Rensselaer Republican, Volume 17, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 August 1885 — LITTLE MIŚ MOY! [ARTICLE]

LITTLE MIŚ MOY!

“This, I suppose, must be the place.” A lady descended from a carriage drawn up in front.of this great gateway opening to the grounds of an imposing mansion np the Hudson. This lady was neither old nor young; she appeared to be well cared for; she was well dressed —equipped from tip to toe in a prosperous neatness and womanliness. She surveyed the handsome grounds “It s a good place, but it must cost a good deal to keep it up,” she murmured, Tiuly, it was a handsome home; the soft forenoon sunlight lay on the grass of the lawn, on the lilies and the still water in the great stone basin where a pipe dripped. It ’ was delightful; two or three statues, pieces of gray, weatherbeaten marble stood at agreeable distances, and a sun-dial, evidently not indigenous to the place, graced a sunny grass-plot Presently this appreciative visitor stopped, and, turning, addressed some one who had kept a seat ip the carriage. “Yon can stay where you are, my dear, or you can come and look about in the ground. They are very nice. As for me, I shall go at once to Gabriel.” She passed beyond the gßtewry, where two large stone heads grinned St per from the hieh arch. “Heathenish!” muttered the lady, “but then, what could you expect from a painter ?” She paused, for just then a man, a young, handsome man, came out from a sidewalk shaded with pink kalmia and confronted her. He had a fine mass of ruddy hair falling to his shoulders; he wore a velvet morning coat, and he was smoking a cigarette; that seemed to be his only occupation. The strange lady regarded him a moment . i “Ah,” she said; and then, smiling a litt e, “I know the look; you’ve got the family look, after all. You must be my nephew, Gabriel Hertford!” The young man doffed his cap in courtesy. “That is my name, at your service; if I am your nephew, then you must be my aunt but I beg pardon for not knowing your name.” * Ah, yes, 1 forgot! lam Miss Penfield — Mary Penfield. I came this morning to look you up as soon as I heard of that shameful business. lam sorry for you.” ’ “Ah,” said the young man, slowly, “you are very good to remember me; you are the first one to say you are sorry for me!” “I dare say; nobody cares, although everybody talks about it; but then, there are a great many others. I call it a great shame that one man can fix things bo that his falling will drag hundreds of others with him. This man, Gonld, ought to be put in jail!”

Miss Penfield looked about her. Gabriel had flung his cigarette away, and was looking at his visitor in what seemed to be a mixture of perplexity and amusement ' “This must be a very expensive place to keep up; it must take a lot of money.” “Yes,” said Gabriel, evidently following as best he could where his aunt led, “it takes a good deal, but since my father diejd it has rather run down. My being alone, you know ” “Well, I don’t suppose you will try to keep it up any longer, even as a bachelor’s establishment You will have to go to work now to earn your own living, i You like to work, I hope, Gabriel?” u Yea, I like to work.” Miss Penfield smiled rather grimly. “I have come to offer you a situation. Ton .know I own all the land between the two rivers out spoke as if she thought Gabriel must have a map of the section where she dwelt a “out there" before his eyes habitually “and I am always on the lookout for a good overseer—a good man to manage. There are the cattle—such work as I have, losing thousands of dollars every year. It’s my firm conviction that Baker, the man I have now, sleeps all day and plays poker all night. You are young and strong; yon are of my kin, although 1 must say I never approved of my sister marrying a man like your father—just a painter.j£ “Perhaps you don’t like painting yourself, my dear aunt," said Gabriel Hertford, softly, and with a perfectly serious face. “Oh. I like ih its place—on the

fences and outbuildings: catch a poor bit of color on my barns! But come; are you going to accept my offer ?—are you going with me? Make up your mind. 1 shall go on the evening press."————---Gabriel put his hands in his pockets and stood looking at his aunt in some perplexity. He was evidently trying to say something suitably. “The salary is good,” said the lady, abruptly. “For you I will make it S2OO more than the present man receives.” ' She named a sum. Gabriel said to himself that she was sufficiently generous.' , ' “My dear aunt," he said, aloud to her, “your great goodness—your inexpressible kindness and thoughtfulness deserve a far better " They had been, while talking, sauntering up and down, side by side, across this lovelV pleasuance. Gabriel, in the middle of his speech, stopped. “Who in heaven’s name is that? Where did that vision come from ?” For these, before them, right in the center of a big bdd of lilies—tiger lilies and sweet-williams and mignonette, stood a young girl—a tall, beautiful figure in gray silk dross and mantle, a great feathered hat over her lovely brows, and a silver chain about her neck and waist, shining in the sun. Across her long, gray-gloved arm was laid a big stem of lilies—in the manner of angels bearing paltwa. The noble innocence of look and attitude were charming; it was a vision, a medifcval picture put there in Gabriel's garden for profane eyes to look at and be healed. “Where in Heaven’s name did that lovely vision come from?” . “ Who ?—where ?” Miss Penfield gazed about her. “Oh, that is my niece, Moy—Moy Farrars; she lives with me. I brought her on this journey for a change, poor thing! She has not been well!” The kindled fire had not died out of Gabriel Hertford’s face; bis brows remained Bushed.

“As you were saying, my deaf aunt, in your goodness, I must work —yes, I will go with you; I will try to serve you well." A groom in livery came up the carriage walk, leading a young colt. “Send some of the fellows about to tell Saunders to put up things for a journey. lam going away. Thiogs,to last for a long stay.” —A? My goodness!” Miss Penfield stared; “is that the way you do ? How will you manage about the house?; You take things somewhat cool, I must say. ” “Ah, the house—that is already furnished with an occupant—an old fellow with his wife, you see, they do things quickly in these cases. I have only to go^ — “Well,l declare!" Miss Penfield gasped, “to go and leave everything, my poor boy! lam glad I thought to come for you; my place is no ( t so fine as this, but I guess I am about as well off. You don’t catch me putting my money in the bank just for sake of losing it. Moy, child, come!” “Is this my cousin, too?” Gabriel asked, looking at the fair vision with the wonderful depth of still sweetness in he r eyes, standing there with her white lilies across her arm. “No, she is not your cousin; she is—well, its no matter what she is.”— —- Gabriel was capable of reading a meaning between words sometimes'; in this he fancied that his aunt had meant to express: “She’s nothing to you, sir!” ;

That one year of his life passed at Miss Penfield’s home, called by her the Bowerie, was an experience Gabriel Hertford never forgot or underrated. It was an education; 500 acres, all clear, rolling plain, soft flowing river and noble forest. The wild, glad life suited his strong, poetic nature; the long gallop from place to place; the gusty wind in his ears; the voices of men at work; the skies above him; the grass below him. ■■ To Gabriel’s surprise, Barker, the man whom he Ijad superseded, ataidon in Miss Penfield’s employ; lie had accepted an inferior post with a scant salary, and Gabriel was not slow to perceive that the man was doing himself an injustice filling it; the fact was patent that David Barker was a scholar; he was a man of splendidly developed powers, of keen, flashing wit and proud temper. Why was he staying there, thus ? Within six weeks Gabriel flattered himself he had found out two things, for a mysterious handwriting came to flow along the walls and write. First, David Barker was in love with Moy.

Second, Miss Penfield was afraid of David Barker; she did not wish to offend him', but she wished to get rid of him. For Gabriel was witness to a scene that moved him profoundly. He was sitting in the deep window of the morning-room where Miss Penfield’s desk was, and he was looking over some accounts while waiting for his mistress; the curtain dropped, hid him from view, and he did not look out when Barker entered. Just in that moment’s pause and silence an opposite door opened to admit Miss Penfield. With a little murmur the lady came forward to David, handing him an open letter. } “Just read that, David,” she said, rather exultantly. With a quiet look he read the letter, and then returned it to Miss Penfield. “Yes, its a very grand thing,” he said. Miss Penfield turned pale. “You—you will accept the the chance, won’t you? You wun’t let such an offer pass ?” “No; I shall not accept it” “Oh, why—why not?” “Because I wish to stay here.” “To stay"here? Oh, David, it’s no place for yon. Go—where you can do better.” Then she clasped her hands together. “I beseech you to go and leave us in peace!” The man laughed out aloud—a long, bitter laugh. . «. “You want me to go so much? Well, I will go on one condition-—that Moy goes with me! Give me Hoy for my wife! You tell me To go to where I can ,do better. Miss Penfield!” His words were like iron missiles dropped in Maty Penfield’s heart. “TeU ihe where that place is where can I do better than on my own land ?—for this is mine. I own tho Powerie; my title is older than

yours; I havo got it, proved and sure. Bui”—he advanced toward her; his words hung, over ' her like a threatening lash —“I’ll Idestroy it—as sure as thero is the, blue sky above us, I’ll de - stroy it in your sight; Pll give up everf scrap of title, if you’ll-give me Moy.” He stopped, white with passion. Miss Penfield stood with her Bands covering her bowed face. The silence was terrible ;’it seemed to beat about these two actors like waves of a heavy sea running over them. Gabriel sat silent; he did not dare to stir now; his great fear was that he should be discovered. Finally Miss Penfield looked up. “Moy, give you Moy?” she murmured, wonderingly. “Why, man, the child does not love yon.” “Never mind; I’ve love enough for two. I’ll teach her to love me.” . The words seemed coarse, but there was hot fever in the tone. Miss Penfield at this lifted her drooped head; some spark of proud temper lit her eye; she straightened her tall form. “Moy, my little fair Moy? You will’ give me the Bowerie if I give you Moy?” She had this while been carrying in her hand a beautiful, costly trifle. With strong fingers she now tore it through the middle, straight across, from edge to edge, complete. “There is the contract!” she said, in her proud contempt, and she dropped the pieces on the floor at David Barker’s feet The matter rested there for a time, and time went by, weeks and months; but the look of pain deepening in Miss Penfield’s face grew at last more than Gabriel could bear. Everybody wondered at the change in the mistress. It seemed to Gabriel that ,he had lived through it just because Moy came and went like the rain and sweet light and dew of heaven about the honse; their “little Moy,” “little Miss Moy.” “My dear aunt,”” said Gabriel, one evening, dropping on the floor by her side as they sat about the great log fire—“dear aunt, I wish you wouldn’t look like that. Cry, for Heaven’s sake, cry if you must, but don’t look like that!” .: ~

Miss Penfield put her hand on the mass of ruddy hair resting against her. “You are a good boy,” she said, gently; her thin face quivered. “I wish I could help lyoji,” Gabriel went on, entreatingly. “Tell me your trouble; let me try and help you; let me share it!” “Tell you? Soon there will be no need of my telling; all the world will know it. Oh, but it’s wicked!.” She stopped in her wild words, for a fiercer storm of the winter elements raged without. A great gust of icy wind struck the door and shook it fiercely. The windows rattled in their stout -frames. They could hear the wild toss of moaning tree-tops; the creak of shattered boughs, the sough of creeping, shuddering, flying winds. Moy came and knelt on the other side of Miss Penfield; her look was like'* that of a spirit. “I am afraid," she whispered, “there is something dreadful out there. I can hear it walk, it steps lightly, but It comes.” “Hush, child!” said Miss Pe^!lfi3ld, , angrily; “what are you raving about?” She seemed to listen to some sound. “I wonder where David Barker is? Ab, what’s that?” Then came a low whine, a scratching at the outer door. “It’s Fleet. I had not missed him before—strange?” She spoke of the huge house-dog whose place was usually of an evening before the fire at her feet. “Ah, there he is again; let him in, please, Gabriel. How the storm beats the door in,” Gabriel moved to obey; he felt strangely reluctant—a voice seemed to cry to him. “Stay!” He was holding the door in his hand, anxious to let in as little of the drift as possible, when he felt himself flung backward. Some terrible thing - shot forward and precipitated itself against him. He staggered down under the blow. He struggled heroically. He was conscious of a thunderous weight on liis chest, of foaming jaws at his throat, of huge claws at his breast, and hot breath burning him. Still he would not die; he had heard cries, and now there was another sound, the voice of a cherub floating out of heaven, where God is: —-r- ---“ Save him, save him!”

Moy was there; her slender girl’s arm was between his throat and the wolf’s jaw. Mov’s little hands were striving to 'drag the wild beast away. Must she die, too ? “’Ware there!” cried a calm voice outside, and the splittering crack of a rifle-shot was heard. Gabriel sat up, dizzily striving to -peer through the smoke of storm and powder. “Moy!” he said, hoarsely. A face looked in the shattered window ; then David Barker entered the room. He leaned his rifle against the wall, and, stooping, lifted Moy from the floor. “The ball went through her arm,” he said, quietly. “I had to risk it. There was no waiting; but its notliingserions.” He pushed the golden hair back from the white, still cheeks, and sighed as he bent over her; he had placed her on the lounge where Miss Penfield was kneeling, administering tender cares and caresses. ! * “You wouldn’t give her to me, thus I give her back to you, and I’m not a generous man,” said David to Miss Penfield.* “Is she dead ?” Gabriel asked hoarsely ; he staggered up, lying against the wall; he was blind and dizzy. “It was like a spirit floating past when she came to help me. Did she go straight on to another world ?” “I am here,” said a now clear voice from that other world so far from him, across the room where love was.

“So yon see, dear aunt,” said Gabriel, “we are going to live our one life together. After all, I’m fit for nothing but painting. Moy says she’s fit for nothing but an artist’s life. We’re gding on a tramp through Europe first, then we’rd going to work.” “Y'oc poor things,” cried Hiss Penfield ; “and I’ve not a penny to offer you; .to talk of trampiag." “We don’t want any money,” said Moy, in'love's new voice. “We're going back to the old home,”

■ Gabriel said. “And oil, I was going to mention, I forgot so tell Moy, too, jt was all a mistake about the money. I never lost any. I have got all I ever had.” “Well 1 declare—never lost any!" “No; it was all a mistake; it was an- ' other person with the same name as mine.” _' > ' “Why didn’t you tell me ?—you ought to have told me,” said Miss Penfield, coldly. “Ab, but you seemed so like a saint, dear aunt, coming to me in that way that morning, with your generous offer.” Gabriel took his aunt’s hand and lifting it, kissed it soltly. “And I—but Moy came among my posies. I wanted to be where she whs, so I let you be where she was, 60 1 let you be deceived. Forgive me—love us.” “Well, I am sorry I can’t give Moy something. L can’t say you’ve done any great things here for me, nor do I believe you’ll make much out of you! painting stuff” “You’ll work all the Same, won’t you ?” said the love voice at Gabriel’s shoulder. “Will work and do good.” “Ah, my angel! Yes, do you! You’ll see, aunt, what I can do when I paint Moy. I shall make good a picture of her standing with the lilies across her arm, and every home shall know her face, every devout heart shall look on her likeness as something sweet to say prayers before.” “Ah, if you’re going to begin by spoiling her,” said Miss Penfield, turning away; her heart was sore—fhey would leave her, these lovers, and, she feared, the Bowerie was lost to her.

There came a morning when Gabriel and Moy went away from the Bowerie, man and wife. Love go with the young lovers; do good for all, be ye, too, happy. - ; 2 Miss Penfield stood looking after them along the way they went. She felt alone and ill at ease; it was long since she had heard from. David Barker ; where was he ? what new blow was preparing ? “Shall we throw old shoes after them?” saida voice, at her shoulder. “It s a sign there’ll be another wedding soon.” “I don’t want another wedding,” said Miss Penfield, tartly, as she slowly faced him; she disdained to show surprise. “Ah!" David Barker smiled significantly. “I have had a to sell the Bowerie,” he said lightly. “Yes ? I’ll get out of your way at once,” answered Miss Penfield, putting her hands in the pockets of her ruffled white apron to hide their trembling. “You needn’t, I’m going to offer it to you.” “I never take gifts.” “Not even me—won’t you take me ?” = Miss Penfield glanced at him keenly. “It’s been a hard riddle to read; you did not guess it right,” said David Barker, with a smile that made his dark face tender and supplicating. Miss Penfield looked over about her. Green wood and fertile field, river, and rolling plain, she loved them well —the old Bowerie —oh, she loved it. “Well, I guess I’ll take you, Mr. Barker !” But it was the Bowerie she took I