The Essential Winston Churchill Collection. Winston Churchill
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vexation, "and now she says she won't take it because I owned up I made it for another girl."
Cynthia held it out to him, not deigning to appeal her ease.
"You must take it back," she said.
"But I want you to have it," said the boy.
"It wouldn't be right for me to take it when you made it for somebody else."
After all, people with consciences are born, not made. But this was a finer distinction that the boy had ever met with in his experience.
"I didn't know you when I made the whistle," he objected, puzzled and downcast.
"That doesn't make any difference."
"I like you better than the other girl."
"You have no right to," retorted the casuist; "you've known her longer."
"That doesn't make any difference," said the boy; "there are lots of people I don't like I have always known. This girl doesn't live in Brampton, anyway."
"Where does she live?" demanded Cynthia,--which was a step backward.
"At the state capital. Her name's Janet Duncan. There, do you believe me now?"
William Wetherell had heard of Janet Duncan's father, Alexander Duncan, who had the reputation of being the richest man in the state. And he began to wonder who the boy could be.
"I believe you," said Cynthia; "but as long as you made it for her, it's hers. Will you take it?"
"No," said he, determinedly.
"Very well," answered Cynthia. She laid down the whistle beside him on the rail, and went off a little distance and seated herself on a bench. The boy laughed.
"I like that girl," he remarked; "the rest of 'em take everything I give 'em, and ask for more. She's prettier'n any of 'em, too."
"What is your name?" Wetherell asked him, curiously, forgetting his own troubles.
"Bob Worthington."
"Are you the son of Dudley Worthington"
"Everybody asks me that," he said; "I'm tired of it. When I grow up, they'll have to stop it."
"But you should be proud of your father."
"I am proud of him, everybody's proud of him, Brampton's proud of him--he's proud of himself. That's enough, ain't it?" He eyed Wetherell somewhat defiantly, then his glance wandered to Cynthia, and he walked over to her. He threw himself down on the grass in front of her, and lay looking up at her solemnly. For a while she continued to stare inflexibly at the line of market wagons, and then she burst into a laugh.
"Thought you wouldn't hold out forever," he remarked.
"It's because you're so foolish," said Cynthia, "that's why I laughed." Then she grew sober again and held out her hand to him. "Good-by."
"Where are you going?"
"I must go back to my father. I--I think he doesn't feel very well."
"Next time I'll make a whistle for you," he called after her.
"And give it to somebody else," said Cynthia.
She had hold of her father's hand by that, but he caught up with her, very red in the face.
"You know that isn't true," he cried angrily, and taking his way across Brampton Street, turned, and stood staring after them until they were out of sight.
"Do you like him, Daddy?" asked Cynthia.
William Wetherell did not answer. He had other things to think about.
"Daddy?"
"Yes."
"Does your trouble feel any better?"
"Some, Cynthia. But you mustn't think about it."
"Daddy, why don't you ask Uncle Jethro to help you?"
At the name Wetherell started as if he had had a shock.
"What put him into your head, Cynthia?" he asked sharply. "Why do you call him 'Uncle Jethro'?"
"Because he asked me to. Because he likes me, and I like him."
The whole thing was a riddle he could not solve--one that was best left alone. They had agreed to walk back the ten miles to Coniston, to save the money that dinner at the hotel would cost. And so they started, Cynthia flitting hither and thither along the roadside, picking the stately purple iris flowers in the marshy places, while Wetherell pondered.
BOOK 2.
CHAPTER IX
When William Wetherell and Cynthia had reached the last turn in the road in Northcutt's woods, quarter of a mile from Coniston, they met the nasal Mr. Samuel Price driving silently in the other direction. The word "silently" is used deliberately, because to Mr. Price appertained a certain ghostlike quality of flitting, and to Mr. Price's horse and wagon likewise. He drew up for a brief moment when he saw Wetherell.
"Wouldn't hurry back if I was you, Will."
"Why not?"
Mr. Price leaned out of the wagon.
"Bije has come over from Clovelly to spy around a little mite."
It was evident from Mr. Price's manner that he regarded the storekeeper as a member of the reform party.
"What did he say, Daddy?" asked Cynthia, as Wetherell stood staring after the flitting buggy in bewilderment.
"I haven't the faintest idea, Cynthia," answered her father, and they walked on.
"Don't you know who 'Bije' is?
"No," said her father, "and I don't care."
It was almost criminal ignorance for a man who lived in that part of the country not to know Bijah Bixby of Clovelly, who was paying a little social visit to Coniston that day on his way home from the state capital,--tending, as it were, Jethro's flock. Still, Wetherell must be excused because he was an impractical literary man with troubles of his own. But how shall we chronicle Bijah's rank and precedence in the Jethro army, in which there are neither shoulder-straps nor annual registers? To designate him as the Chamberlain of that hill Rajah, the Honorable Heth Sutton, would not be far out of the way. The Honorable Heth, whom we all know and whom we shall see presently, is the man of substance and of broad acres in Clovelly: Bijah merely owns certain mortgages in that town, but he had created the Honorable Heth (politically) as surely as certain prime ministers we could name have created their sovereigns. The Honorable Heth was Bijah's creation, and a grand creation he was, as no one will doubt when they see him.
Bijah--as he will not hesitate to tell you--took Heth down in his pocket to the Legislature, and has more than once delivered him, in certain blocks of five and ten, and four and twenty, for certain considerations. The ancient Song of Sixpence applies to Bijah, but his pocket was generally full of proxies instead of rye, and the Honorable Heth was frequently one of the four and twenty blackbirds. In short, Bijah was the working bee, and the Honorable Heth the ornamental drone.
I do not know why I have dwelt so long on such a minor character as