Scene 14

________________________________________________
_ SCENE XIV

A Point of Honor.

TIMOTHY JESSUP RUNS AWAY A SECOND TIME, AND, LIKE OTHER BLESSINGS, BRIGHTENS AS HE TAKES HIS FLIGHT.

It was almost dusk, and Jabe Slocum was struggling with the nightly problem of getting the cow from the pasture without any expenditure of personal effort. Timothy was nowhere to be found, or he would go and be glad to do the trifling service for his kind friend without other remuneration than a cordial "Thank you." Failing Timothy there was always Billy Pennell, who would not go for a "Thank you," being a boy of a sordid and miserly manner of thought, but who would go for a cent and chalk the cent up, which made it a more reasonable charge than would appear to the casual observer. So Jabe lighted his corn-cob pipe, and extended himself under a willow-tree beside the pond, singing in a cheerful fashion,--

"'Tremblin' sinner, calm your fears!
Jesus is always ready.
Cease your sin and dry your tears,
Jesus is always ready!'"

"And dretful lucky for you He is!" muttered Samantha, who had come to look for Timothy. "Jabe! Jabe! Has Timothy gone for the cow?"

"Dunno. Jest what I was goin' to ask you when I got roun' to it."

"Well, how are you goin' to find out?"

"Find out by seein' the cow if he hez gone, an' by not seein' no cow if he hain't. I'm comf'table either way it turns out. One o' them writin' fellers that was up here summerin' said, 'They also serve who'd ruther stan' 'n' wait' 'd be a good motto for me, 'n' he's about right when I've ben hayin'. Look down there at the shiners, ain't they cool? Gorry! I wish I was a fish!"

"If you was you wouldn't wear your fins out, that's certain!"

"Come now, Samanthy, don't be hard on a feller after his day's work. Want me to git up 'n' blow the horn for the boy?"

"No, thank you," answered Samantha cuttingly. "I wouldn't ask you to spend your precious breath for fear you'd be too lazy to draw it in agin. When I want to get anything done I can gen'ally spunk up sprawl enough to do it myself, thanks be!"

"Wall now, Samanthy, you cheat the men-folks out of a heap o' pleasure bein' so all-fired independent, did ye know it?

"'Tremblin' sinner, calm your fears!
Jesus is always ready.'"

"When 'd you see him last?"

"I hain't seen him sence 'bout noon-time. Warn't he into supper?"

"No. We thought he was off with you. Well, I guess he's gone for the cow, but I should think he'd be hungry. It's kind o' queer."

Miss Vilda was seated at the open window in the kitchen, and Lady Gay was enthroned in her lap, sleepy, affectionate, tractable, adorable.

"How would you like to live here at the White Farm, deary?" asked Miss Vilda.

"O, yet. I yike to live here if Timfy doin' to live here too. I yike oo, I yike Samfy, I yike Dabe, I yike white tat 'n' white tow 'n' white bossy 'n' my boofely desses 'n' my boofely dolly 'n' er day hen 'n' I yikes evelybuddy!"

"But you'd stay here like a nice little girl if Timothy had to go away, wouldn't you?"

"No, I won't tay like nite ittle dirl if Timfy do 'way. If Timfy do 'way, I do too. I's Timfy's dirl."

"But you're too little to go away with Timothy."

"Ven I ky an keam an kick an hold my bwef--I s'ow you how!"

"No, you needn't show me how," said Vilda hastily. "Who do you love best, deary, Samanthy or me?"

"I yuv Timfy bet. Lemme twy rit-man-poor-man-bedder-man-fief on your buckalins, pease."

"Then you'll stay here and be my little girl, will you?"

"Yet, I tay here an' be Timfy's ittle dirl. Now oo p'ay by your own seff ittle while, Mit Vildy, pease, coz I dot to det down an find Samfy an' put my dolly to bed coz she's defful seepy."

"It's half past eight," said Samantha coming into the kitchen, "and Timothy ain't nowheres to be found, and Jabe hain't seen him sence noon-time."

"You needn't be scared for fear you've lost your bargain," remarked Miss Vilda sarcastically. "There ain't so many places open to the boy that he'll turn his back on this one, I guess!"

Yet, though the days of chivalry were over, that was precisely what Timothy Jessup had done.

Wilkins's Wood was a quiet stretch of timber land that lay along the banks of Pleasant River; and though the natives (for the most part) never noticed but that it was paved with asphalt and roofed in with oilcloth, yet it was, nevertheless, the most tranquil bit of loveliness in all the country round. For there the river twisted and turned and sparkled in the sun, and "bent itself in graceful courtesies of farewell" to the hills it was leaving; and kissed the velvet meadows that stooped to drink from its brimming cup; and lapped the trees gently, as they hung over its crystal mirrors the better to see their own fresh beauty. And here it wound "about and in and out," laughing in the morning sunlight, to think of the tiny streamlet out of which it grew; paling and shimmering at evening when it held the stars and moonbeams in its bosom; and trembling in the night wind to think of the great unknown sea into whose arms it was hurrying.

Here was a quiet pool where the rushes bent to the breeze and the quail dipped her wing; and there a winding path where the cattle came down to the edge, and having looked upon the scene and found it all very good, dipped their sleek heads to drink and drink and drink of the river's nectar. Here the first pink mayflowers pushed their sweet heads through the reluctant earth, and waxen Indian pipes grew in the moist places, and yellow violets hid themselves beneath their modest leaves.

And here sat Timothy, with all his heart in his eyes, bidding good-by to all this soft and tender loveliness. And there, by his side, faithful unto death (but very much in hopes of something better), sat Rags, and thought it a fine enough prospect, but one that could be beaten at all points by a bit of shed-view he knew of,--a superincumbent hash-pan, an empty milk-dish, and an emaciated white cat flying round a corner! The remembrance of these past joys brought the tears to his eyes, but he forbore to let them flow lest he should add to the griefs of his little master, which, for aught he knew, might be as heavy as his own.

Timothy was comporting himself, at this trying crisis, neither as a hero nor as a martyr. There is no need of exaggerating his virtues. Enough to say, not that he was a hero, but that he had in him the stuff out of which heroes are made. Win his heart and fire his imagination, and there is no splendid deed of which the little hero would not have been capable. But that he knew precisely what he was leaving behind, or what he was going forth to meet, would be saying too much. One thing he did know: that Miss Vilda had said distinctly that two was one too many, and that he was the objectionable unit referred to. And in addition to this he had more than once heard that very day that nobody in Pleasant River wanted him, but that there would be plenty of homes open to Gay if he were safely out of the way. A little allusion to a Home, which he caught when he was just bringing in a four-leafed clover to show to Samantha, completed the stock of ideas from which he reasoned. He was very clear on one point, and that was that he would never be taken alive and put in a Home with a capital H. He respected Homes, he approved of them, for other boys, but personally they were unpleasant to him, and he had no intention of dwelling in one if he could help it. The situation did not appear utterly hopeless in his eyes. He had his original dollar and eighty-five cents in money; Rags and he had supped like kings off wild blackberries and hard gingerbread; and, more than all, he was young and mercifully blind to all but the immediate present. Yet even in taking the most commonplace possible view of his character it would be folly to affirm that he was anything but unhappy. His soul was not sustained by the consciousness of having done a self-forgetting and manly act, for he was not old enough to have such a consciousness, which is something the good God gives us a little later on, to help us over some of the hard places.

"Nobody wants me! Nobody wants me!" he sighed, as he lay down under the trees. "Nobody ever did want me,--I wonder why! And everybody loves my darling Gay and wants to keep her, and I don't wonder about that. But, oh, if I only belonged to somebody! (Cuddle up close, little Ragsy; we've got nobody but just each other, and you can put your head into the other pocket that hasn't got the gingerbread in it, if you please!) If I only was like that little butcher's boy that he lets ride on the seat with him, and hold the reins when he takes meat into the houses,--or if I only was that freckled-face boy with the straw hat that lives on the way to the store! His mother keeps coming out to the gate on purpose to kiss him. Or if I was even Billy Pennell! He's had three mothers and two fathers in three years, Jabe says. Jabe likes me, I think, but he can't have me live at his house, because his mother is the kind that needs plenty of room, he says,--and Samanthy has no house. But I did what I tried to do. I got away from Minerva Court and found a lovely place for Gay to live, with two mothers instead of one; and maybe they'll tell her about me when she grows bigger, and then she'll know I didn't want to run away from her, but whether they tell her or not, she's only a little baby, and boys must always take care of girls; that's what my dream-mother whispers to me in the night,--and that's ... what ... I'm always ..."

Come! gentle sleep, and take this friendless little knight-errant in thy kind arms! Bear him across the rainbow bridge, and lull him to rest with the soft plash of waves and sighing of branches! Cover him with thy mantle of dreams, sweet goddess, and give him in sleep what he hath never had in waking!

Meanwhile, a more dramatic scene was being enacted at the White Farm. It was nine o'clock, and Samantha had gone from pond to garden, shed to barn, and gate to dairy, a dozen times, but there was no sign of Timothy. Gay had refused to be undressed till "Timfy" appeared on the premises, but had fallen asleep in spite of the most valiant resolution, and was borne upstairs by Samantha, who made her ready for bed without waking her.

As she picked up the heap of clothes to lay them neatly on a chair, a bit of folded paper fell from the bosom of the little dress. She glanced at it, turned it over and over, read it quite through. Then, after retiring behind her apron a moment, she went swiftly downstairs to the dining-room where Miss Avilda and Jabe were sitting.

"There!" she exclaimed, with a triumphant sob, as she laid the paper down in front of the astonished couple. "That's a letter from Timothy. He's run away, 'n' I don't blame him a mite 'n' I hope folks 'll be satisfied now they've got red of the blessed angel, 'n' turned him outdoors without a roof to his head! Read it out, 'n' see what kind of a boy we've showed the door to!"

Dere Miss vilder and sermanthy. i herd you say i cood not stay here enny longer and other peeple sed nobuddy wood have me and what you sed about the home but as i do not like homes i am going to run away if its all the same to you. Please give Jabe back his birds egs with my love and i am sorry i broak the humming-bird's one but it was a naxident. Pleas take good care of gay and i will come back and get her when I am ritch. I thank you very mutch for such a happy time and the white farm is the most butifull plase in the whole whirld. TIM.

p. s. i wood not tell you if i was going to stay but billy penel thros stones at the white cow witch i fere will get into her milk so no more from TIM.

i am sorry not to say good by but i am afrade on acount of the home so i put them here.

The paper fell from Miss Vilda's trembling fingers, and two salt tears dropped into the kissing places.

"The Lord forgive me!" she said at length (and it was many a year since any one had seen her so moved). "The Lord forgive me for a hard-hearted old woman, and give me a chance to make it right. Not one reproachful word does he say to us about showin' partiality,--not one! And my heart has kind of yearned over that boy from the first, but just because he had Marthy's eyes he kept bringin' up the past to me, and I never looked at him without rememberin' how hard and unforgivin' I'd ben to her, and thinkin' if I'd petted and humored her a little and made life pleasanter, perhaps she'd never have gone away. And I've scrimped and saved and laid up money till it comes hard to pay it out, and when I thought of bringin' up and schoolin' two children I cal'lated I couldn't afford it; and yet I've got ten thousand dollars in the bank and the best farm for miles around. Samanthy, you go fetch my bonnet and shawl,--Jabe, you go and hitch up Maria, and we'll go after that boy and fetch him back if he's to be found anywheres above ground! And if we come across any more o' the same family trampin' around the country, we'll bring them along home while we're about it, and see if we can't get some sleep and some comfort out o' life. And the Missionary Society can look somewheres else for money. There's plenty o' folks that don't get good works set right down in their front yards for 'em to do. I'll look out for the individyals for a spell, and let the other folks support the societies!" _

Read next: Scene 15

Read previous: Scene 13

Table of content of Timothy's Quest


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book