The hickory stick : a romance of the school in the cedars

Chapter I A Letter Of Acceptance

AURA tossed the letter upon her bed, and glowed with triumph, and the color in her cheeks rivalled that of the holly berries in the wreath at her window. She stepped lightly across the pretty bedroom until she came face to face with her own charming reflection in the tall, old-fashioned mirror that hung beside her modest dressing-table.

Bowing ceremoniously, she kissed the tips of her fingers in salute to the responsive image in the glass.

"Accepted!" There was a happy thrill in her voice — "Accepted, young lady! It seems too wonderful — "

She stood for a moment looking at herself. Unconsciously the smile faded from her face, which drew into lines of dignity and authority, and there was a crispness in her voice when she spoke again —

"Third-class, take your spellers: turn to page 88. Study section 172 for your lesson."

"My dear Laura," broke in an amused voice, and Laura turned to see a sweet-faced woman standing at the open door, smiling in pleasant understanding.

"Mother— it sounds all right, doesn't it? Not too severe — not too lenient — "

exultantly. Her grey eyes

"Just right," assured her mother. Laura laid an arm lovingly around her and drew her into the room.

"Sit down," she said eagerly. "Sit down and hear the great news. Such a quaint letter — read it — you'll see."

She thrust the untidy pages into her mother's hands, and dropped down beside the low rockingchair where her mother had seated herself. She laid her bright face against the smooth silk dress and sighed contentedly, while Mrs. West's swift eyes scanned the letter.

"Oh dear! I'm so glad they've accepted me. Somehow I just wanted that particular school — queer thing, isn't it, that one should appeal so much more than another."

"It is strange," admitted her mother, dropping one smeary sheet of the letter distastefully upon the floor. "I had thought you would prefer to teach in town — it would be much pleasanter than far-off, backwoods place like this Andrews' Bay. Mr. Scott spoke very favorably about you last night, and seemed to think you would have not the slightest difficulty in getting on the staff here."

"But Mother! I went to school to most of those teachers, and they are years and years older than I am. They would just fairly sit on me, and smother me!"

"There are other schools not far away."

"That's just it," the girl broke in earnestly. "I like this one because it is far away. I can make my mistakes and get my experience in my

A LETTER OF ACCEPTANCE 9 own fashion. When I'm old the beaten path may attract me, but now — "

" 'Beyond the east the sunrise, beyond the west the sea — East and west the wanderlust that will not let me be.' "

murmured her mother softly, and Laura, following her thought added, "Oh yes, and you know — 6 The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away.' It is natural to want something a little out of the commonplace, isn't it, Mother? Perhaps you felt like that yourself, years ago?"

"Perhaps I did," said her mother softly, patting the dark head. Then a little silence fell, while the pages of the letter rustled as they moved in the slender hands, and Mrs. West's eyes bent, unseeing, upon the scrubby writing. She fought down her keen disappointment, while Laura, seated on the floor beside her, regarded her own slender ankles appreciatively with no thought of the struggle behind that still face.

"I must have heavy shoes," said the girl thoughtfully, after a few moments. "Heavy ones. Perhaps I had better have felt-lined ones. It will be cold and snowy there."

"You have definitely decided, then?"

"Oh yes! Unless—"

"Unless what, dear?"

"Unless you want me to stay here. You first. Just say the word, mother."

Mrs. West laughed, not very steadily, not very mirthfully, but in full appreciation of that candid offer.

"Dear child," she said tenderly, "you are launching out to earn your own living now, and it is not for your mother to stand in your way. To judge by the letter, Andrews' Bay needs a teacher, and you, I am sure, will be a great help to every one there. I won't deny I'd rather it were nearer home, but then — it is not out of the world, after all."

"Do you know, mother," Laura said seriously, "I have always felt so interested when I saw on the maps at school a great block of territory marked 'Unexplored.' It might be anything. It seemed Romance and Mystery dwelt there, and called to every drop of young blood in me. I feel that way about Andrews' Bay."

"Well," returned her mother, "I dare say the people who live there the year round find it tedious and wearisome enough. And this does not sound very romantic — " She read from the page in her hand — "Last year we dident have much school our teacher got sore on us and quit so our school aint what it might be can you play the origin there is one into the school and mostly the teacher plays it for us when we have speaking on Sundays a young methadust studant from tronto speaks on Sunday afternoons for a boardan place Mrs. McCoy has kept the teachers this while back she will board you at one 75 a week without washing'."

"All in one breath, isn't it?" commented Laura, laughing. "I'm going to save that letter to show to my grandchildren as a curiosity, in

A LETTEK OF ACCEPTANCE 11 years to come."

"But what does it mean about 'one 75 a week without washing'?" her mother asked with a little frown. "You had better take soap and towels of your own."

"Oh Mother!" Laura's laugh was good to hear. "The dear man means laundry — Mrs. McCoy won't attend to the laundering of my clothes. Small blame to her. It's not verj nice to think of washing the garments of some one who is quite a stranger."

"But who will wash them? You have never done anything like that," Mrs. West protested.

Laura lifted her chin a trifle, and spread out strong, shapely hands. "Washing my own , clothes isn't going to hurt me," she stated impressively. "It is my business to teach others to do what they have never done before. Shall I not practise what I preach?"

"I think you'll soon be doing many things — for the first time," said her mother shrewdly. "And I can't help wondering how you will like it. I do not know very much about the ways of country people, but I believe they eat their meals in the kitchen, hired help and all, at the same table."

"Oh yes! And they eat with their knives, and have pie and doughnuts for breakfast. And they never use their front doors, or read anything but the newspaper. I shall feel like a missionary to the heathen."

Ah my dear, don't start out with that feeling. It will hinder your success, and will hurt you, as it will hurt the people who find that hint of mockery or condescension in your words or manner. But I am sure," Mrs. West went on, mildly withdrawing from her tone every slightest hint of rebuke, "my girl will be truly considerate of the sensitiveness of others. You have had advantages which have been denied to many of the people among whom you will work. Share, if you can, as one shares with a friend. There is no doubt you will find many splendid characters— country life develops strength."

"Oh yes," said Laura vaguely. She expected to enjoy every turn of the new life. The scattered pages of her letter of acceptance la;y at hand, and she arranged them in order, then raised herself easily from the floor. "No more sitting humbly on the floor for me," she declared drawing herself up with impressiveness. "I must put away childish things, and be a shining glory to the great teaching profession."

"Don't grow old too suddenly," her mother begged, with a smile. "Your youth will go of its own accord — don't hurry it."

"No, but I must remember my dignity. And now, as my obedient servant Joshua Abercrombie, requests the 'faver of an erly ancer' perhaps I had better see about it. I imagine Joshua as a big man, with great whiskers and a mighty voice. So of course he isn't. People never are what we expect them to be. As for the Methadust Student, he is certain to be one of the 'unco guid and overly righteous' — like the lady Kipling tells about, who was good beyond all earthly need."

"My dear!" protested her mother gently.

A LETTER OF ACCEPTANCE 13

"Do you suppose," Laura went on, standing in front of the mirror again and smoothing her dark hair, "Mother, do you suppose for a minute that he'll give me tracts to read, and ask me about my soul? I wouldn't like that. I hope — I earnestly hope he's human — not too good — "

"Too good? Why this dislike to righteousness?" her mother asked in mild wonder.

"Oh," Laura laughed, "Righteousness is greatly to be desired, but a little wickedness is much more interesting, isn't it? Here goes any way, for the fateful missive. How had I better begin? 'My dear Sir — ' or 'My dear Mr. Abercrombie,' or, informally, 'Dear Joshua'?"

But Mrs. West, pausing a moment beside her tall daughter, only smiled and murmured lovingly, "Laura! Laura!"

Chapter II

THERE was a wild storm in the Northland. The lake, far out, lashed and hammered furiously upon the Barrier Islands, behind which, ice stretched to the shore. The bay was shackled, but it took more than December frosts to bind the roaring, heaving monster that raged be\ond. The angry wind smote the shore, beating tremendously upon the few brave trees that fringed it. The snow whirled under that driving force, tossing itself upon every available ledge — only to be swept away instantly by the great broom of the wind.

From the windows of the McCoy home, lamplight gleamed redlj, emphasizing by its cheerful contrast, the comfort within and the storm without. The house was comparatively sheltered, for an orchard lay to the north, and the barn buildings stood squarely to the west. A light glimmered at the stable also, and one who was curious might have found by investigation that it proceeded from a lantern in the hands of a woman.

Having finished milking, she fed the two cows and their calves. She filled old Job's manger with bay and shook up his bedding. The colt was likewise cared for, and then she took her pail of milk, slung the lantern over her arm, and went out into the storm. It was not far to the house, but part of the milk was spilled, and she was quite breathless before she had gained the kitchen and closed the door behind her. The heat of the roaring fire, the light, and the stillness made it seem as though she had stepped into another world. She set down the pail and the lantern and drew off the close-fitting cap from her head, showing hair, brown, abundant and beautiful, about a face of distinct character.

The blue eyes were deep-set, keen, yet kindly ; the cheek-bones were high, and the whole face of a somewhat ascetic leanness, but the shrewd twinkle, and the lines of laughter about the large honest mouth, bespoke the sense of humor that sometimes saves the reason, sometimes indeed saves the soul, and always unfailingly, saves the situation. The face was Scotch, and the tongue matched it, for when she spoke, her voice and her words were of that ancient, honorable kingdom.

"Sirs. It's a wild nicht," she said to the empty kitchen.

She stripped off her outdoor garments, and showed herself as a tall, wiry woman neatly dressed, and remarkable chiefly for the shortness of her skirts and the fact that she wore the regulation socks and rubbers of the lumberman. In the early years of the twentieth century, women had not yet emancipated themselves from the long trailing skirt, therefore Anne McCoy took from behind the door a garment of the ordinary length and volume which she slipped over the abbreviated one, and so transformed herself from chore boy to housewife. The socks and rubbers remained. She might have to go out again into the storm at any time.

She washed her hands, strained the milk and set it away, then washed the milk pail and swept the already immaculate floor. The clock indicated half past seven. She glanced about the room. It was wide, low-ceilinged, comfortable. A great stove with wood-box behind it; an ancient wash stand with basin, soap and water pail; a sewing machine and scrap basket; a large dresser surmounted by the clock and an array of shining lamps; a long, wide, inviting couch with many cushions; a solid kitchen table; half a dozen chairs of various shapes and patterns — these her eyes , scanned critically. They were worn, but still in good heart. Everything showed care. The calendars on the walls were the only decorations there. The floor was unpainted, and of an oak that any millionaire might envy. The uneven walls told of the mighty logs that lay behind them. Little windows recalled days when glass was dear, and much light undesirable because it faded the carpets. It was a typical kitchen of the Bruce Peninsula, except that perhaps it was larger than most of them-^— and it was still typical in that there opened from it bedrooms so small and dark that they seemed little better than clothes-closets.

To the door of one of these she moved presently, and stood listening for a few moments. From the darkness came a quiet voice, controlled, but weary — a pleasant voice which instantly gained for the speaker the attention and favor of the listener.

"Come in, mother, if you are not busy."

She thrust the door open and entered. It was not a large room, yet it was not crowded. A glowing lamp stood on a table beside the bed, and the wide window-sill accommodated a number of books. The light shone upon a face which showed power in every line and feature. Serious dark eyes under straight brows were keen and thoughtful, and their promise was fulfilled in fine mobile lips and square chin. Yet it was chained power. Kerry McCoy had for two years _ been almost a cripple.

Sometimes he chafed and strained at his shackles; at times he fought through the long night with the terrible depression attendant upon his weakness. Yet he was not without hope for the future, even in his darkest hours. His mother's, swift eyes searched his face, but found no trace of the struggle she dreaded for him; he was calmly unconscious of himself. Laying aside his book, he stretched out his hand and drew the chair closer to his bed, inviting his mother to be seated.

"Are ye wantin' ony thing, Lad?"

"Nothing, now that you are here. It's storming yet — I can hear it. Do you suppose she'll come to-night?"

"It's awfu' wild, but she may come. They toon lasses ken naethin' aboot country roads an' weather. I houp ye'll hae some pleasure wi' this

yin. Yon Brewster woman wis as dry as a bottle efter a loggin' bee — nae life nor energy aboot her, only the label to tell o' past glories/'

"You didn't like her, mother, did you?" he said smiling affectionately. "But she really was a good hearted soul — see how she used to help me with mathematics and history. Perhaps this teacher may not care to do so."

"It'll be you tae help her, I'm thinkin.' She's only a bit o' a lass eighteen or nineteen year old forbye — " which was the very thing Kerry desired to know. "This is her first school — maybes her last. There's - no mony can thole the winter an' the loneliness."

"Well, mother," he said thoughtfully, "take the lamp with you when you hear the sleigh bells — Crombie has gone after her, I suppose. I'm through studying for to-night, so take the lamp and leave my door open. I'm quite curious for a look at this daring young lady who would venture to such a remote place when there must have been so many chances for her nearer home. I shall be quite disappointed if she does not come."

She was coming. The train, snow held in all its northward journey, was late when it reached the little town of Squireton. Darkness was falling, with the premature twilight of the storm as she stepped from the close, over-heated car to the wind-swept station platform, and glanced about uncertainly. A flickering light gleamed palely upon flying snowflakes, and filled the corners with wavering shadows. As the crowd of passengers melted away, she turned towards the waiting room, where at least there was shelter and a possibility of information as to her destination.

Two men standing near the swaying lamp, watched her with interest.

'It's her, parson. Ask her if it ain't," urged the smaller of the two, impatiently.

"Hush, Crombie. She will hear you," said the other in a voice of authority. Then stepping forward and raising his heavy cap, he spoke to Laura with some slight embarrassment. Saluting strange young ladies at a railway station was not at all in his line.

"My name is John Hayes," he explained, while her startled eyes measured him in the halflight. "This is Mr. Abercrombie. We have come to meet Miss Laura West, the teacher for Andrews' Bay — "

"You're her, ain't you?" interposed Crombie, whose feet were cold with waiting. "All right. Come on, an' let's get away."

Laura, thus accosted, transferred her gaze to the countenance of Mr. Joshua Abercrombie, or as much of it as might be seen behind a barrier of fur cap, frosty eyebrows, and a most luxuriant growth of whiskers. This was the author, then, of the cherished letter which had lured her by its promise of Adventure and Romance. There was little of either in his appearance. She offered her hand in greeting, acknowledging her identity and thanking them for meeting her.

"If you'll let me have your baggage checks, I'll see about that part of it," suggested John Hayes.

"Thank you, indeed/' she said gratefully, for she was not accustomed to travelling alone, and the gathering darkness, the storm and the strangeness of it all were rather terrifying to her.

"Now, Crombie, take the young lady over to McCausland's, and get her a cup of tea before we start out. I'll bring the horses around in a quarter of an hour," commanded this man of righteousness. Laura was certain that he transferred a coin to the hand of the embarrassed Crombie, who thereupon led the way down a snow-clad street where brief, sudden hills rose upon the west, and a broken view of stores, houses, masts of winter-bound vessels, and silent bay, spread out upon the east. Mr. Abercrombie felt the weight of his responsibilities and coughed considerably. Why could not this unperceiving young woman state without reserve that she did not want any tea? Tea! The idea of squandering a good thirst upon such an insignificant beverage. A New Year's, too, of all seasons. He clutched closely the money that the young minister had given him, while inspiration emanated from the touch. Why not leave her to pay for her own cup of tea? He could slip back to the Arlington to see about his bottle and be with her again at the restaurant before the meddling parson-fellow got back with the horses. Great idea! He felt cheerful enough for a little conversation.

"Terrible cold weather — for the time o' the year, that is, Teacher," he said, following the accepted plan of calling people hy a title rather than a name. His voice was small, like himself, and of a certain acid quality. Laura had an impression of cap and whiskers and all-enveloping ulster, with very little human avoirdupois beneath.

"It is cold, Mr. Abercrombie, and I am very grateful to you for coming after me. I had expected to hire a livery to take me to Andrews' Bay."

"Well, well," interposed Crombie hastily. "I'm sure I'll not charge, you what the livery would. Two dollars, they ask, but seeing it's you, I'll take a dollar — "

She seemed unimpressed, and he risked another plunge.

"And fifty— "

Still she stood it well, and he coughed largely, to drown his mistake.

"And seventy -five cents."

He held his breath in apprehension, measuring her out of the corner of his eye. One false step now would place her at a disadvantage for the future. Laura, however, had her wits about her, and answered him serenely, but with a crushing finality.

"A dollar, I think, Mr. Abercrombie," she said dashing his hopes with a pitiless hand. Nor would she allow him to leave her at the restaurant. She had seen his yearning face in the light of the Arlington House as they passed it, and knew that instead of giving her into Crombie's care, John Hayes had delivered that gentleman into her hands. Therefore she declined to let him go and the bottle he longed for lay undisturbed in its case at the hotel.

In a few moments the big sleigh drew up at the door of the little restaurant, and her trunk and suitcase reposed modestly among various bags of sugar, and flour; a barrel of salt bolstered them, and a keg of nails provided the necessary ballast. She wondered who was responsible for it all, not understanding that a man who took the trip to town invariably bore commissions for all his neighbors. John Hayes, revealed in the light of the little store, showed himself to be a businesslike young soldier of the truth, with an earnest, aggressive countenance. He extended to her a large coat of dogskin and invited her to wrap herself up in it.

"Why?" she asked in surprise, giving him a direct look from her wide e\es, fringed by dark lashes and bright with excitement. She had not the least intention of covering her smart new cloth coat with that dingy garment.

"Come, come," he said, pleasantly insistent, but trampling her feminine whims with true Wesley an disregard for the adorning of the body. "Slide it on over yours. You have to cross the Peninsula to-night in the face of a howling storm — it would go through that little coat of yours like water through a straw hat. Come, young lady, get it on."

She drew back with dignity, offended by his familiarity; but Crombie, who had his own reasons for being annoyed with her, seized the coat and flung it about her, fastening it with awkward fingers while he muttered impatiently:

"You'll be glad of it afore we get to the Bay — this is no summer evening. Jump into the sleigh now, an' let's get away. The night will be a wild one."

She worked her arms into the sleeves of the great clumsy coat and struggled into the low old-fashioned sleigh. The only seat was a loose board which however was solid enough when she was wedged upon it between the two men. The rangy, mangy team started forward at a word from John Hayes, while Crombie was occupied with muffling her in an ancient buffalo robe — "for all the world as if we were headed for Alaska," she thought to herself.

They turned up one of the sudden steep hills, and then north into the night away from the lights and houses. Menacing balsams crowded close to hold them back, but ever a thread of road led on into the darkness. The wind howled bitterly; scattered gusts tossed snow into their faces. The road bumped, turned, wound around stumps or angled sharply to avoid snow crowned rocks. Such a night — such a wind!

There was straw in the sleigh-box and she had plenty of robes about her. Huddled in the dogskin coat, she almost dozed at times, but was called back by an occasional inquiry from John Hayes. Was she cold? or tired? or hungry? She was not, although she yawned and shivered as she said it, and tried hard to keep from picturing the smoking hot supper which she hoped to find at the end of this weary journey. The darkness deepened; no moon came forth to illumine the Siberian dreariness. Once in a while they saw the lights of a dwelling, but they saw not a soul upon their journey. Laura's eyes drooped with fatigue, her face was stiff with cold, and she had serious doubts about the end of her nose. Presently they crossed a little frozen lake and drew up the hill beyond it. But there they met with such a shrieking pandemonium of wind, snow, and howling storm voices, that she knew beyond doubt why the young student had brought the coat for her. She bent her face before the blast which never ceased for an instant, but seemed to gather fury with every step of their journey.

"Turn your face against me!" shouted the young man. Her hat, small as it was, tore at her hair, which whipped her cheeks with loosened strands, and threatened to tumble down altogether. She had a vision of herself — almost ridiculous enough to bring a sob of laughter into her throat. Meanwhile the storm grew wilder, as though its former efforts had been mere pretence, and she seemed to hear some mighty undertone in its voice — the Lake, if she had but known it.

Quite two hours from the time of leaving the little snow-girt town had elapsed before she noticed that the horses were walking quietly, instead of fighting the elements as they had been doing. A curtain seemed to have dropped, shutting the storm away, for they had come within the shelter of a windbreak of low growing trees. The weary team plodded on towards the dark bulk of a house, from whose windows lamplight shone redly. Then as they halted amid a final clang of bells, a door was flung open, and a woman with a lantern in her hand stood upon the threshold.

A WILD NIGHT OK THE PENINSULA 25

"Come awa' in — the nicht's awfu' wild," she said in a deep, delightful voice.

"No mistake about it, indeed, Mrs. McCoy," laughed the young man as he flung the lines to Crombie and helped out his numb and speechless passenger. "Here's your young lady. Crombie and I will be in presently."

He set the suitcase in at the door, and taking the lantern, showed light while he and Crombie manipulated the trunk. But Laura was in the kitchen, as bewildered as a young bird which has been tossed from the nest. Trembling with the reaction after the long journey during which every nerve and muscle had been tense with excitement and cold, she yielded like a little child to Mrs. McCoy's brisk, capable hands. Truly Kerry had something to think of, that night.

Chapter III

THE next morning was Sunday. Laura awoke betimes, although she was unutterably weary after the all-day journey and the stormy drive across the Peninsula which had succeeded it. Her bed was a feather bed, and wonderfully comfortable to lie upon, while a modest embankment formed of seven pieced quilts and a white crocheted bed spread effectually prevented the escape of any heat which might be imprisoned beneath them.

"No danger of freezing to death here," she reflected, and withdrew under the quilts until only the tip of her nose protruded, while with lazy eyes she watched her breath turn to a white plume in the chilly air. It was a little room, with painted walls of green. The ceiling was blue, and the floor yellow where it showed between the braided rag rugs. A dresser, washstand and chair were the only furniture except the big bed, and they were all within arm's reach of her as she lay and looked at them. The window with its broad sill and frosty panes was so close that she could feel its ghostly breath. Such a contrast to her own room at home, which was spacious and dainty, and fitted lovingly for her use by hands that forestalled every wish.

She gave a little natural sigh, and then resolutely put aside all inclination to homesickness. Jumping out of bed, she dressed herself hastily, shivering with cold meanwhile. On the previous night Mrs. McCoy had put a great fire in the room, and instructed Laura to leave her bedroom door open and get the good of it. Perhaps if she had known that she was quite alone in that part of the house, she might have done so, for it was shut off from the kitchen half by the enclosed stairway which ran between them. The young minister's bed upstairs was so close to the kitchen stove pipe that occasionally he knocked it down when rising with more than his usual energy; the only other room over the kitchen was usually given up to wandering peddlers, infrequent agents, or casual comers who were not of the aristocratic spare-bedroom degree.

Mrs. McCoy's own bedroom was next to her son's, and as these rooms all lay upon the kitchen side of the house, Laura's wonder was great as the stillness of the place impressed itself upon her. Surely it must be time to get up — she had always heard that country people were early risers — they must be all out at the stable, doing something there. She laid hold upon her chilly garments and made haste to dress herself.