So she resolved for the present to hide the money. Perhaps Mr. Bronson would write to her. He had spoken of doing so, and of sending her some books, in which case she would be able to write to him in return, and send the packet.
“Only I’ll post the letter myself, even if I have to walk to Button End and back,” she said, with great decision. Then she returned to her work with a will, being anxious to have the house as clean and tidy as hands could make it before the old man’s return.
She had dragged the mat, with Pip’s dead body resting on it, to the cool shade at the back of the house; and there, in the hot noontide, she dug the grave, perspiring a great deal, but working with great energy, to get her task completed.
The hole was ready at last, and she climbed out of it with a sigh of relief, dropping on to the ground for a brief rest.
Then she heard sounds of talking—a woman’s voice high-pitched and complaining, children’s tones eager and excited, and the tramp of horses’ feet.
With a fluttering at her heart, she ran round to the front of the house. As a rule, hardly one person in a month passed along the trail, except in winter, when lumbering was being carried on—even then it was only men and boys who came; but these arrivals, by the sound of their voices, were plainly womenfolk, or at least there was one woman.
When she turned the corner of the house she saw a little procession of three horses, just halting under the big Valparaiso oak. A woman, lean and shrewish of aspect, was mounted on the first animal, in company with many bags and bundles, among which a fryingpan and two new tin saucepans showed conspicuously.
Two children—a boy and a girl—shared the next horse, their steed also being hung round with trappings of the same description; while the third horse was heavily laden with more household stuff.
A man and a big boy completed the party, which looked hot and tired, as well they might after the ten miles’ journey from Button End, for in this glowing September noontide the forest trail was hot as a furnace.
Nell approached with a bewildered look on her face, and some dismay in her heart, wondering how she could contrive to offer hospitality to so many people. Her household stores were at a painfully low ebb at the present moment—indeed, she had neither tea, sugar, nor coffee to offer them, and the remaining flour in her barrel had been made into bread that morning—two small loaves, which would not half suffice to feed this party of five.
Then she remembered the great basket of berries which she had gathered two hours before, and that the early apples were already quite eatable, so she quickened her steps to greet the arrivals, a little comforted on the score of hospitality.
“Are you Doss Umpey’s gal?” called out the woman, in high-pitched, querulous tones.
“I am his granddaughter,” Nell answered, with as much dignity as she could muster, yet all the while conscious that her dreadful old clothes detracted very much from the cold aloofness of her bearing.
“It’s about the same thing in the end, I guess,” rejoined the woman, with a cackle of harsh laughter. “Well, there’s a letter from the old man to tell you why we’ve come, and are going to stop.”
And she tossed a smudged envelope to the ground, directed in Doss Umpey’s straggling writing, to “Miss Nell Umpey, at Blue Bird Ridge.”
It was really too bad, and poor Nell could have cried with vexation, that her grandfather, who was too lazy to spell his own name properly, should call her by it also. But when she had read the letter, she was thankful indeed that he had not addressed her by her right name.
“Dear Nell (so ran the letter),
“You will be surprised to hear that I have sold the Lone House and the furniter to Joe Gunnage and his wife, and they are going to live there. Mrs. G. says you can stop on as hired gal if you like. But if you are wise and have got enuff pluck, you’ll just git over the border into Canada as quick as you can; you are safe to do better there than in the States. I’d have sent you some money if I could, but the fac is I’m desperate hard-up all along of harbouring wipers in my buzzom as have warmed up and stung me. But I’m hopin’ to get on to something good soon, then I’ll look you up and help you. Meanwhile don’t you let on to no one what I’ve told you, nor nothin’ about me, as I don’t want the perlice to get interested in what I’m doing.
“Doss Umpey.”
Nell was so long in getting at the sense of the old man’s badly written letter that by the time she had done, the three horses had all been unladen and hobbled so that they could feed in the open space before the house, and the woman was carrying the bundles in at the door, assisted by the children.
“Have you come here to live?” asked Nell, in a bewildered tone.
Although she had read the letter, she could not yet comprehend its meaning, or realize that the old life was gone, and that she was suddenly thrust upon her own resources, with no one to care what became of her.
“It looks like it, don’t you think?” said the woman, with another cackling laugh. “Now then, girl, what’s your name—Nell? Don’t stand there staring as if you was short-witted; stir round lively, and help me get these things inside.”
Nell came to assist in a half-mechanical fashion, still doubting the evidence of her own senses. The man and the big boy had not spoken to her, had hardly glanced in her direction indeed, but were absorbed in looking round their new premises, grumbling loudly because the clearing about the house was not so big as they had supposed.
The small boy and girl had likewise disappeared on a journey of exploration, so Nell and Mrs. Gunnage were left alone.
“What! haven’t you got a cooking-stove?” cried the woman, in shrill consternation.
“We did have one, but it dropped all to bits in the spring, and I’ve had to bake bread in the ashes all summer. Granfer had said that he would get a new one in the fall,” Nell answered.
“Well, it’s fall now, and I must have a stove, for I can’t bake bread in the ashes, if you can. Joe will just have to go over to Button End to-morrow, and get me one. What is up that ladder?” demanded Mrs. Gunnage, sharply, having just caught sight of the rickety ladder in the corner behind the door.
“It leads to my room,” Nell replied, then was instantly indignant because Mrs. Gunnage prepared to mount and inspect the loft without asking permission.
But the swaying, creaking ladder proved too much for the woman’s nerves.
“I will just have Joe make me a firmer ladder before I go up there, for a fall would about shake me to bits. Is there any furniture up there?”
“An old camp bed and two boxes,” Nell answered, with characteristic brevity. She had come to the conclusion that she simply detested Mrs. Gunnage, and that nothing should induce her to remain at the Lone House as hired girl to such a woman.
“I thought as much! But, my word! to hear Doss Umpey talk of his furniture, a person might have looked to find marble-topped tables and mahogany chairs. A downright swindle it is, to call this old truck furniture.”
To this pronouncement Nell made no reply; she was quietly reserving herself for what must come later, trying also, in some way, to shape and plan her future, yet feeling all the time in such a whirling confusion of mind as scarcely to be capable of meeting the needs of the moment.
“It is a puzzle to me where we are all going to sleep. Why, the house isn’t big enough to swing a cat in!” exclaimed Mrs. Gunnage, scornfully; and indeed the small interior did seem rather crowded, now that the lading of the three horses had been brought in and dumped upon the floor.
“For to-night the little girl can come to sleep with me in the loft. The two boys would be very comfortable