Part 41 (1/2)

IN WHICH ”THE LITTLE WOMAN” ANNOUNCES HER ENGAGEMENT TO JIM FENTON AND RECEIVES THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HER FRIENDS.

After the frame of Jim's hotel was up, at Number Nine, and those who had a.s.sisted in its erection were out of the woods, he and his architect entered with great industry upon the task of covering it. Under Mr.

Benedict's direction, Jim became an expert in the work, and the sound of two busy hammers kept the echoes of the forest awake from dawn until sunset, every day. The masons came at last and put up the chimneys; and more and more, as the days went on, the building a.s.sumed the look of a dwelling. The grand object was to get their enterprise forwarded to a point that would enable them to finish everything during the following winter, with such a.s.sistance as it might be necessary to import from Sevenoaks. The house needed to be made habitable for workmen while their work was progressing, and to this end Mr. Benedict and Jim pushed their efforts without a.s.sistance.

Occasionally, Jim found himself obliged to go to Sevenoaks for supplies, and for articles and tools whose necessity had not been antic.i.p.ated. On these occasions, he always called Mike Conlin to his aid, and always managed to see ”the little woman” of his hopes. She was busy with her preparations, carried on in secret; and he always left her with his head full of new plans and his heart br.i.m.m.i.n.g with new satisfactions. It was arranged that they should be married in the following spring, so as to be ready for city boarders; and all his efforts were bent upon completing the house for occupation.

During the autumn, Jim took from the Sevenoaks Post-Office a letter for Paul Benedict, bearing the New York post mark, and addressed in the handwriting of a lady. The letter was a great puzzle to Jim, and he watched its effect upon his companion with much curiosity. Benedict wept over it, and went away where he could weep alone. When he came back, he was a transformed man. A new light was in his eye, a new elasticity in all his movements.

”I cannot tell you about it, Jim,” he said; ”at least I cannot tell you now; but a great burden has been lifted from my life. I have never spoken of this to you, or to anybody; but the first cruel wound that the world ever gave me has been healed by a touch.”

”It takes a woman to do them things,” said Jim. ”I knowed when ye gin up the little woman, as was free from what happened about an hour arter, that ye was firm' low an' savin' yer waddin'. Oh, ye can't fool me, not much!”

”What do you think of that, Jim?” said Benedict, smiling, and handing him a check for five hundred dollars that the letter had inclosed.

Jim looked it over and read it through with undisguised astonishment.

”Did she gin it to ye?” he inquired.

”Yes.”

”An' be ye a goin' to keep it?”

”Yes, I'm going to keep it.”

Jim was evidently doubtful touching the delicacy both of tendering and receiving such a gift.

”If that thing had come to me from the little woman,” said he, ”I should think she was gittin' oneasy, an' a little dubersome about my comin' to time. It don't seem jest the thing for a woman to sh.e.l.l out money to a man. My nater goes agin it. I feel it all over me, an' I vow, I b'lieve that if the little woman had did that thing to me, I sh'd rub out my reckonin' an' start new.”

”It's all right, though, Jim,” responded Benedict, good-naturedly--”right for the woman to give it, and right for me to receive it. Don't trouble yourself at all about it.”

Benedict's a.s.surance did little to relieve Jim's bewilderment, who still thought it a very improper thing to receive money from a woman. He did not examine himself far enough to learn that Benedict's independence of his own care and provision was partly the cause of his pain. Five hundred dollars in the woods was a great deal of money. To Jim's apprehension, the man had become a capitalist. Some one beside himself--some one richer and more powerful than himself--had taken the position of benefactor toward his friend. He was glad to see Benedict happy, but sorry that he could not have been the agent in making him so.

”Well, I can't keep ye forever'n' ever, but I was a hopin' ye'd hang by till I git hold of the little woman,” said Jim.

”Do you suppose I would leave you now, Jim?”

”Well, I knowed a yoke o' cattle couldn't start ye, with a hoss ahead on 'em; but a woman, Mr. Benedict ”--and Jim's voice sunk to a solemn and impressive key--”a woman with the right kind of an eye, an' a takin'

way, is stronger nor a steam Injun. She can snake ye 'round anywhere; an' the queerest thing about it is that a feller's willin' to go, an'

thinks it's purty. She tells ye to come, an' ye come smilin'; and then she tells ye to go, an' ye go smilin'; and then she winds ye 'round her finger, and ye feel as limber an' as willin' as if ye was a whip-lash, an' hadn't nothin' else to do.”

”Nevertheless, I shall stay with you, Jim.”

”Well, I hope ye will; but don't ye be too sartin; not that I'm goin' to stan' atween ye an' good luck, but if ye cal'late that a woman's goin'

to let ye do jest as ye think ye will--leastways a woman as has five hundred dollars in yer pocket--yer eddication hasn't been well took care on. If I was sitooated like you, I'd jest walk up to the pastur'-bars like a hoss, an' whinner to git in, an' expect to be called with a corn-cob when she got ready to use me.”

”Still, I shall stay with you, Jim.”

”All right; here's hopin', an' here's my hand.”