CHAPTER VII
BRAMBLE FARM
THE wagon was rattling down a narrow lane, for though the horse wentat a snail's pace, every bolt and hinge in the wagon was loose andcontributed its own measure of noise to their progress. Betty lookedabout her with interest. On either side of the lane lay rolling fertilefields--in the highest state of cultivation, had she known it. BrambleFarm was famed for its good crops, and whatever people said of itsmaster, the charge of poor farming was never laid at his door. The laneturned abruptly into a neglected driveway, and this led them up to thekitchen door of the farmhouse.
"Never unlocks the front door 'cept for the minister or your funeral,"whispered Bob in an aside to Betty, as the kitchen door opened and atall, thin man came out.
"Took you long enough to get here," he greeted the two young peoplesourly. "Dinner's been over two hours and more. Hustle that trunkinside, you Bob, and put up the horse. Wapley and Lieson need you tohelp 'em set tomato plants."
Betty had climbed down and stood helplessly beside the wagon. Mr.Peabody, for she judged the tall, thin man must be the owner of BrambleFarm, though he addressed no word directly to her and Bob was tooevidently subdued to attempt any introduction, but swung on his heeland strode off in the direction of the barn. There was nothing forBetty to do but to follow Bob and her trunk into the house.
The kitchen was hot and swarming with flies. There were no screens atthe windows, and though the shades were drawn down, the pests easilyfound their way into the room.
"How do you do, Betty? I hope your trip was pleasant. Dinner's all putaway, but it won't be long till supper time. I'm just trying to brushsome of the flies out," and to Betty's surprise a thin flaccid hand wasthrust into hers. Mrs. Peabody was carrying out her idea of a handshake.
Betty stared in wonder at the lifeless creature who smiled wanly ather. What would Uncle Dick say if he saw Agatha Peabody now? Where werethe long yellow braids and the blue eyes he had described? This woman,thin, absolutely colorless in face, voice and manner, dressed in afaded, cheap, blue calico wrapper--was this Uncle Dick's old schoolfriend?
"Perhaps you'd like to go upstairs to your room and lie down a while,"Mrs. Peabody was saying. "I'll show you where you're to sleep. How didyou leave your uncle, dear?"
Betty answered dully that he was well. Her mind was too taken up withnew impressions to know very clearly what was said to her.
"I'm sorry there aren't any screens," apologized her hostess. "But theflies aren't bad on this side of the house, and the mosquitoes onlycome when there's a marsh wind. You'll find water in the pitcher, andI laid out a clean towel for you. Do you want I should help you unpackyour trunk?"
Betty declined the offer with thanks, for she wanted to be alone. Shehad not noticed Mrs. Peabody's longing glance at the smart littletrunk, but later she was to understand that that afternoon she haddenied a real heart hunger for handling pretty clothes and the daintyaccessories that women love.
When the door had closed on Mrs. Peabody, Betty sat down on the bed tothink. She found herself in a long, narrow room with two windows, thesashes propped up with sticks. The floor was bare and scrubbed veryclean and the sheets and pillow cases on the narrow iron bed, thoughof coarse unbleached muslin, were immaculate. Something peculiar aboutthe pillow case made her lean closer to examine it. It was made offlour or salt bags, overcasted finely together!
"'Puts every copper through the wringer.'" The phrase Bob had used cameto Betty.
"There's no excuse for such things if he isn't poor," she arguedindignantly. "Well, I suppose I'll have to stay a week, anyway. I mightas well wash."
A half hour later, the traces of travel removed and her dark frockchanged to a pretty pink chambray dress, Betty descended the stairs tobegin her acquaintance with Bramble Farm. She wandered through severaldarkened rooms on the first floor and out into the kitchen withoutfinding Mrs. Peabody. A heavy-set, sullen-faced man was getting a drinkfrom the tin dipper at the sink.
"Want some?" he asked, indicating the pump.
Betty declined, and asked if he knew where Mrs. Peabody was.
"Out in the chicken yard," was the reply. "You the boarder they beentalking about?"
"I'm Betty Gordon," said the girl pleasantly.
"Yes, they've been going on for a week about you. Old man's got it allfigured out what he'll do with your board. The missis rather thoughtshe ought to have half, but he shut her up mighty quick. Women andmoney don't hitch up in Peabody's mind."
He laughed coarsely and went out, drawing a plug of tobacco from hiship pocket and taking a tremendous chew from it as he closed the door.
Betty felt a sudden longing for fresh air, and, waiting only for theman to get out of sight, she stepped out on the back porch. A regimentof milk pans were drying in the late afternoon sun and a churn turnedup to air showed that Mrs. Peabody made her own butter. Betty was stillhungry, and the thought of slices of home-made bread and golden countrybutter smote her tantalizingly.
"I wonder where the chicken yard is," she thought, going down to thelimp gate that swung disconsolately on a rusty hinge.
The Bramble Farm house, she discovered, looking at it critically,was apparently suffering for the minor repairs that make a homeattractive. The blinds sagged in several places and in some instanceswere missing altogether; once white, the paint was now a dirty gray;half the pickets were gone from the garden fence; the lawn was raggedand overgrown with weeds; and the two discouraged-looking flower-bedswere choked this early in the season. Betty's weeding habits moved herirresistibly to kneel down and try to free a few of the plants fromthe mass of tangled creepers that flourished among them.
"Better not let Joe Peabody see you doing that," said Bob Henderson'svoice above her bent head. "He hasn't a mite of use for a person whowastes time on flower-beds. If you want to see things in good shape,take a look at the vegetable gardens. The missis has to keep thatclear, 'cause after it's once planted, she's supposed to feed us allsummer from it."
Betty shook back her hair from a damp forehead.
"For mercy's sake," she demanded with heat, "is there one pleasant,kind thing connected with this place? Who was that awful man I met inthe kitchen?"
"Guess it was Lieson, one of the hired men," replied Bob. "He came downto the house to get a drink a few minutes ago. He's all right, Betty,though not much to look at."
"You, Bob!" came a stentorian shout that shot Bob through the gate andin the general direction of the voice with a speed that was little lessthan astonishing.
Betty stood up, shook the earth from her skirt, and, guided by theshrill cackle of a proud hen, picked her way through a rather clutteredbarn-yard till she came to a wire-enclosed space that was the chickenyard. Mrs. Peabody, staggering under the weight of two heavy pails ofwater, met her at the gate.
"How nice you look!" she said wistfully. "Don't come in here, dear; youmight get something on your dress."
"Oh, it washes," returned Betty carelessly. "Do you carry water for thechickens?"
"Twice a day in summer," was the answer. "Before Joe, Mr. Peabody, hadwater put in the barns, it was an awful job; but he couldn't get a manto help him with the cows unless he had running water at the barn, sothis system was new last year. It's a big help."
Silently, and feeling in the way because she could not help, Bettywatched the woman fill troughs and drinking vessels for the parchedhens that had evidently spent an uncomfortable and dry afternoon in theshadeless yard. Scattering a meager ration of corn, Mrs. Peabody wentinto the hen house and reappeared presently with a basket filled witheggs.
"They'd lay better if I could get 'em some meat scraps," she confidedto Betty as they walked toward the house. "But I dunno--it's so hard toget things done, I've about given up arguing."
She would not let Betty help her with the supper, and was soinsistent that she should not touch a dish that Betty yielded, thoughreluctantly. The heat of the kitchen was intense, for Mrs. Peabody hadbuilt a fire of corn cobs in the range. Gas, of cou
rse, there was none,and she evidently had not an oil stove or a fireless cooker.
Precisely at six o'clock the men came in.
"They milk after supper, summers," Mrs. Peabody had explained. "Themilk stays sweet longer."
Betty watched in round-eyed amazement as Mr. Peabody and the two hiredmen washed at the sink, with much sputtering and blowing, and combedtheir hair before a small cracked mirror tacked over the sink. If shehad not been very hungry, she was sure the sight would have taken herappetite away. Bob did not come in till they were seated. He had washedoutside, he explained, and Betty cherished the idea that perhaps he hadacted out of consideration for her.
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Peabody, pointing his fork at a tiny pat ofbutter before Betty's plate.
There was no other butter on the table, and only a very plain meal ofbread, fried potatoes, raspberries and hot tea.
"I--I had a little butter left over from the last churning," falteredMrs. Peabody. "'Twasn't enough to make even a quarter-pound print, Joe."
"Don't believe it," contradicted her husband. "I told you flat, Agatha,that there was to be no pampering. Betty can eat what we eat, or gowithout. Take that butter off, do you hear me?"
A sallow flush rose to Mrs. Peabody's thin cheeks, and her lips movedrebelliously. Evidently her husband was practiced at reading hersoundless words.
"Board?" he cried belligerently. "What do I care whether she's payingboard or not? Don't I have to be the judge of how the house shouldbe run? Food was never higher than 'tis now, and you've got to watchevery scrap. You take that butter off and don't let me catch you doingnothin' like that again."
The men were eating stolidly, evidently too used to quarrels to pay anyattention to anything but their food. Betty had listened silently, butthe bread she ate seemed to choke her. Suddenly she rose to her feet,shaking with rage.
"Take your old butter!" she stormed at the astonished Mr. Peabody."I wouldn't eat it, if you begged me to. And I won't stay in yourhouse one second longer than it takes to have Uncle Dick send forme--you--you old miserable miser!"