Under the Lilacs (7 page)

Wednesday afternoon was the sewing time; so the two little B’s worked busily at a pair of shirtsleeves, sitting on their bench
in the doorway, while the rusty needles creaked in and out, and the childish voices sang school songs, with frequent stoppages
for lively chatter.

For a week, Ben worked away bravely, and never shirked nor complained, although Pat put many a hard or disagreeable job upon
him, and chores grew more and more distasteful. His only comfort was the knowledge that Mrs. Moss and the Squire were satisfied
with him; his only pleasure the lessons he learned while driving the cows, and recited in the evening when the three children
met under the lilacs to “play school.”

He had no thought of studying when he began, and hardly knew that he was doing it as he pored over the different books he
took from the library. But the little girls tried him with all they possessed, and he was mortified to find how ignorant he
was. He never owned it in words, but gladly accepted all the bits of knowledge they offered from their small store; getting
Betty to hear him spell “just for fun”; agreeing to draw Bab all the bears and tigers she wanted if she would show him how
to do sums on the flags, and often beguiled his lonely labors by trying to chant the multiplication table as they did. When
Tuesday night came round, the Squire paid him a dollar, said he was “a likely boy,” and might stay another week if he chose.
Ben thanked him and thought he would; but the next morning, after he had put up the bars, he remained sitting on the top rail
to consider his prospects, for he felt uncommonly reluctant to
go back to the society of rough Pat. Like most boys, he hated work, unless it was of a sort which just suited him; then he
could toil like a beaver and never tire. His wandering life had given him no habits of steady industry; and, while he was
an unusually capable lad of his age, he dearly loved to “loaf” about and have a good deal of variety and excitement in his
life.

Now he saw nothing before him but days of patient and very uninteresting labor. He was heartily sick of weeding; even riding
Duke before the cultivator had lost its charms, and a great pile of wood lay in the Squire’s yard, which he knew he would
be set to piling up in the shed. Strawberry-picking would soon follow the asparagus cultivation; then haying; and so on all
the long bright summer, without any fun, unless his father came for him.

On the other hand, he was not obliged to stay a minute longer unless he liked. With a comfortable suit of clothes, a dollar
in his pocket, and a row of dinner baskets hanging in the schoolhouse entry to supply him with provisions if he didn’t mind
stealing them, what was easier than to run away again? Tramping has its charms in fair weather, and Ben had lived like a gypsy
under canvas for years; so he feared nothing, and began to look down the leafy road with a restless, wistful expression, as
the temptation grew stronger and stronger every minute.

Sancho seemed to share the longing, for he kept running off a little way and stopping to frisk and bark; then rushed back
to sit watching his master with those intelligent eyes of his, which seemed to say, “Come on, Ben, let us scamper down this
pleasant road and never stop till we are tired.” Swallows darted by, white clouds fled before the balmy west wind, a squirrel
ran along the wall, and all things seemed to echo the boy’s desire to leave toil behind and
roam away as carefree as they. One thing restrained him — the thought of his seeming ingratitude to good Mrs. Moss, and the
disappointment of the little girls at the loss of their two new playfellows. While he paused to think of this, something happened
which kept him from doing what he would have been sure to regret afterward.

Horses had always been his best friends, and one came trotting up to help him now; though he did not know how much he owed
it till long after. Just in the act of swinging himself over the bars to take a shortcut across the fields, the sound of approaching
hoofs, unaccompanied by the roll of wheels, caught his ear; and, pausing, he watched eagerly to see who was coming at such
a pace.

At the turn of the road, however, the quick trot stopped, and in a moment a lady on a bay mare came pacing slowly into sight
— a young and pretty lady, all in dark blue, with a bunch of dandelions like yellow stars in her buttonhole, and a silver-handled
whip hanging from the pommel of her saddle, evidently more for ornament than use. The handsome mare limped a little, and shook
her head as if something plagued her; while her mistress leaned down to see what was the matter, saying, as if she expected
an answer of some sort—

“Now, Chevalita, if you have got a stone in your foot, I shall have to get off and take it out. Why don’t you look where you
step, and save me all this trouble?”

“I’ll look for you, ma’am; I’d like to!” said an eager voice so unexpectedly, that both horse and rider started as a boy came
down the bank with a jump.

“I wish you would. You need not be afraid; Lita is as gentle as a lamb,” answered the young lady, smiling, as if amused by
the boy’s earnestness.

“She’s a beauty, anyway,” muttered Ben, lifting one foot
after another till he found the stone, and with some trouble got it out.

“That was nicely done, and I’m much obliged. Can you tell me if that crossroad leads to the Elms?” asked the lady, as she
went slowly on with Ben beside her.

“No, ma’am; I’m new in these parts, and I only know where Squire Morris and Mrs. Moss live.”

“I want to see both of them, so suppose you show me the way. I was here long ago, and thought I should remember how to find
the old house with the elm avenue and the big gate, but I don’t.”

“I know it; they call that place the Laylocks now, ‘cause there’s a hedge of ’em all down the path and front wail. It’s a
real pretty place; Bab and Betty play there, and so do I.”

Ben could not restrain a chuckle at the recollection of his first appearance there, and, as if his merriment or his words
interested her, the lady said pleasantly, “Tell me all about it. Are Bab and Betty your sisters?”

Quite forgetting his intended tramp, Ben plunged into a copious history of himself and new-made friends, led on by a kind
look, an inquiring word, and sympathetic smile, till he had told everything. At the schoolhouse corner he stopped and said,
spreading his arms like a signpost—

“That’s the way to the Laylocks, and this is the way to the Squire’s.”

“As I’m in a hurry to see the old house, I’ll go this way first, if you will be kind enough to give my love to Mrs. Morris,
and tell the Squire Miss Celia is coming to dine with him. I won’t say good-bye, because I shall see you again.”

With a nod and a smile, the young lady cantered away, and Ben hurried up the hill to deliver his message, feeling
as if something pleasant was going to happen; so it would be wise to defer running away, for the present at least.

At one o’clock Miss Celia arrived, and Ben had the delight of helping Pat stable pretty Chevalita; then, his own dinner hastily
eaten, he fell to work at the detested woodpile with sudden energy; for as he worked he could steal peeps into the dining
room, and see the curly brown head between the two gray ones, as the three sat round the table. He could not help hearing
a word now and then, as the windows were open, and these bits of conversation filled him with curiosity; for the names “Thorny,”
“Celia,” and “George” were often repeated, and an occasional merry laugh from the young lady sounded like music in that usually
quiet place.

When dinner was over, Ben’s industrious fit left him, and he leisurely trundled his barrow to and fro till the guest departed.
There was no chance for him to help now, since Pat, anxious to get whatever trifle might be offered for his services, was
quite devoted in his attentions to the mare and her mistress, till she was mounted and off. But Miss Celia did not forget
her little guide, and, spying a wistful face behind the woodpile, paused at the gate and beckoned with that winning smile
of hers. If ten Pats had stood scowling in the way, Ben would have defied them all; and, vaulting over the fence, he ran up
with a shining face, hoping she wanted some last favor of him. Leaning down, Miss Celia slipped a new quarter into his hand,
saying—

“Lita wants me to give you this for taking the stone out of her foot.”

“Thank y’, ma’am; I liked to do it, for I hate to see ’em limp, ‘specially such a pretty one as she is,” answered Ben, stroking
the glossy neck with a loving touch.

“The Squire says you know a good deal about horses, so I suppose you understand the Houyhnhnm language? I’m learning it, and
it is very nice,” laughed Miss Celia, as Chevalita gave a little whinny and snuggled her nose into Ben’s pocket.

“No, miss, I never went to school.”

“That is not taught there. I’ll bring you a book all about it when I come back. Mr. Gulliver went to the horse country and
heard the dear things speak their own tongue.”

“My father has been on the prairies, where there’s lots of wild ones, but he didn’t hear ’em speak. I know what they want
without talkin’,” answered Ben, suspecting a joke, but not exactly seeing what it was.

“I don’t doubt it, but I won’t forget the book. Good-bye, my lad, we shall soon meet again,” and away went Miss Celia as if
she were in a hurry to get back.

“If she only had a red habit and a streamin’ white feather, she’d look as fine as ‘Melia used to. She
is
‘most as kind and rides ‘most as well. Wonder where she’s goin’ to. Hope she
will
come soon,” thought Ben, watching till the last flutter of the blue habit vanished round the corner; and then he went back
to his work with his head full of the promised book, pausing now and then to chink the two silver halves and the new quarter
together in his pocket, wondering what he should buy with this vast sum.

Bab and Betty meantime had had a most exciting day; for when they went home at noon they found the pretty lady there, and
she had talked to them like an old friend, given them a ride on the little horse, and kissed them both goodbye when they went
back to school. In the afternoon the lady was gone, the old house all open, and their mother sweeping, dusting, airing, in
great spirits. So they had a splendid frolic tumbling on feather beds, beating bits of
carpet, opening closets, and racing from garret to cellar like a pair of distracted kittens.

Here Ben found them, and was at once overwhelmed with a burst of news which excited him as much as it did them. Miss Celia
owned the house, was coming to live there, and things were to be made ready as soon as possible. All thought the prospect
a charming one: Mrs. Moss, because life had been dull for her during the year she had taken charge of the old house; the little
girls had heard rumors of various pets who were coming; and Ben, learning that a boy and a donkey were among them, resolved
that nothing but the arrival of his father should tear him from this now deeply interesting spot.

“I’m in
such
a hurry to see the peacocks and hear them scream. She said they did, and that we’d laugh when old Jack brayed,” cried Bab,
hopping about on one foot to work off her impatience.

“Is a
faytun
a kind of a bird? I heard her say she could keep it in the coach house,” asked Betty, inquiringly.

“It’s a little carriage,” and Ben rolled in the grass, much tickled at poor Betty’s ignorance.

“Of course it is. I looked it out in the dic., and you mustn’t call it a
payton,
though it
is
spelt with a p,” added Bab, who liked to lay down the law on all occasions, and did not mention that she had looked vainly
among the f’s till a schoolmate set her right.

“You can’t tell
me
much about carriages. But wha’ I want to know is where Lita will stay?” said Ben.

“Oh, she’s to be up at the Squire’s till things are fixed, and you are to bring her down. Squire came and told Ma all about
it, and said you were a boy to be trusted, for he had tried you.”

Ben made no answer, but secretly thanked his stars that
he had not proved himself untrustworthy by running away, and so missing all this fun.

“Won’t it be fine to have the house open all the time? We can run over and see the pictures and books whenever we like. I
know we can, Miss Celia is so kind,” began Betty, who cared for these things more than for screaming peacocks and comical
donkeys.

“Not unless you are invited,” answered their mother, locking the front door behind her. “You’d better begin to pick up your
duds right away, for she won’t want them cluttering round her front yard. If you are not too tired, Ben, you might rake round
a little while I shut the blinds. I want things to look nice and tidy.”

Two little groans went up from two afflicted little girls as they looked about them at the shady bower, the dear porch, and
the winding walks where they loved to run “till their hair whistled in the wind,” as the fairy books say.

“Whatever shall we do! Our attic is so hot and the shed so small, and the yard always full of hens or clothes. We shall have
to pack all our things away, and never play anymore,” said Bab, tragically.

“Maybe Ben could build us a little house in the orchard,” proposed Betty, who firmly believed that Ben could do anything.

“He won’t have any time. Boys don’t care for baby-houses,” returned Bab, collecting her homeless goods and chattels with a
dismal face.

“We sha’n’t want these much when all the new things come; see if we do,” said cheerful little Betty, who always found out
a silver lining to every cloud.

C
HAPTER
8