Next to this uncommonly interesting playground, as a field of action, came, in the children’s opinion, the “secret spot.” There was a velvety stretch of ground in the Sawyer pasture which was full of fascinating hollows and hillocks, as well as verdant levels, on which to build houses. A group of trees concealed it somewhat from view and flung a grateful shade over the dwellings erected there. It had been hard though sweet labor to take armfuls of “stickins” and “cutrounds” from the mill to this secluded spot, and that it had been done mostly after supper in the dusk of the evenings gave it a still greater flavor. Here in soap boxes hidden among the trees were stored all their treasures: wee baskets and plates and cups made of burdock balls, bits of broken china for parties, dolls, soon to be outgrown, but serving well as characters in all sorts of romances enacted there,—deaths, funerals, weddings, christenings. A tall, square house of stickins was to be built round Rebecca this afternoon, and she was to be Charlotte Corday leaning against the bars of her prison.
It was a wonderful experience standing inside the building with Emma Jane’s apron wound about her hair; wonderful to feel that when she leaned her head against the bars they seemed to turn to cold iron; that her eyes were no longer Rebecca Randall’s but mirrored something of Charlotte Corday’s hapless woe.
“Ain’t it lovely?” sighed the humble twain, who had done most of the labor, but who generously admired the result.
“I hate to have to take it down,” said Alice, “it’s been such a sight of work.”
“If you think you could move up some stones and just take off the top rows, I could step out over,” suggested Charlotte Corday. “Then leave the stones, and you two can step down into the prison to-morrow and be the two little princes in the Tower, and I can murder you.”
“What princes? What tower?” asked Alice and Emma Jane in one breath. “Tell us about them.”
“Not now, it’s my supper time.” (Rebecca was a somewhat firm disciplinarian.)
“It would be elergant being murdered by you,” said Emma Jane loyally, “though you are awful real when you murder; or we could have Elijah and Elisha for the princes.”
“They’d yell when they was murdered,” objected Alice; “you know how silly they are at plays, all except Clara Belle. Besides if we once show them this secret place, they’ll play in it all the time, and perhaps they’d steal things, like their father.”
“They needn’t steal just because their father does,” argued Rebecca; “and don’t you ever talk about it before them if you want to be my secret, partic’lar friends. My mother tells me never to say hard things about people’s own folks to their face. She says nobody can bear it, and it’s wicked to shame them for what isn’t their fault. Remember Minnie Smellie!”
Well, they had no difficulty in recalling that dramatic episode, for it had occurred only a few days before; and a version of it that would have melted the stoniest heart had been presented to every girl in the village by Minnie Smellie herself, who, though it was Rebecca and not she who came off victorious in the bloody battle of words, nursed her resentment and intended to have revenge.
Chapter VII.
Riverboro Secrets
Mr. Simpson spent little time with his family, owing to certain awkward methods of horse-trading, or the “swapping” of farm implements and vehicles of various kinds,—operations in which his customers were never long suited. After every successful trade he generally passed a longer or shorter term in jail; for when a poor man without goods or chattels has the inveterate habit of swapping, it follows naturally that he must have something to swap; and having nothing of his own, it follows still more naturally that he must swap something belonging to his neighbors.
Mr. Simpson was absent from the home circle for the moment because he had exchanged the Widow Rideout’s sleigh for Joseph Goodwin’s plough. Goodwin had lately moved to North Edgewood and had never before met the urbane and persuasive Mr. Simpson. The Goodwin plough Mr. Simpson speedily bartered with a man “over Wareham way,” and got in exchange for it an old horse which his owner did not need, as he was leaving town to visit his daughter for a year, Simpson fattened the aged animal, keeping him for several weeks (at early morning or after nightfall) in one neighbor’s pasture after another, and then exchanged him with a Milltown man for a top buggy. It was at this juncture that the Widow Rideout missed her sleigh from the old carriage house. She had not used it for fifteen years and might not sit in it for another fifteen, but it was property, and she did not intend to part with it without a struggle. Such is the suspicious nature of the village mind that the moment she discovered her loss her thought at once reverted to Abner Simpson. So complicated, however, was the nature of this particular business transaction, and so tortuous the paths of its progress (partly owing to the complete disappearance of the owner of the horse, who had gone to the West and left no address), that it took the sheriff many weeks to prove Mr. Simpson’s guilt to the town’s and to the Widow Rideout’s satisfaction. Abner himself avowed his complete innocence, and told the neighbors how a red-haired man with a hare lip and a pepper-and-salt suit of clothes had called him up one morning about daylight and offered to swap him a good sleigh for an old cider press he had layin’ out in the dooryard. The bargain was struck, and he, Abner, had paid the hare-lipped stranger four dollars and seventy-five cents to boot; whereupon the mysterious one set down the sleigh, took the press on his cart, and vanished up the road, never to be seen or heard from afterwards.
“If I could once ketch that consarned old thief,” exclaimed Abner righteously, “I’d make him dance,—workin’ off a stolen sleigh on me an’ takin’ away my good money an’ cider press, to say nothin’ o’ my character!”
“You’ll never ketch him, Ab,” responded the sheriff. “He’s cut off the same piece o’ goods as that there cider press and that there character and that there four-seventy-five o’ yourn; nobody ever see any of ‘em but you, and you’ll never see ‘em again!”
Mrs. Simpson, who was decidedly Abner’s better half, took in washing and went out to do days’ cleaning, and the town helped in the feeding and clothing of the children. George, a lanky boy of fourteen, did chores on neighboring farms, and the others, Samuel, Clara Belle, Susan, Elijah, and Elisha, went to school, when sufficiently clothed and not otherwise more pleasantly engaged.
There were no secrets in the villages that lay along the banks of Pleasant River. There were many hard-working people among the inhabitants, but life wore away so quietly and slowly that there was a good deal of spare time for conversation,—under the trees at noon in the hayfield; hanging over the bridge at nightfall; seated about the stove in the village store of an evening. These meeting-places furnished ample ground for the discussion of current events as viewed by the masculine eye, while choir rehearsals, sewing societies, reading circles, church picnics, and the like, gave opportunity for the expression of feminine opinion. All this was taken very much for granted, as a rule, but now and then some supersensitive person made violent objections to it, as a theory of life.
Delia Weeks, for example, was a maiden lady who did dressmaking in a small way; she fell ill, and although attended by all the physicians in the neighborhood, was sinking slowly into a decline when her cousin Cyrus asked her to come and keep house for him in Lewiston. She went, and in a year grew into a robust, hearty, cheerful woman. Returning to Riverboro on a brief visit, she was