CHAPTER VIII A GREAT SECRET
The children had all swept up to the nice clean barnyard.
"I say," cried Cassowary, pushing her way among them, "what's the trouble?"
Champ was speaking—"Dad said Drunkard wasn't to be let loose till dark and it's only dusk now."
"He didn't," yelled Big Chief, "he said in blindman's holiday."
"Well, blindman's holiday is black dark."
"It isn't," said the Chief, "it's betwixt and between."
Champ took hold of Cassowary's arm and drew her forward. "You talk to him. He's a nut-head."
"I'll attend to Drunkard myself," said the girl loftily. "Dad put him in my care. He said you two boys were too jerky in your little attentions to the dear soul. I'm not so undependable," and she tossed her black head. "You didn't attend to the cafeteria to-night; Big Chief. I'm going to tell on you."
The two boys turned on her. "Undependable," sneered Champ. "I don't believe there's any such word," while Big Chief shook an irritated fist at her. "Look here, Miss Cassowary—you've just got to stop bossing me. I'm going to speak to mother about it."
A pony hasn't any sleeve to laugh in, so I turned round and hid my smile in my mane. Children are the same the world over. Nothing made me feel as much at home as this bickering between these young Canadians. They were just like youthful undeveloped ponies, loving, teasing, rebelling, watching each other, and over them they knew was the wise whip hand of the parents. Well, I could tell them one thing if they asked my advice. If the parents didn't discipline them a bit, the bad old world would lick them into shape when they were full grown, which is a painful time to be educated.
Miss Cassowary was not too big to be naughty. She was in a corner about this accusation of bossing, so she stopped talking, and ran a saucy tongue out at her brothers, then turning to Dallas she said, "You don't know what they're talking about, Cousin. Come on and I'll introduce you to Drunkard."
With her I showed the discomfited boys two clean pairs of shoes, and ran round the corner of the big barn to the little barn where Mr. Talker was superintending the milking of the cows by patent milkers.
"Not so much noise, please," he said agreeably. "The cows can't hear the nightingale song."
To my amusement I saw that he was running a stable gramophone, which of course arrested my bright boy's attention.
He stood stock still and said to Cassowary, "Well—I never thought before that cows would enjoy music, but why shouldn't they?"
"They give more milk when they hear sweet strains," said Cassowary. "It started when the men used to milk and shout out things to each other. The cows didn't like it, so Dad had this gramophone installed to keep the stable quiet while milking was going on. He took it out when we bought the milkers, but the cows fussed so that he had to put it back. Now here is Drunkard."
In front of the cow stable was a kennel with a running chain for a dog.
A deerhound was tearing up and down like mad, only stopping occasionally to go through all the motions of barking without uttering a sound. He knew better than to disturb the placid Holsteins who were sweetly chewing their cud.
He was a dreadfully nervous dog. The cows had no quieting effect on him, and when he saw us he pawed the air and almost wagged his ratty tail off.
"Angel Drunkard," said Cassowary, caressing his glossy head. "Is he longing for the night to come? Cassowary will let her boy loose," and taking a lead from the kennel, she fastened it to his collar.
Dallas was looking eagerly at him. "Why Drunkard?" he asked, "and why the chain?"
"'Cause he's just drunk about dogging deer in season and out of season. He hikes to the woods the minute he's free, and sometimes he goes 'way over the mountain."
"Can't you break him of the habit?"
"Nohow," she said solemnly. "Dad has tried most everything. Nothing but chains and exile will do. Of course it isn't exile, but that sounds better. Chains and exile except at night. When it's really black dark he won't leave home one step for deer or anything."
"What about moonlight nights?" asked Dallas.
"Oh, night's night to him, light or dark. Besides, he's on guard then and feels solemn. Every evening before Dad goes to bed he says in a deep, deep voice, 'Drunkard, watch out, don't let the bears come and take our good cows and calves; don't let the foxes steal the chickens nor the wolves kill the lambs.' When Dad gets to the wolves, Drunkard is just squealing with excitement. He's very sensitive. Then Dad goes on, 'Nor skunks, nor woodchucks, nor porcupines, nor beavers' till he has all the animals of the woods. Drunkard just howls with anxiety. He couldn't go dogging deer with all that charge on his hound shoulders. So all night, if you're awake, you can see him tearing round the place, watching and spying, and spying and watching and stopping for a drink."
"Gee whizz!" exclaimed my young master, "but if he is only true to you at night, what does he do when daylight comes?"
"Runs through the French windows into Dad's room," said Cassowary. "Dad always sleeps with one hand hanging out of bed. Drunkard bumps into it. Dad has a chain and snap fastened to his bed leg. He only half wakes, fastens the snap to Drunkard's collar, then goes to sleep again. Drunkard sleeps, too, and after breakfast Dad brings him out here to spend the weary livelong day or else puts him near the kitchen door for Bingi, who loves him."
"Well! I never heard of a dog like that," said Dallas.
"Lots of 'em up here," said Cassowary, "and in many places they're kept pretty well chained up except in the hunting season. That makes Dad furious. He hates to have Drunkard chained even for part of the time. He's just meditating some way to cure him. Come on, old boy, with all thy faults I love thee still."
"Is that for me or the dog?" asked Dallas comically.
"Dog," said Cassowary quite seriously.
"Where are you going now?" asked Dallas as he suppressed a yawn.
"The round of the cow stable to say good night to the Holsteins," and she actually went and patted each serious-eyed creature in their comfortable stalls.
I found her a very amusing girl and very active and boyish with her short skirts and long legs, but not tomboyish. There was quite a difference between her age and her young sisters', so I fancied that Cassowary was much with her brothers.
"Do you want to see Daddy Single-Comb and his family?" she asked suddenly.
"I do just," said my young master, "though I don't know who Daddy Single-Comb is."
"He's my Daddy, he's my dear," said Cassowary, skipping out of the stable. "If you want to see him, come right here."
Trailing Drunkard behind her she flew south across the barnyard and brought him up with a round turn at the door of a very up-to-date hen house.
"Good evening, precious pets," she said in a sweet voice as she flung open the door.
Faint clucks and hen whispers reached my ears, but when she turned on some bright lights several of the hens spoke to her quite amiably and distinctly, while a finely feathered Plymouth Rock rooster got off his perch and shaking his big wings came to put his beak in her hand.
"Even your hens have lights," said Dallas.
"Yes—they prolong the daylight and make them lay better. You must go see the power house to-morrow. It's back of this barn. Then we must visit the Falls on the Merry-Tongue River that gives us energy to make things hum here—Look at Daddy cocking his eye at you. He knows you're strange. Pet him a bit. Ah! that's right. Tell him you adore roosters."
"I adore roosters," said Dallas obligingly; then he began to laugh so violently that old Daddy started, gave him a reproachful glance and flew back to his place on the roost between two of the fattest hens.
"Who's calling me?" said the young girl as her pet left my young master.
From outside we could hear clear voices—"Cass—Cass—Cassowary!"
"Coming," she replied. "Dallas, you wait here, I want to show you the other hen houses," and she and the dog dashed away.
My young master stood in the doorway staring at the drowsy hens. Then his head began to droop. He leaned against the doorpost and little by little his young legs folded under him like tape, and he sank down, his head against the hard wood.
He was too sleepy to keep his eyes open any longer. When Cassowary came back she stared at him. "Upon my weary word, he's gone sleepy." Then she shook him. "Wake up and walk to bed."
He wouldn't budge and she looked round for help.
Her father was coming across the yard, and his eyes twinkled when he saw Dallas.
"Daughter," he said, "I warned you that the boy was dead tired."
"He's as sound as a drugged top," she replied.
Mr. Devering shook my young master slightly, then smiled as he heard a murmur from the half-open lips.
"What's he muttering in his sleep?" asked Cassowary.
"Over the mountain."
"Is he thinking of the wolf?"
"Who knows—that active young brain of his goes leaping like a mountain stream. These words have a peculiar significance from him."
"What is it?" she asked.
"My daughter, there are some things I can not tell even you."
She was laughing at the antics of young Dallas, whom Mr. Devering was trying to set on his feet.
"Poor lamb," said this strong man, and he lifted my young master's limp body as easily as if he had been Lammie-noo.
Cassowary and her dog and I trotted alongside, as we went to the house. Her eyes were on Dallas' head bobbing over her father's shoulder.
"Fallen comrade," she said presently, "just rescued from under the guns."
I could see Mr. Devering's broad shoulders shaking with amusement in spite of the burden he carried.
"Cassowary," he said, "there's some truth in that statement of yours, only the guns are family and not enemy."
"He's a queer boy," she said. "Not like us."
"You're highland plants. He's a hot-house product. Be good to him, my daughter—promise me."
"He's an awful liar," she said bluntly.
"He has more imagination than all you young ones put together," said her father warmly. "He knows
'How short the way to fairyland
Across the purple hill.'
He will go further than——" then he stopped.
"I know what you were going to say," she remarked shrewdly. "You think he'll go further than any of us."
"He will when he gets his horns out of the velvet. I see in him a leader of men. Don't you feel his strange fascination?"
"Not a bit. He's a nice boy, but he's not as much of a boy as Big Chief. This chap couldn't lick me. Big Chief can."
"You wait till he develops, you young thing," said Mr. Devering. "You're very much less gushing over strangers than most girls your age."
"I don't love people the way you do, Dad," she said. "You're a dear. Everyone likes you. I'm hard as nails."
"No, no, child, you have a tender heart."
"I love my animals," she said softly, "better I think than human beings."
"Don't say that," said her father; "don't say that, my daughter."
"Why not, Dad?"
"We come first. Love animals, but keep them second. Now I want you to promise to stand by this lad."
"I've kept him on the trot all the evening."
"You know what I mean. The boys may bully him. I depend on you to look out for him till he gets his footing here."
"Big Chief will beat him if he lies," she said calmly.
"He must not. I won't have it. Don't you know he is of your own blood?"
"No, Dad—is he a relative?"
"Your own and only first cousin."
"What! Has Aunt Ranna a son?"
"She has, indeed."
"Why didn't we know before?"
"Family reasons."
"Why isn't he with his mother?"
Mr. Devering stopped short despite his burden, and didn't I pull up closer and prick up my pony ears. Now I was going to hear something interesting about my boy.
"I don't know whether to tell you or not," he said.
"Tell me, Dad," she begged softly. "You and I have lots of secrets and I never tell one. Mother doesn't dream that Grandmother is going to give her a lovely surprise by coming up soon."
"Well, girlie," said Mr. Devering as he walked on slowly, "I will confide in you. When my young sister went as a girl to live with multi-millionaire Great-Aunt Beverly Ronald, our family virtually gave her up. The old lady took her to Europe, had her beautiful voice trained and made a wonderful singer of her. During one of their brief visits to Canada your aunt met my American chum, Douglas Duff, who was visiting me. They fell in love with each other and were married, despite great-aunt's protests. However, she consented to go and live with them in Boston, where she made their lives miserable with her complaints. She said the dull life of a hard-working attorney was killing her bright young niece and there was some truth in the statement. Douglas wished his wife to stay quietly at home and he never allowed her to sing in public. Finally her health gave way, and great-aunt rushed her off to Europe to consult a specialist. Her baby boy, this lad on my shoulder, was only a year old at the time. The two women never came back and Duff was so angry that he allowed the boy to grow up thinking that his mother was dead."
"Case of temper," said Cassowary.
"Of three tempers. One was as bad as the others. Well, the boy suffered more particularly because the old aunt at intervals made silly attempts to kidnap him, thereby angering his father and making him keep the boy shut up with old servants."
"The old lady is dead now, isn't she?"
"Yes, and your aunt is coming back to America. I hope to have her meet her son here."
"You will be glad to see your only sister," said the girl gently.
"Tremendously glad—we were devoted to each other as children and we should never have been separated. The love of money, my child, is indeed the root of all evil."
"And she let her great-aunt boss her all these years?"
"She has a gentle, yielding disposition like her boy's."
"They call her the Ronalda, don't they?"
"Yes, that is her stage name—her old aunt's choice. Now here we are at the house. Remember you are to speak of this to no one but your mother."
"Cross my heart, Dad—my! wouldn't I fret if I'd had no mother."
The man gave her a strange look that I had interpreted later. "And you promise to stand by your cousin," he went on.
"Sure, Dad."
She spoke with great conviction, yet in a few days this queer girl was beating my young master like a little fury.
Mr. Devering sauntered in to Dallas' room through the open French window and Cassowary turned to me.