26. CHAPTER XXVI.
A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
SQUAR HAUKINS “this is too Lett u no that u beter be
Keerful hoo yoo an yore familly tacks cides with
fer peepl wont Stan it too hev the Men wat's
sportin the wuns wat's robin us, sported bi yor
Fokes kepin kumpne with 'em, u been a ossifer ov the Lau,
yor Ha wil bern as qick as to an yor Barn tu. so Tak kere.
No mor ad pressnt.”
This letter accomplished its purpose. The squire's spectacles
slipped off several times while he read it. His wig had to be
adjusted. If he had been threatened personally he would not
have minded it so much. But the hay-stacks were dearer to
him than the apple of his glass eye. The barn was more precious
than his wig. And those who hoped to touch Bud in a
tender place through this letter knew the Squire's weakness far
better than they knew the spelling-book. To see his new red
barn with its large “Mormon” hay-press inside, and the mounted
Indian on the vane, consumed, was too much for the Hawkins
heart to stand. Evidently the danger was on the side of his
niece. But how should he influence Martha to give up Bud?
Martha did not value the hay-stacks half so highly as she did
her lover. Martha did not think the new red barn, with the
great Mormon press inside and the galloping Indian on the
vane, worth half so much as a moral principle or a kindhearted
action. Martha, bless her! would have sacrificed anything
rather than forsake the poor. But Squire Hawkins's lips
shut tight over his false teeth in a way that suggested astringent
purse-strings, and Squire Hawkins could not sleep at night
if the new red barn, with the galloping Indian on the vane,
were in danger. Martha must be reached some how.
So, with many adjustings of that most adjustable wig, with
many turnings of that reversible glass eye, the squire managed
to frighten Martha by the intimation that he had been
threatened, and to make her understand, what it cost her much
to understand, that she must turn the cold shoulder to chivalrous,
awkward Bud, whom she loved most tenderly, partly, perhaps,
because he did not remind her of anybody she knew at
the East.
Tuesday evening was the fatal time. Spelling-school was the
fatal occasion. Bud was the victim. Pete Jones had his revenge.
For Bud had been all the evening trying to muster
courage enough to offer himself as Martha's escort. He was
not encouraged by the fact that he had spelled even worse
than usual, while Martha had distinguished herself by holding
her ground against Jeems Phillips for half an hour. But he
screwed his courage to the sticking place, not by quoting to
himself the adage, “Faint heart never won fair lady,” which,
indeed, he had never heard, but by reminding himself that
“ef you don't resk nothin' you'll never git nothin'.” So, when
the spelling-school had adjourned, he sidled up to her, and,
looking dreadfully solemn and a little foolish, he said:
“Kin I see you safe home?”
And she, with a feeling that her uncle's life was in danger,
and that his salvation depended upon her resolution—she, with
a feeling that she was pronouncing sentence of death on her
own great hope, answered huskily:
“No, I thank you.”
If she had only known that it was the red barn with the
Indian on top that was in danger, she would probably have let
the galloping brave take care of himself.
It seemed to Bud, as he walked home mortified, disgraced,
disappointed, hopeless, that all the world had gone down in a
whirlpool of despair.
“Might a knowed it,” he said to himself. “Of course, a smart
gal like Martha a'n't agoin' to take a big, blunderin' fool that
can't spell in two syllables. What's the use of tryin'? A
Flat Cricker is a Flat Cricker. You can't make nothin' else
out of him, no more nor you can mak a China hog into a
Berkshire.”
