Dorothy at Skyrie

"I've heard, I know about them. Why, Mr. Winters, I've seen that old Mr. Kidder!" cried Dorothy, eagerly.

"I'm glad of it. Well, I cannot explain much to you; only I can and do say that somebody related to you by blood, somebody of your own family that you never knew, left this money and a little more with these gentlemen; to be used by, or for, you whenever a case of real necessity occurred. They are my own lawyers, too, as well as Mrs. Cecil's; so after you moved to Skyrie, knowing I was such a near neighbor, they wrote and asked me to take care of the small fund for you. I wasn't to mention it until that case of need I spoke of, and that has now surely arrived. Hurray! Three cheers for the climax! I can picture your face – all your faces – when 'payment on demand' is demanded, and you so calmly – it must be very calmly, Dolly dear! – come forward with that 'payment' in hand. One word of advice to you, more. Try to persuade your parents to hold on to south meadow. Things are stirring nowadays, and that very 'Folly' may yet show old Simon's wisdom, by proving the most valuable spot on Skyrie farm or any other land 'up-mounting.' Keep the fact of your having the money a secret till the right time comes. Then, hurray!"

For a few moments the astonished girl could do no more than turn over and over the fat wallet which Seth had thrust into her hands; and she was so enraptured by the thought that it was she, she herself, who should come to her parents' relief that she could only smile and smile. She could not even join in this boyish old fellow's hurraying; yet looking on her happy face, he was quite satisfied.

However, amid all her joy one dark word had fastened on her consciousness: "Secret." She had come in part to confide her own dread secret of the Ghost to this kind man, who would, she was sure, neither deride her fear nor fail to help her. Seth Winters helped everybody worthy of his help. All the mountain folk said so and trusted him.

"Mr. Winters, that story about there being a ghost at Skyrie is —is true. I suppose you've heard it, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes! I've heard."

There was no scorn in his expression. The same gentle gravity rested upon his features that had inspired the confidences of so many troubled souls and now won hers. All the boyish hilarity he had manifested over the outwitting of Oliver Sands had vanished, and with a fatherly tenderness he drew Dorothy to him and listened intently as she said:

"Yes, Mr. Winters, it – is – true. I didn't believe Alfaretta when she told about it. I thought there were no such things. But there is a ghost haunts Skyrie and —I – have – seen – it. I have to believe my own eyes, haven't I?"

"Most assuredly, my dear. And I, too, know it is true. I, too, have seen it."

"You – have?"

"Often and often. A most beneficent and harmless ghost. One to be cherished and not feared. One that has suffered much evil and done much good. A ghost I pity and almost love."

"Why, Mr. Winters! You make me feel as if – as if I could hardly breathe. Could any ghost be good? Any ghost be harmless?"

"This one is good, I told you. As for harm – has he harmed your garden by his presence? Have the weeds grown faster or the vegetables less, because of his nightly visitations to it? 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' Eh? What?"

"Why, you amaze me more and more. How did you know that about the garden and the night-time? I hadn't told you yet, though I was going to, in a minute."

"Well, easily. I've seen the garden and I know that all ghosts prefer the night. Not this one because his deeds are evil but because they are good. A person may learn a lot of things, little maid, by merely keeping his eyes open and putting two-and-two together."

"Oh! of course; but do you really think I shouldn't fear this one at all? I've been too afraid almost to live, and I've not dared to tell my father or mother, because she's so nervous she wouldn't stay at Skyrie even to get my father cured, and he must be. He must be– no matter what happens. It must not be that a man so good, so kind, so altogether faithful to us all should be an invalid forever. O Mr. Winters! You don't at all know how brave he is! How he makes fun for mother and me when his own heart aches. It seems to me as if he took hold of everything, every little thing that happens, and turns it over and over, till he finds out some humor in it. Then he points out to us that humor which we'd never have discovered for ourselves. Why, I fancy he'd think there was something funny even about that dreadful ghost!"

"A brave and beautiful nature is poor John Chester's, little Dolly. I am proud to know him, to have him call me friend. Nor should I have called him 'poor' but rich. I would rather have his present poverty and his wholesome, sweet outlook upon life than all the money owned by the master of the Towers. By the way, he's not such a bad sort, either! come to know him well enough to see beneath that crust of greed and arrogance that he wears as if it were a coat. As for that fairy-faced daughter of his, I'm wholly in love with her, since you've put your own hand to the task of remodeling her into the simple, kindly creature God meant her to be when He fashioned her. Pity! when that other good gift of too much money buries beneath it the better side of the person to whom it is given!"

"Oh! Helena is sweet, Mr. Winters. It's not true at all that she is haughty and 'stuck-up,' as folks say. She's just been petted at home, and praised and sheltered so much, that she didn't have a chance to show what she really was. Even to know it herself. But I love her. I love her dearly. She's the nicest girl friend I ever had."

"That's good! That's excellent! For if a certain scheme of our friend Herbert's materializes it would be most important that there should be love between you and Helena. By the way, neither of you young ladies have invited me to your picnic!"

Dorothy opened her eyes in surprise. "Why, Mr. Winters! How did you know we were going to have one? I hadn't told that yet, either, and I do believe you must be a witch – a gentleman witch – to guess at things the way you do!"

"I hope I'm a 'gentleman' witch if I'm any sort. I shouldn't like to be a 'lady,' one that's always pictured as bestriding a broomstick. That would be most uncomfortable. I prefer a horse. Well, am I to come to your picnic, or am I not, Miss Dorothy Chester?"

"O Mr. Winters! Will you? If you will, your coming will make us both so happy. I'd rather have you than anybody I know, even young folks – "

"As if I were not that! Thank you for your cordial 'bid.' I will be most happy to accept the invitation I've had fairly to worm out of you. What am I expected to provide as my share of the entertainment?"

"Oh! you love to tease me, don't you? Nothing. Of course, you are to provide nothing. Only come, and don't disappoint us."

"I will surely come. But I hope to do my share, as I said; and if I succeed in obtaining what I hope for, it will be a novelty in picnics!"

"Now you've made me curious! I love novelties! What will yours be?" asked Dorothy, eagerly, and rising to leave, since some men had arrived with horses to be shod and her host must attend to business.

"Take care of that parcel, child. Tell nobody of it, not even the father and mother, till the right moment comes. You'll recognize it when it does, and what shall I bring? Let me see – I think I will bring a Ghost!"

It was a very happy girl who returned to Skyrie, carrying safely hid in her pocket that which should "at the right time" release her beloved parents from the power of debt, held over them by even so "generous" a man as miller Sands. It was almost impossible for her to keep this new and splendid "secret" from their knowledge. At times she felt she must, she certainly must, break her promise to Seth Winters and disclose it; but she had never knowingly broken her word and she would not let herself begin to do so now. Besides, if she had been able to keep that other, dreadful "secret" about the "ghost" she surely could keep this happy one of the money. She had made it her business to bestow this in a place of safety, although her frequent visits to the spot would have betrayed her interest in it had the elder Chesters been at all suspicious.

The days sped by till the end of the week and that beautiful summer Saturday appointed for Helena's picnic. They had been busy and peaceful days at Skyrie. No further demands had been made upon the elder Chesters by Mr. Oliver Sands. That most industrious of "ghosts" had not reappeared nor nervous mother Martha so much as suspected his existence; though rumors concerning him were rife in all Riverside. These rumors had been freshly set afloat by the Babcocks. Dorothy had admitted to Alfaretta that there "might be some truth" in the story of a spooky visitant, and Alfy had promptly stated that there was. Pa Babcock affirmed the tale and declared that this was why he had left off working on the haunted farm. "It had got upon my nerves to the extent of interfering with my orations," he had explained, to whoever would listen. Until then, nobody had credited Pa with possessing "nerves" of any sort; but even such an absurd statement found credence with some.

More than with the "spook," however, was the public mind agitated by other rumors which touched upon "south meadow." The "Folly" was a word often on men's lips, yet, as often happens, the persons most nearly concerned in the subject were the last to hear of it.

The promised saddle for Portia had been sent home and found to be a delightful change from the bareback riding which ambitious Dorothy had been practicing. So delightful, indeed, was it and so eager was she to have all her own friends enjoy it with her that she decided:

"I'm going to put the saddle in the phaeton along with the baskets when we drive to the 'meadow.' The 'Bee' people fixed the bars to it so nicely, we can drive along the road till we come to the field and then through the bar-way into it. I'll take Portia out of the shafts and saddle her, or the boys will do it for me. Then all the girls that wish can take a ride, turn and turn about. It will add ever so much to our fun – everybody I know simply loves and envies me my darling 'calico' pony! I'll come back for you first, though, mother and father, for you must be there. A picnic, or anything nice, wouldn't seem perfect without you two. Dear Mr. Winters is sure to come. He said so and he's going to bring – My! I almost let the cat out of the bag!"

Dorothy's sudden pause and startled expression provoked no comment from her parents other than mother Martha's protesting:

"Cat! I wouldn't take Lady Rosalind, if I were you, Dolly dear. It would only be a worry to you. Those little Babcocks are sure to come, invited or not, and as surely would plague the life out of her. Why, Rosalind runs under the lounge the very minute any Babcock, big or small, sets foot inside the door. Don't take the cat."

"It wasn't – it wasn't – that kind of a cat! and I haven't let it out – yet!" laughed the girl, with a gayety that seemed exaggerated for so humdrum a remark.

"You're a queer child, Dorothy C. But – but I hope you'll have a happy day," answered her mother, slipping an arm about the girl's shoulders and lightly caressing the flushed young cheek; while Dolly answered, trustfully:

"I'm certain to! Mrs. Calvert is coming and says she cannot unless Jim Barlow brings her and waits upon her! That settles Jim and his refusals! She's made it a point of 'duty' and that boy was never yet known to turn his back on his duty – even when it led him into having a good time himself at a picnic! Good-by, now. I'm off!"

It did prove the happiest sort of a gathering. Everybody came who was invited and some appeared who were not. But there were food and room and fun enough for all. Portia did ample service in the cause; trotting patiently around and around the smoother portions of the meadow, carrying various small maidens on her back but, at length, being given a chance to nibble her own dinner from that plentiful pasture. She was still saddled and bridled, the smallest Babcock having testified by screaming that she was still unsatisfied with her share of the exercise, and being promised "one more ride after dinner."

Never a Babcock screamed more wisely. But for that scream Portia would have been unsaddled and but for Portia – a life might have been lost.

CHAPTER XX

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

The chief event of the day was to be the exploration of "Si Waterman's Folly." This occurred immediately after dinner.

Jim and Herbert, aided by Mr. Winters's strong arms, found small difficulty in removing the decayed plank covering which the old miner had placed above his narrow-mouthed shaft. This had once rolled easily enough upon deftly applied rollers and had been arranged to protect Mr. Waterman from detection when excavating, in search of that gold which he believed lay buried in south meadow. He was a secretive man who shared no secrets with his neighbors if he could help it, yet whose very idiosyncrasies betrayed them.

"Well, that's a good job done!" cried Seth, as the cover was pushed aside. "See there?"

He placed his heel upon the boards, which at once broke into fragments beneath his weight.

"Why, anybody might have stepped upon it and fallen through!" cried Dorothy, astonished.

"Yes. A good job to have prevented such an accident. But the hole, or shaft is – Hello, friend GHOST! Come out of that, if you please; all your neighbors have come to visit you and expect you to show the honors of your retreat!"

Many heads were now crowded together, peering into the dimness of the shaft. It sloped inward and downward into a wider opening that was almost like a small chamber in its dimensions. Another entrance led to this chamber, a passage of a few feet in length, burrowed beneath the ground and opening upon the hillside beyond. Through this little tunnel came fresh air and light; and within the chamber had been collected the odds and ends of things which had caught the half-wit's fancy. A bundle of straw and a worn-out horse-blanket which somebody had discarded formed his bed. Some bits of broken crockery furnished his table, a board wedged against the rock. A spring of water gushed from one wall of the chamber and trickled into the depths below, and a curious odor escaped from the spring.

The leather jacket, the glazed hat with its bedraggled scarlet feathers, lay carefully folded upon the straw pallet, and its owner sat beside the jacket shamefaced and terrified by this intrusion upon his retreat. But it was something else that caught Dorothy's attention – a simple suit of denim that had once been blue but was now faded by sun and water to a ghostly white. Peter wore these now and – she recognized them.

"Peter! Peter! So you are the good 'Ghost' that came in the night and tilled my garden for me! Come out, come out and let me thank you!"

Though he had obstinately refused to answer the call of Seth Winters, the voice of the girl he had so secretly served, because she had been kind to him, was instantly obeyed. He climbed out of the shaft and, taking hold of her skirt as he had done once before, stood foolishly smiling while his good friend, the blacksmith, gayly announced:

"Behold the 'Haunt' of Skyrie! The honestest, most innocent, most grateful of Ghosts! During the years it was vacant he made Skyrie his home, sleeping of winters in its hillside room, and in summer seeking this cool retreat where we have just unearthed him. He must, he will, haunt no more; for if I judge aright the new master of old Skyrie will at once engage him to take the place of Pa Babcock, resigned. A better gardener there isn't 'up-mounting.' A more devoted servitor no man can find, once his affection is won as our little Dorothy has won it. What say, neighbors Chester? Will you secure your greatly needed 'hired man' and forever 'lay the ghost' of Skyrie at one 'fell swoop'?"

"Aye, aye! Hear!" cried father John, entering fully into the blacksmith's spirit, even while he did not fully understand, till Dorothy explained all the mysterious, yet beneficent, happenings of the past few weeks; and then not only he but mother Martha bade the poor waif welcome to their home, while all the others standing by applauded vigorously.

"But this isn't all we came to see. The gold mine, the gold mine! Peter may be human gold, but the rich yellow metal is what we want!" cried Herbert, when the cheers had died away.

"Who'll go first?" asked somebody.

"Why, I, of course!" returned young Montaigne, springing recklessly into that rough shaft which veered from the wide safety of the upper chamber.

Whereat a strange thing happened. Peter dropped the fold of his new mistress's skirt and stepped hastily forward, warning by gestures and his uncertain mumbling that Herbert should not go. Alas! the warning was useless. The spirit of adventure was on the whole party, an eager desire to be the first who should unearth a "nugget," and even cautious Jim Barlow caught the infection, while Dorothy ran forward as lightly as if she were to cross only the smooth meadow.

As the heads disappeared below the surface of the ground, and the shouts of those who scrambled downward over the rude rocky shaft grew fainter, Peter was seized with a terrible trembling and stood as if rooted to the ground in fear. A minute more and a girl's scream aroused him. Dorothy's! She was falling – falling – into an unknown depth! One mis-step, the slimy stones, the unforeseen peril! Both Jim and Herbert were already far below, following with extreme care, if still with all the speed possible, the tortuous excavation, in search of that deluding metal which has lured so many to their ruin. Only Peter Piper, the simple, to hear and comprehend.

As if by magic his trembling ceased and with a cat-like leap, so swift and soft it was, he had also disappeared beneath the ground. Then something whispered to the Chesters of their darling's danger. They pressed forward to the edge of the pit, and almost equally pale with fear, Mrs. Cecil joined them; clinging to Martha with a sympathy of distress which broke down in a moment the younger woman's dislike of the elder.

None of the trio were prepared for that which followed. Dorothy's slight figure came hurtling out of the pit's mouth, tossed to their very feet by the long arms of Peter Piper. A moment later he stood beside them, exhausted, silent; while the girl explained, as her own breath returned and terror subsided:

"Oh! he saved my life! He saved my life! I was falling – I knew – it was death – those awful stones – so dark. He caught me, he knew. He isn't 'simple' but wise; wise and oh! so good! Peter, you blessed Ghost! I owe you my life!"

But this excitement ebbed only to give way to another. When Dorothy had recovered her composure and sat quietly beside her elders, Peter beside her, with no desire left on her part for either explorations or the biggest of "nuggets," a fresh cry of alarm sounded from the mine. The cry preluded the frenzied rush out of the chasm of those who could escape it first; but it was upon Herbert and Jim that all were intent – upon poor Jim more than the other.

As they came up Peter Piper cast one glance upon them, then hid his face and shuddered.

"A horse! A doctor! Quick, quick! For the love of God, a horse!" gasped Herbert, and in a few broken words explained:

"We got into a nest – a nest of serpents. One had raised its head – I didn't see it – to strike my hand! Jim – Jim caught it, it swung around – bit him – O God! Don't let him die! He offered his life for mine whom he didn't like! He saved me! Can nobody – nobody save him?"

With his arm around his rescuer the frantic Herbert searched the blanched faces for some sign of help; and out of the startled silence which greeted his appeal came Seth Winters's calm voice:

"To my shop. I've medicines there. I'll take one side, you the other, Herbert. If need be, we can make a 'chair' and carry him between us. You can walk, for a while anyway, Jim. You are not going to die. Steady now, on your own feet, steady – as when you so nobly threw away your life to save the boy you 'didn't like'!"

The shop was, indeed, the nearest place where help could be obtained, and they started, all following; a sad and terrified party that but an hour before had been so gay and happy. And presently Jim's nerve returned to him, for it had been worsted for the moment by the cries and assertions of the others that he was doomed to death.

But where was Dorothy – who should have been foremost with sympathy and cheer? Halfway down the mountain before the company had all left that unlucky south meadow. Fully down by the time the smithy was reached. Race, Portia, race. A life hangs on your fleetness! Jim's life, Jim's! Who has proved that "greater love hath no man but that he lay down his life for his friend." And this was more than "friend" – it was the boy "he didn't like" – yet by the strange rule of nature, was forever after to be the Damon to his Pythias. Experience has long proved that the surest way to overcome an aversion to a person is to do that person a kindness.

Where, too, was Peter, the simple? Not far behind his faithful friend, the smith, having lingered only long enough to dart into the woods and fill his hands with a certain herb he knew; then to follow and reach the smithy just in time to hear its owner say:

"Faint, Jim? Drink this. Herbert, bare his arm. It will be heroic treatment, my lad, but, my hero– bear it! and live to teach the world a lesson."

Some turned their eyes aside as the smith drew from the glowing forge a white-hot iron and held it to the wound upon Jim's sunburned flesh. Not Jim! this wise old man toward whom his young soul had yearned from the beginning had called him "hero": and within himself he knew that he was far more such now than when he had rescued Dorothy from bondage, though they had termed him "hero" even then.

The wound cauterized, came Peter Piper with his healing leaves, bringing infinite relief; and soon as might be came also Dorothy upon her piebald mare, and the doctor close beside her on his own fleet steed; approving all that had been done, assuring everybody that no fatal results could follow such prompt treatment; and especially commending Peter Piper for his knowledge of those simples which mother Nature grows so luxuriantly for the use of all her children.

Thus ended the picnic and the search for hidden gold. But so soon as most of the company had departed from the over-crowded shop, Jim was made to ride upon Portia home to Skyrie, though he was now able to smile and declare that his legs were so long they would drag upon the ground.

However, he managed to hold them sufficiently high and to adapt himself to the despised saddle of a girl. With him went the few who knew him best; Seth Winters and Herbert, Mrs. Cecil and Martha, Helena herself – not to be outdone in gratitude for her brother's life; and John Chester with his "little maid" beside him. They had all anticipated finding a restful quiet at Skyrie; but they failed. The moving events of that memorable day were not all accomplished yet.

On the little upper porch sat Mr. and Mrs. Montaigne, waiting the return of Skyrie's owners to lay before them the scheme first evolved by their son and heir, and now indorsed with all heartiness by themselves. Chatting familiarly alongside, was Friend Oliver Sands; never more benignant nor complacent than now, and never more persistently engaged in "squeezing his hands" than at that hour.

Below, on the stone doorsteps, sat the two surveyors who had once before visited the cottage; and at sight of these the hearts of the elder Chester's sank, while Seth merrily whispered to Dorothy:

"Behold the hour is ripe and I am here to see!"

One other group there was, strolling idly about the garden, toying with Lady Rosalind, and contentedly amusing themselves until such time as they could make their errand to Skyrie known. Nobody seemed to know them; even Seth Winters failed to recognize the strangers and, for a moment, feared what they might have come to say. The next instant his brow cleared and his laughter was merrier than before.

Mr. Montaigne was the first to state his business, when once all were ready to listen. It was extremely simple and concerned Dorothy most of all. Said he: