Oh, DEAR!” groaned Alida mentally; “I wish she hadn’t come.” Then with a

flush of shame the thought crossed her mind, “She perhaps is a friendless and

homeless as I was, and , and ‘him’ is also her only hope. “Come in, Jane,”

she said kindly, “and tell me everything.”

 

“Be you his new girl?”

 

“I’m his wife,” said Alida, smiling.

 

Jane stopped; her mouth opened and her eyes twinkled with dismay. “Then he is

married, after all?” she gasped.

 

“Yes, why not?”

 

“Mother said he’d never get anyone to take him.”

 

“Well, you see she was mistaken.”

 

“She’s wrong about everything. Well, it’s no use then,” and the child turned

and sat down on the doorstep.

 

Alida was perplexed. From the way Jane wiped her eyes with her wet sleeve,

she was evidently crying. Coming to her, Alida said, “What is no use, Jane?

Why are you crying?”

 

“I thought—he—might—p’raps—let me stay and work for him.”

 

Alida was still more perplexed. What could be said by way of comfort, feeling

sure as she did that Holcroft would be bitterly hostile to the idea of keeping

the child? The best she could do was to draw the little waif out and obtain

some explanation of her unexpected appearance. But first she asked, “Have you

had any breakfast?”

 

Jane shook her head.

 

“Oh, then you must have some right away.”

 

“Don’t want any. I want to die. I oughtn’ ter been born.”

 

“Tell me your troubles, Jane. Perhaps I can help you.”

 

“No, you’d be like the rest. They all hate me and make me feel I’m in the

way. He’s the only one that didn’t make me feel like a stray cat, and now

he’s gone and got married,” and the child sobbed aloud.

 

Her grief was pitiful to see, for it was overwhelming. Alida stooped down,

and gently lifting the child up, brought her in. Then she took off the wet

hat and wiped the tear-stained face with her handkerchief. “Wait a minute,

Jane, till I bring you something,” and she ran to the dairy for a glass of

milk. “You must drink it, she said, kindly but firmly.

 

The child gulped it down, and with it much of her grief, for this was

unprecedented treatment and was winning her attention.

 

“Say,” she faltered, “will you ask him to let me stay?”

 

“Yes, I’ll ask him, but I can’t promise that he will.”

 

“You won’t ask him ‘fore my face and then tell him not to behind my back?” and

there was a sly, keen look in her eyes which tears could not conceal.

 

“No,” said Alida gravely, “that’s not my way. How did you get here, Jane?”

 

“Run away.”

 

“From where?”

 

“Poorhouse.”

 

Alida drew a quick breath and was silent a few moments. “Is—is your mother

there?” she asked at length.

 

“Yes. They wouldn’t let us visit round any longer.”

 

“Didn’t your mother or anyone know you were coming?”

 

Jane shook her head.

 

Alida felt that it would be useless to burden the unhappy child with

misgivings as to the result, and her heart softened toward her as one who in

her limited way had known the bitterness and dread which in that same

almshouse had overwhelmed her own spirit. She could only say gently, “Well,

wait till Mr. Holcroft comes, and then we’ll see what he says.” She herself

was both curious and anxious as to his course. “It will be a heavy cross,” she

thought, “but I should little deserve God’s goodness to me if I did not

befriend this child.”

 

Every moment added weight to this unexpected burden of duty. Apart from all

consideration of Jane’s peculiarities, the isolation with Holcroft had been a

delight in itself. Their mutual enjoyment of each other’s society had been

growing from day to day, and she, more truly than he, had shrunk from the

presence of another as an unwelcome intrusion. Conscious of her secret,

Jane’s prying eyes were already beginning to irritate her nerves. Never had

she seen a human face that so completely embodied her idea of inquisitiveness

as the uncanny visage of this child. She saw that she would be watched with a

tireless vigilance. Her recoil, however, was not so much a matter of

conscious reasoning and perception as it was an instinctive feeling of

repulsion caused by the unfortunate child. It was the same old story. Jane

always put the women of a household on pins and needles just as her mother

exasperated the men. Alida had to struggle hard during a comparatively silent

hour to fight down the hope that Holcroft would not listen to Jane’s and her

own request.

 

As she stepped quickly and lightly about in her preparations for dinner, the

girl watched her intently. At last she gave voice to her thoughts and said,

“If mother’d only worked round smart as you, p’raps she’d hooked him ‘stid er

you.”

 

Alida’s only reply was a slight frown, for the remark suggested disagreeable

images and fancies. “Oh, how can I endure it?” she sighed. She determined to

let Jane plead her own cause at first, thinking that perhaps this would be the

safest way. If necessary, she would use her influence against a hostile

decision, let it cost in discomfort what it might.

 

At a few moments before twelve the farmer came briskly toward the house, and

was evidently in the best of spirits. When he entered and saw Jane, his

countenance indicated so much dismay that Alida could scarcely repress a

smile. The child rose and stood before him like a culprit awaiting sentence.

She winked hard to keep the tears back, for there was no welcome in his

manner. She could not know how intensely distasteful was her presence at this

time, nor had Holcroft himself imagined how unwelcome a third person in his

house could be until he saw the intruder before him. He had only felt that he

was wonderfully contented and happy in his home, and that Jane would be a

constant source of annoyance and restraint. Moreover, it might lead to

visitation from Mrs. Mumpson, and that was the summing up of earthly ills.

But the child’s appearance and manner were so forlorn and deprecating that

words of irritation died upon his lips. He gravely shook hands with her and

then drew out the story which Alida had learned.

 

“Why, Jane,” he exclaimed, frowning, “Mr. Watterly will be scouring the

country for you. I shall have to take you back right after dinner.”

 

“I kinder hoped,” she sobbed, “that you’d let me stay. I’d stay in the barn

if I couldn’t be in the house. I’d just as soon work outdoors, too.”

 

“I don’t think you’d be allowed to stay,” said the farmer, with a sinking

heart; “and then—perhaps your mother would be coming here.”

 

“I can’t stand mother no more’n you can” said the girl, through her set teeth.

“I oughtn’ter been born, for there’s no place for me in the world.”

 

Holcroft looked at his wife, his face expressive of the utmost annoyance,

worry, and irresolution. Her glance was sympathetic, but she said nothing,

feeling that if he could make the sacrifice from his own will he should have

the chance. “You can’t begin to know how much trouble this may lead to, Jane,”

he resumed. “You remember how your other threatened to take the law upon me,

and it wouldn’t be possible for you to stay here without her consent.”

 

“She oughter consent; I’ll make her consent!” cried the child, speaking as if

driven to desperation. “What’s she ever done for me but teach me mean ways?

Keep me or kill me, for I