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_ It was in the latter part of August of that year that it became
necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go
to St. Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to
point to me as the fit person, for I understood the particular
business better than any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but
I did not altogether like to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and
I talked over the matter far into the regulation sleeping-hours.
There were very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I
would not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the
first place, it would be of advantage to me, in my business
connection, to take the trip, and then it would be such a charming
journey for us. We had never been west of the Alleghanies, and
nearly all the country we would see would be new to us. We would
come home by the great lakes and Niagara, and the prospect was
delightful to both of us. But then we would have to leave Rudder
Grange for at least three weeks, and how could we do that?
This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take
care of our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their
complicated belongings? The garden was in admirable condition.
Our vegetables were coming in every day in just that fresh and
satisfactory condition--altogether unknown to people who buy
vegetables--for which I had labored so faithfully, and about which
I had had so many cheerful anticipations. As to Euphemia's
chicken-yard,--with Euphemia away,--the subject was too great for
us. We did not even discuss it. But we would give up all the
pleasures of our home for the chance of this most desirable
excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come and
take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not
run itself for three weeks.
We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We
did not feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our
friends; but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from
the idea of handing over the place to any of them for such a length
of time. For my part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in
charge than any one else; but, then, Pomona was young and a girl.
Euphemia agreed with me that she would rather trust her than any
one else, but she also agreed in regard to the disqualifications.
So, when I went to the office the next morning, we had fully
determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one to take
charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the
office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this
time, I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere
very much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If
in that time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well;
if not, Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get any
one, and Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how
greatly relieved we felt when we were obliged to come to this
conclusion. The arrangement was exactly what we wanted, and now
that there was no help for it, our consciences were easy.
We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward
would be with her, and she was a young person who was
extraordinarily well able to take care of herself. Old John would
be within call in case she needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to
be kept in the house at night. Pomona herself was more than
satisfied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of
directions for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters,
and directed her to keep a careful record of everything note worthy
that might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries
of life, and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left
in such a responsible and independent position as that in which we
left Pomona. She was very proud of it.
Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it
would be, and successful in every way; and yet, although we enjoyed
every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our way home
than we became so wildly anxious to get there, that we reached
Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we would be
home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walked up
from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express
wagon. As we approached our dear home, we wanted to run, we were
so eager to see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate
was locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too.
Just then I noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but
the lettering was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It
read:
TO BE SOLD
For TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
"What does this mean?" said I. "Has our landlord--"
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place
might pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I
did not put the thought in words. There was a field next to our
lot, and I got over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we
climbed our side-fence. This was more difficult, but we
accomplished it without thinking much about its difficulties; our
hearts were too full of painful apprehensions. I hurried to the
front door; it was locked. All the lower windows were shut. We
went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than anything
else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had HE been sold?
Before we reached the back part of the house, Euphemia said she
felt faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under
which I had made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on
the grass and I ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the
bright tin dipper which always hung by the pump. It was not there.
But I had a traveling-cup in my pocket, and as I was taking it out
I looked around me. There was an air of bareness over everything.
I did not know what it all meant, but I know that my hand trembled
as I took hold of the pump-handle and began to pump.
At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the
direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came
Lord Edward. Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me.
I believe the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia
than the water. He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up
came Pomona, running from the barn. Her face was radiant, too. We
felt relieved. Here were two friends who looked as if they were
neither sold nor ruined.
Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put
a question to her, she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.
"You know," said she, "you said you wasn't comin' till to-morrow.
If you only HAD come then--I was goin' to have everything just
exactly right--an' now you had to climb in--"
And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been
a wonderful thing for Pomona to do.
"Tell me one thing," said I. "What about--those taxes?"
"Oh, that's all right," she cried. "Don't think another minute
about that. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first,
and I'll get you some lunch in a minute."
We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was "all
right" in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to
know all about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance
to ask her any questions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch,
she asked us, as a particular favor, to give her three-quarters of
an hour to herself, and then, said she, "I'll have everything
looking just as if it was to-morrow."
We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great
disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in
the dining-room until she appeared, and announced that she was
ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the
privilege, and Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent
my steps toward the garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that
the rustic chair was in its place, and passing the pump I looked
for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but
she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.
"Would you rather," said she, "hear it all together, when you come
in, or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so
anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather
wait and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect
order,--the garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not
expected. If it had not been for that cloud on the front fence, I
should have been happy enough. Pomona had said it was all right,
but she could not have paid the taxes--however, I would wait; and I
went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said
she was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went
in, and we sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona,
producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper
step.
"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she,
"as you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I'd make it
like a novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'.
I suppose you don't mind?"
No, we didn't mind. So she went on.
"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out
to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the first
chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my
early adventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while
you was away, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that.
All that's written here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to
you, but I've put it into novel language because it seems to come
easier to me."
And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as
if the "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:
"Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was
I left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed
the lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my
fru-gal repast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-
collections of the past and also foresights into the future. That
night was a me-mor-able one. I slept soundly until the break of
morn, but had the events transpired which afterward occur-red, what
would have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue can tell. Early the next day
nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast, the vener-able John came
to bor-row some ker-osene oil and a half a pound of sugar, but his
attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the in-sid-ious foe. In the
very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent him home with a empty can.
For two long days I wander-ed amid the ver-dant pathways of the
gar-den and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor
did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o'er-spread this happy
pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon
although I saw it not.
"It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a
Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do
with the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here
was green corn and lima-beans and trophy tomats, far more than I
ere could use. And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age
in the field, for as my employer had advis-ed and order-ed I had
put the steed to grass. And here was a wagon, none too new, which
had it the top taken off, or even the curtains roll-ed up, would do
for a li-cen-ced vender. With the truck and butter, and mayhap
some milk, I could load that wagon--"
"O, Pomona," interrupted Euphemia. "You don't mean to say that you
were thinking of doing anything like that?"
"Well, I was just beginning to think of it," said Pomona, "but of
course I couldn't have gone away and left the house. And you'll
see I didn't do it." And then she continued her novel. "But while
my thoughts were thus employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into
bark-ter--"
At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter.
Pomona did not seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.
"I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the
gate. Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, 'Wilt open this
gate?' I had fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every steal-able
ar-ticle from the yard."
Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of
the rustic seat and the dipper.
"Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the
dog (for he it was), roam with me through the grounds, while the
fi-erce bull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite
bold, unto him, 'No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and
employ-er-ess are now from home. What do you want?' Then says he,
as bold as brass, 'I've come to put the light-en-ing rods upon the
house. Open the gate.' 'What rods?' says I. 'The rods as was
ordered,' says he, 'open the gate.' I stood and gaz-ed at him.
Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. I knew his tricks.
In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods, and ever so
many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-able trash
that would attrack the light-ening, instead of keep-ing it off.
Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be
kept, and pay demand-ed. 'No, sir,' says I. 'No light-en-ing rods
upon this house whilst I stand here,' and with that I walk-ed away,
and let Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on.
His eyes flash-ed fire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but
when he saw the dog he did forbear. As it was then near noon, I
strode away to feed the fowls; but when I did return, I saw a sight
which froze the blood with-in my veins--"
"The dog didn't kill him?" cried Euphemia.
"Oh no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "You'll see that that wasn't it. At
one corn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed
this man, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus
attrack-ing to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile
intrig-er of a light-en-ing rod-der had brought a lad-der to the
other side of the house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on
the roof. What horrors fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed!
This," continued Pomona, "is the end of the novel," and she laid
her foolscap pages on the porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had
just reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard
nothing yet about that affair of the taxes.
"You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out the
chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures,
that I hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what
happened after that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so
she went on, much more glibly than before, with the account of the
doings of the lightning-rod man.
"There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rods
and hammerin' away for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over the
side fence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy
outside, couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, an' then I
know'd I had him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-
rope, tied it to the bull-dog's collar, an' dragged him out and
fastened him to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then I walks over
to the front fence with Lord Edward's chain, for I knew that if he
got at that bull-dog there'd be times, for they'd never been
allowed to see each other yet. So says I to the boy, 'I'm goin' to
tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid of his jumpin' over the
fence,'--which he couldn't do, or the boy would have been a corpse
for twenty minutes, or may be half an hour. The boy kinder
laughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to
the gate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an'
off he starts, as good as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy,
he said somethin' or other pretty bad, an' away he goes after him;
but the horse was a-trottin' real fast, an' had a good start."
"How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?" said
Euphemia. "That horse might have upset the wagon and broken all
the lightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many
people."
"But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout," said Pomona. "I was
a-defendin' the house, and the enemy must expect to have things
happen to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there
was the man just coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go
off, and when he got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the
bull-dog, he was madder than ever you seed a lightnin'-rodder in
all your born days. 'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me.
'No, I wont, says I. 'I never see a girl like you since I was
born,' he screams at me. 'I guess it would 'a' been better fur you
if you had,' says I; an' then he was so mad he couldn't stand it
any longer, and he comes down as low as he could, and when he saw
just how long the rope was,--which was pretty short,--he made a
jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on dreadful
because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away; and I
wouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the tendons
out of that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a
boiling passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-
curdlin' grunts. An' I don't see how the rodder would 'a' got his
ladder at all if the dog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and
jerked the ladder down. It just missed your geranium-bed, and the
rodder, he ran to the other end of it, and began pullin' it away,
dog an' all. 'Look-a-here,' says I, 'we can fix him now; and so he
cooled down enough to help me, and I unlocked the front door, and
we pushed the bottom end of the ladder in, dog and all; an' then I
shut the door as tight as it would go, an' untied the end of the
rope, an' the rodder pulled the ladder out while I held the door to
keep the dog from follerin', which he came pretty near doin',
anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin' again
about his wagon; but when he looked out an' see the boy comin' back
with it,--for somebody must 'a' stopped the horse,--he stopped
stormin' and went to put up his ladder ag'in. 'No, you don't,'
says I; 'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at
the foot of your ladder, you'll never come down.' 'But I want to
go and take down what I put up,' he says; 'I aint a-goin' on with
this job.' ' No,' says I, 'you aint; and you can't go up there to
wrench off them rods and make rain-holes in the roof, neither.' He
couldn't get no madder than he was then, an' fur a minute or two he
couldn't speak, an' then he says, 'I'll have satisfaction for
this.' An' says I, 'How? 'An' says he, 'You'll see what it is to
interfere with a ordered job.' An' says I, 'There wasn't no order
about it;' an' says he, 'I'll show you better than that;' an' he
goes to his wagon an' gits a book. 'There,' says he, 'read that.'
'What of it? 'says I 'there's nobody of the name of Ball lives
here.' That took the man kinder aback, and he said he was told it
was the only house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was
the next lane he oughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that,
but just put his ladder in his wagon, and went off. But I was not
altogether rid of him. He left a trail of his baleful presence
behind him.
"That horrid bull-dog wouldn't let me come into the house! No
matter what door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let
him stay till nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him;
but it was no good. He'd got an awful spite ag'in me. I found
something to eat down cellar, and I made a fire outside an' roasted
some corn and potatoes. That night I slep' in the barn. I wasn't
afraid to be away from the house, for I knew it was safe enough,
with that dog in it and Lord Edward outside. For three days,
Sunday an' all, I was kep' out of this here house. I got along
pretty well with the sleepin' and the eatin', but the drinkin' was
the worst. I couldn't get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty
of milk."
"Why didn't you get some man to come and attend to the dog?" I
asked. "It was dreadful to live that way."
"Well, I didn't know no man that could do it," said Pomona. "The
dog would 'a' been too much for Old John, and besides, he was mad
about the kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs.
Atkinson and their little girl in a push-wagon, come here, and I
told 'em you was gone away; but they says they would stop a minute,
and could I give them a drink; an' I had nothin' to give it to them
but an old chicken-bowl that I had washed out, for even the dipper
was in the house, an' I told 'em everything was locked up, which
was true enough, though they must 'a' thought you was a queer kind
of people; but I wasn't a-goin' to say nothin' about the dog, fur,
to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it. So as soon as they'd
gone, I went down into the cellar,--and it's lucky that I had the
key for the outside cellar door,--and I got a piece of fat corn-
beef and the meat-axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in,
with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might
take his choice. I know'd he must be pretty nigh famished, for
there was nothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went
in, he came runnin' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his
legs. He looked a sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the
meat. He was all right then."
"Oh, my!" said Euphemia, "I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid
you never got in. But we saw the dog--is he as savage yet?"
"Oh no!" said Pomona; "nothin' like it."
"Look here, Pomona," said I, "I want to know about those taxes.
When do they come into your story?"
"Pretty soon, sir," said she, and she went on:
"After that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so that
they'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as
not I'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fightin', and
leave me to settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin'-rodder. So,
as I know'd if they once had a fair fight and found out which was
master, they'd be good friends afterwards, I thought the best thing
to do would be to let 'em fight it out, when there was nothin' else
for 'em to do. So I fixed up things for the combat."
"Why, Pomona!" cried Euphemia, "I didn't think you were capable of
such a cruel thing."
"It looks that way, ma'am, but really it aint," replied the girl.
"It seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have
the thing settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-
shed and unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door
and called the bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and
his blood-shot eyes, and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin'
from the mount'in blast, he made one bounce for the big dog, and
oh! what a fight there was! They rolled, they gnashed, they
knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips a-flyin' all ways at
wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minute or two; but he
didn't, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and they was havin'
it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me, and
turnin' quick, there was the 'Piscopalian minister, 'My! my! my!'
he hollers; 'what a awful spectacle! Aint there no way of stoppin'
it?' ' No, sir,' says I, and I told him how I didn't want to stop
it, and the reason why. Then says he, 'Where's your master?' and I
told him how you was away. 'Isn't there any man at all about?'
says he. 'No,' says I. 'Then,' says he, 'if there's nobody else
to stop it, I must do it myself.' An' he took off his coat. 'No,'
says I, 'you keep back, sir. If there's anybody to plunge into
that erena, the blood be mine;' an' I put my hand, without
thinkin', ag'in his black shirt-bosom, to hold him back; but he
didn't notice, bein' so excited. 'Now,' says I, 'jist wait one
minute, and you'll see that bull's tail go between his legs. He's
weakenin'.' An' sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him,
and was a-shakin' the very life out of him, when I run up and took
Lord Edward by the collar. 'Drop it!' says I, and he dropped it,
for he know'd he'd whipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then
the bull-dog, he trotted off with his tail a-hangin' down. 'Now,
then,' says I, 'them dogs will be bosom friends forever after
this.' 'Ah me!' says he, 'I'm sorry indeed that your employer, for
who I've always had a great respect, should allow you to get into
such habits.' That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty
quick, that you was the last man in the world to let me do anything
like that, and that, if you'd 'a' been here, you'd 'a' separated
them dogs, if they'd a-chawed your arms off; that you was very
particular about such things; and that it would be a pity if he was
to think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman, when I'd often heard you
say that, now you was fixed an' settled, the one thing you would
like most would be to be made a vestryman."
I sat up straight in my chair.
"Pomona!" I exclaimed, "you didn't tell him that?"
"That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really
was; an' he says, 'Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a
very good thing. I'll speak to some of the members about it.
There's two vacancies now in our vestry."
I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the
brightest light.
"Perhaps it may all turn out for the best," she said, "and you may
be elected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully
funny thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestry-man."
I could not talk on this subject. "Go on, Pomona," I said, trying
to feel resigned to my shame, "and tell us about that poster on the
fence."
"I'll be to that almost right away," she said. "It was two or
three days after the dog-fight that I was down at the barn, and
happenin' to look over to Old John's, I saw that tree-man there.
He was a-showin' his book to John, and him and his wife and all the
young ones was a-standin' there, drinkin' down them big peaches and
pears as if they was all real. I know'd he'd come here ag'in, for
them fellers never gives you up; and I didn't know how to keep him
away, for I didn't want to let the dogs loose on a man what, after
all, didn't want to do no more harm than to talk the life out of
you. So I just happened to notice, as I came to the house, how
kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought perhaps I might
make it look worse, and he wouldn't care to deal here. So I
thought of puttin' up a poster like that, for nobody whose place
was a-goin' to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So
I run in the house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And sure
enough, the man he come along soon, and when he looked at that
paper, and tried the gate, an' looked over the fence an' saw the
house all shut up an' not a livin' soul about,--for I had both the
dogs in the house with me,--he shook his head an' walked off, as
much as to say, 'If that man had fixed his place up proper with my
trees, he wouldn't 'a' come to this!' An' then, as I found the
poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other people from
comin' a-botherin' around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin'
to be sure and take it down before you came."
As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona
should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said
that there was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I
did not feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it
was very particular.
When we were alone, I said to Euphemia:
"If we ever have to go away from this place again--"
"But we wont go away," she interrupted, looking up to me with as
bright a face as she ever had, "at least not for a long, long, long
time to come. And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman." _
Read next: Chapter XIV - Pomona takes a Bridal Trip
Read previous: Chapter XII - Lord Edward and the Tree-man
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