Phoebe Deane (20 page)

The dear old lady sat there rocking by the fire, with her open Bible on her knee. Phoebe was relieved to find her alone, and in answer to the gentle: " Why, dearie, what can be the matter ?" she flung herself on the floor at the old lady's feet and putting her head in her lap burst into tears.

It was only for a moment that she lost her self-control, but even that moment relieved the heavy strain on her nerves, and she was able to sit up and tell the old lady all about it. She had not intended to tell anything, when in her sudden panic she had beaten a hasty retreat from the enemy, but Granny Me Vane's sweet face showed so much tender sympathy that all at once it seemed good to tell some one her trouble.

She listened, watched her sympathetically, smoothed back the damp tendrils of hair that had blown about her face, and then stooped over and kissed her.

" Don't you ever marry him, Phoebe. Don't you ever do it, if you don't love him, child!" she said, solemnly, like a warning. " And just you run over here, dearie, whenever he bothers you. I'll take care of you."

Phoebe, with her natural reserve, had not drawn her family into the story except to say that they favored the suit of the would-be lover. But it comforted her greatly to have someone on her side, even if it were but this quiet old lady who could not really help her much.

They watched out the back windows until they saw Hiram emerge from the Deane house and saunter off down the road. Even then Phcebe was afraid to go back until she saw the carryall far down the road. Then she flew across the fields and entered the back door before they had turned in at the great gate. When they got out and came into the house she was demurely paring potatoes, and Emme- line eyed her suspiciously.

" Seems to me you're pretty late with your potatoes," she remarked, disagreeably. " I suppose you had a nice easy time all the morning.

But Phoebe did not explain, only she did not stay at home again when the family were all to be away. She never knew whether Emmeline was aware of Hiram's Sunday morning visit or not.

Phoebe's state of mind after this occurrence was one of constant nervous alarm. She began to hate the thought of the man who seemed to haunt her at every turn.

Heretofore one of her greatest pleasures had been to walk to the village after the daily mail, or for an errand to the store. Now such walks became a dread. One afternoon in early November she had hurried away and gone around by Granny McVane's, hoping thus to escape the vigilance of Hiram Green. She managed to get safely to the village, and get her errands done, but just as she emerged from the post-office the long, lank figure of Hiram loomed before her and slouched into his dogged gait beside her. " Did you get a letter?" he asked, looking suspiciously at the one she held in her hand. Then as she did not answer he went on: " You must have a whole lot of folks writin' you quite constant; you seem to go to the post-office so much."

Phoebe said nothing. She felt too indignant to speak. How could she get away from her tormentor unless she deliberately ran away from him? And how could she do that right here in the village where every one was watching? She glanced up furtively. Hiram wore a look of triumph as he talked on, knowing he was annoying her.

" I s'pose you get letters from New York," he said, and there was a disagreeable insinuation in his tone. Phoebe did not know what he meant, but something in his tone made the color come into her cheeks. They were nearing the Spafford house. If only Miranda would come out and speak to her! She looked up at the great bully beside her and saw he was trying to calculate just how near to the mark he had come. She stopped short on the pavement.

" I do not wish to walk with you," she said, struggling to keep her voice from trembling.

" Oh, you don't," he mocked. " How 'r ye goin' to help yourself ? "

She looked up into the pitiless cruelty of his eyes and shuddered involuntarily.

" I am going in to see Mrs. Spafford," she said, with sudden inspiration, and her voice took on a girlish dignity. With that she put wings to her feet and flew to the Spafford front door, wondering if anyone would let her in before Hiram reached her.

Now Miranda was alone in the house that afternoon, and not much went on in the neighborhood that she did not keep herself informed concerning; therefore, when Phoebe, breathless, reached the front stoop the door swung open before her, and she stepped into her refuge with a gasp of relief and heard it close behind her as two strong freckled arms enclosed her and two honest lips greeted her with a resounding kiss.

" Ben waitin' quite a spell fer ye," she declared, as if it were the expected thing for Phoebe to fly into her arms unannounced in that way, " ever since I see ye comin' down the street with that pleasant friend of yours. Wonder you could tear yourself away. Take off yer bonnet and set a spell. Mis' Spafford's gone up t' th' aunts fer tea an took Rose. I'm all alone. You set down an' we'll have a real nice time an' then I'll take you home by 'n by."

" Oh, Miranda," gasped Phoebe, struggling hysterically between laughter and tears and trying to control the trembling that had taken possession of her body, " I'm such a miserable coward. I'm always running away when I get frightened!"

" H'm! I should hope you would! " said Miranda significantly. " Such a snake in the grass as that! Le's see ef he's gone!" and she crouched before the window and peered behind the curtain cautiously.

Hiram had watched Phoebe's sudden disappearance within the door with something like awe. It was almost uncanny having that door open and swallow her up. Besides, he had not expected that Phoebe would dare to run away from him. He stood a moment gazing after her, and then sauntered on undecidedly, calling himself a fool for having met her so near to the Spafford house. Another time he would choose his meeting-place away from her friends. He had lost this move in the game, but he by no means meant to lose the game, and the hate in his heart grew with his determination to have this tempting young life in his power and crush out its resistance.

It goaded him to madness to have her dare to tell him she did not wish to walk with him. Why did she say that? Had he not always been respected, and thought well of? His farm was as good a spot of land as could be found in the whole of New York state, and his barn was talked of through all the county. He was prosperous, everybody knew. Before he had married Annie any girl in the vicinity would have thought him a great catch, and he knew well, by all the indescribable signs, that many a girl as good as Phoebe would still be glad to accept his attentions. Why did this little nobody, who was after all merely a poor relation of his neighbor, presume to scorn him? He hated her for it, even while his heart was set upon having her. He had wanted her at first because he admired her. Now he wanted her to conquer her and punish her for her scorn of him.

As he walked on alone his slow brain tried to form a new plan for revenge, and little by little an idea crept out of his thoughts and looked at him with its two snaky eyes until the poison of its fang had stolen into his heart. The post-office! Ah! He would watch to see if she had a letter from that fellow, for surely only the knowledge that another man was at her feet could make her scorn his attentions. If that was so he would crush the rival! He ground his teeth at the thought, and his eyes glittered with hate.

Meantime, Hiram Green's children and Alma Deane were playing together behind the big barn that had been one of the disappointments of Annie Green's married life, because it had not been a house instead of a barn. The children had dug houses in a hay-stack, and chased the few venturesome hens that had not learned to be wary when they were around; now, for the moment weary of their games, they mounted the fence to rest.

" There comes your pa," announced Alma from her perch on the top rail. The young Greens retired precipitately from the fence, and Alma was forced to follow them if she wished company. They hurried around the other side of the barn out of sight.

" Say," said Alma, after they had reached a spot of safety and ensconsed themselves on the sunny exposure of a board across two logs, " my Aunt Phoebe went to the village a while ago. She'll be 'long pretty soon. Let's make up somethin' an' shout at her when she comes back. It'll make her mad as hops an' I'd just like to pay her back fer the way she acts sometimes."

" Ain't she good to you ? " enquired the youngest Green, anxiously.

" Le's make up sumpin' 'bout her 'n your pa. There ain't nothin' 'll make her so mad. She's mad as mad can be when my ma says anythin' 'bout her gettin' married," went on Alma, ignoring the question.

" All right! What'll we make up ? " agreed the three Greens. They were not anxious to have a step-mother who might make life's restrictions more strenuous than they were already. They were prepared to do battle valiantly if they only had a general, and Alma was thoroughly competent in their eyes to fill that position.

" It'll have to be to a song, you know," went on Alma. " Le's sing the Doxol'gy an' see how that goes." So they all stood in an enquiring row and droned out the Doxology, piping shrilly where they knew the words and filling in with home-made syllables where they did not. Alma had practiced the art of rhyming before, and was anxious to display the skill she had acquired since their last meeting.

" Now listen!" she said, and lined it out, slowly, with many haltings and corrections, until at last the doggerel was completed, and so they sang:

" There-was-a-man-in-ow-wer-town

His-name-was-Hi-rum-Gre-ee-een

And-he-did-ma-a-air-ree-a-wife

Her-name-was-Phe-be-Dee-ee-een."

Alma was no lax general. She drilled her little company again and again until they could shout the words at the top of their voices, to saying nothing of the way they murdered Old Hundred. The young scapegraces looked at their leader with wide-eyed admiration, and fairly palpitated for the moment when their victim should arrive and they might put their drill into practice. Between rehearsals they mounted the fence hy the barn and kept a watch-out down the road. At last it was announced that she was coming.

" But there's somebuddy with 'er," said a disappointed little Green. "We won't dast, will we?"

Alma held up her undaunted chin and mounted the post of observation to see who it was.

" Aw! That's all right," she presently announced. "'Taint nobody but the red-headed girl down to Spafford's. She can't do nothin'. Come on, now, lets get ready."

She marshaled her forces behind the wide board fence next to the pig-sty and there they waited for the signal to begin. Alma thought it prudent to wait until Phoebe and Miranda had almost passed before they sang. Then she raised her hand and they piped out shrilly, making the words more than plain. Phoebe started at the first line and hurried her steps, but Miranda glanced back and said: " H'm! I thought 'es much. Like father, like child! "

Maddened by such indifference the children ran along inside the fence and continued to yell at the top of their lungs, regardless of time or tune until they reached the more open fields near the Deane house, where they dared go no further. Then they retired in triumph to the shelter of the pig-sty and the hay-stack to plume themselves upon their success, and recount the numerous faces they had made, and the times they had stuck their tongues out. They did not anticipate any trouble from the incident as they were too far away from the house for Hiram to hear, and they felt sure Phoebe would never tell on them, as it involved herself too closely.

Suddenly, in the midst of the gratulations, without the slightest warning, a strong hand seized the sturdy Alma from the rear and pinioned her arms so that she could not get away. She set up a yell that could have been heard for a half mile, and began to kick and squirm, but Miranda's hands held her fast, while she took in the surroundings at a glance, moved her captive toward a convenient seat on a log, and taking her calmly over her knee administered in full measure the spanking that the child deserved, Alma, meanwhile yelling like a loon, unable to believe her senses that the despised " red-haired girl from Spafford's" had displayed so much ability and thoroughness in her methods of redress.

The valiant army of little Greens had retired with haste from the scene of action, and were even then virtuously combing their hair and washing their hands and faces with a view to proving an alibi should the avenger seek further retribution. Alma was left to the mercy of Miranda and though she kicked and yelled right lustily Miranda spanked on until she was tired.

" There! " she said, at last letting her go. " That ain't half you need, but I can't spend any more time on yeh to-day. Ef yeh ever do that er anythin' like it again I'll come in the night when everybody's asleep and give yeh the rest, an' I ken tell you now I won't let yeh off this easy next time. Mind you behave to yer Aunt Phoebe, er I'll hant yeh! D'yeh understand ? Wherever yeh go in the dark I'll be there to hant yeh. And when red-haired people hants yeh at night their hair's all on fire in the dark an' it burns yeh, so yeh better watch out!"

She shook her fist decidedly at the child, who now thoroughly frightened began to cry in earnest and ran away home as fast as her fat legs could carry her, not daring to look back lest the supernatural creature with the fiery hair and the strong hand should be upon her again. It was the first time in her brief, impertinent life that Alma had ever been thoroughly frightened.

Her first act on reaching the house was to see how the land lay. She found that her mother had gone out to get some eggs and that Phoebe was up in her room with the door buttoned. No one else was about, so Alma stole noiselessly up to Phoebe's door, righteous innocence upon her tear-stained face, her voice smoother than butter with deceit.