The Project Gutenberg EBook of Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mason's Corner Folks
by Charles Felton Pidgin
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Title: Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mason's Corner Folks
A Picture of New England Home Life
Author: Charles Felton Pidgin
Release Date: February 3, 2007 [EBook #16414]
Language: English
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[Illustration: "THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS WONDERED WHO HE WAS, WHAT HE WAS,
WHAT HE CAME FOR, AND HOW LONG HE INTENDED TO STAY."]
QUINCY
ADAMS
SAWYER
AND
MASON'S CORNER FOLKS
A PICTURE OF NEW
ENGLAND HOME LIFE
BY
CHAS. FELTON PIDGIN
Boston
C.M. CLARK
PUBLISHING COMPANY
1905
REVISED
EDITION
Respectfully dedicated to
the Memory of the late
HON JAMES
RUSSELL LOWELL
the perusal of whose
famous poem
"THE COURTIN"
supplied the inspiration
that led to the writing
of this book.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER'S only title was plain "Mr." His ancestors were
tradesmen, merchants, lawyers, politicians, and Presidents. He, too, was
proud of his honored ancestry, and I have endeavored in this book to
have him live up to an ideal personification of gentlemanly qualities
for which the New England standard should be fully as high as that of
Old England; in fact, I see no reason why the heroes of American novels,
barring the single matter of hereditary titles, should not compare
favorably as regards gentlemanly attributes with their English cousins
across the seas. C.F.P.
GRAY CHAMBERS,
BOSTON, October, 1902.
CHAPTERS
I. The Rehearsal
II. Mason's Corner Folks
III. The Concert in the Town Hall
IV. Ancestry _versus_ Patriotism
V. Mr. Sawyer Meets Uncle Ike
VI. Some New Ideas
VII. "That City Feller"
VIII. City Skill _versus_ Country Muscle
IX. Mr. Sawyer Calls on Miss Putnam
X. Village Gossip
XI. Some Sad Tidings
XII. Looking for a Boarding Place
XIII. A Visit to the Victim
XIV. A Quiet Evening
XV. A Long Lost Relative
XVI. A Promise Kept
XVII. An Informal Introduction
XVIII. The Courtin'
XIX. Jim Sawyer's Funeral
XX. A Wet Day
XXI. Some More New Ideas
XXII. After the Great Snowstorm
XXIII. A Visit to Mrs. Putnam
XXIV. The New Doctor
XXV. Some Plain Facts and Inferences
XXVI. The Surprise Party
XXVII. Town Politics
XXVIII. The Town Meeting
XXIX. Mrs. Hawkins's Boarding House
XXX. A Settlement
XXXI. An Inheritance
XXXII. Aunt Ella
XXXIII. The Weddin's
XXXIV. Blennerhassett
XXXV. "The Bird of Love"
XXXVI. Then They Were Married
XXXVII. Linda's Birthright
XXXVIII. Fernborough
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
_Frontispiece._--"The village gossips wondered
who he was, what
he was, what he came for,
and how long he intended
to stay."
It was a marvellous rig that he wore when he reappeared
The barge led the procession to Mason's Corner
And then he landed a blow on Wood's nose
"The Deacon and his wife led off"
CHARACTERS AND SCENES FROM THE STAGE PRESENTATION OF QUINCY ADAMS
SAWYER.
Mandy Skinner
Mrs. Putnam's anger, upon discovery of Lindy's parentage (Act III.)
Quincy reading Alice's letter to her (Act III.)
Samanthy Green
Quincy makes a speech (Act III.)
An old-fashioned husking bee (Act III.)
Alice recovers her sight (Act IV.)
QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER.
CHAPTER I.
THE REHEARSAL.
It was a little after seven o'clock on the evening of December 31,
186--. Inside, the little red schoolhouse was ablaze with light. Sounds
of voices and laughter came from within and forms could be seen flitting
back and forth through the uncurtained windows. Outside, a heavy fall of
snow lay upon hill and vale, trees and house-tops, while the rays of a
full-orbed moon shone down upon the glistening, white expanse.
At a point upon the main road a short distance beyond the square, where
the grocery store was situated, stood a young man. This young man was
Ezekiel Pettengill, one of the well-to-do young farmers of the village.
His coat collar was turned up and his cap pulled down over his ears, for
the air was piercing cold and a biting wind was blowing. Now and then he
would walk briskly back and forth for a few minutes, clapping his hands,
which were encased in gray woollen mittens, in order to restore some
warmth to those almost frozen members. As he walked back and forth, he
said several times, half aloud to himself, "I don't b'lieve she's comin'
anyway. I s'pose she's goin' to stay ter hum and spend the evenin' with
him." Finally he resumed his old position near the corner and assumed
his previous expectant attitude.
As he looked down the road, a man came out of Mrs. Hawkins's boarding
house, crossed the road and walked swiftly towards him.
As the new-comer neared him, he called out, "Hello, Pettengill! is that
you? Confounded cold, ain't it? Who wuz yer waitin' for? Been up to the
schoolhouse yet?"
To these inquiries 'Zekiel responded: "No!" and added, "I saw yer comin'
out of the house and thought I'd walk up with yer."
"Wall! they can't do nuthin' till I git thar," said Mr. Obadiah Strout,
the singing-master, "so we shall both be on time. By the way," he
continued, "I was up to Boston to-day to git some things I wanted for
the concert to-morrer night, and the minister asked me to buy some new
music books for the church choir, and I'm goin' up there fust to take
'em;" and 'Zekiel's attention was attracted to a package that Mr. Strout
held under his arm. "Say, Pettengill!" continued Mr. Strout, "when yet
git up ter the schoolhouse, tell them I'll be along in a few minutes;"
and he started off, apparently forgetful of 'Zekiel's declaration that
he had intended to walk up with him.
It is evident that 'Zekiel's statement was untruthful, for his words
have betrayed the fact that it was not the Professor of whom he had been
thinking.
'Zekiel did not move from his position until he had seen Strout turn
into the yard that led to the front door of the minister's house. Then
he said to himself again, "I don't believe she's comin', arter all."
As he spoke the words a deep, heavy sigh came from his great, honest
heart, heard only by the leaflless trees through which the winter wind
moaned as if in sympathy.
What was going on in the little red schoolhouse? The occasion was the
last rehearsal of the Eastborough Singing Society, which had been
studying vocal music assiduously for the last three months under the
direction of Professor Obadiah Strout, and was to give its annual
conceit the following evening at the Town Hall at Eastborough.
A modest sum had been raised by subscription. A big barge had been hired
in Cottonton, and after the rehearsal there was to be a sleigh ride to
Eastborough Centre and return. It was evident from the clamor and
confusion that the minds of those present were more intent upon the ride
than the rehearsal, and when one girl remarked that the Professor was
late, another quickly replied that, "if he didn't come at all 'twould be
early enough."
There were about two score of young persons present, very nearly equally
divided between the two sexes. Benjamin Bates was there and Robert Wood,
Cobb's twins, Emmanuel Howe, and Samuel Hill. Among the girls were Lindy
Putnam, the best dressed and richest girl in town, Mandy Skinner, Tilly
James, who had more beaus than any other girl in the village; the Green
sisters Samanthy and Betsy, and Miss Seraphina Cotton, the village
schoolteacher.
Evidently all the members of the society had not arrived, for constant
inquiries were being made about Huldy Mason and 'Zekiel Pettengill. When
Betsy Green asked Mandy Skinner if Hiram Maxwell wa'n't comin', the
latter replied that he'd probably come up when Miss Huldy and the new
boarder did.
News had reached the assemblage that Arthur Scates, the best tenor
singer in the society, was sick. Lindy Putnam was to sing a duet with
him at the concert, and so she asked if anybody had been to see him.
"I was up there this arternoon," said Ben Bates, "and he seemed powerful
bad in the throat. Grandmother Scates tied an old stocking 'round his
throat and gin him a bowl of catnip tea and he kinder thought he'd be
all right to-morrer. I told him you'd have a conniption fit if he didn't
show up, but Grandmother Scates shook her head kind o' doubtful and
said, 'The Lord's will be done. What can't be cured must be endured;'
and I guess that's about the way it will be."
The outer door opened and 'Zekiel Pettengill entered. The creaking of
the opening door attracted the attention of all. When the girls saw who
it was, they ran and gathered about him, a dozen voices crying out,
"Where is Huldy? We all thought she'd come with you."
'Zekiel shook his head.
"You don't know?" asked Tilly James, incredulously. 'Zekiel shook his
head again. "Of course you do," said Tilly contemptuously.
She turned away, followed by a number of the girls. "He knows well
enough," she observed in an undertone, "but he won't tell. He's gone on
Huldy, and when a feller's gone on a girl he's pretty sure to keep the
run of her."
In the meantime Lindy Putnam had been using her most persuasive powers
of coaxing on 'Zekiel and with same success, for 'Zekiel told quite a
long story, but with very little information in it. He told the crowd of
girls gathered about him that he'd be twenty-eight on the third of
January, and that ever since he was a little boy, which was, of course,
before any of those present were born, he'd always followed the rule of
not saying anything unless he knew what he was talking about.
"Now," said 'Zekiel, feeling that it was better to talk on than to stand
sheep-facedly before this crowd of eager, expectant faces, "I might tell
yer that Huldy was ter hum and wasn't comin' up to-night, but yer see,
p'r'aps she's on the road now and may pop in here any minute! Course you
all know Deacon Mason's got a boarder, a young feller from the city.
P'r'aps he'll come up with Huldy. But I heerd tell his health wa'n't
very good and mebbe he went to bed right after supper."
"What's he down here for anyway?" asked Tilly James.
"Now you've got me," replied 'Zekiel. "I s'pose he had some purpose in
view, but you see I ain't positive even of that. As I said before, I
heerd he's come down here for his health. It's too late for rakin' hay,
and as hard work's the best country doctor, p'r'aps he'll go to choppin'
wood; but there's one point I feel kinder positive on."
"What is it? What is it?" cried the girls, as they looked into his face
inquiringly.
"Wall, I think," drawled 'Zekiel, "that when he gits what he's come for,
he'll be mighty apt to pull up stakes and go back to Boston."
Again the outer door creaked upon its hinges, and again every face was
turned to see who the new-comer might be.
"Here she is," cried a dozen voices; and the owners thereof rushed
forward to greet and embrace Miss Huldy Mason, the Deacon's daughter and
the most popular girl in the village.
'Zekiel turned and saw that she was alone. Evidently the city fellow had
not come with her.
Huldy was somewhat astonished at the warmth of her greeting, and was at
a loss to understand the reason for it, until Lindy Putnam said:
"Didn't he come with you?"
"Who?" asked Huldy, with wide-open eyes.
"Oh, you can't fool us," cried Tilly James. "'Zeke Pettengill told us
all about that city feller that's boarding down to your house. We were
just talking it over together, and he surmised that it might be the same
one that you met down to your aunt's house, when you went to Boston last
summer."
"As Mr. Pettengill seems to know so much about my gentlemen friends, if
you want any more information, no doubt he can supply it," said Huldy
coldly.
"'Zeke kinder thought," said Bob Wood, "that he might be tired, and
probably went to bed right after supper."
"Well, he didn't," said Huldy, now thoroughly excited, "he came with me,
and he's outside now talking with Hiram about the barge."
"Why don't he come in?" asked Bob Wood. "P'r'aps he's bashful."
"If he didn't have no more common sense than you've got," retorted
Huldy, "he'd have to go to bed as soon as he had eaten his supper."
The laugh that followed this remark so incensed Wood that he answered
coarsely, "I never saw one of those city chaps who knew B from a bull's
foot."
"Perhaps he'll teach you the difference some day," remarked Huldy,
sarcastically.
"Well, I guess not," said Wood with a sneer; "'less he can put two b's
in able."
Further altercation was stopped by the sudden entrance of Mr. Strout,
who quickly ascended the platform and called the society to order. It
must be acknowledged that the Professor had a good knowledge of music
and thoroughly understood the very difficult art of directing a mixed
chorus of uncultivated voices. With him enthusiasm was more important
than a strict adherence to quavers and semiquavers, and what was lost in
fine touches was more than made up in volume of tone.
Again, the Professor paid strict attention to business at rehearsals,
and the progress of the society in musical knowledge had been very
marked. So it is not to be wondered at that the various numbers allotted
to the chorus on the next evening's programme were gone through quickly
and to the evident satisfaction of the leader.
The last number to be taken up was an original composition, written and
composed by the singing-master himself, and during its rehearsal his
enthusiasm reached its highest pitch. At the conclusion of the chorus,
which had been rendered with remarkable spirit, the Professor darted
from one-end of the platform to the other, crying out, "Bravo! Fust
rate! Do it again! That'll fetch 'em!"
After several repetitions of the chorus, each one given with increasing
spirit and volume, the Professor threw down his baton and said: "That'll
do. You're excused until to-morrow night, seven o'clock sharp at
Eastborough Town Hall. I guess the barge has just drove up and we'd
better be gittin' ready for our sleigh ride."
Miss Tilly James, who had acted as accompanist on the tin-panny old
piano, was putting up her music. The Professor, with his face wreathed
in smiles, walked up to her and said, "I tell you what, Miss James, that
last composition of mine is bang up. One of these days, when the 'Star
Spangled Banner,' 'Hail Columbia,' and 'Marching through Georgia' are
laid upon the top shelf and all covered with dust, one hundred million
American freemen will be singing Strout's great national anthem, 'Hark,
and hear the Eagle Scream.' What do you think of that prophecy?"
"I think," said Miss James, turning her pretty face towards him, her
black eyes snapping with fun, "that if conceit was consumption, there'd
be another little green grave in the cemetery with O. Strout on the
headstone."
The Professor never could take a joke. In his eye, jokes were always
insults to be resented accordingly. Turning upon the young lady
savagely, he retorted:
"If sass was butter, your folks wouldn't have to keep any cows."
Then he walked quickly across the room to where 'Zekiel Pettengill
stood aloof from the rest, wrapped in some apparently not very pleasant
thoughts.
At this juncture Hiram Maxwell dashed into the schoolroom, and judging
from appearances his thoughts were of the pleasantest possible
description.
"Say, fellers and girls," he cried, "I've got some news for yer, and
when you hear it you'll think the day of judgment has come, and you're
goin' to git your reward."
An astonished "Oh!" came up from the assemblage.
"Out with it," said Bob Wood, in his coarse, rough voice.
"Well, fust," said Hiram, his face glowing with animation, "you know we
got up a subscription to pay for the barge and made me treasurer, cuz I
worked in a deacon's family. Wall, when I asked Bill Stalker to-night
how much the bill would be, just to see if I'd got enough, he told me
that a Mr. Sawyer, who said he 'boarded down to Deacon Mason's, had paid
the hull bill and given him a dollar beside for hisself." Cheers and the
clapping of hands showed that the city fellow's liberality was
appreciated by a majority, at least, of the singing society. "When we
git on the barge I'll pay yer back yer money, and the ride won't cost
any one on us a durn cent. That ain't all. Mr. Sawyer jest told me
hisself that when he was over to Eastborough Centre yesterday he ordered
a hot supper for the whole caboodle, and it'll be ready for us when we
git over to the Eagle Hotel. So come along and git your seats in the
barge." A wild rush was made for the door, but Hiram backed against it
and screamed at the top of his voice: "No two girls must sit close
together. Fust a girl, then a feller, next a girl, then a feller, next a
girl, then a feller, that's the rule."
He opened the door and dashed out, followed by all the members of the
society excepting the Professor and 'Zekiel, who were left alone in the
room.
"See that flock of sheep," said the Professor to 'Zekiel, with a strong
touch of sarcasm in his tone. "That's what makes me so cussed mad.
Brains and glorious achievement count for nothin' in this community. If
a city swell comes along with a pocketful of money and just cries,
'Baa,' over the fence they all go after him."
"Hasn't it always been so?" asked 'Zekiel.
"Not a bit of it," said Strout. "In the old days, kings and queens and
princes used to search for modest merit, and when found they rewarded
it. Nowadays modest merit has to holler and yell and screech to make
folks look at it."
Hiram again appeared in the room, beckoning to the two occupants.
"Say, ain't you two comin' along?" he cried. "We've saved good places
for yer."
"Where's Mr. Sawyer?" asked 'Zekiel.
"Oh, he's goin' along with the crowd," said Hiram; "he's got a seat in
between Miss Putnam and Miss Mason, and looks as snug as a bug in a rug.
There's a place for you, Mr. Pettengill, between Miss Mason and Mandy,
and I comes in between Mandy and Mrs. Hawkins. Mandy wanted her mother
to go cuz she works so confounded hard and gits out of doors so seldom,
and there's a seat 'tween Mrs. Hawkins and Tilly James for the
Professor, and Sam Hill's t'other side of Tilly and nex' to S'frina
Cotton."
"I guess I can't go," said 'Zekiel. "The house is all alone, and I'm
kind of 'fraid thet thet last hoss I bought may get into trouble again
as he did last night. So I guess I'd better go home and look arter
things." Leaning over he whispered in Hiram's ear, "I reckon you'd
better take the seat between Huldy and Mandy, you don't want ter
separate a mother from her daughter, you know."
"All right," said Hiram, with a knowing wink, "I'm satisfied to
obleege."
Hiram then turned to the Professor: "Ain't yer goin', Mr. Strout?"
"When this sleigh ride was projected," said the Professor with dignity,
"I s'posed it was to be for the members of the singin' class and not for
boardin' mistresses and city loafers."
"I guess it don't make much difference who goes," replied Hiram, "as
long as we git a free ride and a free supper for nothing."
"Present my compliments to Mr. Sawyer," said the Professor, "and tell
him I've had my supper, and as I don't belong to a fire company, I don't
care for crackers and cheese and coffee so late in the evenin'."
"Oh, bosh!" cried Hiram, "it's goin' to be a turkey supper, with fried
chicken and salery and cranberry juice, and each feller's to have a
bottle of cider and each girl a bottle of ginger ale."
A horn was heard outside, it being the signal for the starting of the
barge. Without stopping to say good-by, Hiram rushed out of the room,
secured his seat in the barge, and with loud cheers the merry party
started off on their journey.
The Professor extinguished the lights and accompanied by 'Zekiel left
the building. He locked the door and hung the key in its accustomed
place, for no one at Mason's Corner ever imagined that a thief could be
so bad as to steal anything from a schoolhouse. And it was once argued
in town meeting that if a tramp got into it and thus escaped freezing,
that was better than to have the town pay for burying him.
Both men walked along silently until they reached Mrs. Hawkins' boarding
house; here the Professor stopped and bade 'Zekiel good night. After
doing so he added:
"Pettengill, you and me must jine agin the common enemy. This town ain't
big enough to hold us and this destroyer of our happiness, and we must
find some way of smokin' him out."
The slumbers of both 'Zekiel and the Professor were broken when the
jolly party returned home after midnight. 'Zekiel recalled Hiram's
description of the arrangement of seats, and another deep sigh escaped
him; but this time there were no leafless trees and winter wind to
supply an echo.
The Professor's half-awakened mind travelled in very different channels.
He imagined himself engaged in several verbal disputes with a number of
fisticuff encounters in which he invariably proved to be too much for
the city fellow. Just before he sank again into a deep sleep he imagined
that the entire population of Mason's Corner escorted a certain young
man forcibly to the railroad station at Eastborough Centre and put him
in charge of the expressman, to be delivered in Boston. And that young
man, in the Professor's dream, had a tag tied to the lapel of his coat
upon which was written, "Quincy Adams Sawyer."
CHAPTER II.
MASON'S CORNER FOLKS.
In 186-- the town of Eastborough was located in the southeastern part of
Massachusetts, in the county of Normouth. It was a large town, being
fully five miles wide from east to west and from five to seven miles
long, the northern and southern boundaries being very irregular.
The town contained three villages; the western one being known as West
Eastborough, the middle one as Eastborough Centre, and the easterly one
as Mason's Corner. West Eastborough was exclusively a farming section,
having no store or post office. As the extreme western boundary was only
a mile and a half from Eastborough Centre, the farmers of the western
section of the town were well accommodated at the Centre. The middle
section contained the railroad station, at which five trains a day, each
way, to and from Boston, made regular stops. The Centre contained the
Town Hall, two churches, a hotel, and express office, a bank, newspaper
office, and several general stores. Not very far from the hotel, on a
side road, was the Almshouse, or Poorhouse, as it was always called by
the citizens of Eastborough.
Between the Centre and Mason's Corner was a long interval of three
miles. The land bordering the lower and most direct route was, to a
great extent, hilly and rocky, or full of sand and clay pits. The upper
and longest road ran through a more fertile section. The village of
Mason's Corner contained the best arable land in the town, and the
village had increased in population and wealth much faster than the
other sections of the town. To the east of the village of Mason's
Corner lay the town of Montrose, and beyond that town was situated the
thriving city of Cottonton, devoted largely, as its name indicated, to
the textile manufacturing industries.
The best known and most popular resident of Mason's Corner was Deacon
Abraham Mason. He was a retired farmer on the shady side of fifty. He
had married young and worked very hard, his labors being rewarded with
pecuniary success. When a little over fifty, he gave up active farm work
and devoted his time to buying and selling real estate, and to church
and town affairs, in both of which he was greatly interested. His house
stood about halfway down a somewhat steep hill, the road over which, at
the top, made a sharp turn. It was this turn which had received the
appellation of Mason's Corner and from which the village eventually had
taken its name.
Mrs. Sophia Mason, the Deacon's wife, was a little less than fifty years
of age. She was a comely, bright-faced, bright-eyed, and energetic
woman, who had been both a loving wife and a valued helpmeet to her
husband. Their only living child was a daughter named Huldah Ann, about
nineteen years of age, and considered by many to be the prettiest and
smartest girl in Mason's Corner. The only other resident in Deacon
Mason's house was Hiram Maxwell, a young man about thirty years of age.
He had been a farm hand, but had enlisted in 1861, and served through
the war. On his return home he was hired by Deacon Mason to do such
chores as required a man's strength, for the Deacon's business took him
away from home a great deal. Hiram was not exactly what would be called
a pronounced stutterer or stammerer; but when he was excited or had a
matter of more than ordinary importance to communicate, a sort of
lingual paralysis seemed to overtake him and interfered materially with
the vocal expression of his thoughts and ideas. Type would be inadequate
to express the facial contortions and what might be termed the
chromatic scales of vocal expression in which he often indulged, and
they are, therefore, left for full comprehension to those of inventive
and vivid imaginative powers. This fact should not be lost sight of in
following the fortunes of this brave soldier, honest lover, good
husband, and successful business man.
The Pettengill homestead was situated on the other side of the road,
southwest from Deacon Mason's house. Ezekiel's grandfather had left
three sons, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the latter being Ezekiel's
father. Abraham had died when he was a young man, and Jacob had been
dead about five years. Uncle Ike was in his seventy-sixth year, and was
Ezekiel's only living near relative, with the exception of his sister
Alice, who had left home soon after her father's death and was now
employed as bookkeeper in a large dry goods store in Boston.
Ezekiel was about twenty-eight years of age, being seven years older
than his sister. He was a hardy, strong-willed, self-reliant young
fellow. He loved farming and had resolved to make a better living out of
it than his father had ever done. A strong incentive to win success
proceeded from the fact that he had long been in love with "Huldy Ann,"
the Deacon's daughter, and he had every reason to believe that his
affection was returned, although no formal engagement existed between
them, and marriage had never been spoken of by them or the young lady's
parents.
Uncle Ike Pettengill had been a successful business man in Boston, but
at the age of sixty had wearied of city life, and decided to spend the
rest of his days in the country. Despite the objections of his wife and
two grown up daughters, he sold out his business, conveyed two-thirds of
his property to his wife and children, and invested the remaining third
in an annuity, which gave him sufficient income for a comfortable
support. He did not live at the Pettengill house, but in a little
two-roomed cottage or cabin that he had had built for him on the lower
road, about halfway between Mason's Corner and Eastborough Centre. A
short distance beyond his little house, a crossroad, not very often
used, connected the upper and lower roads. Uncle Ike had a fair-sized
library, read magazines and weekly papers, but never looked at a daily
newspaper. His only companions were about two hundred hens and chickens
and a big St. Bernard dog which he had named "Swiss," after his native
land.
The other residents of the Pettengill homestead were two young men named
Jim and Bill Cobb, who aided Ezekiel in his farm work, and Mandy
Skinner, the "help," who was in reality the housekeeper of the
establishment. Jim and Bill Cobb were orphans, Jim being about
twenty-one and Bill three years older. When young they resembled each
other very closely, for this reason they had been nicknamed "Cobb's
Twins," and the name had clung to them, even after they had reached
manhood.
Mandy Skinner was about twenty-three, and was the only child of Malachi
and Martha Skinner. Her father was dead, but her mother had married
again and was now Mrs. Jonas Hawkins, the proprietor of Mrs. Hawkins's
boarding house, which was situated in the square opposite Hill's
grocery, and about a quarter of a mile from the top of Mason's Hill.
Mandy had a double burden upon her shoulders. One was the care of such a
large house and family, and the other was the constant necessity of
repelling the lover-like hints and suggestions of Hiram Maxwell, who was
always ready and willing to overlook his work at Deacon Mason's so that
he could run down and see if Mandy wanted him to do anything for her.
Hill's grocery was owned and carried on by Benoni Hill and his son
Samuel. Their residence was on the easterly edge of the town, being next
to the one occupied by old Ben James, who was a widower with one
daughter, Miss Matilda James.
About a quarter of a mile east of Hill's grocery was the village church,
presided over by the Rev. Caleb Howe. He had one son, Emmanuel, who had
graduated at Harvard and had intended to fit for the ministry, but his
health had failed him and he had temporarily abandoned his studies. He
was a great admirer of Miss Lindy Putnam, because, as he said, she was
so pretty and accomplished. But after long debate one evening at the
grocery store, it had been decided without a dissenting vote that "the
minister's son was a lazy 'good-for-nothing', and that he wanted the
money more than he did the gal." The village schoolhouse stood a short
distance eastward from the church. The teacher, Miss Seraphina Cotton, a
maiden lady of uncertain age, who boasted that the city of Cottonton was
named after her grandfather, boarded at the Rev. Mr. Howe's, and was
ardently attached to the minister's wife, who was an invalid and rarely
seen outside of her home.
On the upper road, about half a mile to the west of Deacon Mason's,
lived Mr. and Mrs. Silas Putnam. They owned the largest house and best
farm at Mason's Corner. They were reputed to be quite wealthy and it was
known for a sure fact that their only daughter, Lindy, was worth one
hundred thousand dollars in her own right, it having been left to her by
her only brother, J. Jones Putnam, who had died in Boston about five
years before.
Mrs. Hawkins had a large house, but it was always full of boarders, all
of the masculine gender. Mrs. Hawkins had declared on several occasions
that she'd "sooner have the itch than a girl boarder." She was a
hard-working woman and had but one assistant, a young girl named Betsy
Green, one of whose sisters was "working-out" up at Mrs. Putnam's. Mrs.
Hawkins's husband, his wife declared, was "no account nohow," and for
the present her estimate of him must be accepted without question.
Among Mrs. Hawkins's twelve boarders were Robert Wood and Benjamin
Bates, two young men who were natives of Montrose. Bates was a brick and
stone mason, and Wood was a carpenter, and they had been quite busily
employed during the two years they had lived at Mason's Corner.
Mrs. Hawkins owned a buggy and carryall and a couple of fairly good
horses. They were cared for by Abner Stiles. He was often called upon to
carry passengers over to the railway station at the Centre, and was the
mail carrier between the Centre and Mason's Corner, for the latter
village had a post office, which was located in Hill's grocery, Mr.
Benoni Hill being the postmaster.
Since his return from the war Mr. Obadiah Strout had been Mrs. Hawkins's
star boarder. He sat at the head of the table and acted as moderator
during the wordy discussions which accompanied every meal. Abner Stiles
believed implicitly in the manifest superiority of Obadiah Strout over
the other residents of Mason's Corner. He was his firm ally and
henchman, serving him as a dog does his master, not for pay, but because
he loves the service.
Mr. Strout was often called the "Professor" because he was the
singing-master of the village and gave lessons in instrumental and vocal
music. The love of music was another bond of union between Strout and
Stiles, for the latter was a skilful, if not educated, performer on the
violin.
The Professor was about forty years of age, stout in person, with smooth
shaven face and florid complexion. In Eastborough town matters he was a
general factotum. He had been an undertaker's assistant and had worked
for the superintendent of the Poorhouse. In due season and in turn he
had been appointed to and had filled the positions of fence viewer, road
inspector, hog reeve, pound keeper, and the year previous he had been
chosen tax collector. Abner Stiles said that there "wasn't a better man
in town for selectman and he knew he'd get there one of these days."
To those residents of Mason's Corner whose names have been given, whose
homes have been described and some whose personal peculiarities have
been portrayed, must be added a late arrival. The new-comer whose advent
in town during Christmas week had caused so much discussion at the
rehearsal in the old red schoolhouse, and whose liberality in providing
a hot supper with all the fixings for the sleighing party from Mason's
Corner, when it arrived at the Eagle Hotel at Eastborough Centre, had
won, at a bound, the hearts of the majority of the younger residents of
Mason's Corner. The village gossips wondered who he was, what he was,
what he came for, and how long he intended to stay. If these questions
had been asked of him personally, he might have returned answers to the
first three questions, but it would have been beyond his power to have
answered the fourth inquiry at that time. But the sayings and doings of
certain individuals, and a chain of circumstances not of his own
creation and beyond his personal control, conspired to keep him there
for a period of nearly four months. During that time certain things were
said and done, certain people were met and certain events took place
which changed the entire current of this young man's future life, which
shows plainly that we are all creatures of circumstance and that a man's
success or failure in life may often depend as much or even more upon
his environment than upon himself.
CHAPTER III.
THE CONCERT IN THE TOWN HALL.
It was the evening of New Year's day, 186--. The leading people, in fact
nearly all the people of the three villages forming the town of
Eastborough, were assembled in the Town Hall at Eastborough Centre. The
evening was pleasant and this fact had contributed to draw together the
largest audience ever assembled in that hall. Not only was every seat
taken, but the aisles were also crowded, while many of the younger
citizens had been lifted up to eligible positions in the wide window
seats of the dozen great windows on three sides of the large hall.
The large attendance was also due in part to the fact that a new and
original musical composition by Mr. Strout, the singing-master, would be
sung for the first time in public. Again, it had been whispered up at
Hill's grocery at Mason's Corner that the young city fellow who was
boarding at Deacon Mason's was going to be present, and this rumor led
to a greatly increased attendance from that village.
The audience was a typical one of such communities at that period;
horny-handed farmers with long shaggy beards and unkempt hair, dressed
in ill-fitting black suits; matronly looking farmers' wives in their
Sunday best; rosy-cheeked daughters full of fun and vivacity and
chattering like magpies; tall, lank, awkward, bashful sons, and
red-haired, black-haired, and tow-headed urchins of both sexes, the
latter awaiting the events of the evening with the wild anticipations
that are usually called forth only by the advent of a circus.
The members of the chorus were seated on the large platform, the girls
being on the right and the fellows on the left. A loud hum of
conversation arose from the audience and chorus, a constant turning over
and rattling of programmes gave a cheerful and animated appearance to
the scene. The centre door at the rear of the platform was opened and
all eyes were turned in that direction, the chorus twisting their necks
or turning half 'round in their seats.
Professor Strout entered and was greeted with a loud burst of applause.
He wore a dress suit that he had hired in Boston, and there was a large
white rose in the lapel of his coat. He was accompanied by Miss Tilly
James, the pianist, who wore a handsome wine-colored silk dress that had
been made for the occasion by the best dressmaker in Cottonton. As she
took her place at the piano and ran her fingers over the keys, she, too,
came in for a liberal round of applause. Professor Strout bowed to the
audience, then turning his back upon them, he stood with baton uplifted
facing the chorus and waiting the advent of the town committee. Every
eye in the audience was fixed upon the programme. It contained the
information that the first number was an opening chorus entitled,
"Welcome to the Town Committee," written and composed by Professor
Obadiah Strout and sung for the first time with great success at the
last annual concert.
The door at the rear of the platform was opened again and Deacon Abraham
Mason, the Rev. Caleb Howe, and Mr. Benoni Hill, the members of the town
committee on singing school, entered. Deacon Mason was accompanied by
Quincy Adams Sawyer, and all eyes were fastened on the couple as they
took their seats at the right of the platform, the Rev. Mr. Howe and Mr.
Hill being seated on the left.
Quincy Adams Sawyer in appearance and dress was a marked contrast to the
stout, hardy, and rugged young farmers of Eastborough. He had dark hair,
dark eyes, and a small black mustache curled at the ends. His face was
pallid, but there was a look of determination in the firmly set jaw,
resolute mouth, and sharp eye. He wore a dark suit with Prince Albert
coat. Upon one arm hung an overcoat of light-colored cloth. He wore
light-brown kid gloves and in one hand carried a light-colored Kossuth
hat.
As soon as the committee and their guest had taken their seats,
Professor Strout tapped upon his music stand with his baton and the
members of the Eastborough Singing Society arose to their feet with that
total disregard of uniformity and unanimity of motion that always
characterizes a body of undrilled performers. Each girl was obliged to
look at her own dress and that of her neighbor to see if they were all
right, while each fellow felt it absolutely necessary to shuffle his
feet, pull down his cuffs, pull up his collar, and arrange his necktie.
Despite the confusion and individual preparations the chorus took the
opening note promptly and sang the "Welcome to the Town Committee" with
a spirit and precision which well merited the applause it received. The
words were not printed on the programme, but they conveyed the idea that
the members of the singing class were very much obliged to the town
committee for hiring a singing-master and paying his salary. Also that
the members of the chorus had studied hard to learn to sing and would do
their best that evening as a return for the favors-bestowed upon them by
the town.
Professor Strout then advanced to the edge of the platform and called
the attention of the audience to the second number upon the programme
which read, "Address by Abraham Mason, Esq." Prof. Strout added that by
special request Deacon Mason's remarks would relate to the subject of
"Education." The Deacon drew a large red bandanna handkerchief from his
pocket, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, blew his nose
vigorously, and then advanced to the centre of the platform near the
music stand.
"I dote on eddikation," he began; "it makes the taxes high; I've lived
in this town man and boy more'n fifty year and I never saw them anythin'
but high." A general laugh greeted this remark. "But when I'm in town
meetin' I allus votes an aye to make our schools as good as those found
in neighborin' towns, and none of them are any too good. For my
political actions I'm proud to give my grounds, for I never cast a vote
that I was ashamed to give my reasons for." A burst of applause followed
this declaration.
"Years back when I was young, we had no modern notions. We had to be
satisfied with the three R's, Readin', 'Ritin', and 'Rithmetic, and
larnin' was dealt out in rather meagre potions, 'bout three months in
the winter after the wood was cut, sawed and split, and piled up in the
wood-shed. We allus had to work in the summer, make hay and fill the
barn in, and not till winter come could get a speck of larnin,' and then
it took most of our time to pile wood into the stove and settle our
personal accounts with the teacher." An audible titter ran through the
audience at this sally. "And yet when I was young, though this community
was rather behind in letters, no people in the land could say they were
our betters. But now the world is changed, we live without such
grubbin', learn Latin, French, and Greek, how to walk Spanish, talk
Dutch, draw picters, keep books, fizziology, and lots of other 'ologies
and much piano drubbin'. Now what brought this about? I think I have a
notion; you know the immergrants from about every country under the sun
have piled across the ocean. They've done the diggin' and other rough
work and we've thruv on their labor. I have some ready cash. Mr. Strout
comes 'round and gets some of't every year, and likewise my neighbor
has some put aside for a rainy day." Many of the audience who probably
had nothing laid aside glanced at the well-to-do farmers who had the
reputation of being well fixed as regards this world's goods. "Perhaps
I'm doin' wrong, but I would like my darter to know as much as those
that's likely to come arter. But if the world keeps on its progress so
bewild'rin' and they put some more 'ologies into the schools together
with cabinet organs and fife and drum, I'm afraid it will cost my darter
more than it did me to eddikate her childrin."
A storm of applause filled the hall when the Deacon concluded his
remarks. As he resumed his chair, Quincy handed him a tumbler of water
that he had poured from a pitcher that stood upon a table near the
piano. This act of courtesy was seen and appreciated by the audience and
a loud clapping of hands followed. At the commencement of the Deacon's
speech, the Professor had left the platform, for it gave him an
opportunity for an intended change of costume, for which time could be
found at no other place on the programme. It was a marvellous rig that
he wore when he reappeared. A pair of white duck pantaloons, stiffly
starched, were strapped under a pair of substantial, well-greased,
cowhide boots. The waistcoat was of bright-red cloth with brass buttons.
The long-tailed blue broad-cloth coat was also supplied with big brass
buttons. He wore a high linen dickey and a necktie made of a small silk
American flag. On his head he had a cream-colored, woolly plug hat and
carried in his hand a baton resembling a small barber's pole, having
alternate stripes of red, white, and blue with gilded ends.
[Illustration: IT WAS A MARVELLOUS RIG THAT HE WORE WHEN HE REAPPEARED.]
The appearance of this apparition of Uncle Sam was received with cries,
cheers, and loud clapping of hands. The Professor bowed repeatedly in
response to this ovation, and it was a long time before he could make
himself heard by the audience. At last he said in a loud voice:
"The audience will find the words of number three printed on the last
page of the programme, and young and old are respectfully invited to
jine in the chorus."
A fluttering of programmes followed and this is what the audience found
on the last page, "Hark! and Hear the Eagle Scream, a new and original
American national air written, composed, and sung for the first time in
public by Professor Obadiah Strout, author of last season's great
success, 'Welcome to the Town Committee,'"
I.
They say our wheat's by far the best;
Our Injun corn will bear the test;
Our butter, beef, and pork and cheese,
The furriner's appetite can please.
The beans and fishballs that we can
Will keep alive an Englishman;
While many things I can't relate
He must buy from us or emigrate.
CHORUS:
Raise your voices, swing the banners,
Pound the drums and bang pianners;
Blow the fife and shriek for freedom,
'Meriky is bound to lead 'em.
Emigrate! ye toiling millions!
Sile enuf for tens of billions!
Land of honey, buttermilk, cream;
Hark! and hear the eagle scream.
II.
In manufactures, too, we're some;
Take rubber shoes and chewing gum;
In cotton cloth, and woollen, too,
In time we shall outrival you;
Our ships with ev'ry wind and tide,
With England's own will sail beside,
In ev'ry port our flag unfurled,
When the Stars and Stripes will rule the world.
CHORUS:
III.
For gold and silver, man and woman,
For things that's raided, made, dug, or human,
'Meriky's the coming nation;
She's-bound to conquer all creation!
Per'aps you call this brag and bluster;
No, 'taint nuther, for we muster
The best of brain, the mighty dollar;
We'll lead on, let others foller.
CHORUS:
Professor Strout sang the solo part of the song himself. The singing
society and many of the audience joined in the chorus. Like many
teachers of vocal music, the Professor had very little voice himself,
but he knew how to make the best possible use of what he did possess.
But the patriotic sentiment of the words, the eccentric make-up of the
singer his comical contortions and odd grimaces, and what was really a
bright, tuneful melody won a marked success for both song and singer.
Encore followed encore. Like many more cultured audiences in large
cities the one assembled in Eastborough Town Hall seemed to think that
there was no limit to a free concert and that they were entitled to all
they could get. But the Professor himself fixed the limit. When the song
had been sung through three times he ran up the centre aisle of the
platform and facing the audience, he directed the chorus, holding the
variegated baton in one hand and swinging his woolly plug hat around
his head with the other. At the close, amid screams, cheers, and
clapping of hands, he turned upon his heel, dashed through the door and
disappeared from sight.
The next number upon the programme was a piano solo by Miss Tilly James.
Nothing could have pleased her audience any better than the well-known
strains of the ever popular "Maiden's Prayer." In response to an encore
which Quincy originated, and dexterously led, Miss James played the
overture to Rossini's "William Tell" without notes. A fact which was
perceived by the few, but unnoticed by the many.
At the close of these instrumental selections, the Professor reappeared
in evening costume and again assumed the directorship of the concert.
Robert Wood had a ponderous bass voice, which if not highly cultivated
was highly effective, and he sang "Simon the Cellarer" to great
acceptation. Next followed a number of selections sung without
accompaniment by a male quartette composed of Cobb's twins, who were
both tenors, Benjamin Bates, and Robert Wood. This feature was loudly
applauded and one old farmer remarked to his neighbor, who was evidently
deaf, in a loud voice that was heard all over the hall, "That's the kind
of music that fetches me," which declaration was a signal for another
encore.
The singing society then sang a barcarolle, the words of the first line
being, "Of the sea, our yacht is the pride." It went over the heads of
most of the audience, but was greatly appreciated fey the limited few
who were acquainted with the difficulties of accidentals, syncopations,
and inverted musical phrases.
According to the programme the next feature was to be a duet entitled
"Over the Bridge," composed by Jewell and sung by Arthur Scates and Miss
Lindy Putnam. The Professor stepped forward and waved his hand to quiet
the somewhat noisy assemblage.
"The next number will have to be omitted," he said, "because Mr. Scates
is home sick abed. The doctor says he's got a bad case of quinsy," with
a marked emphasis on the last word, which, however, failed to make a
point. "In response to requests, one verse of 'Hark! and Hear the Eagle
Scream' will be sung to take the place of the piece that's left out."
While the Professor was addressing the audience, Quincy had whispered
something in Deacon Mason's ear which caused the latter to smile and nod
his head approvingly. Quincy arose and reached the Professor's side just
as the latter finished speaking and turned towards the chorus. Quincy
said something in a low tone to the Professor which caused Mr. Strout to
shake his head in the negative in a most pronounced manner. Quincy spoke
again and looked towards Miss Putnam, who was seated in the front row,
and whose face wore a somewhat disappointed look.
Again the Professor shook his head by way of negation and the words, "It
can't be did," were distinctly audible to the majority of both singing
society and audience, at the same time a look of contempt spread over
the singing-master's face. Quincy perceived it and was nettled by it. He
was not daunted, however, nor to be shaken from his purpose, so he said
in a loud voice, which was heard in all parts of the hall: "I know the
song, and will sing it if Miss Putnam and the audience are willing."
With a smile upon her face, Miss Putnam nodded her acquiescence. All the
townspeople had heard of Quincy's liberality in providing a hot supper
for the sleighing party the night before, and cries of "Go ahead! Give
him a chance! We want to hear him!" and "Don't disappoint Miss Putnam,"
were heard from all parts of the hall. The Professor was obliged to give
in. He sat down with a disgusted look upon his face, and from that
moment war to the knife was declared between these champions of city and
country civilization.
Mr. Sawyer went to the piano, opened Miss James's copy of the music and
placed it upon the music rack before her, saying a few words to her
which caused her to smile. Quincy then approached Lindy, opened her
music at the proper place and passed it to her. Next he took her hand
and led her to the front of the platform. These little acts of courtesy
and politeness, performed in an easy, graceful, and self-possessed
manner, were seen by all and won a round of applause.
The duet was beautifully sung. Quincy had a fine well-trained tenor
voice, while Miss Putnam's mezzo-soprano was full and melodious and her
rendition fully as artistic as that of her companion. One, two, three,
four, five, six encores followed each other in quick succession, in
spite of Professor Strout's endeavors to quell the applause and take up
the next number. The ovation given earlier in the evening to Professor
Strout was weak in comparison with that vouchsafed to Quincy and Lindy
when they took their seats. In vain did the Professor strive to make
himself heard. Audience and chorus seemed to be of one mind. The
Professor, his face as red as a beet, turned to Ezekiel Pettengill and
said:
"That was a mighty impudent piece of business, don't you think so?"
"They're both mighty fine singers," Ezekiel responded in a rather
unsympathetic tone.
Quincy realized that something must be done to satisfy the demands of
the now thoroughly excited audience. Going to Miss James, he asked her a
question in a low voice, in reply to which she nodded affirmatively. He
next sought Miss Putnam and evidently asked her the same question,
receiving a similar answer. Then he led her forward, and she sang the
opening part of "Listen to the Mocking Bird." After they had sung the
chorus it was repeated on the piano and Quincy electrified the audience
by whistling it, introducing all the trills, staccatos, and roulades
that he had heard so many times come from under Billy Morris's big
mustache at the little Opera House on Washington Street, opposite Milk,
run by the Morris Brothers, Johnny Pell, and Mr. Trowbridge, and when he
finished there flashed through his mind a pleasant memory of Dr. Ordway
and his Aeolians. An encore was responded to, but the tumult still
continued. Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said:
"Ain't it a cussed shame to spoil a first-class concert this way?"
"He's a mighty fine whistler," replied Ezekiel in the same tone that he
had used before.
Finally to quiet their exuberance Quincy was obliged to say a few words,
which were evidently what the audience was waiting for.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the hour is getting late and there is
another number on the programme. Miss Putnam is tired and I shall have
to wet my whistle before I can use it again. I thank you for your kind
indulgence and applause."
This little speech pleased the audience. It was down to their level,
with "no sign of stuckupativeness about it," as one country girl
remarked to her chum. Quincy bowed, the audience laughed, and quiet was
restored.
The Professor had fidgeted, fumed, and fussed during Quincy's occupancy
of the platform. He now arose with feelings impossible to express and
took up his baton to lead the closing chorus. He brought it down with
such a whack upon the music stand that it careened, tottered, and fell
to the platform with a crash. Tilly James leaned over and whispered to
Huldy Mason: "The Professor seems to have a bad attack of Quincy, too."
And the two girls smothered their laughs in their handkerchiefs. If the
singing society had not been so well acquainted with the closing chorus
the Professor certainly would have thrown them out by his many mistakes
in beating time. The piece was a "sleighride" song. The Professor forgot
to give the signal for the ringing of the sleigh bells, but the members
of the singing society did not, and their introduction, which was
unexpected by the audience, to use a theatrical term, "brought down the
house." The number was well rendered, despite the manifest defects in
leadership. The concert came to a close.
Deacon Mason and his wife, accompanied by their daughter, Huldy, and
Rev. Mr. Howe, occupied a double sleigh, as did Hiram, Mandy, and Cobb's
twins. Another double-seated conveyance contained Mr. and Mrs. Benoni
Hill, their son, Samuel, and Miss Tilly James. Quincy also had
accommodations for four in his sleigh, but its only occupants were Miss
Putnam and himself. Abner Stiles sat on the front seat of another
double-seated sleigh, while the Professor and Ezekiel were on the back
one; the remainder of the Mason's Corner folks occupied the big barge
which had been used for the sleigh ride the night before.
The barge led the procession to Mason's Corner, followed by the vehicles
previously mentioned and scores of others containing residents of
Mason's Corner, whose names and faces are alike unknown. By a strange
fatality, the sleigh containing the Professor and Ezekiel was the last
in the line. Ezekiel was inwardly elated that Mr. Sawyer had gone home
with Lindy instead of with Deacon Mason's party. Strout's bosom held no
feelings of elation. He did not seem to care whether the concert was
considered a success or not. He had but one thought in his mind, and
that was the "daring impudence of that city feller." Turning to Ezekiel,
he said:
"I'll get even with that city chap the next time I meet him. As I said
last night, Pettengill, this town ain't big enough to 'hold both on us
and one on us has got to git."
As he said this, he leaned back in the sleigh and puffed his cigar
savagely while Ezekiel was wondering if Huldy was thinking half as much
about him as he was about her.
CHAPTER IV.
ANCESTRY VERSUS PATRIOTISM.
Four days had passed since the concert in the Town Hall at Eastborough.
The events of that evening had been freely discussed in barn and
workshop, at table and at the various stores in Eastborough and
surrounding towns, for quite a number had been present who were not
residents of the town. All interest in it had not, however, passed away
as subsequent occurrences proved.
It was the morning of the fifth of January. Benoni Hill, who ran the
only grocery store at Mason's Corner, was behind his counter and with
the aid of his only son, Samuel, was attending to the wants of several
customers.
While thus engaged, Miss Tilly James entered, and young Samuel Hill
forgot to ask the customer on whom he had been waiting the usual
question, "Anything else, ma'am?" so anxious was he to speak to and wait
upon the pretty Miss James, whose bright eyes, dark curly hair, and
witty remarks had attracted to her side more suitors than had fallen to
the lot of any other young girl in the village. As yet she had evinced
no especial liking for any particular one of the young men who flocked
about her, and this fact had only served to increase their admiration
for her and to spur them on to renewed efforts to win her favor.
"Do you know, Miss James," said Samuel, "I can't get it out of my ears
yet." As he said this, he leaned over the counter, and being a brave
young man, looked straight into Miss James's smiling face.
"If all home remedies have failed," said Tilly, "why don't you go to
Boston and have a doctor examine them?"
"What a joker you are!" remarked Samuel; "I believe you will crack a
joke on the minister the day you are married."
"It may be my last chance," rejoined Tilly. "Mother says the inside of a
boiled onion put into the ear is good for some troubles; give me a pound
of tea, Oolong and green mixed, same as we always have."
As Samuel passed the neatly done up package to Miss James, he leaned
across the counter again and said in a low voice, "You know what is in
my ears, Miss James. How beautifully you played for Mr. Sawyer when he
whistled 'Listen to the Mocking Bird.' I don't think I shall ever forget
it."
"Well, I don't know about the playing, Mr. Hill. I came near losing my
place several times, because I wanted so much to hear him whistle."
During this conversation Tilly and Samuel had been so preoccupied that
they had not noticed the entrance of a new-comer and his approach
towards them. Only one other customer, a little girl, was left in the
store, and Mr. Hill, Sr., had gone down cellar to draw her a quart of
molasses.
As Tilly uttered the words, "I wanted so much to hear him whistle," she
heard behind her in clear, melodious, flute-like notes, the opening
measures of "Listen to the Mocking Bird." Turning quickly, she saw Mr.
Sawyer standing beside her.
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Sawyer? I am delighted to see you again," she
said in that hearty, whole-souled way that was so captivating to her
country admirers.
"The delight is mutual," replied Quincy, raising his hat and bowing.
Samuel Hill was evidently somewhat disturbed by the great friendliness
of the greetings that he had just witnessed. This fact did not escape
Tilly's quick eye, and turning to Mr. Sawyer she said:
"Have you been introduced to my friend, Mr. Samuel Hill?"
"I have not had that pleasure," replied Quincy. "This is my first visit
to the store."
"Then allow me," continued Tilly, "to present you to Mr. Samuel Hull and
to Mr. Benoni Hill, his father, both valued friends of mine," and she
added, as a roguish smile came into her face, "as they keep the only
grocery store in the village, you will be obliged to buy what they have
and pay them what they ask, unless you prefer a three-mile tramp to
Eastborough Centre."
"I hope you're enjoyin' your stay at Mason's Corner," said Mr. Benoni
Hall, "though I don't s'pose you city folks find much to please yer in a
country town, 'specially in the winter."
"So far I have found two things that have pleased me very much," replied
Quincy.
"The milk and eggs, I suppose," remarked Tilly.
"No," said Quincy, "I refer to Miss Lindy Putnam's fine singing and the
beautiful playing of a young lady who is called Miss James."
"I have heard," said Tilly, "that you city gentlemen are great
flatterers. That is not the reason why I am obliged to leave you so
suddenly, but the fact is the tea caddy ran low this morning and
grandma's nerves will remain unstrung until she gets a cup of strong
tea."
With a graceful bow and a parting wave of the hand to the three
gentlemen, the bright and popular young lady left the store.
"Mr. Hill," said Quincy, addressing the elder gentleman, "I've smoked
all the cigars that I brought from Boston, but Deacon Mason told me
perhaps you had some that would suit me. I like a good-sized, strong
cigar and one that burns freely."
"Well," said Mr. Hill, "Professor Strout is the most partikler customer
I have in cigars; he says he always smokes a pipe in the house, 'cause
it don't hang round the room so long as cigar smoke does, but he likes a
good cigar to smoke on the street or when he goes ridin'. I just had a
new box come down for him last night. Perhaps some of them will satisfy
yer till I can git jest the kind yer want."
Mr. Hill took his claw-hammer and opening the box passed it to Quincy,
who took one of the cigars and lighted it. As he did so he glanced at
the brand and the names of the makers, and remarked, "This is a good
cigar, I've smoked this brand before. What do you ask for them?"
"I git ten cents straight, but as Mr. Strout always smokes up the whole
box before he gits through, though he don't usually buy more than five
at a time, I let him have 'em for nine cents apiece. There ain't much
made on them, but yer see I have to obleege my customers."
"You don't ask enough for them," said Quincy, throwing down a
twenty-dollar bill. "They sell for fifteen cents, two for a quarter, in
Boston."
"How many will you have?" asked Mr. Hill, thinking that Boston must be a
paradise for shopkeepers, when seven cents' profit could be made on a
cigar that cost only eight cents.
"I'll take the whole box," said Quincy. "Call it ten dollars, that's
cheap enough. No matter about the discount." As he said this he took
half a dozen cigars from the box and placed them in a silver-mounted,
silk-embroidered cigar case. "Please do them up for me, Mr. Hill, and
the next time Hiram Maxwell comes in he will take them down to Deacon
Mason's for me."
After much rummaging through till and pocketbook, Mr. Hill and his son
found ten dollars in change, which was passed to Quincy. He stuffed the
large wad of small bills and fractional currency into his overcoat
pocket and sitting down on a pile of soap boxes drummed on the lower one
with his boot heels and puffed his cigar with evident pleasure.
While Quincy was thus pleasantly engaged, Professor Strout entered the
store and walked briskly up to the counter. He did not see, or if he
did, he did not notice, Quincy who kept his place upon the pile of soap
boxes. Strout was followed by Abner Stiles, Robert Wood, and several
other idlers, who had been standing on the store platform when the
Professor arrived.
"Did those cigars come down, Hill?" asked Strout in his usual pompous
way.
"Yes!" replied Mr. Hill, "but I guess you'll have to wait till I gut
another box down."
"What for?" asked Strout sharply. "Wa'n't it understood between us that
them cigars was to be kept for me?"
"That's so," acknowledged Mr. Hill, "but you see, when I told that
gentleman on the soap box over yonder that you smoked them, he bought
the whole box, paid me a cent more apiece than you do. A dollar's worth
saving nowadays. He says they sell for fifteen cents, two for a quarter,
up in Boston."
"If he's so well posted on Boston prices," growled Strout, "why didn't
he pay them instead of cheatin' you out of two dollars and a half? I
consider it a very shabby trick, Mr. Hill. I shall buy my cigars at
Eastborough Centre in the future. Perhaps you'll lose more than that
dollar in the long run."
"Perhaps the gentleman will let you have some of them," expostulated Mr.
Hill, "till I can get another box."
"All I can say is," said Strout in snappish tones, "if the man who
bought them knew that you got them for me, he was no gentleman to take
the whole box. What do yer say, Stiles?" he asked, turning to Abner,
who had kept his eyes fixed on the placid Quincy since entering the
store, though listening intently to what the Professor said.
"Well, I kinder reckon I agree to what you say, Professor," drawled
Abner, "unless the other side has got some sort of an explanation to
make. 'Tain't quite fair to judge a man without a hearin'."
"Allow me to offer you one of your favorite brand, Professor Strout,"
said Quincy, jumping down from the soap boxes and extending his cigar
case.
"No! thank you!" said Strout, "I always buy a box at a time, the same as
you do. Judging from the smell of the one you are smoking, I guess they
made a mistake on that box and sent second quality. Give me a five-cent
plug, Mr. Hill, if some gentleman hasn't bought out your whole stock. I
fancy my pipe will have to do me till I get a chance to go over to
Eastborough Centre."
During this conversation Hiram Maxwell had come in to do an errand for
Mrs. Mason, and several more platform idlers, having heard the
Professor's loud words, also entered.
Strout was angry. When in that condition he usually lost his head, which
he did on this occasion. Turning to Quincy he said with a voice full of
passion:
"What's yer name, anyway? You've got so many of them I don't know which
comes fust and which last. Is it Quincy or Adams or Sawyer? How in
thunder did you get 'em all, anyway? I s'pose they tucked 'em on to you
when you was a baby and you was too weak to kick at being so abused."
At this sally a loud laugh arose from the crowd gathered in the store,
and Abner Stiles, who was the Professor's henchman and man-of-all-work,
cried out, "Fust blood for the Professor."
Quincy faced the Professor with a pale face and spoke in clear, ringing
tones, still holding his lighted cigar between the fingers of his right
hand. When he spoke all listened intently.
"Your memory has served you well, Mr. Strout. You have got my names
correct and in the proper order, Quincy Adams Sawyer. I do not consider
that any child could be abused by being obliged to wear such honored
names as those given me by my parents. My mother was a Quincy, and that
name is indissolubly connected with the history and glory of our common
country. My father's mother was an Adams, a family that has given two
Presidents to the United States. If your knowledge of history is as
great as your memory for names you should be aware of these facts, but
your ignorance of them will not affect the opinion of those knowing to
them. My father, Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, has a world-wide reputation as
a great constitutional lawyer, and I am proud to bear his name, combined
with those of my illustrious ancestors. It is needless for me to add
that I, too, am connected with the legal profession."
Here Hiram Maxwell called out, "First round for Mr. Sawyer."
"Shut up, you dough-head," cried Strout, his face purple with rage.
Turning to Quincy he said in a choked voice, "My name is Obadiah Strout,
no frills or folderols about it either. That was my father's name too,
and he lived and died an honest man, in spite of it. He raised potatoes
and one son, that was me. When the nation called for volunteers I went
to war to save the money bags of such as you that stayed at home. It was
such fellers as you that made money out of mouldy biscuits and rotten
beef, shoddy clothin', and paper-soled boots. It was such fellers as
your father that lent their money to the government and got big interest
for it. They kept the war going as long as they could. What cared they
for the blood of the poor soldier, as long as they could keep the
profits and interest coming in? It wasn't the Quincys and the Adamses
and the other fellers with big names that stayed at home and hollered
who saved the country, but the rank and file that did the fightin', and
I was one of them."
[Illustration: "THE BARGE LED THE PROCESSION TO MASON'S CORNER."]
As he said this the irascible Professor shook his fist in Quincy's face,
to which a red flush mounted, dyeing cheek and brow.
"That's the Lord's truth," said Abner Stiles. Then he called out in a
loud voice, "Second round for the Professor. Now for the finish."
But the finish did not come then. The settlement between these two
lingual disputants did not come for many days. The reason for a sudden
cessation of the wordy conflict was a shrill, feminine voice, which
cried out from the store platform:
"Hiram Maxwell, where are you? Mother's most out of patience waiting for
you."
"Good Lord!" cried Hiram, breaking through the crowd and rushing to the
counter to make the long-deferred purchase. "I'm coming in a minute."
"I think I had better see you home," remarked Huldy Mason, entering the
store.
As she advanced the crowd separated and moved backward, leaving her a
dear path.
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Sawyer?" said she in a pleasant voice and with
a sweet smile, as she reached Quincy. "Won't you help me take Hiram
home?"
"I should be happy to be of service to you," replied Quincy.
The professor turned his back toward Miss Mason and began talking in an
animated manner to Abner Stiles, Bob Wood, and a few other ardent
sympathizers who gathered about him.
The rest of the crowd were evidently more interested in watching the
pretty Miss Mason and the genteel Mr. Sawyer. When Hiram left the store
with his purchases under one arm and Quincy's box of cigars under the
other, he was closely followed by Quincy and Huldy, who were talking and
laughing together. The crowd of loungers streamed out on the platform
again to watch their departure. As Quincy and Huldy turned from the
square into the road that led to the Deacon's house they met Ezekiel
Pettengill. Huldy nodded gayly and Quincy raised his hat, but Ezekiel
was not acquainted with city customs and did not return the salutation.
A few moments later the Professor and Abner Stiles were relating to him
the exciting occurrences of the last half hour.
CHAPTER V.
MR. SAWYER MEETS UNCLE IKE.
Quincy Adams Sawyer had not come down to Mason's Corner with any idea of
becoming a hermit. His father was a great lawyer and a very wealthy man.
He had made Quincy a large allowance during his college days, and had
doubled it when his only son entered his law office to complete his
studies.
Quincy had worked hard in two ways; first, to read law, so as to realize
the great anticipations that his father had concerning him; second, he
worked still harder between eight in the evening and one, two, and even
four in the morning, to get rid of the too large allowance that his
father made him.
Like all great men, his father was unsuspicious and easily hoodwinked
about family matters; so when Quincy grew listless and on certain
occasions fell asleep at his desk his renowned and indulgent father
decided it was due to overwork and sent him down to Eastborough for a
month's rest and change of scene.
His father had known Isaac Pettengill, and in fact had conducted many
successful suits for him; besides this he had drawn up the papers when
Uncle Ike divided his fortune. Quincy's father had written to Uncle Ike,
asking him to find his son a boarding place, and Uncle Ike had selected
Deacon Mason's as the best place for him.
Quincy's father had told him to be sure and get acquainted with Mr.
Isaac Pettengill, saying he was a man of fine education, and added, "I
sometimes feel, Quincy, as though I would like to go into the country
and take care of a chicken farm myself for a while."
His mother came of the best New England stock, and although she had been
named Sarah and her husband's name was Nathaniel, we have seen that the
son had been endowed with the rather high-sounding name of Quincy Adams,
which his schoolmates had shortened to Quince, and his college friends
had still further abbreviated to Quinn. Quincy had two sisters and they
had been equally honored with high-sounding appellations, the elder
being called Florence Estelle and the younger Maude Gertrude, but to pa,
ma, brother, and friends they were known as Flossie and Gertie.
The next day after the affair at Hill's grocery, Quincy put several of
the best cigars in town in his pocket and started towards Eastborough
Centre for a walk, intending to call upon Uncle Ike Pettengill.
The young man knew that late hours and their usual accompaniments were
what had undermined his health, so he determined to make his vacation of
good service to him and recover his accustomed health and strength, and
when he returned home cut his old acquaintances and settle down
earnestly and honestly to the battle of life.
He had teen a favorite in city society; he was well educated, well read,
had travelled considerably and was uniformly polite and affable to all
classes, from young children to old men and women; he was very careful
about his dress, and always had that well-groomed appearance, which in
the city elicits commendation, but which leads the average countryman to
say "dude" to himself and near friends when talking about him.
Quincy was no dude; he had been prominent in all college athletic games;
he had been a member of the 'varsity eight in one of its contests with
Yale, and had won a game for Harvard with Yale at base ball by making a
home run in the tenth inning on a tied score. He was a good musician and
fine singer. In addition he was a graceful dancer, and had taken lessons
in boxing, until his feather-weight teacher suggested that he had better
find a heavy-weight instructor to practise on.
Quincy was in his twenty-third year. He had been in love a dozen times,
but, as he expressed it, had been saved from matrimony by getting
acquainted with a prettier girl just as he was on the point of popping
the question.
But we left him walking along on his way to Eastborough Centre. Deacon
Mason had told him Uncle Ike's house was away from the road, some
hundred feet back, and that he could not mistake it, as he could see the
chicken coop from the road. He finally reached it after traversing about
a mile and a half, it being another mile and a half to Eastborough
Centre.
He found the path that led to the house. As he neared the steps a huge
dog arose from a reclining posture and faced him, not in an ugly mood,
but with an expression that seemed to-say, "An introduction will be
necessary before you come any farther." The dog seemed to understand
that it was his duty to bring about the necessary introduction, so he
gave a series of loud barks. The door was quickly opened and Uncle Ike
stood in the doorway.
"Do I address Mr. Isaac Pettengill?" asked Quincy.
Uncle Ike replied, "That's what they write on my letters."
Quincy continued, "My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer. I am the only son of
the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer of Boston, and I bear a letter of introduction
from him to you."
Quincy took the letter from his pocket and held it in his hand. The dog
made a quick movement forward and before Quincy could divine his object,
he took the letter in his mouth and took it to Uncle Ike, and,
returning, faced Quincy again.
Uncle Ike read the letter slowly and carefully; then he turned to Quincy
and said, "If you will talk about birds, fish, dogs, and chickens, you
are welcome, and I shall be glad to see you now or any time. If you talk
about lawsuits or religion I shall be sorry that you came. I am sick of
lawyers and ministers. If you insist upon talking on such subjects I'll
tell Swiss, and the next time you come he won't even bark to let me know
you're here."
Quincy took in the situation, and smiling said, "I am tired of lawyers
and lawsuits myself; that is the reason I came down here for a change.
The subjects you mention will satisfy me, if you will allow me to put in
a few words about rowing, running, boxing, and football."
Uncle Ike replied, "The physically perfect man I admire, the
intellectually perfect man is usually a big bore; I prefer the company
of my chickens." Turning to Swiss he said with a marked change in his
voice, "This is a friend of mine, Swiss." Turning to Quincy he said, "He
will admit you until I give him directions to the contrary."
The dog walked quietly to one side and Quincy advanced with outstretched
hand toward Uncle Ike.
Uncle Ike did not extend his. He said, "I never shake hands, young man.
It is a hollow social custom. With Damon and Pythias it meant something.
One was ready to die for the other, and that hand-clasp meant friendship
until death. How many hand shakings mean that nowadays? Besides," with a
queer smile, "I have just been cutting up a broiler that I intend to
cook for my dinner. Come in, you are welcome on the conditions I have
mentioned."
Quincy obeyed and stepped into the kitchen of Sleepy Hollow. He owned to
himself in after years that that was the most important step he had
taken in life--the turning-point in his career.
CHAPTER VI.
SOME NEW IDEAS.
"Did you ever kill a chicken?" asked Uncle Ike, as Quincy entered the
room and took a seat in the willow rocker Uncle Ike pointed out to him.
"No," replied Quincy, "but out in Chicago I saw live hogs killed,
bristles taken off, cut up, assorted according to kind and quality, and
hung up to cool off, in three minutes."
Uncle Ike responded vehemently, "Yes, I know, and it is a shame to the
American people that they allow such things."
"That may be true," said Quincy, "but even at that speed they cannot
kill and pack as fast as it is wanted."
"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "in the old days man feared God, and he treated
man and beast better for that reason. In these days man serves Mammon
and he will do anything to win his favor."
"Do you think it is true that men were better in the old days?" asked
Quincy.
"No," answered Uncle Ike, "I didn't say so. I said that in the old days
man was afraid to do these things; now if he has money he is afraid of
neither God, man, nor the devil. To speak frankly, that is why I am so
independent myself. I am sure of enough to support me as long as I live;
I owe no man anything, and I allow no man to owe me anything."
Quincy, changing the subject, inquired, "What is your method of killing
chickens?"
Uncle Ike said, "Let me tell you why I devised a new plan. When I was
about eight years old I went with my mother to visit an uncle in a
neighboring town. I was born in Eastborough myself, in the old
Pettengill house. But this happened some twenty miles from here. My
uncle was chopping wood, and boy like, I went out to watch him. An old
rooster kept running around the block, flapping its wings, making
considerable noise. Uncle shooed him off three or four times. Finally
uncle made a grab at him, caught him by the legs, whacked him down on
the block and with his axe cut off his head close to his body, and then
threw it out on the grass right in front of me. Was that rooster dead? I
thought not. It got up on its legs, ran right towards where I was
sitting, and before I could get away I was covered with the blood that
came from its neck. I don't know how far the rooster ran, but I know I
never stopped until I was safe in my mother's arms. The balance of the
time I stayed there you couldn't get me within forty yards of my uncle,
for every time I met him I could see myself running around without my
head."
"That made a lasting impression on you," remarked Quincy.
"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "it has lasted me sixty-eight years, one month,
and thirteen days," pointing to a calendar that hung on the wall.
As Quincy looked in the direction indicated he saw something hanging
beside it that attracted his attention.
It was a sheet of white paper with a heavy black border. Within the
border were written these words, "Sacred to the memory of Isaac
Pettengill, who was killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 4th, 1863,
aged twenty-nine years. He died for his namesake and his native land."
Quincy said interrogatively, "Did you lose a son in the war?"
"No," was the reply. "I never had a son. That was my substitute."
"Strange that your substitute should have the same name as yourself."
"Yes, it would have been if he had, but he didn't. His right name was
Lemuel Butters. But I didn't propose to put my money into such a name as
that."
"Were you drafted?" asked Quincy.
"No," said Uncle Ike. "I might as well tell you the whole story, for you
seem bound to have it. I came down here in 1850, when I was about sixty.
Of course I knew what was going on, but I didn't take much interest in
the war, till a lot of soldiers went by one day. They stopped here; we
had a talk, and they told me a number of things that I hadn't seen in
the papers. I haven't read the daily papers for thirteen years, but I
take some weeklies and the magazines and buy some books. Well, the next
day I went over to Eastborough Centre and asked the selectmen how much
it would cost to send a man to the war. They said substitutes were
bringing $150 just then, but that I was over age and couldn't be
drafted, and there was no need of my sending anybody. I remarked that in
my opinion a man's patriotism ought not to die out as long as he lived.
It seemed to me that if a man had $150 it was his duty to pay for a
substitute, if he was a hundred. The selectmen said that they had a
young fellow named Lem Butters who was willing to go if he got a hundred
and fifty. So I planked down the money, but with the understanding that
he should take my name. Well, to make a long story short, I got killed
at Gettysburg and I wrote that out as a reminder."
"Don't you ever get lonesome alone here by yourself?" Quincy asked.
"Yes," said Uncle Ike. "I am lonesome every minute of the time. That's
what I came down here for. I got tired being lonesome with other people
around me, so I thought I would come down here and be lonesome all by
myself, and I have never been sorry I came."
Quincy opened his eyes and looked inquiringly at Uncle Ike.
"I don't quite understand what you mean by being lonesome with other
people around you," said he.
"No, of course you don't," replied Uncle Ike. "You are too young. I was
sixty. I was thirty-five when I got married and my wife was only
twenty-two, so when I was sixty she was only forty-seven. One girl was
twenty-three and the other twenty. I went to work at seven o'clock in
the morning and got home at seven at night. My wife and daughters went
to theatres, dinners, and parties, and of course I stayed at home and
kept house with the servant girl. In my business I had taken in two
young fellows as partners, both good, honest men, but soon they got to
figuring that on business points they were two and I was one, and pretty
soon all I had to do was to put wood on the fire and feed the office
cat. So you can see I was pretty lonesome about eighteen hours out of
the twenty-four."
Quincy said reflectively, "And your family--"
Uncle Ike broke in, "Are alive and well, I suppose. They don't write me
and I don't write them. I told my partners they must buy me out, and I
gave them sixty days to do it in. I gave my wife and daughters
two-thirds of my fortune and put the other third into an annuity. I am
calculating now that if my health holds good I shall beat the insurance
company in the end."
Quincy, finding that his inquiries provoked such interesting replies,
risked another, "Are your daughters married?"
Uncle Ike laughed quietly. "I don't read the daily papers as I said, so
I don't know, but they wouldn't send me cards anyway. They know my ideas
of marriage."
Quincy, smiling, asked, "Have you some new ideas on that old custom?"
"Yes, I have," replied Uncle Ike. "If two men go into business and each
puts in money and they make money or don't make it, the law doesn't fix
it so that they must keep together for their natural lives, but allows
the firm to be dissolved by mutual consent."
"Why, sir, that would make marriage a limited partnership," said Quincy
with a smile.
"What better is it now?" asked Uncle Ike. "The law doesn't compel
couples to live together if they don't want to, and if they don't want
to live together, why not let them, under proper restrictions, get up
some new firms? Of course, there wouldn't be any objection to parties
living together for their natural lives, if they wanted to, and the fact
that they did would be pretty good proof that they wanted to."
Quincy started to speak, "But what--"
"I know what you were going to say," said Uncle Ike. "You are going to
ask that tiresome old question, what will become of the children? Well,
I should consider them part of the property on hand and divide them and
the money according to law."
"But few mothers would consent to be parted from their children."
"Oh, that's nonsense," replied Uncle Ike. "I have a Massachusetts State
Report here that says about five hundred children every year are
abandoned by their mothers for some cause or other. They leave them on
doorsteps and in railroad stations; they put them out to board and don't
pay their board; and the report says that every one of these little
waifs is adopted by good people, and they get a better education and a
better bringing up than their own parents could or would give them. Have
you ever read, Mr. Sawyer, of the Austrian baron who was crossed in
love and decided he would never marry?"
Quincy shook his head.
"Well, he was wealthy and had a big castle, with no one to live in it,
and during his life he adopted, educated, clothed, and sent out into the
world, fitted to make their own living, more than a thousand children.
To my mind, Mr. Sawyer, he was a bigger man than any emperor or king who
has ever lived."
Quincy asked, "But how are you going to start such a reform, Mr.
Pettengill? The first couple that got reunited on the partnership plan
would be the laughing stock of the community."
"Just so," said Uncle Ike, "but I can get over that difficulty. The
State of Massachusetts has led in a great many social reforms. Let it
take the first step forward in this one; let it declare by law that all
marriages on and after a certain day shall terminate five years from the
date of marriage unless the couples wish to renew the bonds. Then let
everybody laugh at everybody else if they want to."
"Well, how about those couples that were married before that day?"
"That's easy," was Uncle Ike's reply. "Give them all a chance five years
after the law to dissolve by mutual consent, if they want to. Don't
forget, Mr. Sawyer, that with such a law there would be no need of
divorce courts, and if any man insulted a woman, imprisonment for life
and even the gallows wouldn't be any too good for him. Will you stay to
lunch, Mr. Sawyer? My chicken is about done."
Quincy arose and politely declined the invitation, saying he had been so
much interested he had remained much longer than he had intended, but he
would be pleased to call again some day if Mr. Pettengill were willing.
"Oh, yes, come any time," said Uncle Ike, "you're a good listener, and I
always like a man that allows me to do most of the talking. By the way,
we didn't get a chance to say much this time about shooting, fishing, or
football."
Quincy went down the steps, and Uncle Ike stood at the door, as he did
before he entered. Swiss looked at Quincy with an expression that seemed
to say, "You have made a pretty long call." Quincy patted him on the
head, called him "good dog," and walked briskly down the path towards
the road. When he was about fifty feet from the house, Uncle Ike called
out sharply, "Mr. Sawyer!" Quincy turned on his heel quickly and looked
towards the speaker. Uncle Ike's voice, still sharp, spoke these
farewell words:
"I forgot to tell you, Mr. Sawyer, that I always chloroform my chickens
before I cut their heads off."
He stepped back into the house. Swiss, with a bound, was in the room
beside him, and when Quincy again turned his steps towards the road the
closed door had shut them both from view.
CHAPTER VII.
"THAT CITY FELLER."
As usual, the next morning Hiram was down to the Pettengill house
between nine and ten o'clock. He opened the kitchen door unobserved by
Mandy and looked in at her. She was standing at the sink washing dishes
and singing to herself. Suddenly Hiram gave a jump into the room and
cried out in a loud voice, "How are you, Mandy?"
She dropped a tin pan that she was wiping, which fell with a clatter,
breaking a plate that happened to be in the sink.
"I'm much worse, thank you," she retorted, "and none the better for
seeing you. What do you mean by coming into the house and yelling like a
wild Injin? I shall expect you to pay for that plate anyway."
"He who breaks pays," said Hiram with a laugh. "But why don't you shake
hands with a fellow?"
"I will if I like and I won't if I like," replied Mandy, extending her
hand, which was covered with soapsuds.
"Wipe your hand," said Hiram, "and I'll give you this ten cents to pay
for the plate."
As he said this he extended the money towards her. Mandy did not attempt
to take it, but giving her wet hand a flip threw the soapsuds full in
Hiram's face. He rushed forward and caught her about the waist; as he
did so he dropped the money, which rolled under the kitchen table.
Mandy turned around quickly and facing Hiram, caught him by both ears,
which she pulled vigorously. He released his hold upon her and jumped
back to escape further punishment.
"Now, Mr. Hiram Maxwell," said she, facing him, "what do you mean by
such actions? I've a good mind to put you outdoors and never set eyes on
you again. What would Mr. Pettengill have thought if he'd a come in a
minute ago?"
"I guess he'd a thought that I was gittin' on better'n I really am,"
replied Hiram, with a crestfallen look. "Now, Mandy, don't get mad, I
didn't mean nothin', I was only foolin' and you began it fust, by
throwin' that dirty water in my face, and no feller that had any spunk
could stand that." As he said this, a broad smile covered his face.
"Say, Mandy," he continued, "here comes Obadiah Strout, we'd better make
up before he gits in or it'll be all over town that you and me have been
fightin'. Got any chores this mornin', Mandy, that I can do for you?"
At this moment the kitchen door was again opened and Professor Strout
entered.
"Where's Pettengill?" he asked of Mandy, not noticing Hiram.
"I guess he's out in the wood-shed, if he hasn't gone somewheres else,"
replied Mandy, resuming her work at the sink.
Strout turned towards Hiram and said, as if he had been unaware
previously of his presence, "Oh! you there, Hiram? Just go find
Pettengill for me like a good feller and tell him Professor Strout
wishes to see him up to the house."
"At the same time, Hiram," said Mandy, "go find me that dozen eggs that
I told you I wanted for that puddin'."
Hiram winked at Mandy, unseen by the Professor and started for the
chicken coop.
"Guess I'll have a chair," remarked the Professor.
"All right, if you don't take it with you when you go," replied Mandy,
still busily washing dishes.
"Fine weather," said Strout.
"Sorter between," laconically replied Mandy.
"Did you enjoy the concert?" asked Strout.
"Some parts of it," said Mandy. "I thought Mr. Sawyer and Miss Putnam
were just splendid. His whistling was just grand."
"He'll whistle another kind of a tune in a few days," remarked Strout.
"What? Are you going to give another concert?" asked Mandy, looking at
him for the first time.
"If I do," replied the Professor, "you bet he won't be one of the
performers."
"Oh, I see," said Mandy, "you're mad with him 'cause he hogged the whole
show. Mr. Maxwell was just telling me as how Mr. Sawyer was going to
hire the Town Hall on Washington's birthday and bring down a big brass
band from Boston and give a concert that would put you in the shade, and
somebody was telling me, I forget who, that Mr. Sawyer don't like to sit
'round doing nothin', and he's goin' to give music lessons."
These last two untruthful shots hit the mark, as she knew they would,
and Strout, abandoning the subject, blurted out, "Where in thunder's
that Hiram? I'll be blowed if I don't believe he went to look for the
eggs first."
"I reckon he did," said Mandy, "if he means to keep on good terms with
me. He ain't likely to tend to stray jobs till he's done up his regular
chores."
"I s'pose Deacon Mason sends him down here to wait on you?" remarked
Strout with a sneer.
"Did Deacon Mason tell you that you could have him to run your errands?"
inquired Mandy, with a pout.
"Guess the best thing I can do," said Strout rising, "is to go hunt
Pettengill up myself."
"I guess you've struck it right this time," assented Mandy, as Strout
left the room and started for the wood-shed.
As he closed the door, Mandy resumed her singing as though such
conversations were of everyday occurrence.
She finished her work at the sink and was fixing the kitchen fire when
Hiram returned.
"All I could find," said he, holding an egg in each hand. "The hens must
have struck or think it's a holiday. S'pose there's any out in the barn?
Come, let's go look, Mandy. Where's old Strout?"
"I guess he's gone to look for Mr. Pettengill," replied Mandy, with a
laugh.
"I kinder thought he would if I stayed long enough," said Hiram, with a
grin; "but come along, Mandy, no hen fruit, no puddin'."
"Mr. Maxwell," said Mandy, soberly, "I wish you'd be more particular
about your language. You know I abominate slang. You know how careful I
try to be."
"You're a dandy," said Hiram, taking her hand.
They ran as far as the wood-shed, when seeing the door open, they hid
behind it until Strout came out and walked down towards the lane to meet
Ezekiel, whom he had seen coming up from the road. Then Hiram and Mandy
sped on their way to the barn, which they quickly reached and were soon
upon the haymow, apparently searching intently for eggs.
When Strout reached Ezekiel he shook hands with him and said, "Come up
to the barn, Pettengill, I've got a little somethin' I want to tell you
and it's kinder private. It's about that city feller that's swellin'
round here puttin' on airs and tryin' to make us think that his father
is a bigger man than George Washington. He about the same as told me
down to the grocery store that the blood of all the Quincys flowed in
one arm and the blood of all the Adams in the other, but I kinder guess
that the rest of his carcass is full of calf's blood and there's more
fuss and feathers than fight to him."
By this time they had reached the barn and they sat down upon a pile of
hay at the foot of the mow.
"Now my plan's this," said Strout. "You know Bob Wood; well, he's the
biggest feller and the best fighter in town. I'm goin' to post Bob up as
to how to pick a quarrel with that city feller. When he gets the lickin'
that he deserves, I rayther think that Deacon Mason will lose a
boarder."
"But s'posin' Mr. Sawyer licks Bob Wood?" queried Ezekiel.
"Oh! I don't count much on that," said Strout; "but if it should turn
out that way we're goin' to turn in and get up a surprise party for Miss
Mason and jist leave him out."
"I hope you ain't goin' to do any fightin' down to Deacon Mason's?"
remarked Ezekiel.
"Oh, no!" protested Strout, "it'll be kind o' quiet, underminin' work,
as it were. Remarks and sayin's and side whispers and odd looks, the
cold shoulder business, you know, that soon tells a feller that his
company ain't appreciated."
"Well, I don't think that's quite fair," said Ezekiel. "You don't like
him, Mr. Strout, but I don't think the whole town will take it up."
The Professor said sternly, "He has insulted me and in doing that he has
insulted the whole town of Eastborough."
A smothered laugh was heard.
"By George! What was that?" cried Strout.
Ezekiel was at a loss what to say, and before he could reply, Mandy's
laughing had caused the hay to move. As it began to slide she clutched
at Hiram in a vain effort to save herself, and the next instant a large
pile of hay, bearing Hiram and Mandy, came down, falling upon Ezekiel
and Strout and covering them from sight.
When all had struggled to their feet, Ezekiel turned to Mandy and said
sharply, "What were you doin' up there, Mandy?"
"Looking for eggs," said she, as she ran out of the barn and started for
the house.
Hiram stood with his mouth distended with a huge smile. Strout turned
towards him and said savagely, "Well, if you're the only egg she got,
'twas a mighty bad one."
Hiram retorted, "I would rather be called a bad egg than somethin' I
heard about you."
Strout, in a passion, cried out, "Who said anything about me?"
Hiram made for the barn door and then said, "heard a gentleman say as
how there was only one jackass in Eastborough and he taught the singin'
school."
Strout caught up a rake to throw at him, but Hiram was out of sight
before he could carry out his purpose. Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said,
"I bet a dollar, Pettengill, it was that city feller that said that, and
as I have twice remarked and this makes three times, this town ain't big
enough to hold both on us."
CHAPTER VIII.
CITY SKILL VERSUS COUNTRY MUSCLE.
Hiram Maxwell was not called upon to perform very arduous duties at
Deacon Mason's. The Deacon had given up farming several years before,
and Hiram's duties consisted in doing the chores about the house. He had
plenty of spare time, and he used it by going down to the Pettengill
place and talking to Mandy Skinner.
The next morning after the adventure in the barn, Hiram went down as
usual after his morning's work was done to see Mandy.
"How do you find things, Mandy?" said Hiram, opening the kitchen door
and putting his head in.
"By looking for them," said Mandy, without looking up from her work.
"You are awful smart, ain't you?" retorted Hiram.
Mandy replied, "People's opinion that I think a good deal more of than
yours have said that same thing, Mr. Maxwell."
Hiram saw that he was worsted, so he changed the conversation.
"Anybody to hum?"
Mandy answered sharply, "Everybody's out but me, of course I am nobody."
Hiram came in and closed the door.
"You needn't be so pesky smart with your tongue, Mandy. Of course I
can't keep up with you and you know it. What's up?"
Mandy replied, "The thermometer. It isn't nearly as cold as it was
yesterday."
Hiram, seeing a breakfast apparently laid out on a side table inquired,
"Expectin' somebody to breakfast?"
"No," said Mandy, "I got that ready for Mr. Pettengill, but he didn't
have time to eat it because he was afraid he would lose the train."
"Has he gone to the city?" asked Hiram.
"I 'spect he has," answered Mandy.
"Well," remarked Hiram, "s'posin' I eat that breakfast myself, so as to
save you the trouble of throwin' it away."
"Well," said Mandy, "I was going to give it to the pigs; I suppose one
hog might as well have it as another."
Hiram said, "Why, you don't call me a big eater, do you, Mandy?"
Mandy laughed and said, "I can't tell, I never saw you when you wasn't
hungry. How do you know when you have got enough?"
Hiram said, "I haven't got but one way of tellin', I allus eats till it
hurts me, then I stop while the pain lasts."
Then he asked Mandy, "What did 'Zekiel go to the city for?"
Mandy answered, "Mr. Pettengill does not confide his private business to
me."
Hiram broke in, "I bet a dollar you know why he went, just the same."
Mandy said, "I bet a dollar I do."
Then she broke into a loud laugh. Hiram evidently thought it was very
funny and laughed until the tears stood in his eyes.
"What are you laughing for?" asked Mandy.
Hiram's countenance fell.
"Come down to the fine point, Mandy, durned if I know."
"That's a great trick of yours, Hiram," said Mandy. "You ought not to
laugh at anything unless you understand it."
"I guess I wouldn't laugh much then," said Hiram. "I allus laugh when I
don't understand anythin', so folks won't think that I don't know where
the p'int domes in. But say, Mandy, what did Pettengill go to the city
for?"
During this conversation Hiram had been eating the breakfast that had
been prepared for Ezekiel. Mandy sat down near him and said, "I'll tell
you, but it ain't nothing to laugh at. Mr. Pettengill had a telegraph
message come last night."
"You don't say so!" said Hiram. "It must be pretty important for persons
to spend money that way. Nobody dead, I s'pose?"
"Well," said Mandy, "Mr. Pettengill left the telegram in his room and I
had to read it to see whether I had to throw it away or not, and I
remember every word that was in it."
Hiram asked earnestly, "Well, what was it? Is his sister Alice goin' to
get married?"
Mandy answered, "No, she is sick and she wanted him to come right up to
Boston at once to see her."
Hiram said, "'Zekiel must think a powerful lot of that sister of his'n.
Went right off to Boston without his breakfast."
"I guess it would have to be something nearer than a sister to make you
do that," said Mandy. "I don't know but one thing, Hiram, that would
make you go without your feed."
"What's that, Mandy?" said he. "You?"
"No," replied Mandy, "a famine."
"You ain't no sort of an idea as to what's the matter with her, have
you?" he asked.
"No, I haven't," said Mandy, "and if I had I don't imagine I would tell
you. Now you better run right home, little boy, for I have to go
upstairs and do the chamber work."
She whisked out of the room, and Hiram, helping himself to a couple of
apples, left the house and walked slowly along the road towards
Eastborough Centre.
Suddenly he espied a man coming up the road and soon saw it was Quincy
Adams Sawyer.
"Just the feller I wanted to see," soliliquized Hiram.
As Quincy reached him he said, "Mr. Sawyer, I want to speak to you a
minute or two. Come into Pettengill's barn, there's nobody to hum but
Mandy and she's upstairs makin' the beds."
They entered the barn and sat down on a couple of half barrels that
served for stools.
"Mr. Sawyer, you've treated me fust rate since you've been here and I
want to do you a good turn and put you on your guard."
Quincy laughed.
Hiram continued, "Well, maybe you won't laugh if Bob Wood tackles you. I
won't tell you how I found it out for I'm no eavesdropper, but keep your
eye on Bob Wood and look out he don't play no mean tricks on you."
Quincy remarked, "I suppose Mr. Strout is at the bottom of this and he
has hired this Bob Wood to do what he can't do himself."
"I guess you have got it about right, Mr. Sawyer," said Hiram. "Can you
fight?" he asked of Quincy.
"I am a good shot with a rifle," Quincy replied. "I can hit the ace of
hearts at one hundred feet with a pistol."
"I don't mean that," said Hiram. "Can you fight with yer fists?"
"I don't know much about it," said Quincy with a queer smile.
"Then I am afraid you will find Bob Wood a pretty tough customer. He can
lick any two fellers in town. Why, he polished off Cobb's twins one day
in less than five minutes, both of 'em."
"Where does this Bob Wood spend most of his time?" asked Quincy.
"He loafs around Hill's grocery. When he ain't wokin' at his trade,"
said Hiram, "he does odd jobs for the Putnams in summer and cuts some
wood for them in winter. You know Lindy Putnam, the gal you sang with at
the concert?"
"Come along," said Quincy, "I feel pretty good this morning, we'll walk
down to Hill's and see if that Mr. Wood has anything to say to me."
"Don't you think the best plan, Mr. Sawyer, would be to keep out of his
way?" queried Hiram.
"Well, I can't tell that," said Quincy, "until I get better acquainted
with him. After that he may think he'd better keep out of my way."
"Why, he's twice as big as you," cried Hiram, with a look of
astonishment on his face.
"Come along, Hiram," said Quincy. "By the way, I haven't seen Miss
Putnam since the concert. I think I will have to call on her."
Hiram laughed until his face was as red as a beet.
"By gum, that's good," he said, as he struck both legs with his hands.
"What's good?" asked Quincy. "Calling on Miss Putnam?"
"Yes," said Hiram. "Wouldn't she be s'prised?"
"Why?" asked Quincy. "Such a call wouldn't be considered anything out of
the way in the city."
"No, nor it wouldn't here," said Hiram, "but for the fact that Miss
Putnam don't encourage callers. She goes round a visitin' herself, and
she treats the other girls fust rate, 'cause she has plenty of money and
can afford it. But she has got two good reasons for not wantin'
visitors."
"What are they?" asked Quincy.
"Well, I'm country myself," said Hiram, "and there are others in
Eastborough that are more country than I am. But if you want to see and
hear the genooine old Rubes you want to see old Sy Putnam and his wife
Heppy."
"But Miss Mason said Miss Putnam was quite wealthy."
"You bet she is," said Hiram. "She's worth hundreds of millions of
dollars."
"I think you must mean thousands," remarked Quincy.
"Well, as far as I'm concerned," said Hiram, "when you talk about
millions or thousands of money, one's just the same to me as t'other. I
never seed so much money in my life as I seed since you've been here,
but I don't want you to think I'm beggin' for more."
"No," said Quincy, "I should never impute such a motive to you."
Quincy took a dollar bill from his pocket and held it up before Hiram.
"What's that?" he asked.
"That's one hundred cents," said Hiram, "considerably more than I have
got."
"Well," said Quincy, "if you tell me why Miss Putnam doesn't like
callers I will give you that dollar."
"Stop a minute," replied Hiram. "Soon as we turn this next corner we'll
be in full sight of the grocery store. You can go ahead and I'll slip
'cross lots and come up from behind the store. If Wood thought I'd told
you he would lick me and I'm no fighter. Now about Miss Putnam,"
dropping his voice, "I heard it said, and I guess it's pretty near the
truth, that she is so blamed stuck up and dresses so fine in city
fashions that she is just 'shamed of her old pa and ma and don't want
nobody to see 'em."
"But," asked Quincy, "where did she get her money?"
Hiram answered, "From her only brother. He went down to Boston, made a
pile of money, then died and left it all to Lindy. If what I've told
you ain't gospel truth it's mighty near it. Well, I'll see you later,
Mr. Sawyer."
And Hiram ran down a path that led across the fields.
Quincy turned the corner and walked briskly towards Hill's grocery
store. A dozen or more young men and as many older ones were lounging
about the platform that ran the whole length of the store, for it was a
very mild day in January, and the snow was rapidly leaving under the
influence of what might be called a January thaw.
Quincy walked through the crowd, giving a friendly nod to several faces
that looked familiar, but the names of whose owners were unknown to him.
He entered the store, found a letter from his mother and another from
his sister Gertie, and saying "Good morning" to Mr. Hill, who was the
village postmaster, soon reached the platform again.
As he did so a heavily built young fellow, fully six feet tall and
having a coarse red face, stepped up to him and said brusquely, "I
believe your name's Sawyer."
"Your belief is well founded," replied Quincy. "I regret that I do not
know your name."
"Well, you won't have to suffer long before you find out," said the
fellow. "My name's Robert Wood, or Bob Wood for short."
"Ah! I see," said Quincy. "Robert for long wood and Bob for short wood."
Wood's face grew redder.
"I s'pose you think that's mighty smart makin' fun of folks' names. I
guess there ain't much doubt but what you said what a friend of mine
tells me you did."
Quincy remarked calmly, "Well, what did your friend say I said about
you?"
By this time the loungers in and outside the store had gathered around
the two talkers. Wood seemed encouraged and braced up by the presence of
so many friends. He walked up close to Quincy and said, "Well, my friend
told me that you said there was but one jackass in Eastborough and he
sang bass in the quartette."
Quincy paled a little, but replied firmly, "I never said it, and if your
friend says I did he lies and he knows it."
At this juncture, as if prearranged, Obadiah Strout suddenly emerged
from the grocery store.
"What's the matter, gentlemen?" asked Mr. Strout.
"Well," said Wood, "I told this young man what you said he said, and he
says you're a liar."
"Well," said Strout pompously, "I know that he said it and I have
witnesses to prove it. When you settle with him for calling you a
jackass I'll settle with him for calling me a liar."
"Take your coat off, Mr. Sawyer, and get ready. I won't keep you waitin'
but a few moments," said Bob.
A jeering laugh went up from the crowd. Quincy, turning, saw Hiram.
"Here, Hiram," said he, "hold my things."
He took off his overcoat and then his black Prince Albert coat and
passed them to Hiram. Then he removed his hat, which he also handed to
Hiram.
Turning to Wood he said, "Come right out here, Mr. Wood; here is a place
where the sun has kindly removed the snow and we can get a good
footing."
Wood followed him, and the crowd formed a ring about them.
"Now, Mr. Wood, or perhaps I should say Bob Wood for short, put up your
hands."
Bob put them up in defiance of all rules governing boxing. This was
enough for Quincy; he had sized up his man and determined to make the
most of his opportunity.
"Mr. Wood," he said politely, "before I hit you I am going to tell you
just exactly where I am going to strike, so you can't blame me for
anything that may happen. I shall commence on your right eye."
Wood's face grew livid; he made a rush at Quincy as though he would fall
on him and crush him. Quincy easily eluded him, and when Wood made his
second rush at him he parried a right-hander, and before Wood could
recover, he struck him a square blow full on his right eye. They faced
each other again.
"Now, Mr. Wood," said Quincy, "I see you have a watch in your vest
pocket. Is it an open-faced watch?"
"S'posin' you find out," said Wood, glaring at Quincy with his left eye,
his right one being closed up.
"Well, then," remarked Quincy, "you will be obliged to have it repaired,
for I am going to hit you just where that watch is and it may injure
it."
Wood was more wary this time and Quincy was more scientific. He gave
Wood a left-hander in the region of the heart which staggered him.
They faced each other for the third time.
"I regret the necessity this time, but I will be obliged to strike you
full in the face and in my excitement may hit your nose."
It required all of Quincy's dexterity to avoid the wild rushes and
savage thrusts made by Wood. But Quincy understood every one of the
boxer's secrets and was as light and agile on his feet as a cat. It was
three minutes at least before Quincy got the desired opening, and then
he landed a blow on Wood's nose that sent him flat upon his back.
"That's enough," cried the crowd, and several friends led Wood to a seat
on the platform.
Quincy turned to Strout. "Now, Mr. Strout, I am at your service."
"No, sir," said Strout, "I am willing to fight a gentleman, but I don't
fight with no professional prize fighter like you." Turning to the
crowd: "I know all about this fellow. He is no lawyer at all, he is a
regular prize fighter, and down in Boston he is known by the name of
Billy Shanks."
[Illustration: "AND THEN HE LANDED A BLOW ON WOOD'S NOSE"]
Quincy smiled. Turning to the crowd he said, "The statement just made by
Mr. Strout is like his statement to Mr. Wood. The first was a lie, the
second is a lie, and the man who uttered them is a liar. Good morning,
gentlemen."
Quincy went to Hiram, who helped him on with his coats. They walked
along together. After they turned the corner and got out of sight of the
grocery store, Hiram said:
"Geewhilikins! What a smasher you gave him. I thought you said you
didn't know nothin' about fightin'."
"I don't know much," responded Quincy. "There are a dozen men in Boston
who could do to me just exactly what I did to Bob Wood."
CHAPTER IX.
MR. SAWYER CALLS ON MISS PUTNAM.
Quincy had a double purpose in calling on Lindy; he actually wished to
see her, for they had not met since the concert, but his principal wish
was to meet a real old-fashioned country couple. To be sure, Deacon
Mason and his wife often dropped into the vernacular, but the Deacon was
a very dignified old gentleman and his wife was not a great talker. What
he desired was to find one of the old-fashioned style of country women,
with a tongue hung in the middle and running at both ends. His wish was
to be gratified.
When he clanged the old brass knocker on the door, Samanthy Green
answered the call.
"Is Miss Putnam at home?" asked Quincy politely.
"No, she ain't," said Samanthy, "but Mr. and Mrs. Putnam is. They're
allus to hum. They don't go nowheres from one year's end to t'other."
"I would like to see them," said Quincy.
"Yes, sir," said Samanthy, "walk right in."
She threw open the door of the sitting-room. "Here's a gentleman that
wants to see you, Mas' Putnam. Leastwise he asked for Lindy fust."
Samanthy left the room, slamming the door after her.
"My name is Sawyer," said Quincy, addressing the old lady and gentleman
who were seated in rocking chairs. "I met your daughter at the concert
given at the Town Hall New-Year's night."
Mrs. Putnam said, "Glad to see ye, Mr. Sawyer; have a chair."
As Quincy laid his hand upon the chair, the old gentleman called out in
a voice that would have startled a bull of Bashan, "What's his name,
Heppy?"
Mrs. Putnam answered in a shrill voice with an edge like a knife,
"Sawyer."
"Sawyer!" yelled the man. "Any relation to Jim Sawyer that got drunk,
beat his wife, starved his children, and finally ended up in the town
Poorhouse?"
Quincy shook his head and replied, "I think not. I don't live here; I
live in Boston."
"Du tell," said Mrs. Putnam. "How long you been here?"
Quincy replied that he arrived two days after Christmas.
"Where be you stoppin'?" asked Mrs. Putnam.
Quincy answered, "I am boarding at Deacon Mason's."
"He's a nice old gentleman," said Mrs. Putnam, "and Mrs. Mason's good as
they make 'em. Her daughter Huldy's a pert young thing, she's pretty and
she knows it."
Quincy remarked that he thought Miss Mason was a very nice young lady.
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Putnam, "you young fellers never look more than
skin deep. Now the way she trifles with that young 'Zekiel Pettengill I
think's shameful. They ust to have a spat every week about something but
they allus made it up. But I heard Lindy say that after you come here,
'Zeke he got huffy and Huldy she got independent, and they hain't spoke
to each other nigh on two weeks."
This was a revelation to Quincy, but he was to hear more about it very
soon.
"How long be you goin' to stay, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I haven't decided," said Quincy.
"What's your business?" persisted Mrs. Putnam.
"I am a lawyer," replied Quincy.
Mrs. Putnam looked at him inquiringly and said, "Be n't you rather young
for a lawyer? How old be you, anyway?"
Quincy decided to take a good humored part in his cross examination and
said without a smile, "I am twenty-three years, two months, sixteen days
old."
"Be you?" exclaimed Mrs. Putnam. "I shouldn't have said you were a day
over nineteen."
Quincy never felt his youth so keenly before. He determined to change
the conversation.
"Did you attend the concert, Mrs. Putnam?"
"No," said she. "Pa and me don't go out much; he's deefer'n a stone post
and I've had the rheumatiz so bad in my knees for the last five years
that I can't walk without crutches;" and she pointed to a pair that lay
on the floor beside her chair.
During this conversation old Mr. Putnam had been eying Quincy very
keenly. He blurted out, "He's a chip of the old block, Heppy; he looks
just as Jim did when he fust came to this town. Did yer say yer had an
Uncle Jim?"
Quincy shook his head.
Mrs. Putnam turned to her husband and yelled, "Now you shet up, Silas,
and don't bother the young man. Jim Sawyer ain't nothin' to be proud of,
and I don't blame the young man for not ownin' up even if Jim is his
uncle."
Quincy made another attempt to change the conversation. "Your daughter
is a very fine singer, Mrs. Putnam."
"Well, I s'pose so," said she; "there's been enough money spent on her
to make suthin' of her. As for me I don't like this folderol singin'.
Why, when she ust to be practisin' I had to go up in the attic or else
stuff cotton in my ears. But my son, Jehoiakim Jones Putnam, he sot
everythin' by Lucinda, and there wasn't anythin' she wanted that she
couldn't have. He's dead now, but he left more'n a hundred thousand
dollars, that he made speculatin'."
"Then your daughter will be quite an heiress one of these days, Mrs.
Putnam?"
She answered, "She won't get none of my money. Jehoiakim left her all of
his'n, but before she got it she had to sign a paper, a wafer, I believe
they call it, if you're a lawyer you ought to know what it was, givin'
up all claim on my money. I made my will and the girl who'll get it
needs it and will make good use of it."
Quincy determined to get even with Mrs. Putnam for the questioning she
put him through, so he said, "Did you make your money speculating, Mrs.
Putnam?"
"No," said she, "pa made it by hard work on the farm; but he gave it all
to me more'n fifteen year ago, and he hasn't got a cent to his name.
He's just as bad off as Jim Sawyer. I feed him and clothe him and shall
have to bury him. I guess it seems kinder odd to ye, so I reckon I'll
have to tell ye the hull story. I've told it a dozen times, but I guess
it'll bear tellin' once more. You see my husband here, Silas Putnam, was
brought up religis and he's allus been a churchgoin' man. We were both
Methodists, and everythin' went all right till one day a Second Advent
preacher came along, and then things went all wrong. He canoodled my
husband into believin' that the end of the world was comin' and it was
his duty to give all his property away, so he could stand clean handed
afore the Lord. My dander riz when I heerd them makin' their plans, but
afore my husband got deef he was great on argifyin' and argumentin', and
I didn't stand much show against two on 'em; but when Silas told me he
was goin' to give his property away I sot up my Ebenezer, and I says,
'Silas Putnam, if you gives your property to any one you gives it to
me.' So after a long tussle it was settled that way and the lawyers drew
up the papers. The night afore the world was goin' to end he prayed all
night. You can imagine with that air voice of his'n I didn't sleep a
wink. When mornin' came--it was late in October and the air was pretty
sharp--Silas stopped prayin' and put on his white robe, which was a
shirt of hisn't I pieced out so it came down to his feet, and takin' a
tin trumpet that he bought over to Eastborough Centre, he went out,
climbed up on the barn, sot down on the ridgepole and waited for Kingdom
Come. He sot there and tooted all mornin' and 'spected the angel Gabriel
would answer back. He sot there and tooted all the arternoon till the
cows come home and the chickens went to roost. I had three good square
meals that day, but Silas didn't get a bite. 'Bout six o'clock I did
think of takin' him out some doughnuts, but then I decided if he was
goin' up so soon it was no use a wastin' em, so I put 'em back in the
pantry. He sot there and tooted all the evenin' till the moon come up
and the stars were all out, and then he slid down off'n the barn, and
barked both his shins doin' it, threw his trumpet into the pig pen, come
into the house and huddled up close to the fire. He didn't say nothin'
for a spell, but finally says he, 'I guess, Heppy, that feller made a
mistake in figurin' out the date.' 'I guess, Silas,' says I, 'that
you've made an all-fired fool of yerself. And if you don't go to bed
quick and take a rum sweat, I shall be a widder in a very short time,'
He was sick for more'n three weeks, but I pulled him through by good
nussin', and the fust day he was able to set up, I says to him, 'Now,
Silas Putnam, when I married ye forty-five year ago I promised to obey
ye, ye was allus a good perwider and I don't perpose to see yer want for
nothin', but ye have got to hold up yer right hand and swear to obey me
for the rest of yer nateral life,' and he did it. He got well, and he is
tougher'n a biled owl, if he is eighty-six. But the cold sorter settled
in his ears, and he's deef as an adder. Ef angel Gabriel blew his horn
now I'm afeared Silas wouldn't hear him."
During this long story Quincy had listened without a smile on his face,
but the manner in which the last remark was made was too much for him
and he burst into a loud laugh. Silas, who had been eying him, also gave
a loud laugh and said with his ponderous voice, "I guess Heppy's been
tellin' ye about my goin' up."
Quincy laughed again and Mrs. Putnam took part. He arose, told Mr. and
Mrs. Putnam he had enjoyed his visit very much, was very sorry Miss
Putnam was not at home, and said he would call again, with their kind
permission.
"Oh, drop in any time," said Mrs. Putnam; "we're allus to hum. You seem
to be a nice young man, but you're too young to marry. Why, Lindy's
twenty-eight, and I tell her she don't know enough to get married yet.
Ef you'll take a bit of advice from an old woman, let me say, 'less you
mean to marry the girl yourself, you'd better git away from Deacon
Mason's."
And with this parting shot ringing in his ears, he left the house and
made his way homeward.
In half an hour after Quincy's departure, Lindy Putnam entered the
sitting-room and facing her mother said with a voice full of passion,
"Samanthy says Mr. Sawyer called to see me."
Mrs. Putnam answered, "Well, ef ye wanted to see him so much why didn't
ye stay to hum?"
Lindy continued, "Well, I have told you a dozen times that when people
come to see me that you are not to invite them in."
"Wall, I didn't," said Mrs. Putnam. "When he found you wuz out he said
he wanted to see pa and me, and he stayed here more'n an hour."
"Yes," said Lindy, "no doubt you told him all about pa's turning Second
Advent and how much money I had, and you have killed all my chances."
"Well, I guess not," said Mrs. Putnam. "I told him about your brother
leavin' yer all his money, and I guess that won't drive him away."
Lindy continued, "Money don't count with him; they say his father is
worth more than a million dollars."
Mrs. Putnam answered, "Wall, I s'pose there's a dozen or so to divide it
among."
Lindy said, "Did you tell him who you were going to leave your money
to?"
"No, I didn't," replied Mrs. Putnam. "But I did tell him that you
wouldn't get a cent of it."
Lindy sobbed, "I think it is a shame, mother. I like him better than any
young man I have ever met, and now after what you have told me I sha'n't
see him again. I have a good mind to leave you for good and all and go
to Boston to live."
"Wall, you're your own mistress," replied Mrs. Putnam, "and I'm my own
mistress and pa's. Come to think on't, there was one thing I said to him
that might sot him against yer."
"What was that?" demanded Lindy fiercely.
"Wall," said Mrs. Putnam, "he said he was twenty-three, and I sort a
told him incidentally you was twenty-eight. You know yer thirty, and
p'raps he might object to ye on account of yer age."
This was too much for Lindy. She rushed out of the room and up to her
chamber, where she threw herself on her bed in a passion of tears.
"It's too bad," she cried. "I will see him again, I will find some way,
and I'll win him yet, even if I am twenty-eight."
Two days afterwards Hiram told Mandy that he heard down to Hill's
grocery that that city chap had two strings to his bow now. He was
courting the Deacon's daughter, but had been up to see Mr. and Mrs.
Putnam to find out how much money Lindy had in her own right, and to see
if there was any prospect of getting anything out of the old folks.
CHAPTER X.
VILLAGE GOSSIP.
After supper on the day he had been visiting Mr. and Mrs. Putnam, Quincy
went to his room and wrote a long letter to his father, inquiring if he
ever had an uncle by the name of James Sawyer. Before retiring he sat
and thought over the experiences of the past fortnight since his arrival
in Eastborough, but the most of his thoughts were given to the remark
made by Mrs. Putnam about his leaving Deacon Mason's. He had been
uniformly polite and to a slight degree attentive to Miss Mason. The
Deacon's horse was a slow one, and so on several occasions he had hired
a presentable rig and a good stepper over to Eastborough Centre, and had
taken Miss Mason out to ride. He reflected now, as he had never done
before, that of course the whole town knew this, and the thought came
home to him strongly that by so doing he might have inflicted a triple
injury upon Miss Mason, Mr. Pettingill, and himself. He was not in love
with Miss Mason, nor Miss Putnam; they were both pretty girls, and in
the city it was the custom to be attentive to pretty girls without
regard to consequences.
He had asked Miss Mason to go riding with him the next day, but he
inwardly resolved that it would be the last time he would take her, and
he was in doubt whether to go back to the city at once or go to some
other town and board at a hotel, or look around and find some other
place in Eastborough. One consideration kept him from leaving
Eastborough; he knew that if he did so the singing-master would claim
that he had driven him out of town, and although he had a hearty
contempt for the man, he was too high spirited to leave town and give
the people any reason to think that Strout's antipathy to him had
anything to do with it.
Finally a bright idea struck him. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He
would go and see Uncle Ike, state the case frankly and ask him to let
him live with him for a month. He could bunk in the kitchen, and he
preferred Uncle Ike's conversation to that of any other of the male sex
whom he had met in Eastborough. With this idea firmly fixed in his mind
he retired and slept peacefully.
While Quincy was debating with himself and coming to the conclusion
previously mentioned, another conversation, in which his name often
occurred, took place in Deacon Mason's kitchen.
The old couple were seated by the old-fashioned fireplace, in which a
wood fire was burning. The stove had superseded the hanging crane and
the tin oven for cooking purposes, but Deacon Mason clung to the
old-fashioned fireplace for heat and light. The moon was high and its
rays streamed in through the windows, the curtains of which had not been
drawn.
For quite a while they sat in silence, then Deacon Mason said, "There is
something I want to speak about, mother, and yet I don't want to. I know
there is nothing to it and nothing likely to come of it, but the fact
is, mother, Huldy's bein' talked about down to the Corner, 'cause Mr.
Sawyer is boardin' here. You know she goes out ridin' with him, which
ain't no harm, and she has a sort o' broken with 'Zekiel, for which I am
sorry, for 'Zekiel is one of the likely young men of the town."
"So I do, father," said Mrs. Mason, "and if you don't meddle, things
will come out all right. Mr. Sawyer don't care nothing for Huldy, and I
don't think she cares anything for him. He will be going back to the
city in a little while and then things will be all right again."
"Well," said the Deacon, "I think Huldy better stop goin' out to ride
with him anyway; she is high spirited, and if I tell her not to go
she'll want to know why."
"But," broke in Mrs. Mason, "ef you tell him won't he want to know why?"
"Well, perhaps," said the Deacon, "but I will speak to him anyway."
The next morning after breakfast Deacon Mason asked Mr. Sawyer to step
into the parlor, and remarking that when he had anything to say he
always said it right out, he asked Quincy if he was on good terms with
Mr. 'Zekiel Pettengill.
"I don't know," said Quincy. "I don't know of anything that I have done
at which he could take offence, but he keeps away from me, and when I do
meet him and speak to him, a 'yes' or 'no' is all I get in reply."
"Haven't you any idea what makes him treat you so?" asked the Deacon.
Quincy flushed.
"Yes, Mr. Mason, I think I do know, but it never entered my mind until
late yesterday afternoon, and then it was called to my attention by a
stranger. I am glad I have this chance to speak to you, Mr. Mason, for
while I have had a very enjoyable time here, I have decided to find
another boarding place, and I shall leave just as soon as I make the
necessary arrangements."
The Deacon was a little crestfallen at having the business taken out of
his hands so quickly, and saying he was very sorry to have the young man
go, he sought his wife and told her everything was fixed up and that Mr.
Sawyer was going away.
Quincy started to leave the house by the front door; in the hallway he
met Huldy, who had just come down stairs. He had asked her to go to ride
with him that day, and as he looked at her pretty face he vowed to
himself that he would not be deprived of that pleasure. It could do no
harm, for it would be their last ride together and probably their last
meeting.
He said, "Good morning, Miss Mason," and then added with that tone which
the society belle considers a matter of course, but which is so pleasing
to the village maiden, "You look charming this morning, Miss Mason. I
don't think our ride to-day could make your cheeks any redder than they
are now." Huldy blushed, making her cheeks a still deeper crimson. "I
will be here at one o'clock with the team," said Quincy. "Will you be
ready?"
"Yes," answered Huldy softly.
Quincy raised his hat, and a moment later he was on his way to
Eastborough Centre.
He walked briskly and thought he would stop at Uncle Ike's and carry out
the resolution he had made the night before, but as he turned up the
path that led to the house he saw a man standing on the steps talking to
Uncle Ike, who stood in the doorway. The young man was Ezekiel
Pettengill. Shakespeare says,
"'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all,"
and although Quincy at heart was a gentleman, he also knew it was not
quite right for him to take Miss Mason out riding again under the
circumstances; but young men are often stubborn and Quincy felt a little
stiff-necked and rebellious that morning.
He reached Eastborough Centre, mailed his father the letter relating to
Jim Sawyer, and going to the stable, picked out the best rig it could
supply. He always had the same horse. It was somewhat small in size, but
a very plump, white mare; she was a good roadster and it was never
necessary to touch her with the whip. Shake it in the stock and she
would not forget it for the next two miles. The stable keeper told with
much unction how two fellows hired her to go from Eastborough Centre to
Montrose. On their way home they had drunk quite freely at the latter
place, and thought they would touch the mare up with the whip; they were
in an open team and the result was that she left them at different
points along the road and reached home with no further impediment to her
career than the shafts and the front wheels.
Instead of coming back by the main road which led by Uncle Ike's, Quincy
went through by what was called The Willows, which increased the
distance a couple of miles. Nevertheless, it lacked five minutes of one
o'clock when he drove up to Deacon Mason's front door.
Huldy was all dressed for the occasion, and with a "Good-by, mother," to
Mrs. Mason, who was in the kitchen, was out the front door, helped into
the team, and they were off just as the startled matron reached the
parlor window. Mrs. Mason returned to the kitchen and at that moment the
Deacon came in from the barn.
"What's the matter, mother?" asked the Deacon, noticing her excited and
somewhat troubled look.
"Huldy is gone out riding again with Mr. Sawyer," said she.
The Deacon was a good Christian man and didn't swear, but he was
evidently thinking deeply. Finally he said, "Well, mother, we must make
the best of it. I'll help him find a boarding place if he don't get one
by to-morrow."
They had a splendid drive. The air was cool, but not biting, the sun was
warm, the roads had dried up since the recent thaw, which had removed
the snow, with the exception of some patches in the fields, and the
high-topped buggy rolled smoothly over the ground.
They passed through the little square in front of Hill's grocery, and as
luck would have it, Professor Strout was standing on the platform
smoking a cigar. Huldy smiled and nodded to him, and Quincy, with true
politeness, followed a city custom and raised his hat, but the Professor
did not return the bow, nor the salute, but turning on his heel walked
into the grocery store.
"Professor Strout is not very polite, is he, Mr. Sawyer?" asked Huldy,
laughing.
Quincy replied, looking straight ahead, "He has never learned the first
letter in the alphabet of the art."
Quincy had a disagreeable duty to perform. He enjoyed Miss Huldy's
company, but she was not the sort of girl he could love enough to make
his wife. Then the thought came to him, supposing she should fall in
love with him; that was not impossible, and it must be prevented.
When they were about half a mile from Mason's Corner, on their way home,
Quincy realized that he could not put the matter off any longer.
Just as he was going to speak to her she turned to him and said, "Let me
drive the rest of the way home, Mr. Sawyer."
"Oh, no," replied Quincy, "I think I had better keep the reins. You know
I am responsible for you until you are safe at home."
Huldy pouted. "You think I can't drive," said she, "I have driven horses
all my life. Please let me, Mr. Sawyer," she added coaxingly. And she
took the reins from his hands.
"Well," said Quincy, "you are now responsible for me and I shall expect
you to be very careful."
They drove a short distance in silence; then Quincy turned to her and
said abruptly, "This is our last ride together, Miss Mason."
"Why?" inquired she with an astonished look in her face.
"I am going to leave your very pleasant home to-morrow," said Quincy.
The girl's cheeks paled perceptibly.
"Are you going back to Boston?" she asked.
"No, not for some time," Quincy replied, "but I have had some advice
given me and I think it best to follow it."
"You have been advised to leave my father's house," said she, holding
the reins listlessly in her hand.
Quincy said, "You won't be offended if I tell you the whole truth?"
"No; why should I?" asked Huldy.
As she said this she gathered up the reins and gave them a sharp pull.
The white mare understood this to be a signal to do some good travelling
and she started off at a brisk trot.
Quincy said, "I was told yesterday by a friend that if I was not a
marrying man they would advise me to leave Deacon Mason's house at
once."
The blood shot into Huldy's face at once. He was not a marrying man and
consequently he was going to leave. He did not care for her or he would
stay. Then another thought struck her. Perhaps he was going away because
he was afraid she would fall in love with him.
As the Deacon had said, she was high spirited, and for an instant she
was filled with indignation. She shut her eyes, and her heart seemed to
stop its beating. She heard Quincy's voice, "Look out for the curve,
Miss Mason." She dropped the left rein and mechanically gave the right
one a strong, sharp pull with both hands. Quincy grasped the reins, but
it was too late.
Huldy's pull on the right rein had thrown the horse almost at right
angles to the buggy. The steep hill and sharp curve in the road did the
rest. The buggy stood for an instant on two wheels, then fell on its
side with a crash, taking the horse off her feet at the same time.
Huldy pitched forward as the buggy was falling, striking her left arm
upon the wheel, and then fell into the road. Quincy gave a quick leap
over the dasher, falling on the prostrate horse, and grasping her by the
head, pressed it to the ground. The mare lay motionless. Quincy rushed
to Miss Mason and lifted her to her feet, but found her a dead weight in
his arms. He looked in her face. She had evidently fainted. Her left arm
hung by her side in a helpless sort of way; he touched it lightly
between the elbow and shoulder. It was broken. Grasping her in his arms
he ran to the back door and burst into the kitchen where Mrs. Mason was
at work.
Quincy said in quick, excited tones, "There has been an accident, Mrs.
Mason, and your daughter's arm is broken; she has also fainted. I will
take her right to her room and put her on her bed. You can bring her out
of that." Suiting the action to the word, he took Huldy upstairs,
saying, "I will go for the doctor at once."
Then he dashed down the stairs and out of the front door; as he reached
the team he found Hiram standing beside it, his eyes wide open with
astonishment.
"Had a smash-up, Mr. Sawyer?" he asked. "How did it happen?"
"All my carelessness," said Quincy. "Come, give me a lift on the buggy,
quick."
How it was done Quincy could never tell afterwards, but in a very short
time the buggy was righted, the mare on her feet and the harness
adjusted. Hiram took off his cap and began dusting the mare, whose white
coat showed the dust very plainly.
"Where does the nearest doctor live, Hiram?" asked Quincy.
"Second house up the road you just come down," said Hiram. "The folks
say he don't know much, anyway."
"Well, you get him here as quick as possible," said Quincy. "I am going
to Eastborough Centre to telegraph for a surgeon and a trained nurse.
Can you remember that?"
Quincy passed him a dollar bill.
Hiram winked and said, "I guess I can," and darted off up the hill.
Quincy sprang into the team and the white mare dashed forward at full
speed. As he reached the Pettengill house he saw Ezekiel standing at the
front gate. With difficulty he pulled the mare up, for she was greatly
excited.
"Mr. Pettengill," said he, "there has been a serious accident. Miss
Mason has been thrown from her carriage and her left arm is broken. I
sent Hiram for a doctor and I am on my way to Eastborough to telegraph
to Boston for a surgeon and a nurse. I shall not return to-night. Go up
to the Deacon's and stay with her."
As he said this the mare gave a bound forward and she never slackened
pace until Eastborough Centre was reached.
Quincy sent his telegram and returned the injured buggy and the horse to
the stable keeper, telling him to have it repaired and he would pay the
bill. He arranged to have a driver and a four-seated team ready on the
arrival of the train bearing the doctor and the nurse. In about an hour
he received a telegram that they would leave on the 6.05 express and
would reach Eastborough Centre at 7.15.
They arrived, and the hired driver, doctor, and nurse started for
Mason's Corner.
The last train to Boston left at 9.20. Ten minutes before that hour the
team returned with the doctor.
"She is all right," he said. "Everything has been done for her, and the
other doctor will write me when my services are needed again. Good
night."
The train dashed in and the doctor sped back to Boston.
Quincy had engaged a room at the hotel, and he at once retired to it,
but not to sleep. He passed the most uncomfortable night that had ever
come to him.
The next afternoon Hiram told Mandy that he heard Professor Strout say
to Robert Wood that he guessed that "accident would never have occurred
if that city chap hadn't been trying to drive hoss with one hand."
Mandy said, "That Strout is a mean old thing, anyway, and if you tell me
another thing that he says, I'll fill your mouth full o' soft soap, or
my name isn't Mandy Skinner."
CHAPTER XI.
SOME SAD TIDINGS.
The morning of the accident, when Quincy saw Ezekiel Pettengill standing
on the steps of Uncle Ike's house, Ezekiel was the bearer of some sad
tidings.
He recognized Quincy as the latter started to come up the path, and saw
him retrace his steps, and naturally thought, as most men would, that
the reason Quincy did not come in was because he did not wish to meet
him.
"Who was you looking after?" asked Uncle Ike, as Ezekiel entered the
room and closed the door.
"I think it was Mr. Sawyer," replied Ezekiel, "on his way to Eastborough
Centre."
"That Mr. Sawyer," said Uncle Ike, "is a very level-headed young man. He
called on me once and I like him very much. Do you know him, 'Zeke?"
"Yes, I know who he is," Ezekiel answered, "but I have never been
introduced to him. He nods and I nod, or I say, 'good mornin',' and he
says, 'good mornin'.'"
"Don't you go up to Deacon Mason's as much as you used to, 'Zeke?" asked
Uncle Ike. "I thought Huldy and you were going to make a match of it."
Ezekiel replied, "Well, to be honest, Uncle Ike, Huldy and me had a
little tiff, and I haven't seen her to speak to her for more than three
weeks, but I guess it will all come out all right some day."
"Well, you're on the right track, 'Zeke," said Uncle Ike. "Do all your
fighting before you get married. But what brings you down here so early
in the morning?"
"I've got some bad news," replied Ezekiel. "Have you heard from Alice
lately?"
"No," said Uncle Ike, "and I can't understand it. She has always written
to me once a fortnight, and it's a month now since I heard from her, and
she has sent me a book every Christmas until this last one."
"She has been very sick, Uncle Ike," said Ezekiel. "She was taken down
about the middle of December and was under the doctor's care for three
weeks."
"Is she better?" asked Uncle Ike eagerly.
"Yes, she is up again," said Ezekiel, "but she is very weak; but that
ain't the worst of it," he added.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Uncle Ike. "Why didn't her friends let
us know?"
"She wouldn't let them," said Ezekiel. "If it hadn't been for what the
eye doctor told her she wouldn't have telegraphed to me what she did."
"Well, what's the matter with her?" cried Uncle Ike almost fiercely.
"Well, Uncle Ike," said Ezekiel, and the tears stood in his eyes as he
said it, "our Allie is almost blind, but the eye doctor says she will
get better, but it will take a very long time. She has had to give up
her job, and I am going to Boston again to-morrow to bring her home to
the old house."
"What's the matter with her eyes?" asked Uncle Ike.
"He called them cataracts," said Ezekiel, "or something like that."
Uncle Ike sat down in his armchair and thought for a minute or two.
"Yes," he said, "I know what they are; I have read all about them, and I
know people who have had them. One was a schoolmate of mine. He was a
mighty smart fellow and I felt sorry for him and used to help him out in
his studies. I heard he had his eyes operated on and recovered his
sight."
"Well, the doctor she has," said Ezekiel, "is agin operations. He says
they can be cured without them. She drops something in her eyes and
blows something in them, and then the tears come, and then she sits
quietly with her hands folded, thinking, I suppose, till the time comes
to use the medicine again."
"What can I do to help you?" asked Uncle Ike. "You know I always loved
Alice even better than I did my own children, because she is more
lovable, I suppose. Now, 'Zeke, if you want any money for doctor's bills
or anything else, I am ready to do everything in the world I can for
Alice. Did she ask after me, 'Zeke?"
"Almost the first thing she said was, 'How is dear old Uncle Ike?' and
then she said how glad she would be to get back to Eastborough, where
she could have you to talk to. 'I am lonesome now,' she said, 'I cannot
write nor read, and the time passes so slowly with no one to talk to.'"
"But the poor dear girl can't walk down here to see me," said Uncle Ike.
"That's just what I came to see you about," said Ezekiel. "The greatest
favor you can do Alice and me is to come up to the old house and live
with us for a while and be company for Alice. You can have the big front
room that father and mother used to have, and Alice's room, you know, is
just side of that. In a little while I shall have to be busy on the farm
and poor Alice--"
"Don't talk any more about it, 'Zeke," said Uncle Ike. "Of course I'll
come. She will do me as much good as I'll do her. Send down the boys
with the team to-morrow noon and I'll be all settled by the time you get
back."
"I'll do it," said Ezekiel. "It is very good of you. Uncle Ike, to give
up your little home here that you like so much and come to live with us.
I know you wouldn't do it for anybody but Alice, and I'll leave her to
thank you when she gets down here."
Uncle Ike and Ezekiel shook hands warmly.
"Don't you need any money, 'Zeke?" asked Uncle Ike.
"No," replied Ezekiel. "Alice wouldn't let me pay out a cent; she had
some money saved up in the bank and she insisted on paying for
everything herself. She wouldn't come home till I promised 'her I'd let
her pay her board when she got able to work again."
"She always was independent," said Uncle Ike, "and that was one reason
why I liked her. But more than that, she is the fairest-minded and
best-tempered woman I ever met in my life, and I have seen a good many."
Ezekiel shook hands again with Uncle Ike, and then started off briskly
with a much lighter heart than he had before the interview. Reaching
home he astonished Mandy Skinner by telling her that he was going to
bring his sister down from Boston and that Uncle Ike was coming to live
with them for a while.
"My Lord!" cried Mandy, "and do you expect me to do all this extra
work?"
"I don't expect nothing," said Ezekiel. "You can get old Mrs. Crowley to
come and do the heavy work, and I guess you can get along. You allus
said you liked her, she was such a nice washer and ironer. She can have
the little room over the ell, and I'll give you a dollar a week extra
for your trouble. Do you think you can get along, Mandy?"
Mandy answered, "I know I can with your sister all right, but if your
Uncle Ike comes out here in the kitchen and tells me how to roast meat
and make pies, as he did once, there will be trouble, and he may have to
do all the cooking."
Ezekiel smiled, but said nothing, and went off upstairs to look at the
two rooms that were to be occupied by Uncle Ike and poor Allie.
CHAPTER XII.
LOOKING FOR A BOARDING PLACE.
When Quincy awoke in his room at the hotel on the morning after the
accident he found to his great surprise that it was nine o'clock. He
arose and dressed quickly, and after a light breakfast started off
towards Uncle Ike's. Reaching the house he was astonished at the sight
that met his gaze. Everything was out of place. The bed was down and the
bedding tied up in bundles; the books had been taken from the bookcase
and had been piled up on the table. There was no fire in the stove, and
the funnel was laid upon the top of it. Quincy had remembered that he
had seen a pile of soot on the ground near the steps as he came up them.
All of Uncle Ike's cooking utensils were packed in a soap box which
stood near the stove.
"What's the matter, Mr. Pettengill, are you going to move?" asked
Quincy.
"For a time at least," replied Uncle Ike. "'Zeke Pettengill's sister has
been struck blind and he is going to bring her down home this afternoon
and I am going to live with them and be company for her. I always
thought as much of Alice as if she was my own daughter, and now she is
in trouble, her old uncle isn't going back on her. It isn't Ike
Pettengill's way."
"Have you seen 'Zekiel Pettengill this morning?" asked Quincy.
"No, nor I didn't expect to," replied Uncle Ike. "I suppose he went to
Boston on the nine o'clock train and will be back on the three o'clock
express."
"Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy, "can you give me fifteen minutes' time
for a talk?"
"Well," said Uncle Ike, looking at his watch, "it will be half an hour
before Cobb's twins will be down here with the team, and I might as well
listen to you as sit around and do nothing. They are coming down again
by and by to get the chickens. I have a good mind to set the house on
fire and burn it up. If I don't, I suppose some tramp will, and if I
need another house like it, thank the Lord I've got money enough to
build it."
"No, don't burn it up, Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy. "Let it to me. I am
around looking for a boarding place myself."
"Why, what's the matter, what made you leave Deacon Mason's?"
"That's what I want to tell you," said Quincy. "Time is limited and I'll
make my story short, but you are a friend of my father's, and I want you
to understand the whole business."
"Why, what have you been up to?" asked Uncle Ike, opening his eyes.
"Nothing," said Quincy, "and that's the trouble. When I went to Deacon
Mason's nobody told me that his daughter was engaged to Ezekiel
Pettengill."
"And she isn't," interjected Uncle Ike.
"Well," said Quincy, "they have been keeping company together, but I
didn't know it. Miss Mason is a pretty girl and a very pleasant one.
Time hung heavily on my hands and I naturally paid her some attentions;
gave her flowers and candy, and took her out to ride, but I never
thought of falling in love with her, and I am not conceited enough to
think she is in love with me."
"Well, I don't know," said Uncle Ike reflectively. "Perhaps she has
heard your father was worth a million dollars."
"No, I don't believe that," said Quincy. "Miss Mason is too true and
honest a girl to marry a man simply for his money."
"Well, I think you are right there," remarked Uncle Ike.
"New Year's night," said Quincy, "at the concert in the Town Hall,
Strout, the singing teacher, got down on me because Miss Putnam and I
received so much applause for singing a duet together. Then I broke his
heart by whistling a tune for the girls and boys, and then again he
doesn't like me because I am from the city! he hired a fellow to whip
me, but the fellow didn't know how to box and I knocked him out very
quickly. Now that Strout can't hurt me any other way he has gone to work
making up lies, and the village is full of gossip about Miss Mason and
me. Deacon Mason was going to talk to me about it, but I told him
yesterday morning that I was going to get another boarding place, and I
should have done so yesterday but for a very unfortunate accident."
"Accident?" said Uncle Ike; "why, you seem to be all right."
"I wish I had been the victim," said Quincy, "instead of Miss Mason. I
took her out riding yesterday and the buggy got tipped over right in
front of Deacon Mason's house, and Miss Mason had her left arm broken
above the elbow. I have done all I could to atone for my carelessness,
but I am afraid 'Zeke Pettengill will never forgive me. I wish, Mr.
Pettengill, you would make him understand my position in the matter. I
would like to be good friends with him, for I have nothing against him.
He is the most gentlemanly young man that I have seen in the town. I
value his good opinion and I want him to understand that I haven't
intentionally done anything to wrong or injure him."
Uncle Ike covered his eyes with his hands and mused for a few minutes;
then he finally said, "Mr. Sawyer, I have got an idea. That fellow,
Strout, thinks he runs this town, and it would tickle him to death if
he thought he made things uncomfortable for you. Then, again, I happen
to know that he is sweet on Huldy Mason himself, and he would do all he
could to widen the breach between 'Zeke and her. You see, he isn't but
forty himself, and he wouldn't mind the difference in ages at all. Now,
my plan is this." Uncle Ike looked out the window and said, "Here comes
Cobb's twins with the team. Now we will take, my things up to the house,
then you take the team and go up to Deacon Mason's and get your trunk
and bring it down to Pettengill's house. You will be my guest for
to-night, anyway, and if I don't make things right with 'Zeke so you can
stay there, I'll fix it anyway so you can stay till you get a place to
suit you. Now don't say no, Mr. Sawyer. Your father and I are old
friends and he will sort o' hold me responsible for your good treatment.
I won't take no for an answer. If you have no objections, Mr. Sawyer, I
wish you would keep your eye on those books when they are put into the
team, for those Cobb boys handle everything as though it was a rock or a
tree stump." And Uncle Ike, taking his kerosene lamp in one hand and his
looking glass in the other, cried, "Come in," as one of the Cobb boys
knocked on the door.
CHAPTER XIII.
A VISIT TO THE VICTIM.
It was not until Quincy had reached the Pettengill house and helped
Uncle Ike get his things in order, that he finally decided to accept
Uncle Ike's offer. If he went to Eastborough Centre to live at the
hotel, he knew Strout would consider he had won a victory. He had
thought of going to Mr. and Mrs. Putnam about a room and board, but then
he remembered Lindy, and said to himself that Miss Putnam was a pretty
girl and it would be the same old story over again. Then he thought,
"There won't be any danger here with a blind girl and Mandy Skinner, and
if Uncle Ike can arrange matters it will be the best thing I can do."
And so he drove up to Deacon Mason's with Cobb's twins, saw Mrs. Mason,
went upstairs and packed his trunk quickly, and the Cobb boys drove away
with it to his new, though perhaps only temporary, lodgings.
When Quincy went downstairs, Mrs. Mason was in the parlor, and she
beckoned to him to come in. He entered and closed the door.
"I want to speak to you a few minutes," said she, "and I want to tell
you first I don't blame you a bit. I know you told 'Zeke Pettengill that
the tip-over was all your carelessness, but Huldy says it ain't so. She
said she was driving, though you didn't want her to, and the accident
was all her fault. Now, I believe my daughter tells the truth, and the
Deacon thinks so too."
"Well, Mrs. Mason," said Quincy, "what your daughter says is partly
true, but I am still to blame for allowing her to drive a horse with
which she was not acquainted."
"That warn't the trouble, Mr. Sawyer," said Mrs. Mason. "Huldy told me
the whole truth. You said something to her about going away. She had
heard what the village gossips were saying. Huldy's got a high temper
and she was so mad that she got flustrated, and that's what caused all
the trouble. I like you, Mr. Sawyer, and Huldy likes you. She says you
have allus been a perfect gentleman, and the Deacon now is awful sorry
you are going, but I hope you will come and see us often while you stay
at Mason's Corner."
"I certainly shall, Mrs. Mason," replied Quincy. "How is Miss Mason?"
"Oh, she is fust rate," said the Deacon's wife. "That doctor from the
city fixed her arm all up in what he called a jacket, and that nurse
that you sent just seems to know what Huldy wants before she can ask for
it I hear them nurses are awful expensive, and I don't think she better
stay but a day or two longer."
"She can't leave till the surgeon comes from Boston and says she can
go," he remarked, thinking this was the easiest way to get out of it.
"May I see Miss Mason?" he added.
"Certainly," replied Mrs. Mason. "She is in the front chamber. We moved
her in there 'cause there is a fireplace in the room and the nurse
objected to the wood stove that Huldy had in her room. She said it was
either too hot or too cold, and that Huldy must have an even
temperature."
As Quincy entered the room Huldy looked up and a faint smile lighted her
face. Her usually rosy cheeks showed only a faint touch of pink. The
helpless left arm, in its plaster of paris jacket, rested on the outside
of the white quilt, the fingers on her little hand projecting beyond the
covering.
Quincy advanced to the bedside and took a vacant chair. The nurse was
sitting by the window. She glanced up at him and at Mrs. Mason, who
followed close behind him, but continued the reading of her book.
Quincy said lightly, as he reached over and took the right hand and gave
it a little shake, "You're not shaking hands with the left, Miss Mason."
"No," said Huldy, "I wish I could shake it, but nurse says it will have
to stay on for two or three weeks, and it is so heavy, Mr. Sawyer."
Mrs. Mason went to the nurse and whispered to her, "Don't let him stay
too long." The nurse nodded and Mrs. Mason left the room.
Quincy said in a low tone, as he sat in the chair by the bedside, "Miss
Mason, I can't express my sorrow for this unfortunate occurrence. Your
mother says you have told her it was your fault. But I insisted it was
my fault in allowing you to drive a strange horse."
Huldy smiled. "It wasn't the horse, Mr. Sawyer," she said, and quickly
changing the subject asked, "Where are you going to board now?".
"Old Uncle Ike Pettengill has taken pity on me," replied Quincy,
thinking he would not say anything about going to Ezekiel Pettengill's
house.
"But," said Huldy, "Zekiel called here this morning before he went to
Boston for his sister and told me that Uncle Ike was coming to live with
him. Didn't I hear them take your trunk away a little while ago?"
Quincy saw it was useless to prevaricate, so he said, "My trunk was
taken to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's house."
"I hope you and 'Zekiel will be good friends," said Huldy, with a grave
look on her face.
"I trust we may become so," remarked Quincy. "I am afraid we are not
now, and I am still more afraid it is my fault that we are not on the
best of terms."
Huldy turned her face towards him, a red flush coloring her cheeks and
brow. "No," she said, with vehemence, "it was my fault, and you know it,
Mr. Sawyer. How you must hate me for having caused you so much trouble."
She gave a convulsive sob and burst into a flood of tears.
Quincy was on the point of assuring Huldy that he could never hate her
and that they would always be good friends, but he had no opportunity to
frame the words.
As Huldy sobbed and began to cry, the nurse jumped to her feet, dropped
her book on the floor, and came quickly to the bedside. She said
nothing, but the look upon her face convinced Quincy that he must wait
for a more auspicious moment to declare his friendly sentiment. So with
a "Good-by, Miss Mason, I'll call again soon," he quitted the apartment
and left the victim to the ministrations of the nurse.
CHAPTER XIV.
A QUIET EVENING.
After the somewhat exciting termination of his interview with Miss
Mason, Quincy left the house quickly and walked down to Ezekiel
Pettengill's. Uncle Ike was there and he told Mandy to show Mr. Sawyer
to his room, which proved to be the big front one upstairs.
When he was alone, Quincy sank into the capacious rocking chair and fell
to thinking. His mind went back to his parting with Miss Mason. She had
said that it wasn't the horse, so it must have been what he said to her.
Was she angry because he had decided to go in order to stop village
gossip, or had she really cared for him? Well, it was over now. He would
never know what her real feelings were, and after all it was best for
him not to know. He would drop the whole matter where it was. Then he
began to think about his present position. Here he was located in the
house of the man who would naturally be considered the last one to
desire his company.
Uncle Ike had told him that he would make it all right. If he failed in
this and Ezekiel objected to his remaining he could move again. He was
determined not to leave Mason's Corner till he got ready, and he felt
sure he would not be ready to go until he had squared accounts with
Strout.
Presently he heard the sound of wheels. The Pettengill house faced the
south and Eastborough Centre lay west of Mason's Corner, so he could not
see the team when it arrived, as it drove up to the back door, but he
knew that Ezekiel had arrived with his sister. Uncle Ike and Cobb's
twins went down stairs quickly; there was a jumble of voices, and then
the party entered the house. A short time after he heard persons moving
in the room adjoining his, and guessed that Ezekiel's sister was to
occupy it.
Then he fell to imagining the conversation that was doubtless going on
between Uncle Ike and his nephew. Quincy was not naturally nervous, but
he did not like suspense; almost unconsciously he arose and walked back
and forth across the room several times. Then it occurred to him that
probably the uncle and nephew were having their conversation in the
parlor, which was right under him, and he curbed his impatience and
threw himself into the armchair, which stood near the open fireplace.
As he did so there came a sharp rap at the door. In response to the
quick uttered "Come in," the door opened and Uncle Ike entered. He came
forward, took a seat in the rocking chair near Quincy and passed him two
letters.
Quincy looked up inquiringly. He had had his mail sent to Eastborough
Centre, where he had hired a box. At the Mason's Corner post office the
letters were stuck upon a rack, where every one could see them, and
Quincy did not care to have the loungers at Hill's grocery inspecting
his correspondence.
Uncle Ike saw the look and understood it. Then he said, "'Zekiel brought
these over from Eastborough Centre. He didn't want to, but the
postmaster said one of them was marked 'In haste,' and he had been over
to the hotel and found that you had gone to Mason's Corner, and probably
wouldn't be back to-day, and so he thought 'Zekiel better bring it
over."
"It was very kind of Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy, "and I wish you would
thank him for me."
In the meantime he had glanced at his letters. One bore, printed in the
corner, the names, Sawyer, Crowninshield, & Lawrence, Counsellors at
Law, Court Street, Boston, Mass. That was from his father. The other was
directed in a feminine hand and bore the postmark, Mason's Corner, Mass.
He could not imagine from whom it could be.
"I have had a talk with 'Zekiel," said Uncle Ike, "and the whole matter
is satisfactorily arranged; he is a fair-minded young fellow and he
don't believe you have done anything with the intention of injuring him.
What did you pay up to Deacon Mason's?"
"Five dollars a week," replied Quincy.
"Well, it will be the same here," said Uncle Ike. "You can stay as long
as you like. 'Zeke wouldn't charge you anything, but I said no, you have
got to look out for your sister, and Mr. Sawyer can afford to pay."
Quincy broke in, "And I wouldn't stay unless I did pay. I am able and
willing to pay more, if he will take it."
"Not a cent more," said Uncle Ike. "He will give you your money's worth,
and then one won't owe the other anything. When you come down to supper
I'll introduce you, just as if you had never seen each other, and you
can both take a fresh start."
Uncle Ike arose. "By the time you have read your letters supper will be
ready, and I want to go in and have a talk with Alice. She is my only
niece, Mr. Sawyer, and I think she is the finest girl in Massachusetts,
and, as far as I know, there ain't any better one in the whole world;"
and Uncle Ike went out, closing the door behind him.
Quincy resumed his seat by the window. The light had faded considerably,
but he could still see to read. Naturally enough he first opened the
letter bearing the feminine handwriting. He looked at the signature
first of all and read "Lucinda Putnam." "What can she have to write to
me about?" he thought. He read the letter:
Mason's Corner, January 22, 186--
My dear Mr. Sawyer:--I regret very much that I was absent when you
called, but am glad to learn from mother that you had a pleasant visit.
Although you are from the city I am sure you would blush if you could
hear the nice things mother said about you. I am conceited enough to
think that you will find time to call on us again soon, for I wish to
consult you regarding an important business matter. I am going to Boston
next Monday in relation to this business and if you could make it
convenient to call before then it would be greatly appreciated by
Yours very truly,
LUCINDA PUTNAM.
Quincy reflected. "What is she up to? Some legal business, I suppose.
Well, I am not practising law now; I shall have to refer her to--"
He took up the other letter and read, "Sawyer, Crowninshield, &
Lawrence."
His father's letter read as follows:
Boston, January 21, 186--
My dear Son:--Yours at hand, and inquiries carefully noted. I had a
brother, James Edward Sawyer; he was five years older than I and must be
about sixty. Father wished him to study law, but he wouldn't study
anything. When father died he got his share of the money, about $50,000,
but he squandered the most of it in high living. The next we heard of
him he had married a country girl named Eunice Raymond, I think. He
brought her to Boston and tried to introduce her into the society he had
been brought up in. She was a nice, pretty woman, but uneducated, and
naturally bashful, and James finally left the city and went to live
somewhere in the country, I never knew where! he never wrote me after
leaving Boston. This Jim Sawyer may be your uncle. I hope not, but if he
is, remember he is my brother, and if he needs any assistance let me
know at once. I hope your health is improving. Your mother and sisters
are well and send love, as does also
Your affectionate father,
NATHANIEL ADAMS SAWYER.
As Quincy finished his second letter there was another rap at the door
and Mandy's voice was heard outside saying, "Supper's ready, Mr.
Saw--yer."
Quincy jumped to his feet. He had not unlocked his trunk, as he was not
certain that it would be worth while to do so. It was but the work of a
few moments to make the necessary changes in his toilet. He put on a
black Prince Albert coat in place of a sack coat that he usually wore,
but before he had completed this change there came another tap on the
door, and Mandy's voice was heard saying, "The things will get cold if
you don't come down right away."
As Quincy entered the large room which was used for a dining-room, he
was met by Uncle Ike. Ezekiel was standing a short distance from his
uncle. Uncle Ike said, "'Zekiel, this is my friend, Mr. Sawyer. Mr.
Sawyer, this is my nephew, 'Zekiel Pettengill. I am good friends with
both of you, and I hope you will be good friends to each other."
The two men shook hands. If each had any idea of what the other was
thinking about he did not betray it by look or act.
Uncle Ike continued, "Mr. Sawyer, this is Jim Cobb and this is Bill
Cobb, and this," as Mandy entered bearing something for the table, "is
Miss Mandy Skinner. Now that we are all acquainted, I think we had all
better introduce ourselves at once to the supper. I haven't done such a
hard day's work for sixteen years."
Ezekiel insisted upon Uncle Ike taking the head of the table. He
motioned Mr. Sawyer to take the second seat from his uncle on the right,
while he took the first seat on the left, with Cobb's twins next to him.
Quincy immediately surmised that when the sister appeared at the table
she would probably sit between him and Uncle Ike.
The meal was not a very lively one as far as conversation went. Quincy
inquired politely concerning Miss Pettengill's health, and Uncle Ike
said she was tired after her trip, and Mandy was going to take her
supper up to her.
The meal was plentiful and well cooked. Quincy thought to himself, how
much brighter it would have looked, and how much better the food would
have tasted if Miss Huldy Mason had been present with her pretty face,
joyous laugh, and occasional bright sayings.
After supper the things were quickly taken out by Mandy. The white
tablecloth was removed, and one in which the prevailing color was bright
red took its place.
The three men drew up to the open fireplace. Uncle Ike pulled out his
pipe and said, "Do you allow smoking here, 'Zeke?"
'Zekiel replied, "I wish you and Mr. Sawyer to make yourselves perfectly
at home and do just as you would if you were in your own house."
"Well, if I did that," said Uncle Ike, "you wouldn't need Mandy, for I
should be chief cook and bottle washer myself."
Uncle Ike lighted his pipe, and Ezekiel took a cigar from his pocket,
saying, "I guess I'll smoke, too." Then his face reddened. He said, "Beg
pardon, Mr. Sawyer, I have only this one."
"That's all right," rejoined Quincy, "a cigar would be too heavy for me
to-night. I have a slight headache, and if you will excuse me I will
roll a cigarette."
[Illustration: "MANDY SKINNER," AS SHE APPEARS IN THE PLAY.]
He took his little case of rice paper from his pocket and also a small
pouch of tobacco, and deftly made and lighted a cigarette. The three men
sat smoking, and as Quincy blew a ring into the air he wondered what Sir
Walter Raleigh would have said if he could have looked in upon them.
Quincy broke the silence. "I am afraid, Uncle Ike, that I have caused
you much inconvenience by driving you out of that pleasant front room
where I found my trunk."
"Not a bit," replied Uncle Ike. "I hate carpets, and I prefer to sleep
in my own bed, and what's more, I wanted to put up my stove, and there
was no chance in that front room. When real cold weather comes I always
have a ton of coal for my stove, so I am much better off where I am than
I would be downstairs. By the way, 'Zeke, just tell me all about Alice
again. You won't mind Mr. Sawyer; he is one of the family now."
"Well," said Ezekiel, "Alice was taken sick about the middle of
December. The folks where she boarded sent for a doctor. It was about
eight o'clock in the morning when she was taken, and it was noon before
she got easy, so they could get her to bed. She thought she was getting
better; then, she had another attack; then she thought she was getting
better again, and the third attack was the worst of the three. The folks
wanted to write to me, but she wouldn't let them. When she really did
begin to get better, she found out there was something that was worse
than being sick. She found she couldn't see to read either print or
writing, but Alice is a spunky girl, and she wouldn't give in, even
then. A friend told her to go and see Dr. Moses, who was an eye doctor,
and put herself right under his treatment. She thought she was going to
get well right off at first, but when she found it was likely to be a
long job, then she gave in and wrote to me. She has brought her
treatment down with her, and the doctor says she will have to go to
Boston once a month to see him, as he is too busy to come down here."
At this point in the proceedings the door opened and Mandy entered,
bringing a large dish of big red apples and another full of cracked
shellbarks. She left the room and returned almost immediately with a
large dish full of popcorn.
"Have an apple?" said Ezekiel. "Help yourselves; we don't pass anything
round here. We put the things on the table and each one helps himself."
Mandy came in again, bringing a large pitcher of cider and some glasses,
which she placed upon the table.
While the three men were discussing their country evening lunch in
silence, an animated conversation was taking place in the kitchen, the
participants being Mandy, Mrs. Bridget Crowley, and Hiram, who always
dropped in during the evening to get his glass of cider, a luxury that
was not dispensed at Deacon Mason's.
"Well," said Mandy, "I think it's wasteful extravagance for you Irish
folks to spend so much money on carriages when one of your friends
happens to die. As you just said, when you lived in Boston you own up
you spent fourteen dollars in one month going to funerals, and you paid
a dollar a seat each time."
"I did that," said Mrs. Crowley, "and I earned every bit of it doing
washing, for Pat, bless his sowl, was out of work at the time."
"Just think of that!" said Mandy, turning to Hiram.
"Well, it can't be helped," said Mrs. Crowley, obstinately. "Shure and
if I don't go to folks' funerals they won't come to mine."
This was too much for Mandy and Hiram, and they began laughing, which so
incensed Mrs. Crowley that she trudged off to her little room in the
ell, which departure just suited Mandy and Hiram.
"Have you got any soft soap here in the kitchen?" asked Hiram.
"No," said Mandy, "I used the last this afternoon. I shall have to go
out in the shed to-morrow morning and get some."
"You wouldn't be likely to go out to-night for any?" asked Hiram.
"I guess not," said Mandy. "Why, there is rats out in that shed as big
as kittens. Did you want to use some?"
"No," said Hiram, "but I didn't want you to have any 'round handy, for I
am bound to tell you I heard Strout telling the minister's son that
Lindy Putnam writ a letter to Mr. Sawyer and mailed it at Mason's Corner
post office this mornin', and it was directed to Eastborough Centre, and
Strout said it looked as though they were keeping up correspondence. I
tell you that made 'Manuel Howe mad, for he's gone on Lindy Putnam
himself, and then Strout said that probably all the fellers in town
would have to put off getting married until that city chap had decided
which one of the girls he wanted himself. And now, hang it," said Hiram,
"he has come to live in this house, and I sha'n't have any peace of
mind."
Hiram dodged the first apple Mandy threw at his head, but the second one
hit him squarely, and he gave a loud "Oh!"
"Stop your noise," said Mandy, "or Mr. Pettengill will be out here. I'll
ask them if they want anything else," as she rapped on the door. There
was no response and she opened it and looked in. "Why, they have all
gone to bed," she said. At that moment the old clock in the kitchen
struck nine. "It's nine o'clock and you had better be going home, Hiram
Maxwell."
"I shall have to get some anarchy to put on my forehead," said Hiram.
"See that big bump, Mandy, that you made."
Mandy approached him quite closely and looked at his forehead; as she
did so she turned up her nose and puckered her mouth. Her arms were
hanging by her side. Hiram grasped her around the waist, holding both of
her arms tight, and before Mandy could break away he gave her a kiss
full on the mouth.
He made a quick rush for the door, opened it and dashed out into the
night. Luckily for him there was no moon and he was out of sight before
Mandy could recover her self-possession and reach the door. She peered
out into the darkness for a moment; then she closed the door and bolted
it, took a lamp and went up to her own room. Standing in front of her
looking glass, she turned up her nose and puckered up her mouth as she
had done when facing Hiram.
"That's the first time Hiram Maxwell ever kissed me," she said to
herself, "Mebbe it will be the last time and mebbe it won't." Then she
said reflectively, "I didn't think the little fellow had so much spunk
in him."
In a quarter of an hour she was dreaming of cupids, and hearts, and
arrows, and St. Valentine's Day, which was not so very far away.
CHAPTER XV.
A LONG LOST RELATIVE.
Ezekiel Pettengill owned what Deacon Mason did not--a nice carryall and
a good road horse. Ezekiel would fix no price, but Quincy would not
drive him unless he paid for the use of the team. One dollar for half a
day, two dollars for a whole day, were the prices finally fixed upon.
Quincy drove first to Mrs. Putnam's. As he was ascending the steps the
front door was opened and Lindy stood there to welcome him, which she
did by extending her hand and then showing him into the parlor. She was
evidently on the point of going out, for she had on her outdoor
garments. After a few commonplaces relating to health and the weather,
Quincy abruptly approached the object of his visit by saying, "I
received your letter, Miss Putnam, and I have come to see if I can be of
any service to you."
"Oh! I know you can," said Lindy; "you are wealthy--"
"I beg your pardon," interposed Quincy, "I am not what they call a
wealthy young man; the fact that my father is possessed of a large
fortune has probably given rise to the incorrect impression just
repeated by you."
"I understand," said Lindy, with a laugh. "What I meant to say was, that
you are undoubtedly acquainted with wealthy gentlemen, who know the best
ways of investing money. I find my money a great trouble to me," she
continued. "I had $25,000 invested in a first mortgage, but the property
has been sold and the money repaid to me, and I don't know what to do
with it."
"The obvious thing to do," remarked Quincy, "is to invest it at once, so
that it will begin paying you interest."
"That is just what I wished to see you about," responded Lindy. "How
would you advise me to invest it?" she asked.
"I would not presume," replied Quincy, "to give positive advice in such
a case. I would go either to Foss & Follansbee, or Braithwaite & Mellen,
or perhaps Rothwell Brothers & Co., look over the securities they have
for sale and make my own selection, if I were in your place."
Lindy was manifestly disappointed at Quincy's polite refusal to
recommend any particular security, but she evidently realized that
further argument or entreaty would be useless, so she quickly changed
the subject by remarking that her mother had considerable money
invested, but that she was a woman who never took any advice and never
gave any.
"I wonder who my mother is going to leave her money to? Do you know, Mr.
Sawyer?"
Quincy replied that he did not. "But she did tell me that by the terms
of your brother's will you were not to inherit it."
"Well, if you ever find out," said Lindy, "you will tell me, won't you,
Mr. Sawyer?"
"Yes," said Quincy, "unless I am requested to keep it a secret."
"But you wouldn't keep it from me, their own daughter," said Lindy.
"Well," he replied, "I don't think it at all likely that they will
inform me; but I promise to tell you if I learn who it is and am not
bound in any way to keep the information secret."
"And will you tell me just as soon as you know?" persisted Lindy.
"In less than twenty-four hours from the time I learn the name you
shall hear it from my own lips," he replied.
"Thank you," said Lindy. "Would you like to see father and mother?
Father has been quite sick for a few days and they are in their own
room. I will go up and tell them you are coming."
Quincy was left in the room. That gossip about Miss Putnam could not be
true. Gossip said she was ashamed of her father and mother, and yet she
had invited him to go up and see them. What a pretty girl she was, well
educated and with a hundred thousand dollars; such a beautiful singer
and their voices blended so nicely together. How pleased his mother and
sisters would be if he should bring home a wife like her. On the wall
hung an oil portrait of her, evidently painted within a short time. He
sat looking at it as Lindy opened the door.
Before he could remove his eyes from the picture, Lindy had noticed his
fixed gaze at it and smiled brightly.
"Mother would be delighted to see you."
Lindy rang a small bell that was on a table. In a moment Samanthy
entered the room.
"Samantha, please show Mr. Sawyer to mother's room. Will you excuse me,
Mr. Sawyer, if I am not here to say good-by to you after you have seen
mother? I am going to the city this morning and there--" looking out of
the window--"here comes Abner Stiles; he is going to drive me over to
Eastborough. Did you ever meet Mr. Stiles, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I may have seen him," replied Quincy.
"Seeing him is nothing," said Lindy. "He must be heard to be
appreciated. He is a most engaging talker; he has caught the biggest
fish and killed the biggest bears--"
"And told the biggest lies," broke in Quincy,--
"Of any man in town," Lindy concluded.
"I think there is one man in town who can tell bigger ones," Quincy
said gravely; "he has been telling a good many lately."
Lindy looked up and smiled. "He will never forgive us for what we did at
the concert," said she, "Well, I mustn't keep Mr. Stiles waiting any
longer, if I do he may--"
"Try to compete with the other one," added Quincy.
She smiled again, and gave him her little gloved hand, which he took in
his for an instant.
She ran out quickly and got into the team, which immediately drove off.
Samanthy, who had been waiting impatiently in the hallway, ushered
Quincy into an upper chamber, where sat Mrs. Putnam. Her husband was
reclining on a lounge near the fire.
"Well, I am awful glad to see yer," said Mrs. Putnam. "Silas here hasn't
been feelin' fust rate for more'n a week. He's most frozen to death all
the time. So I got him up front of the fire, same as I used to roast
turkeys. Set down, Mr. Sawyer, and tell me all the news. Have you heerd
anybody going to git engaged or anybody going to git married? I heerd as
how you had left Deacon Mason's. So you 'cided to take my advice. I'm
kinder sorry you tipped the buggy over, for Huldy Mason's a nice girl.
The fact is I was thinkin' more of her than I was of you, when I told
yer you'd better git out. Where be yer boardin' now?"
"I am boarding at Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's. His sister has got home and
his Uncle Isaac has come back to live with him."
"Lord sakes, do tell!" said Mrs. Putnam. "I allus thought that old fool
would die out there in the woods and they'd bury him in his chicken
coop. But what on airth is Alice home for? Has she lost her job?"
"No," replied Quincy; "poor girl, she has almost lost her sight. She
has been very sick, and as a result she is almost blind, and had to give
up work and come home."
Mrs. Putnam sank back in her chair.
"If I didn't think you were a truthful man, Mr. Sawyer, I wouldn't
b'lieve a word you said. My poor Alice. Why, do you know, Mr. Sawyer, I
never saw a human being in all my life that I liked so much as I have
Alice Pettengill. Did you ever see her, Mr. Sawyer?"
"No," said Quincy, "she only arrived yesterday afternoon, and she did
not appear at supper nor at breakfast this morning. She was tired and
wished to rest, her brother told me."
"Well, I hope she won't die," said Mrs. Putnam. "I have left her every
dollar I've got in the world, and if she should die I shouldn't know who
on airth to give it to. Well, there, I've let the cat out of the bag,
and my daughter Lindy, mean as she is about money, would give a thousand
dollars to know who I am goin' to leave my money to. I wish I could see
Alice. I can't walk, and that poor, deaf girl can't see. Why, Mr.
Sawyer, I think she's the prettiest, sweetest girl I ever sot eyes on in
my life, and I've seed a good many on 'em. Now you tell me what you
think of her the next time you come up, won't you, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I certainly will," said Quincy, "and if she will come with me I will
bring her over to see you. If she came from Boston with her brother, she
can surely ride as far as this," he added.
"Tell her I shall count every minute till she, comes over here, but
don't say a word to her about my money," said Mrs. Putnam.
"Certainly not," Quincy answered. "You did not intend to tell me."
"No, I didn't," acknowledged Mrs. Putnam, "it slipped out before I
thought."
Quincy arose. "I must go now, Mrs. Putnam. I have business at
Eastborough Centre, and I don't know how long it will take me, and
besides, I am anxious to see Miss Pettengill after your glowing
description of her beauty and her virtues."
"Well, I haven't put the paint on half as thick as it would stand," said
Mrs. Putnam. "Well, good-by, Mr. Sawyer. It's very kind in you to come
and see two old folks like us. No use saying good-by to Silas; he's
stone deef and besides he's sound asleep."
When Quincy took up the reins and started towards Eastborough Centre it
was with conflicting emotions. If there had been no Alice Pettengill to
see, his thoughts, no doubt, would have related chiefly to Lindy Putnam,
who had never attracted his attention before as she had that morning.
Could Alice Pettengill be as pretty and as good as Mrs. Putnam had
portrayed? And she was to be an heiress. He was sorry that Mrs. Putnam
had told him. When he was talking to Miss Pettengill what he knew would
be continually in his mind. He was glad that she was to have the money,
but very sorry that he knew she was to have it; he had promised not to
tell her, but he had promised to tell Lindy. Mrs. Putnam had not told
him not to tell Lindy, but she had said Lindy would give a thousand
dollars to know. Now, was that the same as requesting him not to tell
Lindy, and should he tell Lindy for nothing what her mother said she
would give a thousand dollars to know? Anyhow, that question must be
decided within the next twenty-four hours.
Then he began to think of his intended visit to Eastborough Poorhouse.
Would the Jim Sawyer that he found there turn out to be his own uncle?
What a sweet morsel that would be for Strout if it proved to be true.
Anyhow, he would follow his father's instructions and do all he could
for his uncle, come what might.
Since he had arrived at Mason's Corner everything that he had done
seemed to give rise to gossip, and a little more of it could do no harm.
Quincy reached the Poorhouse and inquired for the keeper. A very stout,
red-faced man answered the summons.
He informed Quincy that his name was Asa Waters, and that he had been
keeper of the town Poorhouse for the last ten years.
Quincy thought from his size, as he evidently weighed between three and
four hundred pounds, that he had probably eaten all the food supplied
for the inmates. In reply to a direct question whether there was a man
there by the name of Jim Sawyer, Mr. Waters said "yes," but that he was
sick abed and had been for the last week.
"He coughs awful," said Waters; "in fact, I had to change his room
because the rest of us couldn't sleep. When we tried to move him he
became sort of crazy like, and it took three on us to get him out of the
room and take him upstairs. He seems sot on getting back in that room.
The other day he crawled down stairs and we found him trying to get into
the room, but I had it locked and we had another fight to get him
upstairs again."
"Well," said Quincy, "I would like to see him; it may be he is a distant
relative of our family. My father wishes me to talk with him and make
the inquiry anyway."
"What mought your name be?" asked Mr. Waters.
"My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer."
"Oh, yes, I remember you," said Waters. "Wasn't you the singer that Mr.
Strout hired to come down from Boston to sing at his concert. Strout
told me he paid you $50 for singing that night, and by gosh it was worth
it."
Quincy was not a profane young man, but he had to smother an oath on
hearing that. He replied, "Yes, I sang that night."
"And," said Waters, "didn't you whistle that piece, Listen to the
Bobolink, fine?"
"Here, Sam," said he to a young fellow who appeared in sight, "show this
gentleman up to Jim Sawyer's room; I'm getting kind of pussy, and I
don't go upstairs much."
Sam performed his mission and Quincy was ushered into the room and found
himself with the sick man.
"Is your name James Sawyer?" asked Quincy.
"Yes," said the man. "I used to be proud of it once."
"Did you have a brother?" asked Quincy.
"Well," said Jim, "I don't think he would be proud of me now, so I guess
I won't claim any relationship."
Quincy stopped for a moment. Evidently the man's pride would keep him
from telling anything about himself. He would try him on a new tack. The
man had a long fit of coughing. When it had subsided, Quincy said, "It
wearies you to talk. I will do the talking, and if what I say is true
you can nod your head." Quincy continued, "Your name is James Edward
Sawyer, your brother's name was Nathaniel." The man opened his eyes wide
and looked steadfastly at him. "Your father, Edward Sawyer, left you
fifty thousand dollars." The man clutched with both hands at the quilt
on the bed. "You are about sixty years of age." The man nodded. "You
married a young girl who lived in the country and took her to Boston
with you; her maiden name was Eunice Raymond."
The man started up in bed, resting on his elbow. "How did you know all
this?" asked he. "Who has told you this? Who are you?"
The exertion and the rapid speaking brought on another fit of coughing
and he fell back on his pillow.
"If what I have said is true," remarked Quincy quietly, "your brother,
Nathaniel, is my father, and I am your nephew, Quincy Adams Sawyer."
"Who sent you to see me?" asked the man.
"I heard," replied Quincy, "that a man named James Sawyer was in the
Eastborough Poorhouse. I wrote to my father, and in his reply he told me
what I have just said to you. If you are my uncle, father says to do
everything I can to help you, and if he had not said so I would have
done it anyway."
"It is all true," said the man faintly. "I squandered the money my
father left me. I married a sweet, young girl and took her to the city.
I tried to introduce her into the set to which I once belonged. It was a
failure. I was angry, not with myself for expecting too much, but with
her because she gave me too little, as I then thought. We had two
children--a boy named Ray and a little girl named Mary, after my
mother."
"My grandmother," said Quincy.
James Sawyer continued: "I took to drink. I abused the woman whose only
fault had been that she had loved me. I neglected to provide for my
family. My wife fell sick, my two little children died, and my wife soon
followed them. I returned from a debauch which had lasted me for about a
month to find that I was alone in the world. I fled from the town where
we had lived, came here and tried to reform. I could not. I fell sick
and they sent me here to the Poorhouse. I have had no ambition to leave.
I knew if I did it would mean the same old life. I am glad you came. I
cannot tell you how glad. I do not wish for any assistance; the town
will care for me as long as I live, which will not be very long; but
your coming enables me to perform an act of justice which otherwise I
could not have done."
"Tell me in what way I can serve you," said Quincy, "and it shall be
done."
"Look outside of the door," said the man, "and see if anybody is
listening."
Quincy opened the door suddenly and the broad face of Mr. Asa Waters
stood revealed.
"I thought I would come up and see if Mr. Sawyer wanted anything."
"If he does," said Quincy, "I will inform you;" and he closed the door
in Mr. Waters's face.
Quincy waited till he heard his ponderous footsteps descending the
stairs at the foot of the hallway.
"Was old Waters out there listening?" asked Jim Sawyer.
"I don't think he had time to hear anything," Quincy replied.
"Come closer," said Jim; "let me whisper. I am not penniless. I have got
some money. I have five thousand dollars in government bonds. I sold
some stock I owned just before I went off on that last debauch, but I
didn't spend all the money. When I die I want you to pay back to the
town of Eastborough every dollar I owe for board. Don't let anybody know
you got the money from me. Pay it yourself and keep the balance of it
yourself."
"Where is the money?" said Quincy.
"It is down in my old room, No. 24, one flight down from here, at the
other end of the hallway. I have got a key that will open the door. I
made it myself. I nearly got in there the other day, but they caught me
before I had a chance to open the door. If you can get in there take up
the fourth brick from the window, second row from the front of the
fireplace, and you will find the bonds in an old leather wallet. What
time is it?" he asked quickly.
"Half-past eleven," replied Quincy.
"Now is your time," said the man; "all the hands have their dinner from
half-past eleven to twelve; at twelve they feed us; take this key, and
if you get the money, for God's sake come around to-morrow and let me
know. I sha'n't sleep a wink till I hear from you."
Quincy pressed the sick man's hand and left the room. He went downstairs
on tiptoe and quickly reached room No. 24. He listened; all was quiet;
it took but an instant to open the door, and, slipping quietly in, he
locked it after him. With some difficulty he found the wallet, looked
inside and saw five one thousand dollar United States bonds. He put the
wallet in his pocket, replaced the brick, and listened at the door; all
was quiet. He unlocked it, slipped out, locked it, and was retracing his
steps, when he saw Sam coming upstairs at the other end of the hallway.
"I think I took the wrong turn," said Quincy. "I thought I came up that
way."
"No," said Sam; "that's the back way."
"Thank you," said Quincy, as he ran lightly downstairs. At the foot he
met Mr. Waters.
"Well, is he any relative of yours?" asked Waters.
"I don't know yet," replied Quincy; "he has given me some facts, and I
am going to write to Boston, and when I hear from there I will be able
to answer your question. I will come around in a few days, as soon as I
hear from the city."
Quincy jumped into his team and drove to Eastborough Centre post office
to see if there were any letters for him.
When he reached the post office he found a letter from his father,
informing him his mother and sisters were going to New York for a two
weeks' visit and would very much like to see him if he would run up the
next day.
Quincy's mind was made up instantly. He drove to the hotel, left the
team, with instructions to have it ready for him when he came down on
the express that reached Eastborough Centre at 7.15 P.M., ran for the
station and caught on to the back platform of the last car as it sped on
its way to Boston.
Arriving there, he first took a hasty lunch, then hiring a coupe by the
hour, drove to his bank on State Street. Here he left the bonds with
instructions to write to Eastborough Centre the amount realized from
them and passed to the credit of his account.
His next trip was to his father's house on Beacon Street, where he found
his mother and sisters. They were overjoyed to see him, and his younger
sister declared that he had grown better looking since he went away. She
wanted to know if he had fallen in love with a country girl. Quincy
replied that his heart was still free and if it wasn't for the law he
would have her for his wife, and no one else. Maude laughed and slapped
him.
He next rode to his father's office on Court Street. The Hon. Nathaniel
had just lunched at Parker's and was enjoying a good cigar when his son
came in.
Quincy told him that the Jim Sawyer at Eastborough Poorhouse was
unquestionably their missing relative.
"Poor Jim," said Nathaniel; "I ought to go and see him."
"No; I wouldn't," said Quincy, "it will do no good, and his remorse is
deep enough now without adding to it."
He then told his father about the money, and the latter agreed that
Jim's idea was right and Quincy had best use the money as though it were
his own.
"By the by," said his father, wheeling round in his office chair, "that
Miss Putnam from Eastborough is a very pretty girl; don't you think so,
Quincy?"
"Handsome is as handsome does," thought Quincy to himself, but he only
said, "Where did you see her?"
"She was in here to-day," replied his father. "She said she had $25,000
to invest, and that you gave her the address of some broker, but that
she had forgotten it."
"Her statement is partially true," said Quincy, "but not complete. I
gave her three addresses, because I did not wish to recommend any
particular one. I wished her to make her own choice."
"I was not so conservative," remarked his father. "I advised her to go
to Foss & Follansbee and even suggested that Quinnebaug Copper Company
was one of the most promising investments before the public to-day."
"Did she confide in you any farther," said Quincy.
"Oh, yes," replied his father; "I gleaned she was worth $100,000 and
that her parents, who were very old people, had nearly as much more. I
remember her brother, J. Jones Putnam. He was a 'plunger,' and a
successful one. He died suddenly of lung fever, I believe."
Quincy smiled.
"She seemed to be well educated," his father continued, "and told me
that you and she sang together at a concert."
"Did she tell you what her father's religion was?" inquired Quincy.
"You don't seem to admire this young lady, Quincy. I thought she would
be likely to be a great friend of yours. You might do worse than--"
"I know," said Quincy, "she is pretty, well educated, musical, very
tasteful in dress, and has money, but she can't have me. But how did it
end?" asked he; "how did you get rid of her?"
"Well," replied his father, "as I said before, I thought she must be a
great friend of yours, and perhaps more, so I went down to Foss &
Follansbee's with her; then we went to Parker's to lunch, then I sent
her to the station in a coupe."
"I am greatly obliged to you, father," said Quincy, "for the kind
attentions you paid her. I shall get the full credit of them down in
Eastborough; your name will not be mentioned; only," said Quincy with a
laugh, "if she is coming to the city very often I think perhaps I had
better come back to Boston and look after mother's interests."
The Hon. Nathaniel was nettled by this and said sternly, "I do not like
that sort of pleasantry, Quincy."
"Neither do I," said Quincy coolly, "and I hope there will be no further
occasion for it."
"How long do you intend to remain in Eastborough?" asked his father.
"I don't know," replied Quincy. "I can't come home while Uncle Jim is
sick, of course. I will ask him if he would like to see you, and if he
says yes, I will telegraph you. Well, good-by. I was up to the house and
saw mother and the girls. I am going up to the club to see if I can meet
some of the boys and have some dinner, and I shall go down on the 6.05
express."
Quincy lighted a cigar, shook hands rather stiffly with his father and
left the office.
When Quincy reached the Pettengill house it was a little after eight
o'clock. Hiram came out to help him put up the horse. "Anybody up?"
asked Quincy.
"Only Mandy and me," said Hiram. "Uncle Ike is up in his attic, and
'Zeke is up talkin' to his sister, and Mandy and me has been talkin' to
each other; and, say, Mr. Sawyer, did you meet Lindy Putnam up in Boston
to-day?"
"No," said Quincy between his shut teeth.
"Well, that's funny," said Hiram; "I heard Abner Stiles telling Strout
as how Miss Putnam told him that Mr. Sawyer had been to the banker's
with her to invest her money, and that Mr. Sawyer took her out to lunch
and then rode down to the station in a carriage and put her aboard the
train."
"There are a great many Mr. Sawyers in Boston, you must remember,
Hiram," remarked Quincy. "Anything else, Hiram?"
"Well, not much more," replied Hiram; "but Strout said that if you got
Lindy and her money and then cajoled the old couple into leavin' their
money to you, that it would be the best game of bunco that had ever been
played in Eastborough."
"Well, Strout ought to know what a good bunco game is," said Quincy.
"Have the horse ready by nine o'clock in the morning if you can get
over. Good night, Hiram," he said.
He passed through the kitchen, saying good night to Mandy, and went
straight to his own room. He sat and thought for an hour, going over the
events of the day.
"As soon as Uncle Jim is dead and buried," said he to himself, "I think
I will leave this town. As the children say when they play 'hide and go
seek,' I am getting warm."
CHAPTER XVI.
A PROMISE KEPT.
Quincy was up next morning at eight o'clock and ate his breakfast with
'Zekiel. 'Zekiel said his sister did not sleep well nights, and so would
not be down till later.
"Do you want the team this morning, Mr. Pettengill?" asked Quincy.
"No," said 'Zekiel, "but the Boston doctor wrote to Deacon Mason that he
was comin' down this afternoon to take that stuff off Huldy's arm, and
she wanted me to come up, so I shall be up there all the afternoon."
"That reminds me," said Quincy. "Will you tell Deacon Mason that I want
the nurse to stay until to-morrow and I will be up to see her at nine
o'clock?"
Quincy took up the reins and started for Eastborough Poorhouse.
He found his uncle weaker than on the day before. Quincy touched his
hand, but did not lift it from the bed. Jim pointed towards the door.
"It's all right," said Quincy, "there is no one there."
"Did you get it?" asked Uncle Jim in a whisper.
"Yes," replied Quincy, "and it's safe in the bank in Boston."
"Thank God!" exclaimed Uncle Jim. "Now I don't care how soon I am called
to judgment for my sins."
"Uncle Jim," said Quincy, "I saw my father yesterday afternoon. Would
you like to have your brother come see you?"
Uncle Jim shook his head. "It will do no good," said he. "You have done
all I could wish for. Pay the town for my board. Give them what they
ask. Do with the balance what you wish, Quincy. It is yours."
"Where do you wish to be buried, Uncle?" asked Quincy bravely.
"Right here," replied Uncle Jim. "One of the boys here died about a
month ago; his name was Tom Buck. He was a good fellow and did many kind
things for me. Bury me side of him."
"One more question, Uncle," said Quincy. "In what town did your wife and
children reside when they died?"
"In Amesbury," said Uncle Jim. An idea seemed to strike him. "Well,
Quincy, do you suppose you could find where they are buried?"
"Of course I can," Quincy answered.
"Well," continued Uncle Jim, "I don't deserve it, I am not worthy of it,
but she always loved me, and so did the children. I never struck her,
nor them, nor did I ever speak unkindly to them. I never went home when
I was drunk. I deserted them and left them to suffer. I don't think she
would object, do you?"
Quincy divined his thoughts and answered, "No, I do not, Uncle."
"If you will do it, Quincy," said Uncle Jim, "I shall die a happy man.
Buy a little lot and put me beside Eunice and the children. Don't put my
name on the stone, put her name and those of the children. That will
please me best. She will know I am there, but others will not."
"It shall be done as you say, Uncle," said Quincy. "I will be here early
to-morrow morning and I shall come every day to see you. Good-by."
He touched his uncle's hand again softly and left the room. Uncle Jim,
with a smile upon his wasted face, fell asleep.
Quincy drove leisurely towards Mason's Corner. It was more than
twenty-four hours since he had learned who was to be Mrs. Putnam's
heiress. He had made a promise. Should he keep it? How could he avoid
keeping it? He would see Miss Putnam and be governed by circumstances.
He reached the Putnam house and was shown into the same room as on the
morning before. In a few minutes Lindy joined him. He had never seen her
looking better. She had on a handsome gown that he had never seen
before. Quincy opened the conversation.
"Did you enjoy your trip to Boston yesterday, Miss Putnam?"
"Oh, yes," replied Lindy, "I must tell you all about it."
"There is no need to, Miss Putnam, I am acquainted with the most
important events of your trip already."
"Why, how?" asked Lindy. "Oh, I see," said she, "you had a letter from
your father."
"No," said Quincy. "I had the pleasure of a conversation with my father
yesterday afternoon in Boston."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Lindy.
"Yes," said Quincy, "but I might have learned all the principal facts
without leaving Mason's Corner. In fact, I did learn them in a somewhat
distorted shape late last evening."
Lindy colored until her forehead was as red as her cheeks.
"I do not understand you, Mr. Sawyer," she remarked.
"It is easily explained," said Quincy. "Mr. Stiles forgot to mention
that it was my father who was your escort and not myself. Of course he
would offer the similarity in names as his excuse."
"And so," said Lindy, recovering herself, "you have come here to scold
me because Abner Stiles didn't tell the truth. I told you he was a
wonderful story teller."
"No, Miss Putnam," said Quincy, "I did not come here for any such
purpose. I made you a promise yesterday and I have come to keep it. I
know who is to inherit your mother's money. She did not intend to tell
me, but the name escaped her unintentionally."
"Did she ask you not to tell me?" asked Lindy.
"No," replied Quincy, "not in so many words."
"Then you must tell me," cried Lindy eagerly.
"Well, I don't know," said Quincy. "Your mother said you would give a
thousand dollars to know the name of the person. This fixes the
condition on which I shall divulge the name."
"And if I did give you a thousand dollars," inquired Lindy, "what would
you do with the money?"
"I should give it to your mother," said Quincy. "She fixed the price of
the secret, not I."
Lindy walked to the window and looked out. She wished to know the name.
She had her suspicions, but she could not bear to give up a thousand
dollars of her own money, for she knew that this, too, would go to the
unknown heiress. She knew Alice Pettengill was in town and at her
brother's house. She had been there for a whole day and parts of two
others. She would save her money and at the same time learn the truth.
Turning to Quincy she said, "I cannot afford to pay you, or rather my
mother, a thousand dollars for the secret. It is not worth it. I will
not ask you again for her name, but if you will answer me one simple
question I will absolve you from your promise."
Quincy reflected. He knew that Lindy was deep and that she was plotting
something while she stood at the window. But he wished this matter over,
he was tired of it, so he replied, "I will answer your simple question,
Miss Putnam, on one condition. It is that you will not deem me guilty
of any intentional discourtesy if, after replying to it, I at once take
my leave."
They faced each other, she hardly able to conceal her impatience, he
with a stern look upon his face.
"My simple question is this, Mr. Sawyer, have you ever eaten a meal at
the same table with my mother's heiress?"
"I have never seen her," replied Quincy coldly. He took his hat, and
with a low bow quitted the house and drove away.
Lindy threw herself in a passion on the sofa and burst into a flood of
tears. She had played her last card and had lost.
CHAPTER XVII.
AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION.
When Quincy drove into the barn he found Jim Cobb there, and he turned
the horse over to him. Entering by the back door he passed through the
kitchen without seeing either Mandy or Mrs. Crowley, and went slowly
upstairs. The house was very quiet. He remembered that Uncle Ike had
gone to Eastborough Centre and 'Zekiel had gone to Deacon Mason's. It
was necessary for him to pass the door of the room occupied by Alice
Pettengill in order to reach his own room. The door of her room was
open. He involuntarily glanced in and then stood still.
What vision was this that met his eye? The sun, now dropping to the
westward, threw its rays in at the window and they fell upon the head of
the young girl seated beside it.
The hair was golden in the sunlight, that real golden that is seldom
seen excepting on the heads of young children. She seemed slight in
figure, but above the average stature. She wore a loose-fitting dress of
light blue material, faced down the front with white, and over her
shoulders was thrown a small knitted shawl of a light pink color. Quincy
could not see her face, except in profile, for it was turned towards the
window, but the profile was a striking one. He turned to step forward
and enter his own room. As he did so the board upon which he stood
creaked. He stopped again suddenly, hoping that the noise would not
attract her attention, but her quick ear had caught the sound, and,
rising, she advanced towards the door, her hands extended before her.
"Is that you, Uncle Ike?" she asked in a clear, sweet voice. "I heard
you drive in."
She had started in a straight line towards the door, but for some cause,
perhaps the bright light coming from the wood fire in the open
fireplace, she swerved in her course and would have walked directly
towards the blazing wood had not Quincy rushed forward, caught her by
the hand and stopped her further progress, saying as he did so, "Miss
Pettengill, you will set your dress on fire."
"You are not Uncle Ike," said she, quickly. "He could not walk as fast
as that. Who are you? You must know me, for you called me by name."
Quincy replied, "Under the circumstances, Miss Pettengill, I see no way
but to introduce myself. I am your brother's boarder, and my name is
Sawyer."
"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Sawyer," said she, extending her hand,
which Quincy took. "I feel acquainted with you already, for Uncle Ike
speaks of you very often, and 'Zekiel said you used to board at Deacon
Mason's. Don't you think Huldy is a lovely girl?"
Quincy avoided this direct question and replied, "Uncle Ike has been
equally kind in speaking of his niece, Miss Pettengill, so that I feel
acquainted with her even without this,--I was going to say formal
introduction,--but I think that we must both confess it was rather
informal."
Alice laughed merrily. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Sawyer? I have been
alone nearly all day, and have really been very lonesome."
She turned and groped, as if feeling for a chair. Quincy sprang forward,
placed a large rocking chair before the fire, then, taking her hand, saw
her safely ensconced in it. He then took a seat in a large armchair at
the end of the fireplace nearest the door.
"Thank you, Mr. Sawyer," said Alice. "Everybody has been so kind to me
since I have had this trouble with my eyes. Of course 'Zekiel has told
you about it."
"Yes," assented Quincy.
He really did not care to talk. He was satisfied to sit and look at her,
and he could do this with impunity, for she could not see his earnest
gaze fixed upon her.
"I have been used to an active life," said Alice. "I have had my
business to attend to every day, and evenings I had my books, papers,
pictures, and music. At first it seemed so hard to be shut out from them
all, but years ago Uncle Ike taught me to be a philosopher and to take
life as it came, without constantly fretting or finding fault. Uncle Ike
says, 'It is not work but worry that wears men out,' That's why he came
down here to live in the woods. He said they wouldn't let him work and
so he worried all the time, but when he came here he had plenty to do,
and in his work he found happiness."
"I am learning a good lesson," said Quincy with a laugh. "I have studied
much, but I actually never did a day's work in all my life, Miss
Pettengill."
"Then you are to be pitied," said Alice frankly; "but I see I should not
blame you, you are studying now and getting ready to work."
"Perhaps so," Quincy remarked. "My father wishes me to be a lawyer, but
I detest reading law, and have no inclination to follow in my father's
footsteps."
"Perhaps you are too young," said Alice, "to settle upon your future
career. I cannot see you, you know, and Uncle Ike did not say how old
you were."
Quincy smiled. "I am in my twenty-fourth year," said he. "I graduated at
Harvard two years ago."
"So old!" exclaimed Alice; "why, I am not twenty-one until next June,
and I have been working for my living since I was sixteen."
Quincy said, "I wish I had as honorable a record."
"Now you are vexed with me for speaking so plainly," said Alice.
"Not at all," Quincy replied. "I thank you for it. I have learned from
Uncle Ike that frankness of speech and honesty of heart are Pettengill
characteristics."
"You might add," said Alice, "firmness in debate, for none of us like to
own up that we are beaten. I remember years ago Uncle Ike and I had a
long discussion as to whether it were better to be stone blind or stone
deaf. I took the ground that it was better to be blind, for one could
hear music and listen to the voices of friends, and hear the sound of
approaching danger, and then, besides, everybody is so kind to a person
who is blind. But you see Uncle Ike don't care for music, and had rather
talk himself than listen, so he decided that it was best to be stone
deaf, for then he could read and write to his friends. But of course
neither of us gave in, and the question, so far as we are concerned, is
still unsettled."
At that moment the sound of a team was heard, and a few minutes later
Uncle Ike came upstairs, followed by the driver of the team bearing a
big basket and a large bundle. These contained Uncle Ike's purchases.
"Wait a minute and I will go upstairs with you," called out Uncle Ike to
the man. He entered the room, and looking somewhat surprised at seeing
Quincy, he said somewhat sharply, "So you two have got acquainted, have
you? I have been waiting for two days to introduce you."
"I am greatly indebted to Mr. Sawyer," said Alice. "When he passed my
door, which was open, I thought it was you and I started forward to meet
you, but I missed my way and was walking directly towards the fire, when
Mr. Sawyer interposed."
"I should have done the same thing had it been me," said Uncle Ike. "So
I don't see as you were in any real danger."
Quincy thought that it was noticeably evident that the Pettengills were
noted for plainness of speech.
"Here are three letters for you, Alice, and here is one for you, Mr.
Sawyer. I thought I would bring it over to you as I met Asa Waters down
to the post office and he said you'd started for home. I'll be down in a
few minutes, Alice, and read your letters for you." And Uncle Ike showed
the man the way up to his domicile.
Quincy arose, expressed his pleasure at having met Miss Pettengill, and
presuming they would meet again at dinner, took his leave.
The letter was from Quincy's father. It was short, but was long enough
to cause Quincy to smother an oath, crush the letter in his hands and
throw it into the open fire. The flames touched it, and the strong
draught took it still ablaze up the wide-mouthed chimney.
But Quincy's unpleasant thought did not go with it. The letter had said,
"Quinnebaug stock has dropped off five points. Foss & Follansbee have
written Miss Putnam that she must put up five thousand dollars to cover
margin. Better see her at once and tell her the drop is only temporary,
and the stock is sure to recover."
Quincy sat down in his easy-chair, facing the fire, upon which he put
some more wood, which snapped and crackled.
"I won't go near that girl again," said he, with a determined look upon
his face. The next moment he had banished Lindy Putnam from his mind,
and was thinking of that other girl who was sitting not six feet from
him. He could hear Uncle Ike's voice, and he knew that Alice's letters
were being read to her. Then he fell into a reverie as the twilight
shadows gathered round him. As the room grew darker the fire grew
brighter, and in it he could seem to see a picture of a fair-haired girl
sitting in a chair and listening with evident interest to a young man
who was reading to her from a newspaper.
The young girl placed her hand upon his arm and asked a question. The
young man dropped the paper and gazed into the girl's face with a look
full of tenderness, and placing one of his hands upon that of the young
girl clasped it fondly, and Quincy saw that the face of this young man
was his own. He sat there until there came a loud rap upon the door and
Mandy's voice called out, "Supper's ready."
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE COURTIN'.
While Quincy was taking his first steps in Lover's Lane, which steps so
often lead to the high road of Matrimony, 'Zekiel Pettengill had reached
the end of his lane, which had been very long with many devious turns,
and he found himself at that point where the next important question was
to fix the day.
'Zekiel was a strong-minded, self-willed, self-reliant young man, but in
the presence of Huldy Mason he was as big a coward as the world ever
saw. She had sent a little note to him, saying that she wished to see
him that afternoon, and he knew their fates would be decided that day.
He was hopeful, but the most hopeful lover has spasms of uncertainty
until his lady love has said yes and yes again.
Dressed in his best, 'Zekiel knocked at Deacon Mason's front door. For
an instant he wished himself safe at home and debated whether he could
get round the corner of the house before the door was opened. He turned
his head to measure the distance, but at that moment the door was
opened, and Mrs. Mason's smiling face was before him, and her pleasant,
cheery voice said, "Come in, 'Zekiel."
He felt reassured by this, for he argued to himself that she would have
called him Mr. Pettengill if there had been any change in her feelings
towards him. They entered the parlor, and Mrs. Mason said, "Take off
your things and leave them right here, and go right up and see Huldy.
She is waitin' for you. The doctor's been and gone. He took that plaster
thing off Huldy's arm, says she's all right now, only she must be
keerful, not do any heavy liftin' with it till it gets good and strong.
He said it would be some time before she could help me much with the
housework, so I am going to get a girl for a month or two. I heerd your
sister got home, 'Zeke. They do say she's blind. I am awful sorry,
'Zekiel. Hope she will get better of it. I am coming over to see her
just as soon as I get me my girl. But you go right up, there's nobody
there but Huldy. Mr. Sawyer is coming after the nurse to-morrow morning,
and she is up in the spare room trying to catch up with her sleep. We
told her there was no use in setting up with Huldy, but she said she had
her orders from the doctor, and she wouldn't mind a single thing we
said. But we will get rid on her to-morrow. Now you go right up,
'Zekiel;" and Mrs. Mason took him by the arm and saw him on his way up
the front stairs before she returned to her work in the kitchen.
'Zekiel went upstairs deliberately, one step at a time. His footfalls,
it seemed to him, must be heard all over the house. He paused before
Huldy's door. He opened it a couple of inches, when the thought struck
him that he ought to knock. He started to close the door and do so, when
he heard a faint voice say, "Come in, 'Zekiel." So he was still 'Zekiel
to Huldy. He opened the door and walked bravely into the room, but his
bravery forsook him when he had taken a few steps. He had expected to
find her in bed, as she had been every day before when he had called.
But there she stood before him, the same Huldy as of old. Not exactly
the same, however, for her cheeks had lost much of their rosy tint and
there was a pensive look to the face that was new to it, which 'Zekiel
saw, but could not understand.
There were two chairs close together before the fire. She sat down in
the left-hand one and motioned 'Zekiel to the other, which he took.
"I thought I would find you abed," said 'Zekiel. "I didn't know you were
up."
"Oh, yes," said Huldy. "I got up and dressed as soon as the doctor took
the jacket, that's what he called it, off my arm. I felt so much better
I couldn't stay in bed any longer."
"Well," said 'Zekiel, "when the schoolmaster used to tell me to take my
jacket off I didn't feel near as well as I did before," and then they
both laughed heartily.
They sat silent for a few moments, when Huldy, turning her face with
that sad look towards him, said, "There is something on my mind,
'Zekiel, that I wish I could take off as easily as the doctor did that
jacket."
"Oh, nonsense," cried 'Zekiel; "why should you have anything on your
mind? You are a little bit low spirited because you have been cooped up
in bed so long."
"No," said Huldy, "that isn't it. I have wronged a person and I am
afraid that person will never fully forgive me. I am real sorry for what
I have done, and I am going to tell the person and ask for pardon."
"Well," said 'Zekiel, "the person must be pretty mean spirited if he or
she don't forgive you after you say you are sorry, 'specially if you
promise not to do it again."
"Oh, I shall never do it again," said Huldy. "Once has nearly killed me.
I suffered ten times more from that than from my broken arm."
"Well," said 'Zekiel, "if that person don't forgive you I don't want
anything more to do with him."
"Let me tell you a little story," said Huldy. "A little boy and girl
whose homes were not a quarter of a mile apart grew up together in a
little country town. As children they loved each other, and as they grew
older that love really grew stronger, though not so plainly shown or
spoken. Everybody thought that one day they would be married, though he
had never asked her to be his wife. Did you ever hear of anything like
that, 'Zekiel?"
"Well," remarked 'Zekiel, "I have in my mind two persons whose relations
were pretty similar up to a certain point."
"Yes," said Huldy, eagerly, "and that point was reached when a young man
from the city, whose father was known to be very wealthy, came to board
in her father's house." Huldy looked at 'Zekiel inquiringly.
"Yes, I've heard of something like that," said 'Zekiel.
"For a time," continued Huldy, "the young girl was unfaithful to her
old-time lover. She thought the young man from the city was learning to
love her because he was polite and attentive to her. She thought it
would be nice to be rich and go to the city to live, but the young man
soon undeceived her. He took her to ride one day, and on their way home
he told her he was going to leave her father's house. She wished to know
the reason, but he would not give it. She divined it, however, and in
her agitation lost control of the horse she was driving. The buggy was
overturned and her arm was broken." She looked up at 'Zekiel. His face
was grave, but he nodded for her to go on. "She stayed in bed for three
weeks, and during that time she lived over her short life a hundred,
yes, a thousand, times; she knew that her fancy had been but a fleeting
dream. A suspicion that perhaps the young man had imagined her feelings
towards him was what had nearly broken her heart. Supposing you were the
man, 'Zekiel, and I were the woman in this little story, could you
forgive me if I said I was sorry and would never do it again?"
"I forgave you, Huldy, when I let him come to board in my house. He told
Uncle Ike why he left your father's house. The folks were talking about
you and him, but he never imagined that you were in love with him, or
thought any more about him than you would have of any passing
acquaintance."
"I am so glad," cried Huldy; "you have done me more good than the
doctor, 'Zekiel;" and she dropped her head upon his shoulder.
'Zekiel was struck with an idea, "If I am a better doctor than the other
one, Huldy, I ought to get a bigger price for my services than he does."
Huldy looked up. "What will your price be, Dr. Pettengill?"
"I think I shall charge," said 'Zekiel, "one hundred thousand dollars,
and as I know you haven't got the money and can't raise it, I think I
shall have to hold you for security."
He suited the action to the word, and they sat there so long, happy in
their mutual love, that the Deacon and his wife came upstairs and
entered the room quietly. When they saw the picture before them, thrown
into prominence by the light of the fire, the Deacon said in a low tone
to his wife, "I have thought so all along."
And as Mrs. Mason looked up into her husband's face she said, "I am glad
on't."
CHAPTER XIX.
JIM SAWYER'S FUNERAL.
Quincy obeyed the call to supper with alacrity. Possibly he thought he
would be the first one at the table, but Cobb's twins were in their
places when he entered the room. 'Zekiel came in next, and Quincy's
quick eye discerned that there was a look of quiet contentment on his
face which had not been there before.
Uncle Ike came down with Alice, and for the first time since her arrival
she sat beside Quincy. For some reason or other the conversation lagged.
Quincy surmised that 'Zekiel was too happy with his own thoughts to wish
to talk, and Uncle Ike rarely conversed during meal time. He said he
could not talk and eat at the same time, and as meal time was for eating
he proposed to give his attention to that exclusively.
Quincy ventured a few commonplace remarks to Alice, to which she replied
pleasantly. He was at a loss for a topic, when he remembered his last
visit to Mrs. Putnam's and recalled his promise to bring Alice to see
her some day.
He spoke of visiting Mrs. Putnam, and Alice's face immediately shone
with pleasure. "Dear old Aunt Heppy! I must go and see her as soon as I
can."
"If you can find no better escort than myself, I trust you will command
my services, unless," said Quincy, "your brother thinks it unsafe to
trust you with me."
"He won't be likely to let you drive, Alice," responded 'Zekiel dryly,
"so I don't think there will be any danger."
Quincy knew by this remark that Huldy had told 'Zekiel the facts of the
case, but he maintained his composure and said, "Any time you wish to
go, Miss Pettengill, I am at your service."
As they arose from the table 'Zekiel said to his uncle, "I am coming up
in your room to-night, Uncle Ike, to see you."
Quincy knew by this that the pleasant chat in the dining-room beside the
fireplace was to be omitted that evening, so he went up to his own room
and read until it was time to retire.
Quincy was up early next morning. He knew his uncle could not live long,
but he wished to take the trained nurse to Eastborough Centre, so he
might have the best of care during the short time left to him on earth.
He found 'Zekiel at the breakfast table, and beyond a few commonplace
remarks the meal was eaten in silence.
"Are you going to Eastborough Centre to-day, Mr. Sawyer?" asked 'Zekiel.
"Yes," said Quincy; "I intended to go just as soon as one of the boys
could get the team ready."
"I'll speak to Jim about it," said 'Zekiel. "If you will step into the
parlor, Mr. Sawyer, I would like to have a few minutes' talk with you."
'Zekiel went out into the barn and Quincy walked into the parlor, where
he found a bright fire burning on the hearth. He threw himself into an
easy-chair and awaited 'Zekiel's return. What was up? Could 'Zekiel and
Huldy have parted, and was 'Zekiel glad of it? Quincy, as the saying is,
passed a "bad quarter of an hour," for he did not like suspense. The
truth, however bitter or unpalatable, was better than uncertainty.
'Zekiel entered the room and took a seat opposite to Quincy. He bent
forward and placed his hands upon his knees.
"Mr. Sawyer," said he, "I am a man of few words, so I will come right
to the point. Huldy Mason and me are engaged to be married."
Quincy was equal to the occasion. He arose, stepped forward, and
extended his hand. 'Zekiel rose also and grasped it unhesitatingly.
Quincy said, "Accept my most sincere congratulations, Mr. Pettengill. I
have known Miss Mason but a short time, but any man ought to be proud of
her and happy in her love."
"Thank you, Mr. Sawyer," said 'Zekiel; "I agree with you in both the
particulars you've mentioned, but both of us have what we consider good
reasons for not having our engagement known in the village just at
present, and to keep it a secret we need the assistance of a mutual
friend."
"If I might aspire to that honor," said Quincy, "my time and services
are at your disposal."
"That's what I told Huldy," said 'Zekiel, "but she was afraid that you
would be vexed at what the gossips said about you and her; she's mad as
a hornet herself, and she wants to teach them a lesson."
"Personally," said Quincy, "I don't care what the gossips say, but I was
both sorry and indignant that they should have referred to Miss Mason in
the way they did."
"Well," said 'Zekiel, "we have hatched up a sort of a plot, and if you
will help us, all three of us will have some fun out of it."
"Well," inquired Quincy, "what's my share in the fun?"
"It's this," said 'Zekiel, "you know you used to take Huldy out to ride
with you. To help out our plan, would you be willing to do it again?"
"Certainly," replied Quincy. "Miss Mason has been confined to her room
so long I think she ought to have some fresh air."
"That's true," remarked 'Zekiel; "she's lost considerable flesh staying
in so long; but if I took her out to ride they would jump at conclusions
right off and say Huldy and 'Zekiel have made up, and they will guess
we are going to make a match of it. Then, again," 'Zekiel continued,
"Huldy says she's bound to have it out with the one that started the
stories. There's no use mincing matters between us, because you know as
well as I do who is at the bottom of all this tittle-tattle. Since I
refused to join hands with him to try and drive you out of town, he has
talked about me almost as bad as he has about you. 'So,' says Huldy to
me, 'you know he is the only teacher of music in Eastborough. I want to
take music lessons very much, and so I have got to have him for
teacher.' Then she said, ''Zekiel, you leave the rest of it to me, and
we will all have some fun before we get through.' I expect she is going
to flirt with him, for it comes as nat'ral to her as it does to most
women."
Quincy did not think it polite to assent to this last remark and changed
the subject by remarking, "This is a beautiful day. I am going to drive
the nurse over to Eastborough; perhaps Miss Mason would like to
accompany us. That is, if you can trust her with me."
"Oh, that's all right," said 'Zekiel; "Huldy had to pay pretty dearly
for getting mad at the wrong time. Besides, I don't think she will want
to drive horse again for a while."
Mandy rapped on the parlor door and called out that the team was ready.
Quincy assured 'Zekiel that he understood his part and would play it to
the best of his ability.
When he arrived at Deacon Mason's house he found the latter just coming
out of the front gate. As Quincy leaped from the team the Deacon came
forward and shook hands with him. "You are just the man I want to see,"
he remarked. "I've paid our doctor, but I want to know what the bill is
for the Boston doctor and the nurse."
"I don't know yet," said Quincy, "but there will be nothing for you to
pay. It is my duty to settle that bill myself."
"No," said the Deacon firmly. "She is my daughter, and it is my place as
her father to pay such bills, until she has a husband to pay them for
her."
Quincy said, "Deacon Mason, when I took your daughter out to ride it was
my duty to return her to her home without injury. I did not do so, and I
trust that you will allow me to atone for my neglect. Remember, sir, you
have lost her services for several weeks, and the board of the nurse has
been an expense to you."
"I prefer," rejoined the Deacon, "that the bill should be sent to me."
"Well," said Quincy, to close the discussion, "I will ask him to send
you one;" mentally resolving, when it was sent, it would be a receipted
one.
Quincy received a hearty welcome from Mrs. Mason, who said the nurse had
her things packed and was all ready to go. He then told Mrs. Mason that
he had a message for Miss Mason from Mr. 'Zekiel Pettengill, and Mrs.
Mason said she would send Huldy to the parlor at once. Huldy greeted
Quincy with a happy face and without any show of confusion.
"I had a long talk with Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy, "and he has
induced me to become a conspirator. The first act in our comedy is to
ask you if you will ride over to Eastborough Centre this morning with
the nurse and myself, and get a little fresh air?"
"I should be delighted," said Huldy, "if you can wait long enough for me
to dress."
"That's what I came early for," remarked Quincy. "How long will it take
you?"
"Fifteen minutes," said Huldy.
"It is now half-past seven," remarked Quincy, looking at his watch. "You
mean you will be ready by quarter of nine?"
"No," said Huldy, with a flash of her eyes, "I am no city lady. I am a
plain, country girl, and I mean just one-quarter of an hour. You can
time me, Mr. Sawyer;" and she ran gayly out of the room.
Quincy looked out of the window and saw that Hiram had put the nurse's
heavy valise on the front seat of the carryall. The nurse herself was
standing by the side of the team, evidently uncertain which seat to
take. Quincy was quickly at her side.
"You can sit in here, Miss Miller," said Quincy, pointing to one of the
rear seats; and when she was seated Quincy told Hiram to put the valise
on the seat beside her. He had no idea of having Huldy take a back seat.
True to her promise, Huldy made her toilet in the appointed time, and
taking her seat beside Quincy, he took up the reins. Turning to Hiram he
asked, "If I drive by Hill's grocery and take the road to the left, will
it bring me round to the main road to Eastborough Centre again?"
"Yaas," said Hiram, "you take the road where Mis' Hawkins's boardin'
house is on the corner. You remember that big yellow house. You know I
told you Mandy's mother kept it."
"All right," said Quincy, and off they went.
Quincy gave a side glance at Huldy. He discovered she was throwing a
side glance at him. They both smiled, but said nothing. He drove around
the big tree that stood in the centre of the square in front of the
grocery, which brought the team quite close to the store platform. No
one was in sight, but just as he reached Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house
the door opened and Obadiah Strout came out. Huldy placed her hand on
Quincy's arm.
"Please hold up a minute, Mr. Sawyer."
Quincy brought the horse to a standstill with a jerk and looked straight
ahead.
"Ah, good morning, Mr. Strout," said Huldy. "Did you get the letter I
sent up by Hiram last evening about my taking music lessons?"
"Yes," said Mr. Strout, "and I was coming down this morning to settle on
the best time for you taking them."
"Could you come to-morrow afternoon from two to three?" asked Huldy.
Strout took a well-worn memorandum book from his pocket and consulted
it. "Three to four would be the best I could do," said he, "for I have a
lesson from half-past one to half-past two."
"That will do just as well," replied Huldy. "Three to four to-morrow
afternoon. Isn't this a beautiful day, Mr. Strout? I am taking a little
drive for my health;" and she nodded smilingly to Strout, who had
recognized Quincy as her companion.
"That's all, Mr. Sawyer," said Huldy, and they drove on.
"By thunder," said Strout, "they say the hair of a dog is good for his
bite. Just as soon as she got well, off she goes riding again with the
same feller who tipped the team over and broke her arm. I guess 'Zeke
Pettengill's chances ain't worth much now. It beats all how 'Zeke can
let that feller board in his house, but I suppose he does it to let us
folks see that he don't care. Well, Huldy Mason is a bright little girl,
and I always liked her. That city chap don't mean to marry her, and if I
don't make the best of my chances when I get to teaching her music, my
name ain't Obadiah Strout, which I guess it is." And he walked across
the square to Hill's grocery to smoke his morning cigar.
On the way to Eastborough Centre Quincy wondered what he would do with
Huldy when he arrived there. He did not care to take her to the
Poorhouse, and particularly he did not wish her to see his uncle. Quincy
was proud, but he was also sensible, and he decided upon a course of
action that would prevent any one from saying that his pride had made
him do a foolish act.
As they neared the Poorhouse Quincy turned to Huldy and said, "The Jim
Sawyer who has been at the Eastborough Poorhouse for the last five years
is my father's brother and my uncle. His story is a very sad one. I will
tell it to you some day. He is in the last stages of consumption, and I
am taking Miss Miller over to care for him while he lives."
Huldy nodded, and nothing more was said until they reached the
Poorhouse. Quincy jumped out and called to Sam, who was close at hand,
to hold the horse. Sam looked at him with a peculiar expression that
Quincy did not stop to fathom, but running up the short flight of steps
entered the room that served as the office for the Poorhouse. Mr. Waters
was there writing at his desk. He turned as Quincy entered.
"How is my uncle?" asked Quincy.
"He is better off than us poor mortals," replied Mr. Waters with a
long-drawn countenance.
"What do you mean?" asked Quincy. "Is he dead?"
"Yes," said Mr. Waters, "he died about four o'clock this mornin'. Sam
sat up with him till midnight, and I stayed with him the balance of the
time."
"I am so sorry I was not here," said Quincy.
"It wouldn't have done any good," said Waters. "He didn't know what was
going on after two o'clock, and you couldn't have been of any use if
you'd been here. If 't had been daytime I should have sent over for you.
He only spoke once after I went upstairs and that was to say that you
would see to buryin' him."
"Yes," said Quincy, "I will take charge of the remains."
"Well," remarked Mr. Waters, "I called in the town undertaker and he has
got him all ready."
"When does the next train leave for Boston?" asked Quincy, taking out
his watch.
"In just twenty minutes," Waters replied, looking up at the clock.
"I will be back from Boston at the earliest possible moment," said
Quincy; and before the astonished Waters could recover himself, the
young man had left the room.
Quincy jumped into the team, grasped the reins, and started off at full
speed for Eastborough Centre.
"My uncle died this morning," said he, turning to Huldy, "I must go to
Boston at once to make the necessary arrangements for his funeral He is
to be buried at Amesbury with his wife and children, so please get word
to Mr. Pettengill that I shall not be home for several days. I will get
some one at the hotel to drive you home, Miss Mason. Only stern
necessity compels me to leave you in this way."
"You will do nothing of the sort," said Huldy. "I am perfectly confident
that I am able to drive this team home all by myself."
"I never can consent to it," said Quincy. "If anything happened to you,
your father and--" Huldy glanced at him. "I mean," said Quincy, "I
should never forgive myself, and your father would never forgive me.
Your arm is still weak, I know."
"My arm is just as good as ever," said Huldy. "The doctor told me it
wouldn't break in that place again. Besides, Mr. Sawyer," she said, as
the hotel came in sight, "I shall drive back just the same way we came,
and there are no hills or sharp corners, you know." She laughed heartily
and added, "I shall enjoy it very much, it is part of the comedy."
"Well," said Quincy in an undertone, "rebellious young woman, do as you
will, and bear the consequences. I will turn the team around so that you
won't have any trouble, and Hiram can take it down to Mr. Pettengill's
and deliver my message. Good-by," and he shook hands with her.
"We will get out here, Miss Miller," said he, and he helped the nurse to
alight. Grasping the heavy valise, he started at a brisk pace for the
station, and Miss Miller was obliged to run in order to keep up with
him. They boarded the train and took their seats. The train was ahead of
time and waited for a few minutes at the station.
Quincy did not know as he sped towards Boston on his sad errand that
Miss Lindy Putnam was in the second car behind him, bound to the same
place. Nor did he know for several days that Abner Stiles, who drove her
to the station, had seen Huldy driving towards Mason's Corner. Nor did
he know that Strout had told Abner of his seeing Huldy and Sawyer
together. Nor did he know that Abner whipped up his horse in a vain
attempt to overtake Huldy on her return to Mason's Corner. She, too, had
whipped up her horse and had reached home, and was in the house, calling
for Hiram, just as Abner turned into the square by Hill's grocery.
Quincy made the necessary purchases, and with the city, undertaker
returned to Eastborough Centre by the noon train. The body was placed in
a leaden casket and Quincy and the undertaker with their sad burden
returned to Boston by the five o'clock express.
His mother and sisters were still in New York, but he passed the evening
with his father, who approved of all he had done and what he proposed
doing.
Quincy went to Amesbury and purchased a small lot in the cemetery. After
a day's search he discovered the place of burial of his uncle's wife and
children. They were disinterred, and the four bodies were placed in the
little lot.
On his return to Boston he made arrangements for two plain marble stones
for his uncle and aunt, and two smaller ones for his little cousins,
whom he had never seen.
The directions that he left with the monument maker and the undertaker
at Amesbury were followed to the letter. If one should pass by that
little lot he would see on one marble slab these words:
Eunice Raymond Sawyer,
Aged 29 yrs., 6 mos.
On the little slab at her feet the simple words:
Mary, Aged 4 yrs., 2 mos.
At its side another little stone bearing only these words:
Ray, Aged 6 yrs., 8 mos.
Adhering strictly to his uncle's request, the other large stone bore no
name, but on it were engraved these words:
In Heaven we Know our Own.
CHAPTER XX.
A WET DAY.
When Quincy alighted from the train at Eastborough Centre, after
attending his uncle's funeral, he found the rain descending in torrents.
He hired a closed carriage and was driven to Mason's Corner, arriving
there about ten o'clock. He had taken his breakfast in Boston.
When he reached the Pettengill house he saw Hiram standing at the barn
door. Bidding the driver stop, he got out and paid his score; he then
took Hiram by the arm and led him into the barn. When he had primed the
latter with a good cigar, he said, "Now, Hiram, I've been away several
days and I want to know what has been going on. You know our agreement
was that you should tell me the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I
don't want you to spare my feelings nor anybody else's. Do you
understand?" said he to Hiram. Hiram nodded. "Then go ahead," said
Quincy.
"Well, first," said Hiram, puffing his cigar with evident satisfaction,
"they got hold of the point that Miss Huldy drove back alone from
Eastborough Centre. Abner Stiles took Lindy Putnam down to the station
and she went to Boston on the same train that you did. Abner tried to
catch up with Huldy, so he could quiz her, but she whipped up her horse
and got away from him."
"Smart girl!" interjected Quincy.
"You can just bet," said Hiram, "there ain't a smarter one in this town,
though, of course, I think Mandy is pretty smart, too."
"Mandy's all right," said Quincy; "go ahead."
"Well, secondly, as the ministers say," continued Hiram, "Lindy Putnam
told Abner when he drove her home from the station that night that the
copper company that Mr. Sawyer told her to put her money in had busted,
and she'd lost lots of money. That's gone all over Mason's Corner, and
if Abner told Asa Waters, it's all over Eastborough Centre by this
time."
"The whole thing is a lie," said Quincy hotly; "the stock did go down,
but my father told me yesterday it had rallied and would soon advance
from five to ten points. What's the next confounded yarn?"
"Well, thirdly," continued Hiram, "of course everybody knows Jim Sawyer
was your uncle, and somebody said--you can guess who--that it would look
better if you would pay up his back board instead of spending so much
money on a fancy funeral and cheating the town undertaker out of a job."
"I paid him for all that he did," said Quincy.
"Yes," said Hiram, "but this is how it is. You see the undertaker makes
a contract with the town to bury all the paupers who die during the year
for so much money. They averaged it up and found that about three died a
year, so the town pays the undertaker on that calculation; but this
year, you see, only two have died, and there ain't another one likely to
die before town meeting day, which comes the first Monday in March, so,
you see the undertaker gets paid for buryin' your uncle, though he
didn't do it, and some one says--you can guess who--that he is going to
bring the matter up in town meeting."
Quincy smothered an exclamation and bit savagely into his cigar.
"Anything else?" inquired he. "Have they abused the ladies as well as
me?"
"No," said Hiram; "you see somebody--you know who--is giving Huldy music
lessons and he will keep quiet about her anyway; but he says he can't
understand how 'Zeke Pettengill can let you board in his house and go
out riding with Huldy, unless things is up between 'Zeke and Huldy."
"Well, I guess that's about the size of it," said Quincy. "Now, for
instance, Hiram, you and Mandy are good friends, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Hiram, "after we get over our little difficulties we are."
"Well," said Quincy, "I happen to know that 'Zekiel and Huldy have got
over their little difficulties and they are now good friends."
"Been't they going to get married?" asked Hiram.
"Are you and Mandy going to get married?" asked Quincy.
"Well, we haven't got so far along as to set the day exactly," said
Hiram.
"And I don't believe 'Zekiel and Huldy will get married any sooner than
you and Mandy will," remarked Quincy. "But don't say a word about this,
Hiram."
"Mum's the word," replied Hiram. "I am no speaker, but I hear a thing or
two."
"Now, Hiram," said Quincy, "run in and tell Mandy I'll be in to lunch as
usual, and then come back, for I have something more to say to you."
Hiram did as directed, and Quincy sat and thought the situation over. So
far he had been patient and he had borne the slings and arrows hurled at
him without making any return. The time had come to change all that, and
from now on he would take up arms in his own defence, and even attack
his opponents.
When he had reached this conclusion, Hiram reappeared and resumed his
seat on the chopping block.
Quincy asked, "In what regiment did the singing-master go to war?"
"The same one as I did,--th Mass.," replied Hiram.
"Did you go to war?" inquired Quincy.
"Well, I rather guess," said Hiram. "I went out as a bugler; he was a
corporal, but he got detailed for hospital duty, and we left him behind
before we got where there was any fightin'."
"Was he ever wounded in battle?" asked Quincy.
"One of the sick fellers in the hospital gave him a lickin' one day, but
I don't suppose you'd call that a battle," remarked Hiram.
"Well, how about that rigmarole he got off down to the grocery store
that morning?" Quincy interrogated.
"Oh, that was all poppycock," said Hiram. "He said that just to get even
with you, when you were telling about your grandfathers and
grandmothers."
Quincy laughed.
"Oh, I see," said he. "Were you ever wounded in battle, Hiram?"
"Well, I was shot onct, but not with a bullet."
"What was it," said Quincy, "a cannon ball?"
"No," said Hiram. "I never was so thunderin' mad in my life. When I go
to regimental reunions the boys just joke the life out of me. You see I
was blowin' my bugle for a charge, and the boys were goin' ahead in
great style, when a shell struck a fence about twenty feet off. The
shell didn't hit me, but a piece of that darned fence came whizzin'
along and struck me where I eat, and I had a dozen stummick aches inside
o' half a minute. I just dropped my bugle and clapped my hands on my
stummick and yelled so loud that the boys told me afterwards that they
were afraid I had busted my bugle."
Quincy laid back in his chair and laughed heartily.
"What do the boys say to you when you go to the reunions?" he asked.
"They tell me to take a little whiskey for my stummick's sake," said
Hiram, "and some of them advise me to put on a plaster, and, darn 'em,
they always take me and toss me in a blanket every time I go, and onct
they made me a present of a bottleful of milk with a piece of rubber
hose on top of it. They said it would be good for me, but I chucked it
at the feller's head, darn him."
Quincy had another good laugh. Then he resumed his usual grave
expression and asked, "What town offices does the singing-master hold?"
"Well," said Hiram, "he is fence viewer and hog reeve and pound keeper,
but the only thing he gets much money out of is tax collector. He gets
two per cent on about thirty thousand dollars, which gives him about ten
dollars a week on an average, 'cause he don't get no pay if he don't
collect."
"Did he get a big vote for the place?" asked Quincy.
"No," said Hiram "he just got in by the skin of his teeth; he had last
town meetin' two more votes than Wallace Stackpole, and Wallace would
have got it anyhow if it hadn't been for an unfortunate accident."
"How was that?" asked Quincy.
"Well, you see," said Hiram, "two or three days before town meetin'
Wallace went up to Boston. He got an oyster stew for dinner, and it made
him kinder sick, and some one gave him a drink of brandy, and I guess
they gave him a pretty good dose, for when he got to Eastborough Centre
they had to help him off the train, 'cause his legs were kinder weak.
Well, 'Bias Smith, who lives over to West Eastborough, he is the best
talker we've got in town meetin'. He took up the cudgels for Wallace,
and he just lammed into those mean cusses who'd go back on a man 'cause
he was sick and took a little too much medicine. But Abner Stiles,--you
know Abner,--well, he's the next best talker to 'Bias Smith,--he stood
up and said he didn't think it was safe to trust the town's money to a
man who couldn't go to Boston and come home sober, and that pulled over
some of the fellers who'd agreed to vote for Wallace."
"Has the tax collector performed his duties satisfactorily?" asked
Quincy.
"Well," said Hiram, "Wallace Stackpole told me the other day that he
hadn't got in more than two-thirds of last year's taxes. He said the
selectmen had to borrow money and there'd be a row at the next town
meetin'."
"Well," said Quincy, rising, "I think I will go in and get ready for
lunch. I had a very early breakfast in Boston."
"Did you have oyster stew?" asked Hiram.
"No," replied Quincy, "people who live in Boston never eat oyster stews
at a restaurant. If they did there wouldn't be enough left for those
gentlemen who come from the country."
He opened the door and Hiram grasped his arm.
"By Gosh! I forgot one thing," he cried. "You remember Tilly James, that
played the pianner at the concert?"
"Yes," said Quincy, "and she was a fine player, too."
"Well," said Hiram, "she's engaged to Sam Hill, you know, down to the
grocery store. That ain't all, old Ben James, her father, he's a
paralytic, you know, and pretty well fixed for this world's goods, and
he wants Benoni to sell out his grocery when Tilly gets married and come
over and run the farm, which is the biggest one in the town, and I heerd
Abner Stiles say to 'Manuel Howe, that he reckoned he--you know who I
mean--would get some fellers to back him up and he'd buy out the grocery
and get 'p'inted postmaster. I guess that's all;" and Hiram started off
towards Deacon Mason's.
Quincy went to his room and prepared for the noonday meal. While doing
so he mentally resolved that the singing-master would not be the next
tax collector if he could prevent it; he also resolved that the same
party would not get the grocery store, if he had money enough to outbid
him; and lastly he felt sure that he had influence enough to prevent his
being appointed postmaster.
Quincy met Ezekiel at lunch. He told Quincy that everything was working
smoothly; that the singing-master evidently thought he had the field all
to himself. He said Huldy and Alice were old friends, and Huldy was
coming over twice a week to see Alice, and so he shouldn't go up to
Deacon Mason's very often.
"Where is Miss Pettengill?" said Quincy.
"Well," replied Ezekiel, "she isn't used to heavy dinners at noon, so
she had a lunch up in her room. I am going over to West Eastborough this
afternoon with the boys to see some cows that 'Bias Smith has got to
sell. The sun is coming out and I guess it will be pleasant the rest of
the day."
"'Bias Smith?" asked Quincy.
"His name is Tobias," said Ezekiel, "but everybody calls him 'Bias."
"I have heard of him," said Quincy. "You just mention my name to him,
Mr. Pettengill, and say I am coming over some day with Mr. Stackpole to
see him."
'Zekiel smiled. "Going to take a hand yourself?" asked he.
"Yes," said Quincy, "the other fellow has been playing tricks with the
pack so long that I think I shall throw down a card or two myself, and I
may trump his next lead."
"By the way," said 'Zekiel, "while you were away Uncle Ike had our piano
tuned and fixed up. It hasn't been played since Alice went to Boston
five years ago. But the tuner who came from Boston said it was just as
good as ever. So if you hear any noise underneath you this afternoon you
will know what it means."
"Music never troubles me," said Quincy, "I play and sing myself."
"Well, I hope you and Alice will have a good time with the piano,"
remarked 'Zekiel as he left the room.
Quincy went back to his room and wrote a letter to a friend in Boston,
asking him to get a certified copy of the war record of Obadiah Strout,
Corporal --th Mass. Volunteers, and send it to him at Eastborough Centre
as soon as possible. It was many days before that letter reached its
destination.
He then sat down in his favorite armchair and began thinking out the
details of his aggressive campaign against the singing-master. He had
disposed of his enemy in half a dozen pitched battles, when the sound of
the piano fell upon his ear.
She was playing. He hoped she was a good musician, for his taste in that
art was critical. He had studied the best, and he knew it when he heard
it sung or played. The piano was a good one, its tone was full and
melodious, and it was in perfect tone.
He listened intently. He looked and saw that he had unintentionally left
the door of his room ajar. The parlor door, too, must be open partly, or
he could not have heard so plainly. What was that she was playing? Ah!
Mendelssohn. Those "Songs Without Words" were as familiar to him as the
alphabet. Now it is Beethoven, that beautiful work, "The Moonlight
Sonata," she was evidently trying to recall her favorites to mind, for
of course she could not be playing by note. Then she strayed into a
"valse" by Chopin, and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown
composer. "She is a classical musician," said Quincy to himself, as the
first bars of a Rhapsodic Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. "I hope
she knows some of the old English ballads and the best of the popular
songs," thought Quincy.
As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling old song, "Tis but
a Little Faded Flower," and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure,
sweet, soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed to reach
and permeate every nook and corner in the old homestead.
Quincy could stand it no longer. He stepped quietly to his door, opened
it wide, and listened with delight to the closing lines of the song.
Then she sang that song that thrilled the hearts of thousands of English
soldiers in the Crimea on the eve of the battle of Inkermann, "Annie
Laurie," and it was with difficulty that Quincy refrained from joining
in the chorus. Surely Annie Laurie could have been no purer, no sweeter,
no more beautiful, than Alice Pettengill; and Quincy felt that he could
do and die for the girl who was singing in the parlor, as truly as would
have the discarded suitor who wrote the immortal song.
But Quincy was destined to be still more astonished. Alice played a
short prelude that seemed familiar to him, and then her voice rang out
the words of that beautiful duet that Quincy had sung with Lindy Putnam
at the singing-master's concert. Yes, it was Jewell's "Over the Bridge."
This was too much for Quincy. He went quietly down the stairs and looked
in at the parlor door, which was wide open. Alice was seated at the
piano, and again the sun, in its westward downward course, shone in at
the window, and lighted up her crown of golden hair. This time she had
reversed the colors which she evidently knew became her so well, and
wore a dress of light pink, while a light blue knitted shawl, similar to
its pink companion, lay upon the chair beside her.
When she reached the duet Quincy did not attempt to control himself any
further, but joined in with her, and they sang the piece together to the
end.
Alice turned upon the piano stool, faced the door and clapped her hands.
"That was capital, Mr. Sawyer. I didn't know that you sang so well. In
fact, I didn't know that you sang at all."
"How did you know it was I?" said Quincy, as he advanced towards her.
"It is a little cool here, Miss Pettengill. Allow me to place your shawl
about you;" and, suiting the action to the word, he put it gently over
her shoulders.
"Yes," said Alice, "I put it on when I first came down. It interfered
with my playing and I threw it into the chair."
"May I take the chair, now that it is unoccupied?" he asked.
"Yes," said Alice, "if you will give me your word of honor that you did
not try to make me think it was cold: here, so that you could get the
chair."
Quincy replied with a laugh, "If I did my reward is a great return for
my power of invention, but I assure you I was thinking of your health
and not of the chair, when I tendered my services."
"You are an adept in sweet speeches, Mr. Sawyer. You city young men all
are; but our country youth, who are just as true and honest, are at a
great disadvantage, because they cannot say what they think in so
pleasing a way."
"I hope you do not think I am insincere," remarked Quincy, gravely.
"Not at all," said Alice, "but I have not answered your question. How
did I know that it was you? You must remember, Mr. Sawyer, that those
who cannot see have their hearing accentuated, and the ear kindly sends
those pictures to the brain which unfortunately the eye cannot supply."
"I have enjoyed your playing and singing immensely," said Quincy. "Let
us try that duet again."
They sang it again, and then they went from piece to piece, each
suggesting her or his favorite, and it was not till Mandy's shrill voice
once more called out with more than usual force and sharpness, "Supper's
ready," that the piano was closed and Quincy, for the first time taking
Alice's hand in his, led her from the parlor, which was almost shrouded
in darkness, into the bright light of the dining-room, where they took
their accustomed seats. They ate but little, their hearts were full of
the melody that each had enjoyed so much.
CHAPTER XXI
SOME MORE NEW IDEAS.
When Ezekiel and Cobb's twins returned from West Eastborough, they said
the air felt like snow. Mandy had kept some supper for them. Ezekiel
said they had supper over to Eastborough Centre, but the home cooking
smelled so good that all three sat down in the kitchen and disposed of
what Mandy had provided.
The other members of the Pettengill household were in their respective
rooms. Uncle Ike was reading a magazine. Alice had not retired, for
Mandy always came to her room before she did so to see that her fire was
all right for the night. Alice was a great lover of music and she had
enjoyed the afternoon almost as much as Quincy had. She could not help
thinking what musical treats might be in store for them, and then the
thought came to her how she would miss him when he went back to Boston.
In the next room, Quincy was pursuing a similar line of thought. He was
thinking of the nice times that Alice and he could have singing
together. To be sure he wished to do nothing to make his father angry,
for Quincy appreciated the power of money. He knew that with his
mother's third deducted, his fathers estate would give him between two
and three hundred thousand dollars. He had some money in his own right
left him by a fond aunt, his father's sister, the income from which gave
him a good living without calling upon his father.
He knew his father wished him to become a lawyer, and keep up the old
firm which was so well known in legal and business circles, but Quincy
in his heart realized that he was not equal to it, and the future had
little attraction for him, if it were to be passed in the law offices of
Sawyer, Crowninshield, & Lawrence. At any rate his health was not fully
restored and he determined to stay at Mason's Corner as long as he could
do so without causing a break in the friendly relations existing between
his father and himself. His present income was enough for his personal
needs, but it was not sufficient to also support a Mrs. Quincy Adams
Sawyer.
What Ezekiel had prophesied came true. No one knew just when the storm
began, but the picture that greeted Mandy Skinner's eyes when she came
down to get breakfast was a great contrast to that of the previous day.
The snow had fallen steadily in large, heavy flakes, the road and the
fields showed an even, unbroken surface of white; the tops of the taller
fences were yet above the snow line, each post wearing a white cap. As
the morning advanced the storm increased, the wind blew, and great
drifts were indications of its power. The thick clouds of white flakes
were thrown in every direction, and only dire necessity, it seemed,
would be a sufficient reason for leaving a comfortable fireside.
Mandy and Mrs. Crowley were busily engaged in preparing the morning
meal, when a loud scratching at a door, which led into a large room that
was used as an addition to the kitchen, attracted their attention. In
bounded Swiss, the big St. Bernard dog belonging to Uncle Ike. At Uncle
Ike's special request Swiss had not been banished to the barn or the
wood-shed, but had been allowed to sleep on a pallet in the corner of
the large room referred to.
Swiss was a great favorite with Mandy, and he was a great friend of
hers, for Swiss was very particular about his food, and he had found
Mandy to be a much better cook than Uncle Ike had been; besides the
fare was more bounteous at the Pettengill homestead than down at the
chicken coop, and Swiss had gained in weight and strength since his
change of quarters.
After breakfast Uncle Ike came into the kitchen and received a warm
welcome from Swiss. Uncle Ike told Mandy and Mrs. Crowley the well-known
story of the rescues of lost travellers made by the St. Bernard dogs on
the snow-clad mountains of Switzerland. When Mrs. Crowley learned that
Swiss had come from a country a great many miles farther away from
America than Ireland was, he rose greatly in her estimation and she made
no objection to his occupying a warm corner of the kitchen.
About noon, when the storm was at its very worst, Mandy, who was looking
out of the kitchen window, espied something black in the road about
halfway between Deacon Mason's and the Pettengill house. She called Mrs.
Crowley to the window and asked her what she thought it was.
"That's aisy," said Mrs. Crowley, "It's a man coming down the road."
"What can bring a man out in such a storm as this?" asked Mandy.
"Perhaps he is going for the docther," remarked Mrs. Crowley.
"Then he would be going the other way," asserted Mandy.
"He's a plucky little divil anyway," said Mrs. Crowley.
"That's so," said Mandy. "He is all right as long as he keeps on his
feet, but if he should fall down--"
At that moment the man did fall down or disappear from sight. Mandy
pressed her face against the window pane and looked with strained eyes.
He was up again, she could see the dark clothing above the top of the
snow.
What was that! A cry? The sound was repeated.
"I do believe the man is calling for help," cried Mandy.
[Illustration: "MRS. PUTNAM'S ANGER, UPON DISCOVERY OF LINDY'S
PARENTAGE." (ACT III.)]
She rushed to the kitchen door and opened it. A gust of snow swept into
the room, followed by a stream of cold, chilling air. Swiss awoke from
his nap and lifted, his head. Despite the storm, Mandy stood at the door
and screamed "Hello!" with her sharp, strident voice. Could she believe
her ears? Through the howling storm came a word uttered in a voice which
her woman's heart at once recognized. The word was "Mandy," and the
voice was Hiram's.
"What on earth is he out in this storm for?" said Mandy to herself. She
called back in response, "Hello! Hello! Hello!" and once more her own
name was borne to her through the beating, driving storm.
She shut the door and resumed her post at the window. Hiram was still
struggling manfully against the storm and had made considerable
progress.
Mandy turned to Mrs. Crowley and said, "Mr. Maxwell is coming, Mrs.
Crowley."
"More fool he," remarked Mrs. Crowley, "to be out in a storm like this."
"Get some cider, Mrs. Crowley," said Mandy, "and put it on the stove. He
will need a good warm drink when he gets here."
"If he was a son of mine he'd get a good warmin'," said Mrs. Crowley, as
she went down cellar to get the cider.
Mandy still strained her eyes at the window. The dark form was still
visible, moving slowly through the snow. At that moment a terrific storm
of wind struck the house; it made every window and timber rattle; great
clouds of snow were swept up from the ground to mingle with those coming
from above, and the two were thrown into a whirling eddy that struck the
poor traveller and took him from his feet, covering him from sight.
Mandy rushed to the door and opened it. This time she did not scream
"Hello." The word this time was "Hiram! He is lost! He is lost!" she
cried. "His strength has given out; but what shall I do? I could not
reach him if I tried. Oh, Hiram! Hiram!" and the poor girl burst into
tears. She would call Mr. Pettengill; she would call Cobb's twins; she
would call Mr. Sawyer; one of them would surely go to his assistance.
She turned, and to her surprise found Swiss by her side, looking up at
her with his large, intelligent eyes. Quick as lightning, Uncle Ike's
story came back to her mind. She patted Swiss on the head, and pointed
out into the storm.
Not another word was needed. With a bound Swiss went into the snow and
rapidly forward in the direction of the road. Mandy was obliged to close
the door again and resume her place at the window. How her heart beat!
How she watched the dog as he ploughed his way through the drifts? He
must be near the place. Yes, he is scratching and digging down into the
snow. Now the dark form appears once more. Yes, Hiram is on his feet
again and man and dog resume their fight with the elements.
It seemed an age to Mandy, but it was in reality not more than five
minutes, before Hiram and Swiss reached the kitchen door and came into
the room.
"Come out into the back room," said Mandy to Hiram. "I don't want this
snow all over my kitchen floor." So Hiram and Swiss were taken into the
big room and in a short time came back in presentable condition.
"Now, Mr. Maxwell, if you have recovered the use of your tongue, will
you kindly inform me what sent you out in such a storm as this?"
"Well," replied Hiram, "I reckoned I'd git down kinder early in the
mornin' and git back afore dark."
"That's all right," said Mandy; "but that don't tell me what you are out
for, anyway."
"Well, you didn't suppose," said Hiram, "that I could go all day long
without seein' you, did yer, Mandy?"
Mrs. Crowley chuckled to herself and went into the side room. Even Swiss
seemed to recognize that two were company and he followed Mrs. Crowley
and resumed his old resting place in the corner on the pallet.
As Mrs. Crowley went about her work, she chuckled again, and said to
herself, "It's a weddin' I'll be goin' to next time in place of a
funeral."
Upstairs other important events were taking place. Quincy had gone to
his room directly after breakfast, and looked out upon the wild scene of
storm with a sense of loneliness that had not hitherto oppressed him.
Why should he be lonely? Was he not in the same house with her, with
only a thin wall of wood and plaster between them? Yes, but if that wall
had been of granite one hundred feet thick, it could not have shut him
off more effectually from seeing her lovely face and hearing her sweet
voice.
There came a sharp rap at the door.
"Come in," called out Quincy.
"Ah!" said Uncle Ike as he entered, "I am glad to see you have a good
fire. The snow has blown down into Alice's room and her fire is out.
Will you let her step in here for a few moments, Mr. Sawyer, until 'Zeke
and I get the room warm again?"
"Why, certainly," replied Quincy. "I am only too happy--"
But Uncle Ike was off, and returned in a few moments leading Alice.
Quincy placed a chair for her before the fire. This cold wintry day she
wore a morning dress of a shade of red which, despite its bright color,
seemed to harmonize with the golden hair and to take the place of the
sun, which was not there to light it up.
"If Miss Pettengill prefers," said Quincy, "I can make myself
comfortable in the dining-room, and she can have my room to herself."
He had started this speech to Uncle Ike, who left the room abruptly in
the middle of it, and Quincy's closing words fell on Alice's ears alone.
"Why, certainly not," said Alice; "sit down, Mr. Sawyer, and we will
talk about something. Don't you think it is terrible?" As Quincy was
contemplating his fair visitor, he could hardly be expected to say "yes"
to her question. "Perhaps you enjoy it?" said she.
"I certainly do," answered Quincy, throwing his whole heart into his
eyes.
"Well, I must differ with you," said Alice. "I never did like snow."
"Oh, you were talking about the weather!" remarked Quincy.
"Why, yes," said Alice. "What else did you think I was talking about?"
Quincy, cool and self-possessed as he invariably was, was a trifle
embarrassed.
Turning to Alice he said, "I see, Miss Pettengill, that I must make you
a frank statement in order that you may retain your respect for me. I
know you will pardon me for not hearing what you said, and for what I am
about to say; but the fact is, I was wondering whether you have had the
best advice and assistance that the medical science of to-day can afford
you as regards your eyes."
"It is very kind of you, Mr. Sawyer, to think of me, and my trouble, and
I will answer you in the same friendly way in which you have spoken. I
was taken sick one morning just as I was eating my breakfast I never
felt better in my life than I did that morning, but the pain in my side
was so intense, so agonizing, that by the time I reached my room and
threw myself on the bed, physically I was a complete wreck. A doctor was
called at once and he remained with me from eight o'clock until noon
before I became comfortable. I thought I was going to get better right
off, or I should have written to 'Zekiel. Two other attacks, each more
severe than the one preceding, followed the first, and I was so sick
that writing, or telling any one else what to write, or where to write,
was impossible. Then I began slowly to recover, but I was very weak and
what made me feel worse than ever was the fact that the trouble with my
eyes, which before my illness I had attributed to nearsightedness, was
now so marked that I could not see across the room. I could not even see
to turn a spoonful of medicine from a bottle on the table beside my bed.
The Pettengills, Mr. Sawyer, are a self-reliant race, and I concluded in
my own mind that the trouble with my eyes was due to my illness, and
that when I recovered from that, they would get well; but they did not.
I was able, physically, to resume my work, but I could not see to read
or write. I sent for my employer and told him my condition. He advised
me to consult an oculist at once. In fact, he got a carriage and took me
to one himself. The oculist said that the treatment would require at
least three months; so my employer told me I had better come home, and
that when I recovered I could have my place back again. He is a fine,
generous-hearted man and I should be very miserable if I thought I was
going to lose my place."
"But what did the oculist say was the trouble with your eyes?" Quincy
asked.
"He didn't tell me," replied Alice. "He may have told my employer. He
gave me some drops to put in my eyes three times a day; and a little
metal tube with a cover to it like the top of a pepper box; on the other
end is a piece of rubber tubing, with a glass mouthpiece attached to it"
"How do you use that?" asked Quincy.
Alice continued, "I hold the pepper box in front of my wide-opened eye;
then I put the glass mouthpiece in my mouth and blow, for a certain
length of time. I don't know how long it is. It seems as though a
thousand needles were driven into my eyeball. The drops make me cry;
but the little tube brings the tears in torrents."
"Isn't that harsh treatment?" asked Quincy, as he looked at the
beautiful blue but sightless eyes that were turned towards him.
"No," said Alice with a laugh, "the pain and the tears are like an April
shower, for both soon pass away."
At this moment Uncle Ike entered the room and Ezekiel's steps were heard
descending the stairs. Uncle Ike said, "We have got it started and
'Zeke's gone down to bring up a good stock of wood. If you have no
objection, Mr. Sawyer, I will sit down here a few minutes. Don't let me
interrupt your conversation."
"I hope you will take a part in it," said Quincy. "You put a lot of new
ideas into my head the first time I came to see you, and perhaps you may
have some more new ones for me to-day. Miss Pettengill was just saying
she would feel miserable if she lost her situation."
"I have no doubt of it," said Uncle Ike. "The Pettengills are not afraid
to work. If a man is obliged to earn his living by the sweat of his
brow, I don't see why woman shouldn't do the same thing."
"But the home is woman's sphere," said Quincy.
"Bosh!" cried Uncle Ike.
"Why, Uncle!" cried Alice.
"Oh, Mr. Sawyer understands me!" said Uncle Ike. "In the Middle Ages,
when women occupied the highest position that has fallen to her lot
since the days of Adam, the housework was done by menials and scullions.
Has the world progressed when woman is pulled down from her high estate
and this life of drudgery is called her sphere? Beg your pardon, Mr.
Sawyer, but there should be no more limit fixed to the usefulness of
woman than there is to the usefulness of man."
"But," persisted Alice, "I don't think Mr. Sawyer means that exactly.
He means a woman should stay at home and look after her family."
"Well," said Uncle Ike, "so should the man. I am inclined to think if
the father spent more time at home, it would be for the advantage of
both sons and daughters."
"But," said Quincy, "do you think it is for the best interests of the
community that woman should force her way into all branches of industry
and compete with man for a livelihood?"
"Why not?" said Uncle Ike. "In the old days when they didn't work, for
they didn't know how and didn't want to, because they thought it was
beneath them, if a man died, his wife and children became dependent upon
some brother or sister or uncle or aunt, and they were obliged to
provide for them out of their own small income or savings. In those days
it was respectable to be genteelly poor, and starve rather than work and
live on the fat of the land. Nothing has ever done so much to increase
the self-respect of woman, and add to her feeling of independence, as
the knowledge of the fact that she can support herself." Alice bowed her
head and covered her eyes with her hand. "There's nothing personal in
what I say," said Uncle Ike. "I am only talking on general principles."
Quincy yearned to say something against Uncle Ike's argument, but how
could he advance anything against woman's work when the one who sat
before him was a workingwoman and was weeping because she could not
work? There was one thing he could do, he could change the subject to
one where there was an opportunity for debate. So he said, "Well, Mr.
Pettengill, I presume if you are such an ardent advocate of woman's
right or even duty to work, that you are also a supporter of her right
to vote."
"That does not follow," replied Uncle Ike. "To be self-reliant,
independent, and self-supporting is a pleasure and a duty, and adds to
one's self-respect. As voting is done at the present day, I do not see
how woman can take part in it and maintain her self-respect.
Improvements no doubt will be made in the manner of voting. The ballot
will become secret, and the count will not be disclosed until after the
voting is finished. The rum stores will be closed on voting day and an
air of respectability will be given to it that it does not now possess.
It ought to be made a legal holiday."
"Granted," said Quincy, "but what has that to do with the question of
woman's right to vote?"
"Woman has no inherent right to vote," said Uncle Ike. "The ballot is a
privilege, not a right. Why, I remember reading during the war that
young soldiers, between eighteen and twenty-one years of age, claimed
the ballot as a right, because they were fighting for their country. If
voting is a right, what argument could be used against their claim?"
"I remember," added Quincy, "that they argued that 'bullets should win
ballots.' Do you think any one should vote who cannot fight?" asked
Quincy.
"If he does not shirk his duty between eighteen and forty-five," said
Uncle Ike, "he should not be deprived of his ballot when he is older;
but the question of woman's voting does not depend upon her ability to
fight. The mother at home thinking of her son, the sister thinking of
her brother, the wife thinking of her husband, are as loyally fighting
for their native land as the soldiers in the field, and no soldier is
braver than the hospital nurse, who, day after day and night after
night, watches by the bedsides of the wounded, the sick, and the dying.
No, Mr. Sawyer, it is not a question of fighting or bravery."
During the discussion Alice had dried her eyes and was listening to her
uncle's words. She now asked a question, "When will women vote, Uncle?"
"When it is deemed expedient for them to do so," replied Uncle Ike. "The
full privilege will not be given all at once. They will probably be
allowed to vote on some one matter in which they are deeply interested.
Education and the rum question are the ones most likely to be acted upon
first. But the full ballot will not come, and now I know Alice will
shake her head and say, 'No!' I repeat it--the full ballot will not come
for woman until our social superstructure is changed. Woman will not
become the political equal of man until she is his social and industrial
equal; and until any contract of whatever nature made by a man and a
woman may be dissolved by them by mutual consent, without their becoming
criminals in the eye of the law, or outcasts in the eyes of society."
At this moment Ezekiel looked in the door and said, "Alice's room is
nice and warm now." Advancing, he took her hand and led her from the
room. Uncle Ike thanked Quincy for his kindness and followed them.
Quincy sat and thought. The picture that his mind drew placed the woman
who had just left his room in a large house, with servants at her
command. She was the head of the household, but no menial nor scullion.
She did not work, because he was able and willing to support her. She
did not vote, because she felt with him that at home was her sphere of
usefulness; and then Quincy thought that what would make this possible
was money, money that not he but others had earned, and he knew that
without this money the question could not be solved as his mind had
pictured it; and he reflected that all women could not have great houses
and servants and loving husbands to care for them, and he acknowledged
to himself that his solution was a personal, selfish one and not one
that would answer for the toiling million's of the working world.
CHAPTER XXII.
AFTER THE GREAT SNOWSTORM.
Mandy was, of course, greatly pleased inwardly because Hiram had come
through such a great storm to see her, but, woman-like, she would not
show it.
So she said to Hiram, "Your reason is a very good one, and of course I
am greatly flattered, but there must be something else besides that.
Now, what have you got to tell me?"
"Well, the fact is, Mandy, I've got two things on my mind. One of 'em is
a secret and t'other isn't. I meant to have told you yesterday; but Mr.
Sawyer kept me busy till noon, and the Deacon kept me busy all the
afternoon, and I was too tired to come over last night."
"Well," said Mandy, "tell me the secret first. If the other one has kept
so long it won't spoil if it's kept a little longer."
Hiram had kept his eyes on the stove since taking his seat, and he then
remarked, "I am afraid that cider will spoil unless I get a drink of it
pretty soon."
"Well, I declare," cried Mandy, "if I didn't forget to give it to you,
after sending Mrs. Crowley down stairs for it, when you was out there in
the road."
"That's all right," said Hiram, as he finished the mugful she passed
him, and handed it back to be refilled. "That sort o' limbers a feller's
tongue a bit. Well, the secret is," said Hiram, lowering his voice,
"that when Huldy saw me gettin' ready to go out, sez she, 'Where are you
goin'?' 'Over to Mr. Pettengill's,' sez I. Then sez she, 'Will you wait
a minute till I write a note?' 'Certainly,' sez I. And when she brought
me the note, sez she, 'Please give that to Mr. Pettengill and don't let
anybody else see it.' Then sez I to her, 'No, ma'am;' but I sez to
myself, 'Nobody but Mandy.'" And Hiram took from an inside pocket an
envelope, addressed to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill, and showed it to Mandy.
Then he put it back quickly in his pocket.
"Well, what of that?" asked Mandy. "That's no great secret."
"Well, not in itself," said Hiram; "but I am willing to bet a year's
salary agin a big red apple that those two people have made up and are
engaged reg'lar fashion."
"You don't say so," cried Mandy, "what makes you think so?"
"Well, a number of things," said Hiram. "I overheard the Deacon say to
Huldy, 'It will be pretty lonesome for us one of these days,' and then
you see Mrs. Mason, she is just as good as pie to me all the time, and
that shows something has pleased her more than common; and then you see
Huldy has that sort of look about her that girls have when their
market's made, and they feel so happy that they can't help showing it.
You see, Mandy, I'm no chicken. I've had lots of experience."
What Mandy might have said in reply to this remark will never be known,
for at this juncture Ezekiel entered the room and passed through on his
way to the wood-shed.
"Now's my time," said Hiram, and he arose and followed him out.
Ezekiel was piling up some wood which he was to take to Alice's room,
when Hiram came up beside him and slyly passed him the note. Then Hiram
looked out of the wood-shed window at the storm, which had lost none of
its fury, while Ezekiel read the note.
"Are you going home soon?" asked Ezekiel.
"Well, I guess I'll try it again," said Hiram, "as soon as I get warm
and kinder limbered up."
"I guess I'll go back with you," said Ezekiel. "We will take Swiss with
us; two men and a dog ought to be enough for a little snowstorm like
this."
"You won't find it a little one," said Hiram, "when you get out in the
road, but I guess the three on us can pull through."
Ezekiel went upstairs with the wood and Hiram resumed his seat before
the kitchen fire.
"What did I tell you?" said Hiram to Mandy. "'Zeke's going back with me.
She has writ him to come over and see her. Now you see if you don't lose
your apple."
"I didn't bet," said Mandy; "but what was that other thing you were
going to tell me that was no secret?"
"Oh, that's about another couple," said Hiram. "Tilly James is engaged."
"Well, it's about time," said Mandy. "Which one of them?"
"Samuel Hill," replied Hiram, "and she managed it fust rate. You know
the boys have been flocking round her for more than a year. Old Ben
James, her pa, told me he'd got to put in a new hitchin' post. You see,
there has been Robert Wood and 'Manuel Howe and Arthur Scates and Cobb's
twins and Ben Bates and Sam Hill, but Samuel was the cutest one of the
lot."
"Why, what did he do that was bright?" asked Mandy.
"Well," replied Hiram, "you see, Tilly sot down and writ invites to all
the boys that had been sparkin' 'round her to come to see her the same
night. She gave these invites to her brother Bill to deliver. Well, Sam
Hill met him, found out what he was about, and kinder surmised what it
all meant. Wall, the night came 'round and Sam Hill was the only one
that turned up at the time app'inted. After talkin' about the weather,
last year's crops, and spring plantin', Sam just braced up and proposed,
and Tilly accepted him on the spot."
"Where were the other fellers?" asked Mandy. "I always surmised that she
thought more of Ben Bates than she did of Sam Hill."
"Well, it didn't come out till a couple of days afterwards," said Hiram.
"You see, the shortest way to old James's place is to go over the mill
race, and all of the fellers but Sam Hill went that way, and the joke of
it was that they all fell over into the river and got a duckin'."
"Well," said Mandy, "they must have been drinking. Tilly is well rid of
the whole lot of them. Why, I've walked over that log time and time
again."
"Well, they hadn't been drinkin'," said Hiram. "You see it was pretty
dark and they didn't get on to the fact that the log was greased till it
was kinder too late to rectify matters."
"And did Sam Hill do that?" asked Mandy.
"He did," said Hiram; and he burst into a loud laugh, in which Mandy
joined.
The laughing was quickly hushed as the kitchen door opened and Ezekiel
entered, warmly dressed for his fight with the snow and carrying a heavy
cane in his hand.
"Call the dog, Hiram," said Ezekiel, "and we'll start. Mandy, tell Jim
and Bill to come over to Deacon Mason's for me about four o'clock,
unless it looks too bad; if it does they needn't try it till to-morrow
morning."
"All ready," said he to Hiram, who was patting Swiss's head, and off
they started.
Again Mandy went to the window and watched the progress of the
travellers. Mrs. Crowley came into the kitchen and seeing Mandy at the
window quietly turned out a mug of the hot cider and drank it. She then
approached Mandy and said, "What was all the laughin' about? I like a
good joke myself."
Mandy said, "Oh, he was telling me about a girl that invited all her
fellers to come and see her the same evening, and only one of them got
there because he greased the log over the mill race, and all the rest of
them fell into the water."
"It was a mane trick," said Mrs. Crowley. "Now, when all the boys were
after me, for I was a good lookin' girl once, Pat Crowley, he was me
husband, had a fight on hand every night for a fortnight and all on
account of me; and they do say there were never so many heads broken in
the County of Tipperary on account of one girl since the days of St.
Patrick."
Mandy had paid but little attention to Mrs. Crowley's speech. She was
too busy watching the travellers. Mrs. Crowley filled and emptied the
mug once more.
The last potation was too much for her equilibrium, and forgetting the
step that led from the kitchen to the side room, she lost her balance
and fell prone upon the floor. Her loud cries obliged Mandy to turn from
the window, but not until she had seen that the travellers had reached
the fence before Deacon Mason's house, and she knew they were safe for
the present. Mrs. Crowley was lifted to her feet by Mandy. The old woman
declared that she was "kilt intirely," but Mandy soon learned the cause
of the accident, and returning to the kitchen closed the door and
continued her morning duties.
Before Ezekiel left the house he had interrupted Quincy's meditations by
knocking on his door, and when admitted told him that he had had a
letter from Huldy.
"She is kind of lonesome," he said, "and wants me to come over to see
her."
"But it is a terrible storm," said Quincy, looking out of the window.
"Oh," said Ezekiel, "we'll be all right! Hiram is going with me, and we
are going to take Swiss along with us. Now, Mr. Sawyer, I am going to
ask you to do me and Alice a favor. Uncle Ike is upstairs busy reading,
and if you will kinder look out for Alice till I get back I shall be
greatly obliged."
Quincy promised and Ezekiel departed.
Quincy thought the fates had favored him in imposing upon him such a
pleasant task. But where was she, and what could he do to amuse her?
Then he thought, "We can sing together as we did yesterday."
He went down stairs to the parlor, thinking she might be there, but the
room was empty. The fire was low, but the supply of wood was ample, and
in a short time the great room was warm and comfortable. Quincy seated
himself at the piano, played a couple of pieces and then sang a couple;
he did not think while singing the second song that he had possibly
transcended propriety, but when he sang the closing lines of "Alice,
Where Art Thou?" it suddenly dawned upon him, and, full of vexation, he
arose and walked to the window and looked out upon the howling storm.
Suddenly he heard a sweet voice say, "I am here." And then a low laugh
reached his ear.
Turning, he saw Alice standing in the middle of the room, while Mandy's
retreating figure showed who had been her escort. Her brother Ezekiel
had rigged a bell wire from her room to the kitchen, so that she could
call Mandy when she needed her assistance.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Pettengill," said Quincy, advancing towards
her. "The song has always been a favorite of mine, but I never thought
of its personal application until I reached the closing words. I trust
you do not think I was so presuming as to--"
Alice smiled and said, "The song is also a favorite one of mine, Mr.
Sawyer, and you sang it beautifully. No apologies are needed, for the
fact is I was just saying to myself, 'Mr. Sawyer, where are you?' for
'Zekiel told me that he was going to speak to you and ask you to help me
drive away those lonesome feelings that always come to me on a day like
this. I cannot see the storm, but I can hear it and feel it."
As Quincy advanced towards her he saw she held several sheets of paper
in her hand.
"I am at your service," said he. "I am only afraid that your
requirements will exceed my ability."
"Very prettily spoken," said Alice, as Quincy led her to a seat by the
fire, and took one himself. "I am going to confess to you," said she,
"one of my criminal acts. I am going to ask you to sit as judge and mete
out what you consider a suitable punishment for my offence."
"What crime have you committed?" asked Quincy gravely.
Alice laughed, shook the papers she held in her hand, and said, "I have
written poetry."
"The crime is a great one," said Quincy. "But if the poetry be good it
may serve to mitigate your sentence. Are those the evidences of your
crime you hold in your hand, Miss Pettingill?"
"Yes," she answered, as she passed a written sheet to him; "I wrote them
before my eyes failed me. Perhaps you will find it hard to read them.
Which one is that?" she asked.
"It is headed, 'On the Banks of the Tallahassee,'" replied Quincy.
"Oh!" cried Alice, "I didn't write that song myself. A gentleman friend,
who is now dead, was the author of it. But he couldn't write a chorus
and he asked me to do it for him. The idea of the chorus is moonlight on
the river."
"Shall I read it?" asked Quincy.
"Only the chorus part, if you please," replied Alice, "and be as lenient
as you can, good Mr. Judge, for that was my first offence."
Quincy, in a smooth, even voice, read the following words:
The moon's bright rays,
In a silver maze,
Fall on the rushing river;
Each ray of light
Like an arrow white
Drawn from a crystal quiver.
They romp and play,
In a wond'rous way,
On tree and shrub and flower;
And fill the night
With a radiant light,
That falls like a silver shower.
"You do not say anything," said Alice, as Quincy finished reading and
remained silent.
He replied, "You have conferred judicial functions upon me and a judge
does not give his opinion until the evidence is all in."
"Ah! I see," said Alice. "My knowledge of metrical composition," she
continued, "is very limited. What I know of it I learned from an old
copy of Fowler's Grammar that I bought at Burnham's on School Street
soon after I went to Boston. I have always called what you just read a
poem. Is it one?" she asked, looking up with a smile.
"I think it is," replied Quincy, "and," he added inadvertently, "a very
pretty one, too."
"Oh! Mr. Judge," laughing outright "you have given aid and comfort to
the prisoner before the evidence was all in."
And Quincy was forced to laugh heartily at the acuteness she had shown
in forcing his opinion from him prematurely."
"Now, this one," said Alice, "I call a song. I know which one it is by
the size and thickness of the paper." And she handed him a foolscap
sheet.
Quincy took it and glanced over it a moment or two before he spoke,
Alice leaning forward and listening intently for the first sound of his
voice. Then Quincy uttered those ever pleasing words, "Sweet, Sweet
Home," and delivered, with great expression, the words of the song.
"You read it splendidly," cried Alice, with evident delight. "Would it
be presuming on your kindness if I asked you to read the refrain and
chorus once more, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I shall enjoy reading it again myself," remarked Quincy, as he
proceeded to comply with Alice's pleasantly worded request.
REFRAIN:
There is no place like home, they say,
No matter where it be;
The lordly mansion of the rich,
The hut of poverty.
The little cot, the tenement,
The white-winged ship at sea;
The heart will always seek its home,
Wherever it may be.
CHORUS:
Sweet, sweet home!
To that sweet place where youth was passed our thoughts will turn;
Sweet, sweet home!
Will send the blood to flaming face, and hearts will burn.
Sweet, sweet home!
It binds us to our native land where'er we roam,
No land so fair, no sky so blue,
As those we find when back we come to sweet, sweet home!
"Of course you know that lovely song, 'Juanita'?" said Alice.
"Certainly," said Quincy, and he sang the first line of the chorus.
Alice's voice joined in with his, and they finished the chorus together.
A thrill went through Quincy as he sang the last line, and he was
conscious that his voice quivered when he came to the words, "Be my own
fair bride."
"You sing with great expression," said Alice, "If you like these new
words that I have written to that old melody we can sing them together.
I have called it Loved Days. I think this is the one," she said, as she
passed him several small sheets pinned together.
"It is," said Quincy, as he took the paper and read it slowly.
As before, he said nothing when he had finished.
"Mr. Judge," said Alice, "would it be improper, from a judicial point of
view, for me to ask you which lines in the song you have just read
please you the most? But perhaps," said she, looking up at him, "none of
them are worthy of repetition."
"If you will consider for a moment," replied Quincy, "that I am off the
bench and am just sitting here quietly with you, I will say,
confidentially, that I am particularly well pleased with this;" and he
read a portion of the first stanza:
On Great Heaven's beauties,
Gaze the eyes I loved to see,
Done earth's weary duties,
Now, eternity.
"And," continued Quincy, "I think these lines from the second stanza are
fully equal to those I have just read."
But my soul, still living,
Speaks its words of comfort sweet,
Grandest promise giving
That again we'll meet.
"I should think," continued Quincy, "that those words were particularly
well suited to be sung at a funeral. I shall have to ask my friend
Bradley to have his quartette learn them, so as to be ready when I need
them."
"Oh! Mr. Sawyer," cried Alice, with a strong tone of reproof in her
voice, "how can you speak so lightly of death?"
"Pardon me," replied Quincy, "if I have unintentionally wounded your
feelings, but after all life is only precious to those who have
something to live for."
"But you certainly," said Alice, "can see something in life worth living
for."
"Yes," assented Quincy, "I can see it, but I am not satisfied in my own
mind that I shall ever be able to possess it."
"Oh, you must work and wait and hope!" cried Alice.
"I shall be happy to," he said, "if you will be kind and say an
encouraging word to me, so that I may not grow weary of the battle of
life."
"I should be pleased to help you all I can," she said sweetly.
"I shall need your help," Quincy remarked gravely, and then with a quick
change in tone he said playfully, "I think it is about time for the
judge to get back upon the bench."
"This," said Alice, as she passed him a manuscript enclosed in a cover,
"is my capital offence. If I escape punishment for my other
misdemeanors, I know I shall not when you have read this." And she
handed him the paper.
Quincy opened it and read, The Lord of the Sea, a Cantata.
CHARACTERS.
Canute, the Great, King of England and Denmark.
A Courtier.
An Irish Harper.
Queen Emma, the "Flower of Normandy."
Courtiers, Monks, and Gleemen.
PLACE.
Part I.--The palace of the king.
Part II.--The seashore at Southampton.
Time--About A.D. 1030.
As he proceeded with the reading he became greatly interested in it. He
had a fine voice and had taken a prize for oratory at Harvard.
When he finished he turned to Alice and said, "And you wrote that?"
"Certainly," said she. "Can you forgive me?"
Quincy said seriously, "Miss Pettengill, that is a fine poem; it is
grand when read, but it would be grander still if set to music. I can
imagine," Quincy continued, "how those choruses would sound if sung by
the Handel and Haydn Society, backed up by a full orchestra and the big
organ." And he sang, to an extemporized melody of his own, the words:
God bless the king of the English,
The Lord of the land,
The Lord of the sea!
"I can imagine," said he, as he rose and stood before Alice, "King
Canute as a heavy-voiced basso. How he would bring out these words!
Great sea! the land on which I stand, is mine;
Its rocky shores before thy blows quail not.
Thou, too, O! sea, are part of my domain,
And, like the land, must bow to my command.
I'll sit me here! rise not, nor dare to touch,
With thy wet lips, the ermine of my robe!
"And," cried he, for the moment overcome by his enthusiasm, "how would
this sound sung in unison by five hundred well-trained voices?
For God alone is mighty,
The Lord of the sea,
The Lord of the land!
For He holds the waves of the ocean
In the hollow of His hand,
And the strength of the mightiest king
Is no more than a grain of sand.
For God alone is mighty,
The Lord of the sea,
The Lord of the land!"
As Quincy resumed his seat, Alice clapped her hands to show her
approbation of his oratorical effort. Then they both sat in silence for
a few minutes, each evidently absorbed in thought.
Suddenly Alice spoke:
"And now, Mr. Sawyer, will you let me ask you a serious question? If I
continue writing pieces like these, can I hope to earn enough from it to
support myself?"
Quincy thought for a moment, and then said, "I am afraid not. If you
would allow me to take them to Boston the next time I go I will try and
find out their market value, but editors usually say that poetry is a
drug, and they have ten times as much offered them as they can find room
for. On the other hand, stories, especially short ones, are eagerly
sought and good prices paid for them. Did you ever think of writing a
story, Miss Pettengill?"
"Oh, yes!" said Alice, "I have several blocked out, I call it, in my own
mind, but it is such a task for me to write that I dare not undertake
them. If I could afford to pay an amanuensis it would be different."
Quincy comprehended the situation in a moment. "I like to write, Miss
Pettengill," said he, "and time hangs heavily upon my hands. We are
likely to have a long spell of winter weather, during which I shall be
confined to the house as well as yourself. Take pity on me and give my
idle hands something to do."
"Oh, it would be too much to ask," said Alice.
"But you have not asked," answered Quincy. "I have offered you my
services without your asking."
"But when could we begin?" asked Alice, hesitatingly.
"At once," replied Quincy. "I brought with me from Boston a half ream of
legal paper and a dozen good pencils. I can write faster and much better
with a pencil than I can with a pen, and as all legal papers have to be
copied, I have got into the habit of using pencils for everything."
It took Quincy but a few minutes to go to his room and secure his paper
and pencils. He drew a table close to Alice's chair and sat down beside
her.
"What is the name of the story?" asked he.
Alice replied, "I have called it in my mind, 'How He Lost Both Name and
Fortune.'"
CHAPTER XXIII.
A VISIT TO MRS. PUTNAM.
It must not be supposed that Alice's story was written out by Quincy in
one or even two days. The oldest inhabitants will tell you that the
great snowstorm lasted three days and three nights, and it was not till
the fourth day thereafter that the roads were broken out, so that safe
travel between Eastborough Centre and Mason's Corner became possible.
The day after the storm the sad intelligence came to Quincy and Alice
that old Mr. Putnam had passed quietly away on the last day of the
storm. Quincy attended the funeral, and he could not help acknowledging
to himself that Lindy Putnam never looked more beautiful than in her
dress of plain black. The only ornament upon her was a pair of beautiful
diamond earrings, but she always wore them, and consequently they were
not obtrusive.
Quincy bore an urgent request from Mrs. Putnam that Alice should come to
see her. As the story was finished and copied on the seventh day after
the storm, Quincy had the old-fashioned sleigh brought out and lined
with robes. Taking the horse Old Bill, that sleigh bells or snow slides
could not startle from his equanimity, Alice was driven to Mrs.
Putnam's, and in a few minutes was clasped to Mrs. Putnam's bosom, the
old lady crying and laughing by turns.
Quincy thought it best, to leave them alone, and descending the stairs
he entered the parlor, the door being halfway open. He started back as
he saw a form dressed in black, seated by the window.
"Come in, Mr. Sawyer," said Lindy. "I knew you were here. I saw you
when you drove up with Miss Pettengill. What a beautiful girl she is,
and what a pity that she is blind. I hope with all my heart that she
will recover her sight."
"She would be pleased to hear you say that," remarked Quincy.
"We were never intimate," said Lindy. "You can tell her from me, you are
quite the gallant chevalier, Mr. Sawyer, and what you say to her will
sound sweeter than if it came from other lips. Are you going to marry
her, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I do not think that our acquaintance is of such long standing that you
are warranted in asking me so personal a question," replied Quincy.
"Perhaps not," said Lindy, "but as I happened to know, though not from
your telling, that she is to be my mother's heiress, I had a little
curiosity to learn whether you had already proposed or were going--"
"Miss Putnam," said Quincy sternly, "do not complete your sentence. Do
not make me think worse of you than I already do. I beg your pardon for
intruding upon you. I certainly should not have done so had I
anticipated such an interview."
Lindy burst into a flood of tears. Her grief seemed uncontrollable.
Quincy closed the parlor door, thinking that if her cries and sobs were
heard upstairs it would require a double explanation, which it might be
hard for him to give.
He stood and looked at the weeping girl. She had evidently known all
along who her mother's heiress was. She had been fooling him, but for
what reason? Was she in love with him? No, he did not think so; if she
had been she would have confided in him rather than have sought to force
him to confide in her. What could be the motive for her action? Quincy
was nonplussed. He had had considerable experience with society girls,
but they either relied upon languid grace or light repartee. They never
used tears either for offence or defence.
A surprise was in store for Quincy. Lindy rose from her chair and came
towards him, her eyes red with weeping.
"Why do you hate me so, Mr. Sawyer?" she asked. "Why will you not be a
friend to me, when I need one so much? What first turned you against
me?"
Quincy replied, "I will tell you, Miss Putnam. They told me you were
ashamed of your father and mother because they were old-fashioned
country people and did not dress as well or talk as good English as you
did."
"Who told you so?" asked Lindy.
"It was common talk in the village," he replied.
"I should think you had suffered enough from village gossip, Mr. Sawyer,
not to believe that all that is said is true."
Quincy winced and colored. It was a keen thrust and went home.
"Where there is so much smoke there must be some fire," he answered,
rather lamely, as he thought, even to himself.
"Mr. Sawyer, when I asked you to tell me a little secret you had in your
possession, you refused. I wanted a friend, but I also wanted a proven
friend. No doubt I took the wrong way to win your friendship, but I am
going to tell you something, Mr. Sawyer, if you will listen to me, that
will at least secure your pity for one who is rich in wealth but poor in
that she has no friends to whom she can confide her troubles."
Quincy saw that he was in for it, and like a gentleman, determined to
make the best of it, so he said, "Miss Putnam, I will listen to your
story, and if, after hearing it, I can honorably aid you I will do so
with pleasure."
Lindy took his hand, which he had half extended, and said, "Come, sit
down, Mr. Sawyer. It is a long story, and I am nervous and tired," and
she looked down at her black dress.
They sat upon the sofa, he at one end, she at the other.
"Mr. Sawyer," she began abruptly, "I am not a natural-born child of Mr.
and Mrs. Putnam. I was adopted by them when but two years of age. I do
not know who my father and mother were. I am sure Mrs. Putnam knows, but
she will not tell me."
"It could do no harm now that you are a woman grown," said Quincy.
"At first they both loved me," Lindy continued, "but a year after I came
here to live their son was born, and from that time on all was changed.
Mr. Putnam was never unkind to me but once, but Mrs. Putnam seemed to
take delight in blaming me, and tormenting me, and nagging me, until it
is a wonder that my disposition is as good as it is, and you know it is
not very good," said she to Quincy with a little smile. She resumed her
story: "I loved the little boy, Jones I always called him, and as we
grew up together he learned to love me and took my part, although he was
three years younger than myself. This fact made Mrs. Putnam hate me more
than ever. He stayed at home until he was twenty-two, then he went to
his father and mother and told them that he loved me and wished to marry
me. Both Mr. and Mrs. Putnam flew into a great rage at this. The idea of
a brother marrying his sister! They said it was a crime and a sacrilege,
and the vengeance of God would surely fall upon us both. Jones told them
he had written to a lawyer in Boston, and he had replied that there was
no law prohibiting such a marriage. 'But the law of God shines before
you like a flaming sword,' said Mrs. Putnam; and Mr. Putnam agreed with
her, for she had all his property in her possession." Quincy smiled.
"They packed Jones off to the city at once," said Lindy, "and his
mother gave him five thousand dollars to go into business with. Jones
began speculating, and he was successful from first to last. In three
months he paid back the five thousand dollars his mother had given him,
and he never took a dollar from them after that day. At twenty-six he
was worth one hundred thousand dollars. When I went to Boston I always
saw him, and he at last told me he could stand it no longer. Be wanted
me to marry him and go to Europe with him. I told him I must have a week
to think it over. If I decided to go I would be in Boston on a certain
day. I would bring my trunk and would stop at a certain hotel and send
word for him to come to me. I used all possible secrecy in getting my
clothes ready, and packed them away, as I thought, unnoticed, in my
trunk, which was in the attic. Mrs. Putnam must have suspected that I
intended to leave home, and she knew that I would not go unless to meet
her son. The day before I planned going to Boston, or rather the night
before, she entered my room while I was asleep, took every particle of
my clothing, with the exception of one house dress and a pair of
slippers, and locked me in. They kept me there for a week, and I wished
that I had died there, for when they came to me it was to tell me that
Jones was dead, and I was the cause of it. I who loved him so!" And the
girl's eyes filled with tears.
"What was the cause of his death?" asked Quincy.
"He was young, healthy, and careless," answered Lindy. "He took a bad
cold and it developed into lung fever. Even then he claimed it was
nothing and would not see a doctor. One morning he did not come to the
office, his clerk went to his room, but when the doctor was called it
was too late. It was very sad that he should die so, believing that I
had refused to go with him, when I would have given my life for him. He
loved me till death. He left me all his money, but in his will he
expressed the wish that I would never accept a dollar from his parents.
So now you see why Mrs. Putnam does not make me her heiress. You think I
hate Miss Pettengill because she is going to give it to her, but truly I
do not, Mr. Sawyer. What I said when you came in I really meant, and I
hope you will be happy, Mr. Sawyer, even as I hoped to be years ago."
Quincy had been greatly interested in Lindy's story, and that feeling of
sympathy for the unhappy and suffering that always shows itself in a
true gentleman rose strongly in his breast.
"Miss Putnam," said he, "I have wronged you both in thought and action,
but I never suspected what you have told me. Will you forgive me and
allow me to be your friend? I will try to atone in the future for my
misdoings in the past."
He extended his hand, and Lindy laid hers in his.
"I care not for the past," said she. "I will forget that. I have also to
ask for forgiveness. I, too, have said and done many things which I
would not have said or done, but for womanly spite and vanity. You see
my excuse is not so good as yours," said she, as she smiled through her
tears.
"In what way can I serve you?" asked Quincy. "Why do you not go to
Boston and live? I could introduce you to many pleasant families."
"What!" cried Lindy. "Me, a waif and a stray! You are too kind-hearted,
Mr. Sawyer. I shall not leave the woman every one but you thinks to be
my mother. When she is dead I shall leave Eastborough never to return.
My sole object in life from that day will be to find some trace of my
parents or relatives. Now it may happen that through Mrs. Putnam or Miss
Pettengill you may get some clew that will help me in my search. It is
for this that I wish a friend, and I have a presentiment that some day
you will be able to help me."
Quincy assured her that if it lay in his power any time to be of
assistance to her, she could count upon him.
"By the way, Miss Putnam," said he, "how did your investment with Foss &
Follansbee turn out? I heard a rumor that the stock fell, and you lost
considerable money."
Lindy flushed painfully. "It did drop, Mr. Sawyer, but it rallied again,
as you call it, and when they sold out for me I made nearly five
thousand dollars; but," and she looked pleadingly up into Quincy's face,
"you have forgiven me for that as well as for my other wrong doings."
"For everything up to date," said Quincy, laughing.
At that instant a loud pounding was heard on the floor above.
"Mrs. Putnam is knocking for you," said Lindy. "Miss Pettengill must be
ready to go home. Good-by, Mr. Sawyer, and do not forget your unhappy
friend."
"I promise to remember her and her quest," said Quincy.
He gave the little hand extended to him, a slight pressure and ran up
the stairs. As he did so he heard the parlor door close behind him.
As they were driving home, Alice several times took what appeared to be
a letter from her muff and held it up as though trying to read it.
Quincy glanced towards her.
"Mr. Sawyer, can you keep a secret?" asked Alice.
"I have a big one on my mind now," replied Quincy, "that I would like to
confide to some one."
"Why don't you?" asked Alice.
"As soon as I can find a person whom I think can fully sympathize with
me I shall do so, but for the present I must bear my burden in silence,"
said he.
"I hope you Will not have to wait long before finding that sympathetic
friend," remarked Alice.
"I hope so, too," he replied. "But I have not answered your question,
Miss Pettengill. If I can serve you by storing a secret with you, it
shall be safe with me."
"Will you promise not to speak of it, not even to me?" she asked.
"If you wish it I will promise," he answered.
"Then please read to me what is written on that envelope."
Quincy looked at the envelope. "It is written in an old-fashioned,
cramped hand," he said, "and the writing is 'confided to Miss Alice
Pettengill, and to be destroyed without being read by her within
twenty-four hours after my death. Hepsibeth Putnam.'"
"Thank you," said Alice simply, and she replaced the envelope in her
muff.
Like a flash of lightning the thought came to Quincy that the letter to
be destroyed had some connection with the strange story so recently told
him by Lindy. He must take some action in the matter before it was too
late. Turning to Alice he said, "Miss Pettengill, if I make a strange
request of you, which you can easily grant, will you do it, and not ask
me for any explanation until after you have complied?"
"You have worded your inquiry so carefully, Mr. Sawyer, that I am a
little afraid you, you being a lawyer, but as you have so graciously
consented to keep a secret with me, I will trust you and will promise to
comply with your request."
"All I ask is," said Quincy, "that before you destroy that letter, you
will let me read to you once more what is written upon the envelope."
"Why, certainly," said Alice, "how could I refuse so harmless a request
as that?"
"I am greatly obliged for your kindness," said Quincy to her; but he
thought to himself, "I will find out what is in that envelope, if there
is any honorable way of doing so."
Hiram came over to see Mandy that evening, and Mrs. Crowley, who was in
the best of spirits, sang several old-time Irish songs to them, Hiram
and Mandy joining in the choruses. They were roasting big red apples on
the top of the stove and chestnuts in the oven. Quincy, attracted by the
singing, came downstairs to the kitchen, and was invited to join in the
simple feast. He then asked Mrs. Crowley to sing for him, which she did,
and he repaid her by singing, "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls" so
sweetly that tears coursed down the old woman's cheeks, and she said,
"My poor boy Tom, that was killed in the charge at Balaklava, used to
sing just like that."
Then the poor woman began weeping so violently that Mandy coaxed her off
to bed and left the room with her.
When Hiram and Quincy were alone together, the latter said: "Any news,
Hiram?"
"Not much," replied Hiram. "The snow is too deep, and it's too darned
cold for the boys to travel 'round and do much gossipin' this weather. A
notice is pasted up on Hill's grocery that it'll be sold by auction next
Tuesday at three o'clock in the afternoon. And I got on to one bit of
news. Strout and his friends are goin' to give Huldy Mason a surprise
party. They have invited me and Mandy simply because they want you to
hear all about it. But they don't propose to invite you, nor 'Zeke, nor
his sister."
"Has Strout got anybody to back him up on buying the grocery store?"
asked Quincy.
"Yes," said Hiram, "he has got two thousand dollars pledged, and I hear
he wants five hundred dollars more. He don't think the whole thing will
run over twenty-five hundred dollars."
"How much is to be paid in cash?" Quincy inquired.
"Five hundred dollars," said Hiram; "and that's what troubles Strout.
His friends will endorse his notes and take a mortgage on the store, for
they know it's a good payin' business. They expect to get their money
back with good interest, but it comes kinder hard on them to plunk down
five hundred dollars in cold cash."
[Illustration: "QUINCY READING ALICE'S LETTER TO HER." (ACT III.)]
At that moment Mandy returned, and after asking her for a spoon and a
plate upon which to take a roast apple and some chestnuts upstairs,
Quincy left the young couple together. As he sat before the fire
enjoying his lunch, he resolved that he would buy that grocery store,
cost what it might, and that 'Zeke Pettengill, Alice, and himself would
go to that surprise party.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE NEW DOCTOR.
Quincy improved the first opportunity offered for safe travelling to
make a visit to the city. He had several matters to attend to. First, he
had not sent his letter to his friend, requesting him to make inquiries
as to Obadiah Strout's war record, for the great snowstorm had come the
day after he had written it. Second, he was going to take Alice's story
to show to a literary friend, and see if he could secure its
publication. And this was not all; Alice had told him, after he had
finished copying the story she had dictated to him, that she had written
several other short stories during the past two years.
In response to his urgent request, she allowed him to read her treasured
manuscripts. The first was a passionate love story in which a young
Spanish officer, stationed on the island of Cuba, and a beautiful young
Cuban girl were the principals. It was entitled "Her Native Land," and
was replete with startling situations and effective tableaus. Quincy was
delighted with it, and told Alice if dramatized it would make a fine
acting play. This was, of course, very pleasing to the young author.
Quincy was her amanuensis, her audience, and her critic, and she knew
that in his eyes she was already a success.
She also gave him to read a series of eight stories, in a line usually
esteemed quite foreign to feminine instincts. Alice had conceived the
idea of a young man, physically weak and suffering from nervous
debility, being left an immense fortune at the age of twenty-one. His
money was well invested, and in company with a faithful attendant he
travelled for fifteen years, covering every nook and corner of the
habitable globe. At thirty-six he returned home much improved in health,
but still having a marked aversion to engaging in any business pursuit.
A mysterious case and its solution having been related to him, he
resolved to devote his income, now amounting to a million dollars
yearly, to amateur detective work. His great-desire was to ferret out
and solve mysteries, murders, suicides, robberies, and disappearances
that baffled the police and eluded their vigilant inquiry.
The titles that Alice had chosen for her stories were as mysterious, in
their way, as the stories themselves. Arranged in the order of their
writing, they were: Was it Signed? The Man Without a Tongue; He Thought
He Was Dead; The Eight of Spades; The Exit of Mrs. Delmonnay; How I
Caught the Fire-Bugs; The Hot Hand; and The Mystery of Unreachable
Island.
When Quincy reached the city, his first visit was to his father's
office, but he found him absent. He was told that he was conducting a
case in the Equity Session of the Supreme Court, and would not return to
the office that day.
Instead of leaving his letter at his friend's office, he went directly
to the Adjutant-General's office at the State House. Here he found that
an acquaintance of his was employed as a clerk. He was of foreign birth,
but had served gallantly through the war and had left an arm upon the
battlefield. He made his request for a copy of the war record of Obadiah
Strout, of the --th Mass. Volunteers. Then a thought came suddenly to
him and he requested one also of the record of Hiram Maxwell of the same
regiment.
Leaving the State House on the Hancock Avenue side, he walked down that
narrow but convenient thoroughfare, and was standing at its entrance to
the sidewalk on Beacon Street, debating which publisher he would call on
first, when a cheery voice said, "Hello, Sawyer." When he looked up he
saw an old Latin School and college chum, named Leopold Ernst. Ernst was
a Jew, but he had been one of the smartest and most popular of the boys
in school and of the men at Harvard.
"What are you up to?" asked Ernst.
"Living on my small fortune and my father's bounty," said Quincy. "Not a
very creditable record, I know, but my health has not been very good,
and I have been resting for a couple of months in the country."
"Not much going on in the country at this time of the year I fancy,"
remarked Ernst.
"That's where you are wrong," said Quincy. "There has been the devil to
pay ever since I landed in the town, and I've got mixed up in so many
complications that I don't expect to get back to town before next
Christmas. But what are you doing, Ernst?"
"Oh, I am in for literature; not the kind that consists in going round
with a notebook and prying into people's business, with a hope one day
of becoming an editor, and working twenty hours out of the twenty-four
each day. Not a bit of it, I am reader for ----;" and he mentioned the
name of a large publishing house. "I have my own hours and a comfortable
salary. I sit like Solomon upon the efforts of callow authors and the
productions of ripened genius. Sometimes I discover a diamond in the
rough, and introduce a new star to the literary firmament; and at other
times I cut up some egotistical old writer, who thinks anything he turns
out will be sure to please the public."
"How fortunate that I have met you?" said Quincy. "I have in this little
carpet bag the first effusions of one of those callow authors of whom
you spoke. She is poor, beautiful, and blind."
"Don't try to trade on my sympathies, old boy," said Ernst. "No person
who is poor has any right to become an author. It takes too long in
these days to make a hit, and the poor author is bound to die before
the hit comes. The 'beautiful' gag don't work with me at all. The best
authors are homelier than sin and it's a pity that their pictures are
ever published. As regards the 'blind' part, that may be an advantage,
for dictating relieves one of the drudgery of writing one's self, and
gives one a chance for a fuller play of one's fancies than if tied to a
piece of wood, a scratchy pen, and a bottle of thick ink."
"Then you won't look at them," said Quincy.
"I didn't say so," replied Ernst. "Of course, I can't look at them in a
business way, unless they are duly submitted to my house, but I have
been reading a very badly written, but mightily interesting manuscript,
for the past two days and a half, and I want a change of work or
diversion, to brush up my wits. Now, old fellow," said he, taking Quincy
by the arm, "if you will come up to the club with me, and have a good
dinner with some Chianti, and a glass or two of champagne, and a pousse
cafe to finish up with, then we will go up to my rooms on Chestnut
Street--I have a whole top floor to myself--we will light up our cigars,
and you may read to me till to-morrow morning and I won't murmur. But,
mind you, if the stories are mighty poor I may go to sleep, and if I do
that, you might as well go to bed too, for when I once go to sleep I
never wake up till I get good and ready."
Quincy had intended after seeing a publisher to leave the manuscripts
for examination, then to take tea with his mother and sisters, and go
back to Eastborough on the five minutes past six express. But he was
prone to yield to fate, which is simply circumstances, and he accepted
his old college chum's invitation with alacrity. He could get the
opinion of an expert speedily, and that fact carried the day with him.
When they were comfortably ensconced in their easy-chairs on the top
floor, and the cigars lighted, Quincy commenced reading. Leopold had
previously shown him his suite, which consisted of a parlor, or rather a
sitting-room, a library, which included principally the works of
standard authors and reference books, his sleeping apartment, and a
bathroom.
There was a large bed lounge in the sitting-room, and Quincy determined
to read every story in his carpet bag, if it took him all night. He
commenced with the series of detective or mystery stories. He had read
them over before and was able to bring out their strong points
oratorically, for, as it has been said before, he was a fine speaker.
Quincy eyed Ernst over the corner of the manuscript he was reading, but
the latter understood his business. Occasionally he was betrayed into a
nod of approval and several times shook his head in a negative way, but
he uttered no word of commendation or disapproval.
After several of the stories had been read, Ernst called a halt, and
going to a cupboard brought out some crackers, cake, and a decanter of
wine, with glasses, which he put upon a table, and placed within
comfortable reach of both reader and listener. Then he said, "Go ahead,"
munched a cracker, sipped his wine, and then lighted a fresh cigar.
When the series was finished, Leopold said, "Now we will have some tea.
I do a good deal of my reading at home, and I don't like to go out again
after I have crawled up four flights of stairs, so my landlady sends me
up a light supper at just about this hour. There is the maid now," as a
light knock was heard on the door.
Leopold opened it, and the domestic brought in a tray with a pot of tea
and the ingredients of a light repast, which she placed upon another
table near a window.
"There is always enough for two," said Leopold. "Reading is mighty
tiresome work, and listening is too, and a cup of good strong tea will
brighten us both up immensely. You can come back for the tray in
fifteen minutes, Jennie," said Ernest.
The supper was finished, the tray removed, and the critic sat in
judgment once more upon the words that fell from the reader's lips.
Leopold's face lighted up during the reading of "Her Native Land." He
started to speak, and the word "That's--" escaped him, but he recovered
himself and said no more, though he listened intently.
Quincy took a glass of wine and a cracker before starting upon the story
which had been dictated to him. Leopold gave no sign of falling asleep,
but patted his hands lightly together at certain points in the story,
whether contemplatively or approvingly Quincy could not determine. As he
read the closing lines of the last manuscript the cuckoo clock struck
twelve, midnight.
"You are a mighty good reader, Quincy," said Leopold, "and barring
fifteen minutes for refreshments, you have been at it ten hours. Now you
want my opinion of those stories, and what's more, you want my advice as
to the best place to put them to secure their approval and early
publication. Now I am going to smoke a cigar quietly and think the whole
thing over, and at half past twelve I will give you my opinion in
writing. I am going into my library for half an hour to write down what
I have to say. You take a nap on the lounge there, and you will be
refreshed when I come back after having made mince meat of your poor,
beautiful, blind _protege_."
Leopold disappeared into the library, and Quincy stretching himself on
the lounge, rested, but did not sleep. Before he had realized that ten
minutes had passed, Leopold stood beside him with a letter sheet in his
hand, and said, "Now, Quincy, read this to me, and I will see if I have
got it down straight."
Quincy's hand trembled nervously as he seated himself in his old
position and turning the sheet so that the light would fall upon it, he
read the following:
Opinion of Leopold Ernst, Literary Critic, of certain manuscripts
submitted for examination by Quincy A. Sawyer, with some advice gratis.
1. Series of eight stories. Mighty clever general idea; good stories
well written. Same style maintained throughout; good plots. Our house
could not handle them--not of our line. Send to ----. (Here followed the
name of a New York publisher.) I will write Cooper, one of their
readers. He is a friend of mine, and will secure quick decision, which,
I prophesy, will be favorable.
2. "Her Native Land" is a fine story. I can get it into a weekly
literary paper that our house publishes. I know Jameson, the reader,
will take it, especially if you would give him the right to dramatize
it. He is hand and glove with all the theatre managers and has had
several successes.
3. That story about the Duke, I want for our magazine. It is capital,
and has enough meat in it to make a full-blown novel. All it wants is
oysters, soup, fish, entrees, and a dessert prefixed to and joined on to
the solid roast and game which the story as now written itself supplies.
In Witness Whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, this 24th day of
February, 186--.
LEOPOLD ERNST, Literary Critic.
Quincy remained all night with Leopold, sleeping on the bed lounge in
the sitting-room. He was up at six o'clock the next morning, but found
that his friend was also an early riser, for on entering the library he
saw the latter seated at his desk regarding the pile of manuscript which
Quincy had read to him.
Leopold looked up with a peculiar expression on his face.
"What's the matter," asked Quincy, "changing your mind?"
"No," said Leopold, "I never do that, it would spoil my value as a
reader if I did. My decisions are as fixed as the laws of the Medes and
Persians, and are regarded by literary aspirants as being quite as
severe as the statutes of Draco; but the fact is, Quincy, you and your
_protege_--you see I consider you equally culpable--have neglected to
put any real name or pseudonym to these interesting stories. Of course I
can affix the name of the most popular author that the world has ever
known,--Mr. Anonymous,--but you two probably have some pet name that you
wish immortalized."
"By George!" cried Quincy, "we did forget that. I will talk it over with
her, and send you the _nom de plume_ by mail.
"Very well," said Leopold, rising. "And now let us go and have some
breakfast."
"My dear fellow, you must excuse me. I have not seen my parents this
trip, and I ought to go up to the house and take breakfast with the
family."
"All right," said Leopold, "rush that pseudonym right along, so I can
send the manuscripts to Cooper. And don't forget to drop in and see me
next time you come to the city."
On his way to Beacon Street Quincy suddenly stopped and regarded a sign
that read, Paul Culver, M.D., physician and surgeon. He knew Culver, but
hadn't seen him for eight years. They were in the Latin School together
under _pater_ Gardner. He rang the bell and was shown into Dr. Culver's
office, and in a few minutes his old schoolmate entered. Paul Culver was
a tall, broad-chested, heavily-built young man, with frank blue eyes,
and hair of the color that is sometimes irreverently called, or rather
the wearers of it are called, towheads.
They had a pleasant talk over old school days and college experiences,
which were not identical, for Paul had graduated from Yale College at
his father's desire, instead of from Harvard. Then Quincy broached what
was upper-most in his mind and which had been the real reason for his
call. He stated briefly the facts concerning Alice's case, and asked
Paul's advice.
Dr. Culver salt for a few moments apparently in deep study.
"My advice," said he, "is to see Tillotson. He has an office in the
Hotel Pelham, up by the Public Library, you know."
"Is he a 'regular'?" asked Quincy.
"Well," said Culver, "I don't think he is. For a fact I know he is not
an M.D., but I fancy that the diploma that be holds from the Almighty is
worth more to suffering humanity than a good many issued by the
colleges."
"You are a pretty broad-minded allopath," said Quincy, "to give such a
sweeping recommendation to a quack."
"I didn't say he was a quack," replied Culver. "He is a natural-born
healer, and he uses only nature's remedies in his practice. Go and see
him, Quincy, and judge for yourself."
"But," said Quincy, "I had hoped that you--"
"But I couldn't," broke in Paul. "I am an emergency doctor. If baby has
the croup, or Jimmy has the measles, or father has the lung fever, they
call me in, and I get them well as soon as possible. But if
mother-in-law has some obscure complaint I am too busy to give the time
to study it up, and they wouldn't pay me for it if I did. Medicine, like
a great many other things, is going into the hands of the specialists
eventually, and Tillotson is one of the first of the new school."
At that moment a maid announced that some one wished to see Dr. Culver,
and Quincy took a hurried leave.
He found his father, mother, and sisters at home, and breakfast was
quickly served after his arrival. They all said he was looking much
better, and all asked him when he was coming home. He gave an evasive
answer, saying that there were lots of good times coming down in
Eastborough and he didn't wish to miss them. He told his father he was
improving his time reading and writing, and would give a good account of
himself when he did return.
He had to wait an hour before he could secure an interview with Dr.
Tillotson. The latter had a spare day in each week, that day being
Thursday, which he devoted to cases that he was obliged to visit
personally. Quincy arranged with him to visit Eastborough on the
following Thursday, and by calling a carriage managed to catch the
half-past eleven train for that town, and reached his boarding place a
little before two o'clock. He had arranged with the driver to wait for a
letter that he wished to have mailed to Boston that same afternoon.
He went in by the back door, and as he passed through the kitchen, Mandy
made a sign, and he went to her.
"Hiram waited till one o'clock," said she, "but he had to go home, and
he wanted me to tell you that the surprise party is coming off next
Monday night, and they are going to get there at seven o'clock, so as to
have plenty of time for lots of fun, and Hiram suspects," and her voice
fell to a whisper, "that Strout is going to try and work the Deacon for
that five hundred in cash to put up for the grocery store next Tuesday.
That's all," said she.
"Where is Miss Pettengill?" Quincy inquired.
"She's in the parlor," said Mandy. "She has been playing the piano and
singing beautifully, but I guess she has got tired."
Quincy went directly to the parlor and found Alice seated before the
open fire, her right hand covering her eyes.
She, looked up as Quincy entered the room and said, "I am so glad you've
got back, Mr. Sawyer. I have been very lonesome since you have been
away."
Alice did not see the happy smile that spread over Quincy's face, and he
covered up his pleasure by saying, "How did you know it was I?"
"Oh," said Alice, "my hearing is very acute. I know the step of every
person in the house. Swiss has been with me all the morning, but he
asked a few minutes ago to be excused, so he could get his dinner."
Quincy laughed, and then, said, "Miss Pettengill, we forgot a very
important matter in connection with your stories; we omitted to put on
the name of the author." He told her of his meeting with Ernst, and what
had taken place, and Alice was delighted. Quincy did not refer to the
coming visit of Dr. Tillotson, for he did not mean to speak of it until
the day appointed arrived. "Now, Miss Pettengill, I have some letters to
write to send back by the hotel carriage, so that they can be mailed
this afternoon. While I am doing this you can decide upon your
pseudonym, and I will put it in the letter that I am going to write to
Ernst."
Quincy went up to his room and sat down at his writing table. The first
letter was to his bankers, and enclosed a check for five hundred
dollars, with a request to send the amount in bills by Adams Express to
Eastborough Centre, to reach there not later than noon of the next
Tuesday, and to be held until called for. The second letter was to a
prominent confectioner and caterer in Boston, ordering enough ice cream,
sherbet, frozen pudding, and assorted cake for a party of fifty persons,
and fifty grab-bag presents; all to reach Eastborough Centre in good
order on Monday night on the five minutes past six express from Boston.
The third letter was to Ernst. It was short and to the point. "The
pseudonym is--." And he left a blank space for the name. Then he signed
his own. He glanced over his writing table and saw the three poems that
Alice had given him to read. He added a postscript to his letter to
Ernst. It read as follows:
"I enclose three poems written by the same person who
wrote the stories. Tell me what you think of them, and if
you can place them anywhere do so, and this shall be your
warrant therefor. Q.A.S."
When his mail was in readiness he went downstairs to the parlor, taking
a pen and bottle of ink with him, and saying to himself, "That pseudonym
shall not be written in pencil."
"I am in a state of hopeless indecision," remarked Alice. "I can think
of Christian names that please me, and surnames that please me, but when
I put them together they don't please me at all."
"Then we will leave it to fate," said Quincy. He tore a sheet of paper
into six pieces and passed three, with a book and pencil, to Alice. "Now
you write," said he, "three Christian names that please you, and I will
write three surnames that please me; then we will put the pieces in my
hat, and you will select two and what you select shall be the name."
"That's a capital idea," said Alice, "it is harder to select a name than
it was to write the story."
The slips were written, placed in the hat, shaken up, and Alice selected
two, which she held up for Quincy to read.
"This is not fair," said Quincy. "I never thought. Both of the slips are
mine. We must try again."
"No," said Alice, "it is 'Kismet.' What are the names?" she asked.
"Bruce Douglas, or Douglas Bruce, as you prefer," said Quincy.
"I like Bruce Douglas best," replied Alice.
"I am so glad," said Quincy, "that's the name I should have selected
myself."
"Then I will bear your name in future," said Alice, and Quincy thought
to himself that he wished she had said those words in response to a
question that was in his mind, but which he had decided it was not yet
time to ask her. He was too much of a gentleman to refer in a joking
manner to the words which Alice had spoken and which had been uttered
with no thought or idea that they bore a double meaning.
Quincy wrote the selected name in the blank space in Leopold's letter,
sealed it and took his mail out to the carriage driver, who was seated
in the kitchen enjoying a piece of mince pie and a mug of cider which
Mandy had given him.
As Quincy entered the kitchen he heard Mandy say, "How is 'Bias
nowadays?"
"Oh, dad's all right," said the young man; "he is going to run Wallace
Stackpole again for tax collector against Obadiah Strout."
"Is your name Smith?" asked Quincy, advancing with the letters in his
hand.
"Yes," replied the young man, "my name is Abbott Smith. My dad's name is
'Bias; he is pretty well known 'round these parts."
"I have heard of him," said Quincy, "and I wish to see him and Mr.
Stackpole together. Can you come over for me next Wednesday morning and
bring Mr. Stackpole with you? I can talk to him going back, and I want
you to drive us over to your father's place. Don't say anything about it
except to Mr. Stackpole and your father, but I am going to take a hand
in town politics this year."
The young man laughed and said, "I will be over here by eight o'clock
next Wednesday."
"I wish you would have these letters weighed at the post office, and if
any more stamps are needed please put them on. Take what is left for
your trouble," and Quincy passed Abbott a half dollar.
He heard the retreating carriage wheels as he went upstairs to his room.
He made an entry in his pocket diary, and then ran his eye over several
others that preceded and followed it.
"Let me see," soliloquized he, as he read aloud, "this is Friday;
Saturday, expect war records from Adjutant-General; Monday, hear from
Ernst, surprise party in the evening; Tuesday, get money at express
office; Tuesday afternoon, buy Hill's grocery and give Strout his first
knock-out; Wednesday, see Stackpole and Smith and arrange to knock
Strout out again; Thursday, Dr. Tillotson." He laughed and closed the
book. Then he said, "And the city fellows think it must be dull down
here because there is nothing going on in a country town in the
winter."
CHAPTER XXV.
SOME PLAIN FACTS AND INFERENCES.
The next day was Saturday; the sun did not show itself from behind the
clouds till noon, and Quincy put off his trip to the Eastborough Centre
post office with the hope that the afternoon would be pleasant. His wish
was gratified, and at dinner he said he was going to drive over to
Eastborough Centre, and asked Miss Pettengill if she would not like to
accompany him. Alice hesitated, but Uncle Ike advised her to go, telling
her that she stayed indoors too much and needed outdoor exercise.
Ezekiel agreed with his uncle, and Alice finally gave what seemed to
Quincy to be a somewhat reluctant consent.
He saw that the sleigh was amply supplied with robes, and Mandy, at his
suggestion, heated a large piece of soap-stone, which was wrapped up and
placed in the bottom of the sleigh.
Alice appeared at the door equipped for her journey. Always lovely in
Quincy's eyes, she appeared still more so in her suit of dark blue
cloth. Over her shoulders she wore a fur cape lined with quilted red
satin, and on her head a fur cap, which made a strong contract with her
light hair which crept out in little curls from underneath.
They started off at a smart speed, for Old Bill was not in the shafts
this time. Alice had been familiar with the road to Eastborough before
leaving home, and as Quincy described the various points they passed,
Alice entered into the spirit of the drive with all the interest and
enthusiasm of a child. The sharp winter air brought a rosy bloom to her
cheeks, and as Quincy looked at those wonderful large blue eyes, he
could hardly make himself believe that they could not see him. He was
sure he had never seen a handsomer girl.
As they passed Uncle Ike's little house, Quincy called her attention to
it. Alice said:
"Poor Uncle Ike, I wish I could do more for him, he has done so much for
me. He paid for my lessons in bookkeeping and music, and also for my
board until I had finished my studies and obtained a position. He has
been a father to me since my own dear father died."
Quincy felt some inclination to find out the real reason why Uncle Ike
had left his family, but he repressed it and called attention to some
trees, heavily coated with snow and ice, which looked beautiful in the
sunshine, and he described them so graphically, bringing in allusions to
pearls and diamonds and strings of glistening jewels, that Alice clapped
her hands in delight and said she would take him as her literary
partner, to write in the descriptive passages. Quincy for an instant
felt impelled to take advantage of the situation, but saying to himself,
"The time is not yet," he touched the horse with his whip and for half a
minute was obliged to give it his undivided attention.
"Did you think the horse was running away?" said he to Alice, when he
had brought him down to a trot. "Were you afraid?"
"I am afraid of nothing nowadays," she replied. "I trust my companions
implicitly, knowing that they will tell me if I am in danger and advise
me what to do. I had a debate a long time ago with Uncle Ike about blind
people and deaf people. He said he would rather be stone deaf than
blind. As he argued it, the deaf person could read and write and get
along very comfortably by himself. I argued on the other side. I wish to
hear the voices of my friends when they talk and sing and read, and
then, you know, everybody lends a helping hand to a person who is blind,
but the deaf person must look out for himself."
"Either state is to be regretted, if there is no hope of relief,"
remarked Quincy. He thought he would refer to Dr. Tillotson, but they
were approaching the centre of the town, and he knew he would not have
time to explain his action before he reached the post office, so he
determined to postpone it until they were on the way home.
There were three letters for himself, two for Alice and a lot of papers
and magazines for Uncle Ike. He resumed his seat in the sleigh and they
started on their journey homeward.
"Would you like to go back the same way that we came?" asked Quincy, "or
shall we go by the upper road and come by Deacon Mason's?"
"I should like to stop and see Huldy," said Alice, and Quincy took the
upper road.
Conversation lagged on the homeward trip. Alice held her two letters in
her hand and looked at them several times, apparently trying to
recognize the handwriting. As Quincy glanced at her sidewise, he felt
sure that he saw tears in her eyes, and he decided that it would be an
inappropriate time to announce the subject of the new doctor. In fact,
he was beginning to think, the more his mind dwelt upon the subject,
that he had taken an inexcusable liberty in arranging for Dr. Tillotson
to come down without first speaking to her, or at least to her brother
or uncle. But the deed was done, and he must find some way to have her
see the doctor, and get his opinion about her eyes.
Quincy spent so much time revolving this matter in his mind, that he was
quite astonished when he looked around and found himself at the exact
place where he spoke those words to Huldy Mason that had ended in the
accident. This time he gave careful attention to horse and hill and
curve, and a moment later he drew up the sleigh at Deacon Mason's front
gate.
Mrs. Mason welcomed them at the door and they were shown into the
parlor, where Huldy sat at the piano. The young girls greeted each other
warmly, and Mrs. Mason and Huldy both wished Quincy and Alice to stay to
tea. They declined, saying they had many letters to read before supper
and 'Zekiel would think something had happened to them if they did not
come home.
"I will send Hiram down to let them know," said Mrs. Mason.
"You must really excuse us this time," protested Quincy. "Some other
time perhaps Miss Pettengill will accept your hospitality."
"But when?" asked Mrs. Mason. "We might as well fix a time right now."
"Yes," said Huldy, "and we won't let them go till they promise."
"Well, my plan," said Mrs. Mason, "is this. Have 'Zekiel and Alice and
Mr. Sawyer come over next Monday afternoon about five o'clock, and we
will have tea at six, and we will have some music in the evening. I have
so missed your singing, Mr. Sawyer, since you went away."
"Yes," said Huldy, "I think it is real mean of you, Alice, not to let
him come and see us oftener."
Alice flushed and stammered, "I--I--I do not keep him from coming to see
you. Why, yes, I have too," said she, as a thought flashed through her
mind. "I will tell you the truth, Mrs. Mason. Mr. Sawyer offered to do
some writing for me, and I have kept him very busy."
She stopped and Quincy continued:
"I did do a little writing for her, Mrs. Mason, during the great
snowstorm, and it was as great a pleasure to me, as I hope it was a help
to her, for I had nothing else to do."
"Well," said Mrs. Mason, "you can settle that matter between yer. All
that Huldy and me wants to know is, will all three of you come and take
tea with us next Monday night?"
"I shall be greatly pleased to do so," said Quincy.
"If 'Zekiel will come, I will," said Alice, and Quincy for an instant
felt a slight touch of wounded feeling because Alice had ignored him
entirely in accepting the invitation.
As they drove home, Alice said: "Mrs. Mason managed that nicely, didn't
she? I didn't wish to appear too eager to come, for Huldy might have
suspected."
"What mystery is this?" asked Quincy. "I really don't know what you are
talking about."
"What!" said Alice. "Didn't 'Zekiel tell you about the surprise party
that Mr. Strout was getting up, and that you, 'Zekiel, and I were not to
be invited?"
"Oh! I see," said Quincy. "How stupid I have been! I knew all about it
and that it was to be next Monday, but Mrs. Mason asked us so honestly
to come to tea, and Huldy joined in so heartily, that for the time being
I got things mixed, and besides, to speak frankly, Miss Pettengill, I
was thinking of something else."
"And what was it?" asked Alice.
"Well," said Quincy, determined to break the ice, "I will tell you. I
was wondering why you said you would come to tea if 'Zekiel would come."
"Oh!" said Alice, laughing. "You thought I was very ungenerous to leave
you out of the question entirely."
"Honestly I did think so," remarked Quincy.
"Well, now," said Alice, "I did it from the most generous of motives. I
thought you knew about the surprise party as well as I did. I knew
'Zekiel would go with me and I thought that perhaps you had some other
young lady in view for your companion."
"What?" asked Quincy. "Whom could I have had in view?"
"Shall I tell you whom I think?" asked Alice.
"I wish you would," Quincy replied.
"Well," said Alice, "I thought it might be Lindy Putnam."
Quincy bit his lip and gave the reins a savage jerk, as he turned up the
short road that led to the Pettengill house. "What could make you think
that, Miss Pettengill?"
"Well, I have only one reason to give," Alice replied, "for that
opinion, but the fact is, when we made our call on Mrs. Putnam she
pounded on the floor three times with her crutch before you came
upstairs. Am I justified, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I'm afraid you are," said Quincy. "I should have thought so myself if I
had been in your place."
But when he reached his room he threw his letters on the table, his coat
and hat on the bed, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked
rapidly up and down the room, saying to himself in a savage whisper,
"Confound that Putnam girl; she is a hoodoo."
Quincy was philosophical, and his excited feelings soon quieted down. It
would come out all right in the end. Alice would find that he had not
intended to take Miss Putnam to the surprise party. He could not betray
Lindy's confidence just at that time, even to justify himself. He must
wait until Mrs. Putnam died. It might be years from now before the time
came to destroy that letter, and he could not, until then, disclose to
Alice the secret that Lindy had confided to him. Yes, it would come out
all right in the end, for it might be if Alice thought he was in love
with Lindy that she would give more thought to him. He had read
somewhere that oftentimes the best way to awaken a dormant love was to
appear to fall in love with some one else.
Somewhat reconciled to the situation by his thoughts, he sat down to
read his letters. The first one that he took up was from the
confectioner. It informed him that his order would receive prompt
attention, and the writer thanked him for past favors and solicited a
continuance of the same. The second was from Ernst. It was short and to
the point, and written in his characteristic style. It said:
"Dear Quincy:--Pseudonym received. Bruce Douglas is a name to conjure
with. It smacks of 'Auld Lang Syne.' The Scotch are the only people on
the face of the earth who were never conquered. You will remember, if
you haven't forgotten your ancient history, that the Roman general sent
back word to his emperor that the d----d country wasn't worth conquering.
Enclosures also at hand. The shorter ones are more songs than poems. I
will turn them over to a music publisher, who is a friend of mine. Will
report his decision later.
"I gave the long poem to Francis Lippitt, the well-known composer, and
he is delighted with it and wishes to set it to music. He is great on
grand choruses, Bach fugues, and such like. If he sets it to music he
will have it sung by the Handel and Haydn Society, for he is a great gun
among them just now. The eight stories have reached New York by this
time, and Jameson is reading 'Her Native Land.'
"With best regards to Mr. Bruce Douglas and yourself.
LEOPOLD ERNST.
The third letter was from the Adjutant-General's office, and Quincy
smiled as he finished the first sheet, folded it up and replaced it in
the envelope. As he read the second the smile left his face. "Who would
have thought it?" he said to himself. "Well, after all, heroes are made
out of strange material. He is the man for my money and I'll back him
up, and beat that braggart."
On the following Sunday, after dinner, Quincy had a chat with Uncle Ike.
He took the opportunity of asking the old gentleman if he was fully
satisfied with the progress towards recovery that his niece was making.
"I don't see that she is making any progress," said Uncle Ike frankly.
"I don't think she can see a bit better than she could when she came
home. In fact, I don't think she can see as well. She had a pair of
glasses made of black rubber, with a pinhole in the centre of them, that
she could read a little with, but I notice now that she never puts them
on."
"Well," remarked Quincy, "perhaps I have taken an unwarrantable liberty,
Uncle Ike; but when I was last in Boston I heard of a new doctor who has
made some wonderful cures, and I have engaged him to come down here next
week and see your niece. Of course, if you object I will write to him
not to come, and no harm will be done."
Quincy did not think it necessary to state that he had paid the doctor
his fee of one hundred dollars in advance.
"Well," said Uncle Ike, "I certainly sha'n't object, if the doctor can
do her any good. But I should like to know something about the course of
treatment, the nature of it, I mean, before she gives up her present
doctor."
"That's just what I mean," said Quincy. "I want you to be so kind as to
take this whole matter off my hands, just as though I had made the
arrangement at your suggestion. I am going down for the doctor next
Thursday noon. Won't you ride down with me and meet Dr. Tillotson? You
can talk to him on the way home, and then you can manage the whole
matter yourself, and do as you think best about changing doctors."
"You have been very kind to my niece, Mr. Sawyer, since you have been
here," said Uncle Ike, "and very helpful to her. I attribute your
interest in her case to your kindness of heart and a generosity which is
seldom found in the sons of millionaires. But take my advice, Mr.
Sawyer, and let your feelings stop there."
"I do not quite understand you," replied Quincy, though from a sudden
sinking of his heart he felt that he did.
"Then I will speak plainer," said Uncle Ike. "Don't fall in love with my
niece, Mr. Sawyer. She is a good girl, a sweet girl, and some might call
her a beautiful one, but she has her limitations. She is not fitted to
sit in a Beacon Street parlor; and your parents and sisters would not be
pleased to have you place her there. Excuse an old man, Mr. Sawyer, but
you know wisdom cometh with age, although its full value is not usually
appreciated by the young."
Quincy, for the first time in his life, was entirely at a loss for a
reply. He burned to declare his love then and there; but how could he do
so in the face of such a plain statement of facts? He did the best thing
possible under the circumstances; he quietly ignored Uncle Ike's advice,
and thanking him for his kindness in consenting to meet the new doctor
he bade him good afternoon and went to his room.
After Quincy had gone Uncle Ike rubbed his hands together gleefully and
shook with laughter.
"The sly rogue!" he said to himself. "Wanted Uncle Ike to help him out."
Then he laughed again. "If he don't love her he will take my advice, but
if he does, what I told him will drive him on like spurs in the side of
a horse. He is a good fellow, a great deal better than his father and
the rest of his family, for he isn't stuck up. I like him, but my Alice
is good enough for him even if he were a good deal better than he is.
How it would tickle me to hear my niece calling the Hon. Nathaniel
Sawyer papa!" And Uncle Ike laughed until his sides shook.
Monday promised to be a dull day. 'Zekiel told Quincy at breakfast,
after the others had left the table, that Alice had spoken to him about
Mrs. Mason's invitation to tea, and, of course, he was going. Quincy
said that he had accepted the invitation and would be pleased to
accompany him and his sister.
After breakfast he heard Alice singing in the parlor, and joining her
there told her that he had received a letter from Mr. Ernst, which he
would like to read to her. Alice was delighted with the letter, and they
both laughed heartily over it, Quincy humorously apologizing for the
swear word by saying that being historical it could not be profane.
Alice had in her hand the two letters that she had received on Saturday.
"Have you answered your letters?" he asked.
"No, I have not even heard them read," she replied. "Uncle Ike has grown
tired all at once and won't read to me nor write for me. I don't
understand him at all. I sent for him yesterday afternoon, after you
came down, and told him what I wanted him to do. He sent back word that
he was too busy and I must get somebody else, but who can I get? Mandy
and 'Zekiel are both too much occupied with their own duties to help
me."
"If I can be of any service to you, Miss Pettengill, you know--"
"Oh, I don't think I should dare to let you read these letters,"
interrupted Alice, laughing. "No doubt they are from two of my lady
friends, and I have always heard that men consider letters that women
write to each other very silly and childish."
"Perhaps I have not told you," said Quincy, "that I have two sisters and
am used to that sort of thing. When I was in college hardly a day passed
that I did not get a letter from one or the other of them, and they
brightened up my life immensely."
"What are their names and how old are they?" asked Alice.
"The elder," replied Quincy, "is nineteen and her name is Florence
Estelle."
"What a sweet name!" said Alice.
"The younger is between fifteen and sixteen, and is named Maude
Gertrude."
"Is she as dignified as her name?" asked Alice.
"Far from it," remarked Quincy. "She would be a tomboy if she had an
opportunity. Mother and father call them Florence and Maude, for they
both abhor nicknames, but among ourselves they are known as Flossie, or
Stell, and Gertie."
"What was your nickname?" asked Alice.
"Well," said Quincy, "they used to call me Quinn, but that had a
Hibernian sound to it, and Maude nicknamed me Ad, which she said was
short for adder. She told me she called me that because I was so deaf
that I never heard her when she asked me to take her anywhere."
"Well, Mr. Sawyer, if you will promise not to laugh out loud, I will be
pleased to have you read these letters to me. You can smile all you wish
to, for of course I can't see you."
"I agree," said Quincy; and he advanced towards her, took the two
letters and drew a chair up beside her.
"My dear May," read Quincy. He stopped suddenly, and turning to Alice
said, "Is this letter for you?"
"Before we go any further," said Alice, "I must explain my various names
and nicknames. I was named Mary Alice, the Mary being my mother's name,
while the Alice was a favorite of my father's. Mother always called me
Mary and father always called me Alice! and brother 'Zekiel and Uncle
Ike seem to like the name Alice best. When I went to Commercial College
to study they asked me my name and I said naturally Mary A. Pettengill.
Then the girls began to call me May, and the boys, or young men I
suppose you call them, nicknamed me Miss Atlas, on account of my
initials. Now that I have given you a chart of my names to go by, the
reading will no doubt be plain sailing in future."
Quincy laughed and said, "I should call it a M.A.P. instead of a chart."
"Fie! Mr. Sawyer, to make such a joke upon my poor name. No doubt you
have thought of one that would please you better than any I have
mentioned."
Quincy thought he had, but he wisely refrained from saying so. He could
not help thinking, however, that Miss Atlas was a very appropriate name
for a girl who was all the world to him. It is evident that Uncle Ike's
words of advice the previous afternoon had not taken very deep root in
Quincy's heart.
He resumed his reading:
"My dear May:--How are you getting along in that dismal country town,
and how are your poor eyes? I know you can't write to me, but I want you
to know that I have not forgotten you. Every time I see my sister,
Stella, she waves your photograph before my eyes. You know you promised
me one before you were sick. Just send it to me, and it will be just as
nice as a good, long letter. As somebody else will probably read this to
you, in order to keep them from committing a robbery I send you only one
kiss.
From your loving,
EMMA FARNUM."
"Are you smiling, Mr. Sawyer?" asked Alice.
"Not at all," he answered. "I am looking grieved because Miss Farnum has
such a poor opinion of me."
Alice laughed merrily. "Emma is a very bright, pretty girl," said Alice.
"She boarded at the same house that I did. Her sister Stella is married
to a Mr. Dwight. I will answer her letter as she suggests by sending her
the promised photograph. On the bureau in my room, Mr. Sawyer, you will
find an envelope containing six photographs. I had them taken about a
month before I was sick. Underneath you will find some heavy envelopes
that the photographer gave me to mail them in."
Quincy went upstairs three steps at a time. He found the package, and
impelled by an inexplicable curiosity he counted the pictures and found
there were seven. "She said six," he thought to himself. "I am positive
she said there were only six." He took one of the pictures and put it in
one of the mailing envelopes. He took another picture, and after giving
it a long, loving look he placed it in the inside pocket of his coat,
and with a guilty flush upon his face he fled from the room.
Just as he reached the open parlor door a second thought, which is said
to be the best, came to him, and he was about turning to go upstairs and
replace the picture when Alice's acute ear heard him and she asked, "Did
you find them?"
Quincy, seeing that retreat was now impossible, said, "Yes," and resumed
his seat beside her.
"Did you find six?" said Alice.
"There are five upstairs in the envelope and one here ready to address,"
replied Quincy.
"Her address," continued Alice, "is Miss Emma Farnum, care Cotton & Co.,
Real Estate Brokers, Tremont Row."
Quincy went to the table, wrote the address as directed, and tied the
envelope with the string attached.
"I am afraid the other letter cannot be so easily answered," said Alice.
"Look at the signature, please, and see if it is not from Bessie White."
"It is signed Bessie," said Quincy.
"I thought so," exclaimed Alice. "She works for the same firm that I
did."
Quincy read the following:
"My Dear May:--I know that you will be glad to learn what is going on at
the great dry goods house of Borden, Waitt, & Fisher. Business is good,
and we girls are all tired out when night comes and have to go to a
party or the theatre to get rested. Mr. Ringgold, the head bookkeeper,
is disconsolate over your absence, and asks done or more of us every
morning if we have heard from Miss Pettengill. Then, every afternoon, he
says, 'Did I ask you this morning how Miss Pettengill was getting
along?' Of course it is this devotion to the interest of the firm that
leads him to ask these questions."
Alice flushed slightly, and turning to Quincy said, "Are you smiling,
Mr. Sawyer? There is nothing in it, I assure you; Bessie is a great
joker and torments the other girls unmercifully."
"I am glad there is nothing in it," said Quincy. "If I were a woman I
would be afraid to marry a bookkeeper. My household cash would have to
balance to a cent, and at the end of the year he would insist on
housekeeping showing a profit."
Alice regained her composure and Quincy continued his reading:
"What do you think! Rita Sanguily has left, and they say she is going to
marry a Dr. Culver, who lives up on Beacon Hill somewhere."
Quincy started a little as he read this, but made no comment.
"I was out to see Stella Dwight the other day, and she showed me a
picture of you. Can you spare one to your old friend,
BESSIE WHITE.
"P.S.--I don't expect an answer, but I shall expect the picture. I
shall write you whenever I get any news, and send you a dozen kisses and
two big hugs. B.W."
"She is more liberal than Miss Farnum," remarked Quincy. "She is not
afraid that I will commit robbery."
"No," rejoined Alice, "but I cannot share with you. Bessie White is the
dearest friend I have in the world."
"Miss White is fortunate," said Quincy, "but who is Rita Sanguily, if I
am not presuming in asking the question?"
"She is a Portuguese girl," answered Alice, "with black eyes and
beautiful black hair. She is very handsome and can talk Portuguese,
French, and Spanish. She held a certain line of custom on this account.
Do you know her?"
"No," replied Quincy, "but I think I know Dr. Culver."
"What kind of a looking man is he?" asked Alice.
"Oh! he is tall and heavily built, with large bright blue eyes and tawny
hair," said Quincy.
"I like such marked contrasts in husband and wife," remarked Alice.
"So do I," said Quincy, looking at himself in a looking glass which hung
opposite, and then at Alice; "but how about Miss White's picture?"
"Can I trouble you to get one?" said Alice.
"No trouble at all," replied Quincy; but he went up the stairs this time
one step at a time. He was deliberating whether he should return that
picture that was in his coat pocket or keep it until the original should
be his own. He entered the room, took another picture and another
envelope and came slowly downstairs. His crime at first had been
unpremeditated, but his persistence was deliberate felony.
"Now there are four left," said Alice, as Quincy entered the room.
"Just four," he replied. "I counted them to make sure." He sat at the
table and wrote. "Will this do?" he asked: "Miss Bessie White, care of
Borden, Waitt, & Fisher, Boston, Mass.?"
"Oh, thank you so much," said Alice.
At this moment Mandy appeared at the door and announced dinner, and
Quincy had the pleasure of leading Alice to her accustomed seat at the
table.
"I took the liberty while upstairs," said Quincy, "to glance at a book
that was on your bureau entitled, 'The Love of a Lifetime,' Have you
read it?"
"No," replied Alice. "I commenced it the night before I was taken sick."
"I shall be pleased to read it aloud to you," said Quincy.
"I should enjoy listening to it very much," she replied.
So after dinner they returned to the parlor and Quincy read aloud until
the descending sun again sent its rays through the parlor windows to
fall upon Alice's face and hair, and Quincy thought to himself how happy
he should be if the fair girl who sat beside him ever became the love of
his lifetime.
Alice finally said she was tired and must have a rest. Quincy called
Mandy and she went to her room. A few moments later Quincy was in his
own room and after locking his door sat down to inspect his plunder.
Alice did not rest, however; something was on her mind. She found her
way to the bureau and took up the pictures.
"Only four," she said to herself, after counting them. "Let me see," she
continued, "the photographer gave me thirteen,--a baker's dozen he
called it. Now to whom have I given them? 'Zekiel, one; Uncle Ike, two;
Mrs. Putnam, three; Stella Dwight, four; Bessie White, five; Emma
Farnum, six; Mr. Ringgold, seven; Mr. Fisher, eight. That would leave
five and I have only four. Now to whom did I give that other picture?"
And the guilty thief sat on the other side of the partition and exulted
in his crime. There came a loud rap at his door, and Quincy started up
so suddenly that he dropped the picture and it fell to the floor. He
caught it up quickly and placed it in his pocket. As he unlocked the
door and opened it he heard loud rapping on the door of Miss
Pettengill's room.
Looking into the entry he saw 'Zekiel, who cried out, "Say, you folks,
have you forgotten that you have been invited out to tea this evening,
and that we are going to give a surprise party to Mr. Strout and his
friends? I am all dressed and the sleigh is ready."
Without waiting for a reply he dashed downstairs.
While Quincy was donning his sober suit of black, with a Prince Albert
coat and white tie, Alice had put on an equally sober costume of fawn
colored silk, with collar and cuffs of dainty lace, with little dashes
of pink ribbon, by way of contrast in color.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE SURPRISE PARTY.
After Alice had taken her place on the back seat in the double sleigh,
Quincy started to take his place on the front seat, beside 'Zekiel, but
the latter motioned him to sit beside Alice, and Quincy did so without
needing any urging.
As 'Zekiel took up the reins, Quincy leaned forward and touched him on
the shoulder.
"I've just thought," said he, "that I've made a big blunder and I can't
see how I can repair it."
"What's the matter?" asked 'Zekiel; and Alice turned an inquiring face
towards Quincy.
"The fact is," Quincy continued, "I ordered some ice cream and cake sent
down from the city for the show to-night, but I forgot, I am ashamed to
say, to make arrangements to have it sent up to Deacon Mason's. It will
be directed to him, but the station agent won't be likely to send it up
before to-morrow."
"What time is it?" asked 'Zekiel.
Quincy looked at his watch and replied, "It is just half-past four."
"Why do we go so early?" inquired Alice, "they will not have tea till
six."
"Oh," said 'Zekiel, "I intended to give you a sleigh ride first anyway.
Now with this pair of trotters I am going to take you over to
Eastborough Centre and have you back at Deacon Mason's barn door in just
one hour and with appetites that it will take two suppers to satisfy."
With this 'Zekiel whipped up his horses and they dashed off towards the
town. A short distance beyond Uncle Ike's chicken coop they met Abner
Stiles driving home from the Centre. He nodded to 'Zekiel, but Quincy
did not notice him, being engaged in conversation with Alice at the
time. They reached the station, and Quincy gave orders to have the
material sent up, so that it would arrive at about half-past nine.
'Zekiel more than kept his promise, for they reached Deacon Mason's barn
at exactly twenty-nine minutes past five. Hiram was on hand to put up
the horses, and told Quincy in a whisper that some of the boys thought
it was mighty mean not to invite the Pettengill folks and their boarder.
The sharp air had whetted the appetites of the travellers during their
six-mile ride, and they did full justice to the nicely-cooked food that
the Deacon's wife placed before them. Supper was over at quarter before
seven, and in half an hour the dishes were washed and put away and the
quartette of young folks adjourned to the parlor.
Quincy took his seat at the piano and began playing a popular air.
"Oh, let us sing something," cried Huldy. "You know I have been taking
lessons from Professor Strout, and he says I have improved greatly. If
he says it you know it must be so; and, did you know Alice, that 'Zekiel
has a fine baritone voice?"
"We used to sing a good deal together," said Alice, "but I was no judge
of voices then."
"Well, 'Zeke don't know a note of music," continued Huldy, "but he has a
quick ear and he seems to know naturally just how to use his voice."
"Oh, nonsense," said 'Zekiel, "I don't know how to sing, I only hum a
little. Sing us something, Mr. Sawyer," said he.
Quincy sang a song very popular at the time, entitled "The Jockey Hat
and Feather." All four joined in the chorus, and at the close the room
rang with laughter. Quincy then struck up another popular air, "Pop Goes
the Weasel," and this was sung by the four with great gusto. Then he
looked over the music on the top of the piano, which was a Bourne &
Leavitt square, and found a copy of the cantata entitled, "The
Haymakers," and for half an hour the solos and choruses rang through the
house and out upon the evening air.
Mrs. Mason looked in the door and said, "I wouldn't sing any more now,
it is nearly eight o'clock."
And thus admonished they began talking of Tilly James's engagement to
Sam Hill and the sale of the grocery store, which was to come off the
next day.
"I wonder who will buy it?" asked Huldy.
"Well, I hear Strout has got some backers," said 'Zekiel, "but I don't
see what good it will be to him unless he is appointed postmaster. They
say he has written to Washington and applied for the position."
Quincy pricked up his ears at this. He had almost forgotten this chance
to put another spoke in Mr. Strout's wheel. He made a mental memorandum
to send telegrams to two Massachusetts congressmen with whom he was well
acquainted to hold up Strout's appointment at all hazards until they
heard from him again.
A little after seven o'clock the advance guard of the surprise party
arrived at Hill's grocery, which was the appointed rendezvous. Abner
Stiles drew Strout to one side and said, "I saw the Pettengill folks and
that city feller in 'Zeke's double sleigh going over to the Centre at
about five o'clock."
"So much the better," said Strout.
"Do you know where they've gone?" inquired Stiles.
"No, but I guess I can find out," Strout replied.
He had spied Mandy Skinner among a crowd of girls on the platform. He
called her and she came to him.
"Did Mr. Pettengill and his sister take tea at home to-night?"
"No," said Mandy. "I told them I was going away to-night, and Mr.
Pettengill said they were going away too. And Cobb's twins told me at
dinner time that they wouldn't be home to supper; and as I didn't wish
to eat too much, considering what was coming later, I didn't get no
supper at all. I left Crowley to look out for Uncle Ike, who is always
satisfied if he gets toast and tea."
"Don't you know where they've gone?" inquired Strout.
"Over to the hotel, I guess," said Mandy. "I heard Mr. Sawyer tell Miss
Alice that they had good oysters over there, and she said as how she was
dying to get some raw oysters."
"Things couldn't have worked better," remarked Strout, as he rejoined
Abner, who was smoking a cheap cigar. "The Pettengill crowd has gone
over to the hotel to supper. You ought not to smoke, Abner, if you are
going to kiss the girls to-night," said Strout.
"I guess I sha'n't do much kissin'," replied Abner, "except what I give
my fiddle with the bow, and that fiddle of mine is used to smoke."
Strout looked around and saw that the whole party had assembled. There
were about fifty in all, very nearly equally divided as regarded numbers
into fellows and girls.
"Now I am going ahead," said Strout, "to interview the old lady, before
we jump in on them. The rest of you just follow Abner and wait at the
top of the hill, just round the corner, so that they can't see you from
the house. I have arranged with Hiram to blow his bugle when everything
is ready, and when you hear it you just rush down hill laughing and
screaming and yelling like wild Injuns. Come in the back door, right
into the big kitchen, and when Miss Huldy comes into the room you just
wait till I deliver my speech."
[Illustration: "SAMANTHY GREEN," AS SHE APPEARS IN THE PLAY.]
Strout started off, and the party followed Abner to the appointed
waiting place.
Strout knocked lightly at the kitchen door, and it was opened by Mrs.
Mason.
"Is the Deacon at home?" inquired he, endeavoring to disguise his voice.
"No," said Mrs. Mason, "he has gone to Eastborough Centre on some
business, but told me he would be back about half past nine."
"Is Hiram here?" asked Strout.
"He's out in the kitchen polishing up his bugle," said Mrs. Mason. "But
come in a minute, Mr. Strout, I have got something to fell you."
Strout stepped in and quietly closed the door.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Mason? I hope Huldy isn't sick."
"No," said she, "it's unfortunate it has happened as it has, but it
couldn't be avoided. You see she invited some company to tea, and I
supposed that they would have gone home long 'fore this. You see, Huldy
don't suspect nothing, and she has asked them to spend the evening, and
I don't see how in the world I am going to get rid of them."
"Don't do it," said Strout. "Extend to them an invitation in my name to
remain and enjoy the evening's festivities with us. No doubt Miss Huldy
will be pleased to have them stay."
"I know she will," said Mrs. Mason, "and I'll give them your invite as
soon as you're ready."
"Well, Mrs. Mason," said Strout, "just tell Hiram I am ready to have him
blow that bugle, and when you hear it you can just tell your daughter
and her friends what's up."
Hiram soon joined Strout outside the kitchen door. The latter went out
in the road and looked up the hill to see if his party was all ready.
Abner waved his hand, and Strout rushed back to Hiram and cried, "Give
it to 'em now, Hiram, and do your darnedest!"
Huldy and her friends were engaged in earnest conversation, when a loud
blast burst upon the air, followed by a succession of piercing notes
from Hiram's old cracked bugle.
Huldy jumped to her feet and exclaimed, "What does Hiram want to blow
that horrid old bugle at this time of night for? I will tell ma to stop
him."
She started towards the parlor door, when the whole party heard shouts
of laughter, screams from female voices, and yells from male ones that
would have done credit to a band of wild Comanches.
All stood still and listened. Again the laughter, screams, and yells
were heard. This time they seemed right under the parlor window.
A look of surprise and almost terror passed over Alice's face, and
turning to Quincy unthinkingly she said in a low whisper, "What was
that, Quincy? What does it mean?"
Quincy's heart jumped as his Christian name fell from the girl's lips.
He put his left hand over his heart (her picture was in the pocket just
beneath it) and said as naturally as he could, although with a little
tremor in his voice, "It's all right, Alice, that's Mr. Strout's idea of
a surprise party."
"A surprise party!" cried Huldy, "who for? Me?"
At this moment Mrs. Mason opened the door and entered the room.
"Huldy," said she, "Professor Strout wishes me to tell you that he and
his friends have come to give you a surprise party, and he wished me to
invite you," turning to the others, "as Huldy's friends to remain and
enjoy the festivities of the evening."
Then the poor old lady, who had been under a nervous strain for the past
ten days, and who had come nearer telling untruths than she ever had
before in her life, began to laugh, and then to cry, and finally sank
into a chair, overcome for the moment.
"I wish Abraham was here," said she, "I guess I'm getting a little bit
nervous."
Let us return to the great kitchen, which the members of the surprise
party now had in their possession. A dozen of the men produced lanterns,
which they lighted, and which were soon hung upon the walls of the
kitchen, one of the number having brought a hammer and some nails.
It was a pound party, and two young men fetched in a basket containing
the goodies which had been brought for the supper. Strout had made
arrangements to have the hot coffee made at the grocery store, and it
was to be brought down at half-past nine.
He arranged his party so that all could get a good view of the door
through which Huldy must come. He stepped forward within ten feet of the
door and stood expectantly. Why this delay? Strout looked around at the
party. There were Tilly James and Sam Hill; Cobb's twins, and each
brought a pretty girl; Robert Wood, Benjamin Bates, and Arthur Scates
were equally well supplied; Lindy Putnam, after much solicitation, had
consented to come with Emmanuel Howe, the clergyman's son, and he was in
the seventh heaven of delight; Mandy stood beside Hiram and his bugle,
and Samantha Green had Farmer Tompkins's son George for escort. It was a
real old-fashioned, democratic party. Clergymen's sons, farmers' sons,
girls that worked out, chore boys, farm hands, and an heiress to a
hundred thousand dollars, met on a plane of perfect equality without a
thought of caste, and to these were soon to be added more farmers' sons
and daughters and the only son of a millionaire.
"Just give them a call," said Strout, turning to Hiram, and the latter
gave a blast on his bugle, which sent fingers to the ears of his
listeners. The handle of the door turned and opened and Huldy entered,
her mother leaning upon her arm.
They were greeted by hand clapping and cries of "Good evening" from the
party, and all eyes were fixed upon Strout, who stood as if petrified
and gazed at the three figures that came through the open door and stood
behind Huldy and her mother. Hamlet following the fleeting apparition on
the battlements of the castle at Elsinore, Macbeth viewing Banquo at his
feast, or Richard the Third gazing on the ghostly panorama of the
murdered kings and princes, could not have felt weaker at heart than did
Professor Strout when he saw the new-comers and realized that they were
there by his express invitation.
The members of the surprise party thought Strout had forgotten his
speech, and cries of "Speech!" "Speech!" "Give us the speech!" fell upon
his ear, but no words fell from his lips. It was a cruel blow, but no
crueler than the unfounded stories that he had started and circulated
about the town for the past three months. Those who had thought it was
mean not to invite the Pettengills and Mr. Sawyer enjoyed his
discomfiture and were the loudest in calling for a speech.
The situation became somewhat strained, and Huldy looked up to Quincy
with an expression that seemed to say, How are we going to get out of
this?
Quite a number of the party saw this look and immediately began calling
out, "Mr. Sawyer, give us a speech!" "A speech from Mr. Sawyer!"
Huldy smiled and nodded to Quincy, and then there were loud cries of
"Speech! Speech!" and clapping of hands.
Abner Stiles got up and gave his chair to Professor Strout, who sank
into it, saying as he did so, "I guess it was the heat."
Quincy stepped forward and bowing to Huldy and then to Mrs. Mason,
addressed the party in a low but clearly distinct voice.
"Authorized by these ladies to speak for them, I desire to return
sincere thanks for this manifestation of your regard for them. Your
visit was entirely unexpected by Miss Mason and a great surprise to her.
But it is a most pleasant surprise, and she desires me to thank you
again and again for your kind thoughts and your good company this
evening. She and her mother join in giving you a most hearty welcome.
They wish you to make yourselves at home and will do all in their power
to make the evening a happy one and one long to be remembered by the
inhabitants of Mason's Corner. The inception of this happy event, I
learn, is due to Professor Strout, who for some time, I understand, has
been Miss Mason's music teacher, and the ladies, whose ideas I am
expressing, desire me to call upon him to take charge of the festivities
and bring them to a successful close, as he is no doubt competent and
willing to do."
Quincy bowed low and retired behind the other members of the party.
Quincy's speech was greeted with cheers and more clapping of hands. Even
Strout's friends were pleased by the graceful compliment paid to the
Professor, and joined in the applause.
Strout had by this time fully recovered his equanimity. A chair was
placed upon the kitchen table and Abner Stiles was boosted up and took
his seat thereon. While he was tuning up his fiddle the Professor opened
a package that one of the girls handed to him and passed a pair of
knitted woollen wristers to each lady in the company. He gave three
pairs to Huldy, who in turn gave one pair to her mother and one to
Alice. There were several pairs over, as several girls who had been
expected to join the party had not come.
"Now, Mrs. Mason," said the Professor, "could you kindly supply me with
a couple of small baskets, or if not, with a couple of milk pans?"
The Professor took one of the pans and Robert Wood the other.
"The ladies wall please form in line," cried the Professor; which was
done. "Now will each lady," said the Professor, "as she marches between
us, throw one wrister in one pan and t'other wrister in the other pan?
Give us a good, lively march, Abner," he added, and the music began.
The procession passed between the upheld pans, one wrister of each pair
thrown right and the other left, as it moved on.
The music stopped. "Now, will the ladies please form in line again,"
said the Professor, "and as they pass through each one take a wrister
from the pan held by Mr. Wood."
The music started up again and the procession moved forward and the work
of selection was completed.
Again the music stopped. "Now will the gentlemen form in line, and as
they march forward each one take a wrister from the pan that I hold,"
said the Professor.
Once more the music started up. The line was formed, the procession
advanced, 'Zekiel and Quincy bringing up the rear. As Quincy took the
last wrister from the pan that the Professor held, the latter turned
quickly away and beat a tattoo on the bottom of the pan with his
knuckles and cried out, "Gentlemen will please find their partners. The
wristers become the property of the gentlemen."
Then a wild rush took place. Screams of laughter were heard on every
side, and it was fully five minutes before the excitement subsided, and
in response to another tattoo upon the milk pan by the Professor, the
couples, as arranged by the hand of Fate, formed in line and marched
around the great kitchen to the music of a sprightly march written by
the Professor and called "The Wrister March," and respectfully dedicated
to Miss Hulda Mason. This announcement was made by Mr. Stiles from his
elevated position upon the kitchen table.
The hand of Fate had acted somewhat strangely. The Professor and Mandy
Skinner stood side by side, as did 'Zekiel Pettengill and Mrs. Mason.
Lindy Putnam and Huldy by a queer twist of fortune were mated with
Cobb's twins.
But Fate did one good act. By chance Quincy and Alice stood side by
side. She looked up at him and said to her partner, "What is your name,
I cannot see your face?"
"My name is Quincy," said Sawyer in a low voice.
"I am so glad!" said Alice, leaning a little more heavily on his arm.
"So am I," responded Quincy ardently.
After the procession had made several circuits of the great kitchen,
Professor Strout gave a signal, and it broke up, each gentleman being
then at liberty to seek the lady of his own choice.
"What games shall we play fust?" asked Strout, taking the centre of the
room, and looking round upon the company with a countenance full of
smiles and good nature.
"Who is it?" "Who is it?" came from a dozen voices.
"All right," cried Strout; "that's a very easy game to play. Now all you
ladies git in a line and I'll put this one chair right front of yer. Now
all the gentlemen must leave the room except one. I suppose we can use
the parlor, Mrs. Mason?"
Mrs. Mason nodded her head in the affirmative.
"I'll 'tend door," said Hiram; and he took his position accordingly.
After the rest of the gentlemen had left the room, Hiram closed the
door, and turning to Huldy said, "Shall I call them, or will you?"
"You call them," said Huldy.
"Got the handkerchief ready?" asked Hiram.
Huldy swung a big red bandanna in the air. Opening a door, Hiram called
out in a loud voice, "Obadiah Strout."
As Strout walked towards the line of young girls they called out
together, "Mister, please take a chair."
Strout sat down in a chair. One of the girls who had the bandanna
handkerchief in her hand passed it quickly over his eyes and tied it
firmly behind his head. Two of the girls then stepped forward and each
one taking one of his hands and extending it at right angles with his
body held it firmly in their grasps. At the same instant his head was
pulled back by one of the girls and a kiss was imprinted on his upturned
mouth.
"Who is it?" screamed the girls in unison. The holds on the Professor's
head and hands were released and he sat upright in the chair.
"I kinder guess it was Miss Huldy Mason," said he.
A loud laugh burst from the girls, mixed with cries of "You're wrong!"
"You ain't right!" "You didn't get it!" "You're out!" and similar
ejaculations.
The handkerchief was taken from his eyes and he was marched to the left
of the line of girls, which ran length-wise of the kitchen.
Abner Stiles was the next one called in, and he was subjected to the
same treatment as had befallen his predecessor, but to the intense
disgust of Professor Strout he saw Hiram Maxwell come on tiptoe from the
parlor door, lean over and kiss Abner Stiles. The thought of course ran
through his mind that he had been subjected to the same treatment. He
was on the point of protesting at this way of conducting the game when
the idea occurred to him that it would be a huge satisfaction to have
that city chap subjected to the same treatment, and he decided to hold
his peace.
The next one called was 'Zekiel Pettengill, and he was treated in the
same manner as the Professor and Abner had been; but as Hiram leaned
over to kiss him, 'Zekiel's foot slipped upon the floor and struck
against Hiram's, Hiram being in front of him. 'Zekiel then put up both
of his feet and kicked with them in such a way that Hiram was unable to
approach him.
'Zekiel called out, "It's Hiram Maxwell," and the room rang with the
laughs and cries of the girls.
'Zekiel, having guessed who it was, was marched off to the right of the
line of girls.
Strout called out, "Let's play something else," but the sentiment of the
company seemed to be that it wasn't fair to the others not to give them
a chance, so the game continued. Quincy was the next one called, and to
still further increase the disgust of Strout and Abner, instead of Hiram
leaving the door, as before, one of the girls stepped out from the line,
at a signal from Huldy, and kissed Quincy. He guessed that it was Miss
Huldy Mason, and was greeted with the same cries that Strout had heard.
He took his place at the left with the latter.
Strout leaned over and whispered in Abner's ear, "That was a put-up job.
I'll get even with Hiram Maxwell before I get through."
The game continued until all the men had been called in. With the
exception of Emmanuel Howe, none of them were able to guess who it was.
When Emmanuel took his place by the side of 'Zekiel he confided the fact
to him that he guessed it was Miss Putnam on account of the perfumery
which he had noticed before he left the house with her.
After this game others followed in quick succession. There were
"Pillow," "Roll the Cover," "Button, Button, Who's Got the Button?"
"Copenhagen," and finally "Post Office." From all of these games Alice
begged to be excused. She told the Professor that she was not bashful
nor diffident, but that her eyesight was so poor that she knew she would
detract from the pleasure of the others if she engaged in the games.
The Professor demurred at first, but said finally that her excuse was a
good one. Then he turned to Abner and remarked that he supposed Mr.
Sawyer would ask to be excused next 'cause his girl wasn't going to
play.
But Quincy had no such intention. After leading Alice to a seat beside
Mrs. Mason, he returned to the company and took part in every game,
entering with spirit and vivacity into each of them. He invented some
forfeits that one girl objected to the forfeit exacted of her as being
all out of proportion to her offence, the matter was referred to Quincy.
He said that he would remit the original forfeit and she could kiss him
instead. But she objected, saying that forfeit was worse than the other
one. This pleased Strout greatly, and he remarked to Abner, who kept as
close to him as the tail to a kite, that there was one girl in town who
wasn't afraid to speak her mind.
The game of Post Office was the most trying one to Quincy. Of his own
free will he would not have called either Huldy or Lindy, but Strout and
Abner and all the rest of them had letters for both of these young
ladies. He was afraid that his failure to call them out might lead to
remark, as he knew that Strout and Abner and Robert Wood were watching
his actions closely. So, near the middle of the game, when he had been
called out, he had a letter from England for Miss Lindy Putnam.
As she raised her face to his for the kiss on the cheek that he gave
her, she said, "I was afraid you had not forgiven me, after all."
"Oh, yes, I have," said Quincy, and carried away by the excitement of
the occasion, he caught her again in his arms and gave her another kiss,
this time upon the lips.
At this instant Abner Stiles, who was tending door, opened it and called
out, "Takes a long time to pay the postage on one letter!"
A little later Quincy was again called out, and this time he had a
letter from Boston for Miss Mason. He kissed her on the cheek, as he had
done with Lindy. Huldy looked up with a laugh and said, "Were you as
bashful as that with Miss Putnam?"
"Yes," said Quincy, "at first, but there was double postage on her
letter, the same as on yours." And though Huldy tried to break away from
him he caught her and kissed her upon the lips, as he had done to Lindy.
Again Abner opened the door and cried out that the mails would close in
one minute, and he'd better get the stamps on that letter quick.
All such good times come to an end, and the signal for the close was the
return of Deacon Mason from his visit to town. He was popular with all
parties, and Stroutites, Anti-Stroutites, and neutrals all gathered
'round him and said they were having a beautiful time, and could they
have a little dance after supper?
The Deacon said he didn't know that dancing in itself was so bad, for
the Bible referred to a great many dances. "But," said he, "I have
always been agin permiscuous dancing."
"But we ain't permiscuous," said Tilly James. "We are all friends and
neighbors."
"Most all," said Strout; but his remark was unnoticed by all excepting
Quincy.
"Well, under the circumstances," concluded the Deacon, "I don't object
to your finishing up with an old-fashioned reel, and mother and me will
jine in with you, so as to countenance the perceedings."
The call was now made for supper. A procession was again formed, each
gentleman taking the lady who had accompanied him to the party. They all
filed into the dining-room and took their places around the long table.
The most of them looked at its contents with surprise and delight.
Instead of seeing only home-made cakes, and pies, and dishes of nuts,
and raisins, and apples, that they had expected, occupying the centre
of the table, they gazed upon a large frosted cake, in the centre of
which arose what resembled the spire of a church, made of sugar and
adorned with small American flags and streamers made of various colored
silk ribbons. Flanking the centrepiece at each corner were large dishes
containing mounds of jelly cake, pound cake, sponge cake, and angel
cake. On either side of the centrepiece, shaped in fancy moulds, were
two large dishes of ice cream, a third full of sherbet, and the fourth
one filled with frozen pudding. In the vacant spaces about the larger
dishes were smaller plates containing the home-made pies and cake, and
the apples, oranges, dates, figs, raisins, nuts, and candy taken from
the pound packages brought by the members of the surprise party. Piled
upon the table in heaps were the fifty boxes containing the souvenir
gifts that Quincy had ordered.
As they took their places about the table, Quincy felt it incumbent upon
him to say something. Turning to the Professor he addressed him:
"Professor Strout, I think it is my duty to inform you that I have made
this little addition to the bountiful supper supplied by you and the
members of this party, on behalf of my friends, Mr. and Miss Pettengill,
and myself. I trust that you will take as much pleasure in disposing of
it as I have in sending it. In the language of the poet I would now say,
'Fall to and may good digestion wait on appetite!'"
Quincy's speech was received with applause. The hot coffee had arrived
and was soon circulating in cups, mugs, and tumblers. Everybody was
talking to everybody else at the same time, and all petty fueds,
prejudices, and animosities were, apparently, forgotten.
The young fellows took the cue from Quincy, who, as soon as he had
finished his little speech, began filling the plates with the good
things provided, and passing them to the ladies, and in a short time all
had been waited upon. When both hunger and appetite had been satisfied,
Quincy again addressed the company.
"In those small paper boxes," said he, "you will find some little
souvenirs, which you can keep to remind you of this very pleasant
evening, or you can eat them and remember how sweet they were." A
general laugh followed this remark. "In making your selection,"
continued Quincy, "bear in mind that the boxes tied up with red ribbon
are for the ladies, while those having blue ribbons are for the
gentlemen."
A rush was made for the table, and almost instantly each member of the
company became possessed of a souvenir and was busily engaged in untying
the ribbons.
Again Quincy's voice was heard above the tumult.
"In each package," cried he, "will be found printed on a slip of paper a
poetical selection. The poetry, like that found on valentines, is often
very poor, but the sentiment is there just the same. In the city the
plan that we follow is to pass our own slip to our left-hand neighbor
and he or she reads it."
This was too much for the Professor.
"I don't think," said he, "that we ought to foller that style of doin'
things jest because they do it that way in the city. We are pretty
independent in the country, like to do thing's our own way."
"Oh! it don't make any difference to me," said Quincy; "in the city when
we get a good thing we are willing to share it with our partners or
friends; you know I said if you didn't wish to keep your souvenir, you
could eat it, and of course the poetical selection is part of the
souvenir."
A peal of laughter greeted this sally, which rose to a shout when Strout
took his souvenir out of the box. It proved to be a large sugar bee,
very lifelike in appearance and having a little wad of paper rolled up
and tucked under one of the wings.
As Strout spread out the slip of paper with his fingers, loud cries of
"Eat it!" "Read it!" and "Pass it along!" came from the company. The
Professor stood apparently undecided what course to pursue, when Tilly
James, who was standing at his left, grabbed it from his fingers, and
running to the end of the table, stood beside young Hill with an
expression that seemed to say, "This is my young man, and I know he will
protect me."
Loud cries of "Read it, Tilly!" came from all parts of the table.
"Not unless Professor Strout is willing," said Tilly with mock humility.
All eyes were turned upon Strout, who, seeing that he had nothing to
gain by objecting, cried out, "Oh, go ahead; what do I care about such
nonsense!"
Tilly then read with much dramatic expression the following poetical
effusion:
"How does the wicked bumblebee
Employ the shining hours,
In stinging folks that he dislikes,
Instead of sipping flowers."
Another loud laugh greeted this; largely due to the comical expression
on Tilly James's face, which so far upset Quincy's habitual gravity that
he was obliged to smile in spite of himself.
If Strout felt the shot he did not betray it, but turned to Huldy, who
stood at his right, and said, "Now, Miss Mason, let me read your poetry
for you, as they do it in the city."
Huldy hesitated, holding the slip of paper between her fingers, "Oh!
that ain't fair," said Strout. "I've set you a good example, now you
mustn't squeal. Come, walk right up to the trough."
"I'm no pig," protested Huldy.
As Strout leaned over to take the paper he said in an undertone, "No,
you are a little dear;" whereat Huldy's face flushed a bright crimson.
Strout cleared his voice and then read:
"Come wreathe your face with smiles, my dear,
A husband you'll find within the year."
This was greeted with laughter, clapping of hands, and cries of "Who is
it, Huldy?"
The Professor looked at Huldy inquiringly, but she averted her eyes. He
leaned over and said in an undertone, "May I keep this?"
Huldy looked up and said in a tone that was heard by every one at the
table, "I don't care; if you like it better than that one about the
bumblebee you can have it."
The Professor then turned to Quincy and said, "Perhaps Mr. Sawyer will
oblige the company by passing his poetry along, as they do it in the
city."
Quincy answered quickly, "Why, certainly," and handed the slip to his
left-hand neighbor, who chanced to be Miss Seraphina Cotton, who was the
teacher in the public school located at Mason's Corner.
She prided herself on her elocutionary ability, and read the following
with great expression:
"Though wealth and fame fall to my lot,
I'd much prefer a little cot,
In which, apart from care and strife,
I'd love my children and my wife."
Strout laughed outright.
"By the way, Mr. Sawyer," said he, "have you seen any little cot round
here that you'd swap your Beacon Street house for?"
"I've got my eye on some real estate in this town," said Quincy, "and if
you own it perhaps we can make a trade."
'Zekiel Pettengill passed his slip to Lindy Putnam; it ran thus:
"'An honest man's the noblest work of God,'
No nobler lives than he who tills the sod."
This was greeted with shouts and cries of "Good for 'Zeke!" while one of
Cobb's twins, who possessed a thin, high voice, cried out, "He's all
wool and a yard wide."
This provoked more shouts and hand-clapping, and 'Zekiel blushed like a
peony.
Lindy Putnam handed her slip to Quincy; he took in its meaning at a
glance and looked at her inquiringly.
Strout saw the glance and cried out, "Oh, come, now; don't leave out
nothin'; read it jist as it's writ."
Lindy nodded to Quincy and he read:
"There is no heart but hath some wish unfilled,
There is no soul without some longing killed,
With heart and soul work for thy heart's desire.
And turn not back for storm, nor flood, nor fire."
"This is gittin' quite tragic," said Strout. "I guess we've had all we
want to eat and drink, and have listened to all the bad poetry we want
ter, and I move--"
"Second the motion," cried Abner Stiles.
"And I move," continued Strout, "that we git back inter the kitchen, and
have a little dance jist to shake our suppers down."
After the company returned to the kitchen, Abner was again lifted to his
elevated position on the kitchen table, and the fun began again. There
was no doubt that in telling stories Abner Stiles often drew the long
bow, but it was equally true that he had no superior in Eastborough and
vicinity on the violin, or the fiddle, as he preferred to call it. He
was now in his glory. His fiddle was tucked under his chin, a red silk
handkerchief with large yellow polka dots protecting the violin from
injury from his stubbly beard rather than his chin from being injured by
the instrument.
[Illustration: "THE DEACON AND HIS WIFE LED OFF."]
After a few preliminary chords, Abner struck up the peculiar dance
movement very popular in those days, called "The Cure." As if
prearranged, Hiram Maxwell and Mandy Skinner ran to the centre of the
room and began singing the words belonging to the dance. Abner gradually
increased the speed of the melody, and the singers conformed, thereto.
Faster and faster the music went, and higher and higher the dancers
jumped until the ceiling prevented any further progress upward. They
leaned forward and backward, they leaned from side to side, but still
kept up their monotonous leaps into the air. Finally, when almost
exhausted, they sank into chairs hastily brought for them, amid the
applause of the party.
Quincy had seen the dance at the city theatres, but acknowledged to
himself that the country version was far ahead of the city one. At the
same time it seemed to him that the dance savored of barbarism, and he
recalled pictures and stories of Indian dances where the participants
fell to the ground too weak to rise.
"I put my right hand in," called out one of the fellows. Cries of "Oh,
yes, that's it!" came from the company, and they arranged themselves in
two rows, facing each other and running the length of the long room.
They were in couples, as they came to the party. Abner played the melody
on his violin, and the fellows and girls sang these words:
"I put my right hand in,
I put my right hand out,
I give my right hand a shake, shake, shake,
And I turn myself about."
As they sang the last line they did turn themselves about so many times
that it seemed a wonder to Quincy, who was an amused spectator, how they
kept upon their feet.
Seeing that one of the young ladies in the line was without a partner,
Quincy took his place beside her and joined in the merriment as heartily
as the rest. Then followed all the changes of "I put my left hand in,"
"I put my right foot in," "I put my left foot in," and so on until the
whole party was nearly as much exhausted as Hiram and Mandy had been.
At this moment the door leading to the parlor opened and Deacon Mason
entered, accompanied by his wife. They were greeted with shouts of
laughter. Quincy looked at them with astonishment, and had it not been
for their familiar faces, which they had not tried to disguise, he would
not have recognized them.
Out of compliment to their guests, the Deacon and his wife had gone back
to the days of their youth. Probably from some old chest in the garret
each had resurrected a costume of fifty years before. They advanced into
the room, smiling and bowing to the delighted spectators on either side.
They went directly to Abner, and the latter bent over to hear what the
Deacon whispered in his ear. The Deacon then went to Strout and
whispered something to him.
Strout nodded, and turning to the company said, "As it's now half past
'leven and most time for honest folks to be abed and rogues a runnin',
out of compliment to Miss Huldy's grandpa and grandma, who have honored
us with their presence this evenin', we will close these festivities
with a good old-fashioned heel and toe Virginia reel. Let 'er go, Abner,
and keep her up till all the fiddle strings are busted."
Like trained soldiers, they sprang to their places. Quincy and his
partner took places near the end of the line. He explained to her that
he had never danced a reel, but thought he could easily learn from
seeing the others, and he told her that when their turn came she need
not fear but that he would do his part.
The Deacon and his wife led off, and their performance caused great
enthusiasm. Sam Hill was not a good dancer, so he resigned Miss Tilly
James to Professor Strout. Miss James was a superb dancer, and as Quincy
looked at her his face showed his appreciation.
His partner saw the glance, and looking up to him said, "Don't you wish
you could dance as well as that?"
"I wish I could," said Quincy. "I have no doubt you can," he added,
looking at his partner's rosy face.
"Well," said she, "you do the best you can, and I'll do the same."
Professor Strout and Tilly did finely, and their performance gained them
an encore, which they granted. One by one the couples went under the
arch of extended arms, and one by one they showed their Terpsichorean
agility on the kitchen floor, over which Mandy Skinner had thoughtfully
sprinkled a handful of house sand.
At last came the turn of Quincy and his little partner, whose name was
unknown to him. He observed the grace with which she went through the
march, and when the dance came be wished he could have stood still and
watched her. Instead, he entered with his whole soul into the dance, and
at its conclusion he was astonished to hear the burst of applause and
cheers that fell upon his ears.
"Come along!" said his partner, and taking him by the hand she drew him
back through the arch, and the dance was repeated.
Three times in succession was this done in response to enthusiastic
applause, and Quincy was beginning to think that he would soon fall in
his tracks. He had no idea that any such fate would befall his partner,
for she seemed equal to an indefinite number of repetitions.
But, as has been said before, to all good things an end must come at
last, and when the old-fashioned Connecticut clock on the mantelpiece
clanged out the midnight hour, as if by magic a hush came over the
company and the jollities came to an end. Then followed a rush for
capes, and coats, and jackets, and shawls, and hats. Then came good-byes
and good-nights, and then the girls all kissed Huldy and her mother,
wished them long life and happiness, while their escorts stood quietly
by thinking of the pleasant homeward trips, and knowing in their hearts
that they should treasure more the pressure of the hand or the single
good-night kiss yet to come than they did the surprise party kisses that
had been theirs during the evening.
Mrs. Mason and 'Zekiel had prepared Alice for her homeward trip. Quincy
took occasion to seek out his partner in the reel to say good night, and
as he shook hands with her he said, "Would you consider me rude if I
asked your name and who taught you to dance?"
"Oh! no," she replied; "my name is Bessie Chisholm. I teach the dancing
school at Eastborough Centre, and Mr. Stiles always plays for me."
"Is he going to see you home to-night?" asked Quincy.
"Oh! no," said she; "I came with my brother. Here, Sylvester," cried
she, and a smart-looking, country fellow, apparently about twenty-one
years of age, came towards them. "I'm ready," said Bessie to him, and
then, turning to Quincy, "Mr. Sawyer, make you acquainted with my
brother, Sylvester Chisholm."
"Ah, you know my name," said Quincy.
"I guess everybody in Eastborough knows who you are," retorted she with
a toss of her head, as she took her brother's arm and walked away.
Hiram had brought 'round the Pettengill sleigh from the barn. 'Zekiel,
Alice, Quincy, and Mandy were the last of the party to leave. Quincy
took his old place beside Alice, while Mandy sat on the front seat with
'Zekiel.
It was a beautiful moonlight night and the ride home was a most
enjoyable one.
"I am sorry," said Quincy to Alice, "that you could not take part in
more of the games. I enjoyed them very much."
"Oh, Mrs. Mason kept me informed of your actions," said Alice with a
laugh.
Halfway to Hill's grocery they passed the Professor and Abner walking
home to Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house. They called out, "Good night and
pleasant dreams," and drove rapidly on. In the Square a number of the
party had stopped to say good night again before taking the various
roads that diverged from it, and another interchange of "Good nights"
followed.
When Strout and Abner reached the Square it was deserted. There was no
light shining in the boarding house. The kerosene lamps and matches were
on a table in the front entry. Strout lighted his lamp and went
upstairs. Strout's room was one flight up, while Abner's was up two. As
they reached Strout's room he said, "Come in, Abner, and warm up. Comin'
out of that hot room into this cold air has given me a chill." He went
to a closet and brought out a bottle, a small pitcher, and a couple of
spoons. "Have some rum and molasses, nothin' better for a cold."
They mixed their drinks in a couple of tumblers, which Strout found in
the closet. Then he took a couple of cigars from his pocket and gave one
to Abner. They drank and smoked for some time in silence.
At last Abner said, "How are you satisfied with this evenin's
perceedin's?"
"Wall, all things considered," said Strout, "I think it was the most
successful party ever given in this 'ere town, if I did do it."
"That's so," responded Abner sententiously. "Warn't you a bit struck up
when that city feller come in?"
"Not a bit," said Strout. "You know when I come back, you see it was so
cussed hot, yer know I said it was the heat, but I knew they wuz there.
Mrs. Mason, told me."
"Did she?" asked Abner, with wide-opened eyes. "I thought it was one on
you."
"When I went down to the road before the bugle was blown," said Strout,
"Mrs. Mason told me they was there. You see, Huldy didn't suspect
nothin' about the party and so she asked them over to tea. She sorter
expected they would go right after tea, but they got singin' songs and
tellin' stories, and Huldy saw they had come to stay."
"But," said Abner, "that city feller must have known all about it
aforehand or how could he git that cake and frozen stuff down from
Bosting so quick?"
"Didn't you say," said Strout, "that you seen them going over to
Eastborough Centre about five o'clock?"
"Yes," replied Abner, "but how did he know when it was? Some one must
have told him, I guess."
"There are times, Abner Stiles," exclaimed Strout, "when you are too
almighty inquisitive."
"Wall, I only wanted to know, so I could tell the truth when folks asked
me," said Abner.
"That's all right," said Strout. "Cuddent you guess who told him? 'Twas
that Hiram Maxwell. I've been pumping him about the city chap, and of
course, I've had to tell him somethin' for swaps. But to-morrow when I
meet him I'll tell him I don't want anythin' more to do with a
tittle-tattle tell-tale like him."
"What d'ye think of that pome 'bout the bumblebee?" drawled Abner.
"Oh, that was a put-up job," said Strout.
"How could that be?" asked Abner, "when you took it out of your own
box?"
"Well," rejoined Strout, "he'll find I'm the wustest kind of a bumblebee
if he stirs me up much more. When my dander's up a hornet's nest ain't a
patch to me."
"I kinder fancied," continued Abner, "that the reason he had them fancy
boxes sent down was because he sorter thought our pound packages would
be rather ornary."
"I guess you've hit it 'bout right," remarked Strout; "them city swells
would cheat their tailor so as to make a splurge and show how much money
they've got. I guess he thought as how I'd never seen ice cream, but I
showed him I knew all about it. I eat three sasserful myself."
"I beat you on that," said Abner; "I eat a sasserful of each kind."
As Abner finished speaking he emptied his glass and then reached forward
for the bottle in order to replenish it. Strout's glass was also empty,
and being much nearer to the bottle than Abner was, he had it in his
possession before Abner could reach it. When he put it down again it was
beyond his companion's reach. Abner turned some molasses into has
tumbler, and then said, "Don't you think 'twas purty plucky of that city
feller to come to our party to-night?"
"No, I don't," said Strout, "he jest sneaked in with 'Zeke Pettengill
and his sister. He'll find out that I'm no slouch here in Eastborough.
When I marry the Deacon's daughter and git the Deacon's money, and am
elected tax collector agin, and buy the grocery store, and I'm app'inted
postmaster at Mason's Corner, he'll diskiver that it's harder fightin'
facts like them than it is Bob Wood's fists. I kinder reckon there won't
be anybody that won't take off their hats to me, and there won't be any
doubts as to who runs this 'ere town. That city feller's health will
improve right off, and he'll go up to Boston a wiser man than when he
come down."
"That's so," remarked Abner; and as he spoke he stood up as if to
emphasize his words. Before he sat down, however, he reached across the
table for the bottle, but again Strout was too quick for him.
"I was only goin' to drink yer health an' success to yer," said Abner.
"All right," said Strout, "make it half a glass and I'll jine yer."
The two men clinked their glasses, drank, and smacked their lips.
"If you don't go to bed now you won't git up till to-morrer," said the
Professor.
"Yer mean ter-day," chuckled Abner, as he got up and walked 'round to
the other side of the table, where he had left his lamp.
"I guess," remarked Strout, "I'll have some more fire. I ain't goin' to
bed jest yet. I've got some heavy thinkin' to do."
While he was upon his knees arranging the wood, starting up the embers
with the bellows, Abner reached across the table and got possession of
his tumbler, from which he had fortunately removed the spoon. Grasping
the bottle he filled it to the brim and tossed it down in three big
swallows. As he replaced the tumbler on the table, Strout turned round.
"There was 'bout a spoonful left in the bottom of my tumbler," said
Abner, apologetically. "Them that drinks last drinks best," said he, as
he took up his lamp. "I guess that nightcap won't hurt me," he muttered
to himself as he stumbled up the flight of stairs that led to his room.
The fire burned brightly and Strout resumed his seat and drew the bottle
towards him. He lifted it up and looked at it.
"The skunk!" said he half aloud; "a man that'll steal rum will hook
money next. Wall, it won't be many days before that city chap will buy
his return ticket to Boston. Then I shan't have any further use for
Abner. Let me see," he soliloquized, "what I've got to do to-morrer? Git
the Deacon's money at ten, propose to Huldy 'bout half past, git home to
dinner at twelve, buy the grocery store 'bout quarter-past three;
that'll be a pretty good day's work!"
Then the Professor mixed up a nightcap for himself and was soon sleeping
soundly, regardless of the broad smile upon the face of the Man in the
Moon, who looked down upon the town with an expression that seemed to
indicate that he considered himself the biggest man in it.
CHAPTER XXVII.
TOWN POLITICS.
At the table next morning the conversation was all about the surprise
party. The Cobb twins declared that without exception it was the best
party that had ever been given at Mason's Corner, to their knowledge.
After breakfast Quincy told Ezekiel that he was going over to
Eastborough Centre that morning; in fact, he should like the single
horse and team for the next three days, as he had considerable business
to attend to.
He drove first to the office of the express company; but to his great
disappointment he was informed that no package had arrived for him on
the morning train. Thinking that possibly some explanation of the
failure of the bank to comply with his wishes might have been sent by
mail, he went to the post office; there he found a letter from the
cashier of his bank, informing him that he had taken the liberty to send
him enclosed, instead of the five hundred dollars in bills, his own
check certified for that amount, and stated that the local bank would
undoubtedly cash the same for him.
As he turned to leave the post office he met Sylvester Chisholm. Quincy
greeted the young man pleasantly, and asked him if he were in business
at the Centre. Sylvester replied that he was the compositor and local
newsman on the "Eastborough Express," a weekly newspaper issued every
Friday. The bank being located in the same building, Quincy drove him
over. Sylvester asked Quincy if he would not step in and look at their
office. Quincy did so. A man about thirty years of age arose from a
chair and stepped forward as they entered, saying, "Hello, Chisholm, I
have been waiting nearly half an hour for you."
"Mr. Appleby, Mr. Sawyer," said Sylvester, introducing the two men.
"Mr. Appleby occupies a similar position on the 'Montrose Messenger' to
the one that I hold on the 'Eastborough Express,'" said Sylvester, by
way of explanation to Quincy. "We exchange items; that is, he supplies
me with items relating to Montrose that are supposed to be interesting
to the inhabitants of Eastborough, and I return the compliment. Here are
your items," said Sylvester, passing an envelope to Mr. Appleby.
Mr. Appleby seemed to be in great haste, and with a short "Good morning"
left the office.
"He is a great friend of Professor Strout's," remarked Sylvester.
"You speak as though you were not," said Quincy.
"Well," replied Sylvester, "I used to think a good deal more of him at
one time than I do now, not on account of anything that he has done to
me, but I do not think he has treated one of my dearest friends just
right. Did you hear anything, Mr. Sawyer, about his being engaged or
likely to be engaged to Deacon Mason's daughter, Huldy?"
Quincy looked at Sylvester and then laughed outright.
"No, I haven't heard of any such thing," he replied, "and considering
certain information that I have in my mind and which I know to be
correct, I do not think I ever shall."
"Will you tell me what that information is?" asked Sylvester.
"Well, perhaps I will," said Quincy, "if you will inform me why you wish
to know."
"Well, the fact is," remarked Sylvester, "that for quite a while
Professor Strout and my sister Bessie, whom you saw last night at the
party and with whom you danced, kept company together, and everybody
over here to the Centre thought that they would be engaged and get
married one of these days; but since that concert at the Town Hall,
where you sang, a change of mind seems to have come over the Professor,
and he has not seen my sister except when they met by accident. She
thinks a good deal of him still, and although the man has done me no
harm personally, of course I do not feel very good toward the fellow who
makes my sister feel unhappy."
"Now," said Quincy, "what I am going to say I am going to tell you for
your personal benefit and not for publication. I happen to know that
Miss Huldy Mason is engaged definitely to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill, and
has been for some time. Now, promise me not to put that in your paper."
"I promise," said Sylvester, "unless I obtain the same information from
some other source."
"All right," rejoined Quincy, and shaking hands with the young man he
crossed the passageway and went into the bank.
He presented his certified check, and the five hundred dollars in bills
were passed to him, and he placed them in his inside coat pocket. He was
turning to leave the bank when he met Deacon Mason just entering.
"Ah, Deacon," said he, "have you come to draw some money? I think I have
just taken all the bank bills they have on hand."
"I hope not," said the Deacon, "I kinder promised some one that I'd be
on hand about noon to-day with five hundred dollars that he wants to use
on a business matter this afternoon."
Quincy took the Deacon by the arm and pulled him one side, out of
hearing of any other person in the room.
"Say, Deacon Mason, I am going to ask you a question, which, of course,
you can answer or not, as you see fit; but if this business matter turns
out to be what I think it is, I may be able to save you considerable
trouble."
"I don't think you would ask me any question that I ought not to
answer," replied the Deacon, glancing up at Quincy with a sly look in
his eye and a slight smile on his face.
"Well," continued Quincy, "are you going to let Strout have that money
to pay down on account of the grocery store?"
"Why, yes," said the Deacon, "I guess you have hit it about right.
Strout seemed to think that there warn't any doubt but what he could get
the store, but as he said the town clerk was willing to endorse his
note, I came over here last night just on purpose to find that out. I
kinder thought I was perfectly safe in letting him have the money."
"Oh, you would be all right, Deacon, financially, if the town clerk or
any other good man endorsed his note; but you see Strout won't need the
money. I happen to know of another man that is going to bid on that
grocery store. How much money do you think Strout can command; how high
will he bid?"
"Well, he told me," the Deacon answered, "that he had parties that would
back him up to the extent of two thousand dollars, and this five hundred
dollars that I was goin' to lend him would make twenty-five hundred, and
he had sort o' figured that the whole place, including the land and
buildings and stock, warn't wuth any more than that, and that Benoni
Hill would be mighty glad to get such a good offer."
"That's all right," said Quincy, "but I happen to know a man that's
going to bid on that grocery store and he will have it if he has to bid
as high as five thousand dollars, and he is ready to put down the solid
cash for it without any notes."
The Deacon glanced up at Quincy, and the sly look in his eye was more
pronounced than ever, while the smile on his face very much resembled a
grin.
"I guess it must be some outside feller that is a-going to buy it
then," said the Deacon, "for I don't believe there is a man in
Eastborough that would put up five thousand dollars in cold cash for
that grocery store, unless he considered that he was paying for
something besides groceries when he bought it."
"Well, I don't think, Deacon," continued Quincy, "that we need go
further into particulars; I think we understand each other; all is, you
come up to the auction this afternoon, and if the place is knocked down
to Strout I will let you have the five hundred dollars that I have here
in my pocket; besides, it would have been poor business policy for you
to let him have the money on that note before the sale; for if the store
was not sold to him you could not get back your money until the note
became due."
"That's so," assented the Deacon. "Well, I've got to get home, cuz I
promised to meet him by twelve o'clock."
"So have I," said Quincy, "for I have got to see the man who is going to
buy the grocery store and fix up a few business matters with him."
Both men left the bank and got into their respective teams, which were
standing in front of the building.
"Which road are you going, Deacon?" asked Quincy.
"Waal, I guess, for appearance's sake, Mr. Sawyer, you better go on the
straight road, while I'll take the curved one. Yer know the curved one
leads right up to my barn door."
"Yes, I know," said Quincy, "I found that out last night;" and the two
men parted.
Quincy made quick time on his homeward trip. As he neared the Pettengill
house he saw Cobb's twins and Hiram standing in front of the barn. He
drove up and threw the reins to Bill Cobb, saying, "I shall want the
team again right after dinner;" and turning to Hiram, be said, "Come
down to Jacob's Parlor, I want to have a little talk with you."
They entered the large wood shed that Ezekiel's father had called by
the quaint name just referred to, and took their old seats, Quincy in
the armchair and Hiram on the chopping block facing him. Hiram looked
towards the stove and Quincy said, "It is not very cold this morning, I
don't think we shall need a fire; besides, what I have got to say will
take but a short time. Now, young man," continued he, "how old did you
say you were?"
"I am about thirty," replied Hiram.
"You are about thirty?" repeated Quincy, "and yet you are satisfied to
stay with Deacon Mason and do his odd jobs for about ten dollars a month
and your board, I suppose."
"Well, he isn't a mean man," said Hiram, "he gives me ten dollars a
month and my board, and two suits of clothes a year, including shoes and
hats."
"Have you no ambition to do any better?" asked Quincy.
"Ambition?" cried Hiram, "why I'm full of it. I've thought of more than
a dozen different kinds of business that I would like to go into and
work day and night to make my fortune, but what can a feller do if he
hasn't any capital and hasn't got any backer?"
"Well, the best thing that you can do, Hiram, is to find a partner;
that's what people do when they have no money; they look around and find
somebody who has."
"You mean," said Hiram, "that I've got to look 'round and find some one
who has got some money, who's willin' to let me have part of it. There's
lots of fellers in Eastborough that have got money, but they hang to it
tighter'n the bark to a tree."
"And yet," said Quincy, "a man like Obadiah Strout can go around this
town and get parties to back him up to the extent of twenty-five hundred
dollars."
"Yes, I know," answered Hiram, "but he couldn't do that if the parties
didn't have a mortgage on the place, and o' course if Strout can't keep
up his payments they'll grab the store and get the hull business. I
happen to know that one of the parties that's goin' to put his name on
one of Strout's notes said quietly to another party that told a feller
that I heerd it from that it wouldn't be more'n a year afore he'd be
runnin' that grocery store himself."
"Well, Hiram Maxwell, I've got some money that I am not using just now.
You know that I've got quite a large account to settle with that
Professor Strout, and I can afford to pay pretty handsomely to get even
with him. Now do you think if you had that grocery store that you could
make a success of it?"
"Could I?" cried Hiram, "waal, I know I could. I know every man, woman,
and child in this town, and there isn't one of them that's got anythin'
agin me that I knows of."
"I'd back you up," said Quincy, "but I've got something against you, and
I will not agree to put my money into that store until you explain to me
something that you told me several weeks ago. I don't say but that you
told me the truth as far as it went, but you didn't tell me the whole
truth, and that's what I find fault with you for."
Hiram's eyes had dilated, and he looked at Quincy with a wild glance of
astonishment. Could he believe his ears? Here was this young man, a
millionaire's son, saying that he would have backed him up in business
but for the fact that he had told him a wrong story. Hiram scratched his
head and looked perplexed.
"True as I live, Mr. Sawyer, I don't remember ever tellin' you a lie
since I've known yer. I may have added a little somethin' to some of my
stories that I have brought inter yer, jest to make them a little more
interesting and p'r'aps ter satisfy a little pussonal spite that I might
have agin some o' the parties that I was tellin' yer about, but I know
as well's I'm standin' here that I never told yer nothin' in the way of
a lie to work yer any injury. You've alwus treated me white, and if
there's one thing that Mandy Skinner says she can't abear, it's a man
that tells lies."
"Then," remarked Quincy with a smile, "you think a good deal of Miss
Mandy Skinner's opinion?"
"I ain't never seen any girl whose opinion I think more of," answered
Hiram.
"Did you ever see any girl that you thought more of?" continued Quincy.
"Waal, I guess it's an open secret 'round town," said Hiram, "that I'd
marry her quicker'n lightnin', if she'd have me."
"Well, why won't she have you?" persisted Quincy.
"That's easy to answer," said Hiram. "You stated the situation purty
plainly yourself when you counted up my income, ten dollars a month and
my food and two suits of clothes. How could I pervide for Mandy out o'
that?"
"Well," asked Quincy, "supposing I bought that grocery store for you and
you got along well and made money. Do you think Mandy would consent to
become Mrs. Maxwell?"
"I can't say for sure, Mr. Sawyer, but I think Miss Mandy Skinner would
be at a loss for any good reason for refusin' me, in case what you jest
talked about come to pass," said Hiram.
"Now," proceeded Quincy, "we will settle that little matter that I
referred to a short time ago. You remember you were telling me your war
experiences. You said you were never shot, but that you were hit with a
fence rail at the battle of Cedar Mountain."
"Waal, I guess if you git my war record you will find I didn't tell yer
any lie about that."
"Well, no," said Quincy, "that's all right; but why didn't you tell me
that on one occasion, when the captain of your company was shot down,
together with half the attacking force, that you took his body on your
back and bore him off the field, at the same time sounding the retreat
with your bugle? Why didn't you tell me that on two separate occasions,
when the color sergeants of your company were shot and the flag fell
from their grasp, that you took the flag and bore it forward, sounding
the charge, until you were relieved of your double duty? In other words,
when there were so many good things that you could say for yourself, why
didn't you say them?"
Hiram thought for a moment and then he said, "Waal, I didn't think that
I had any right to interduce outside matters not connected with what we
were talkin' about. You asked me if I'd ever been shot, and I told yer
how I got hit; but I didn't consider the luggin' the cap'n off the field
or h'istin' Old Glory, when there wasn't anybody else to attend to it
jest that minute, come under the head of bein' shot."
Quincy laughed outright and extended his hand, which Hiram took. Quincy
gave it a hearty shake and said, "Hiram, I think you're all right. I've
decided to buy that grocery store for you for two reasons. The first is
that you have served me well; Mandy has been very kind and attentive to
me, and I want to see you both prosper and be happy. My second reason
relates to the Professor, and, of course, does not need any explanation,
so far as you're concerned. Now, you go up to the house, put on your
best suit of clothes, tell the Deacon that I want your company this
afternoon; I will drive up your way about two o'clock, and we will go to
the auction."
While these events were taking place, others, perhaps equally
interesting, were transpiring in another part of Mason's Corner. The
Professor had not arisen until late, but ten o'clock found him dressed
in his best and surveying his personal appearance with a pleased
expression. He felt that this was a day big with the fate of Professor
Strout and Mason's Corner!
When he left Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house he went straight to Deacon
Mason's.
"Is the Deacon in?" he asked, as pleasant-faced Mrs. Mason opened the
door.
"No, he has gone over to the Centre. He said he'd got to go to the bank
to get some money for somebody, but that he'd be back 'tween 'leven and
twelve."
"Oh, that's all right," said Strout, stepping inside the door; "is Miss
Huldy in?"
"Yes, she's in the parlor; she went in to practise on her music lesson,
but I guess she's reading a book instead, for I haven't heard the piano
since she went in half an hour ago."
"Waal, I'll step in and have a little chat with her whilst I'm waiting
for the Deacon," said the Professor; "but you just let me know as soon
as the Deacon comes, won't you, Mrs. Mason?"
Mrs. Mason replied that she would, and the Professor opened the parlor
door and stepped in.
"Oh, good morning, Miss Mason," said the Professor; "I hope I see you
enjoying your usual good health after last evening's excitement."
Huldy arose and shook hands with the Professor.
"Oh, yes," said she, "I got up a little late this morning, but I never
felt better in my life. It was very kind of you, Mr. Strout, and of my
other friends, to show your appreciation in such a pleasant manner, and
I shall never forget your kindness."
"Waal, you know, I've always taken a great interest in you, Miss Mason."
"I know you have in my singing," answered Huldy, "and I know that I have
improved a great deal since you have been giving me lessons."
"But I don't refer wholly to your singin'," said the Professor.
"Oh, you mean my playing," remarked Huldy. "Well, I don't know that I
shall ever be a brilliant performer on the piano, but I must acknowledge
that you have been the cause of my improving in that respect also."
"Waal, I don't mean," continued the Professor, "jest your singin' and
your playin'. I've been interested in you as a whole."
"I don't exactly see what you mean by that, Mr. Strout, unless you mean
my ability as a housekeeper. I am afraid if you ask my mother, she will
not give me a very flattering recommendation."
"Oh, you know enough about housekeepin' to satisfy me," said the
Professor.
Huldy by this time divined what was on the Professor's mind; in fact,
she had known it for some time, but had assured herself that he would
never have the courage to put his hints, and suggestions, and allusions,
into an actual declaration. So she replied with some asperity, "What
made you think I was looking for a situation as housekeeper?"
"Oh, nothin'," said he, "I wasn't thinkin' anythin' about what I thought
you thought, but I was a-thinkin' about somethin' that I thought
myself."
Huldy looked up inquiringly.
"What would you say," asked the Professor, "if I told you that I thought
of gettin' married?"
"Well," replied Huldy, "I think my first question would be, 'have you
asked her?'"
"No, I haven't yet," said the Professor.
"Well, then, my advice to you," continued Huldy, "is don't delay; if you
do perhaps some other fellow may ask her first, and she may consent, not
knowing that you think so much of her."
"Well, I've thought of that," said the Professor. "I guess you're right.
What would you say," continued he, "if I told you that I had asked her?"
"Well, I should say," answered Huldy, "that you told me only a minute or
two ago that you hadn't."
"Well, I hadn't then," said the Professor.
"I don't really see how you have had any chance to ask her, as you say
you have," remarked Huldy, "in the short time that has passed since you
said you hadn't. I am not very quick at seeing a joke, Professor, but
p'raps I can understand what you mean, if you will tell me when you
asked her, and where you asked her to marry you."
"Just now! Right here!" cried the Professor; and before Huldy could
interpose he had arisen from his chair and had fallen on his knees
before her.
Huldy looked at him with a startled expression, then as the whole matter
dawned upon her she burst into a loud laugh. The Professor looked up
with a grieved expression on his face. Huldy became grave instantly.
"I wasn't laughing at you, Professor. I'm sure I'm grateful for your
esteem and friendship, but it never entered my head till this moment
that you had any idea of asking me to be your wife. What made you think
such a thing possible?"
The Professor was quite portly, and it was with some little difficulty
that he regained his feet, and his face was rather red with the exertion
when he had succeeded.
"Well, you see," said he, "I never thought much about it till that city
feller came down here to board; then the whole town knew that you and
'Zeke Pettengill had had a fallin' out, and then by and by that city
feller who was boardin' with your folks went away, and I kinder thought
that as you didn't have any steady feller--"
Huldy broke in,--"You thought I was in the market again and that your
chances were as good as those of any one else?"
"Yes, that's jest it," said the Professor. "You put it jest as I would
have said it, if you hadn't said it fust."
"Well, really, Professor, I can't understand what gave you and the whole
town the idea that there was any falling out between Mr. Pettengill and
myself. We have grown up together, we have always loved each other very
much, and we have been engaged to be married--"
"Since when?" broke in the Professor, excitedly.
"Since the day before I last engaged you to give me music lessons,"
replied Huldy.
What the Professor would have said in reply to this will never be known;
for at that moment Mrs. Mason opened the door, and looking in, said,
"The Deacon's come."
Strout grasped his hat, and with a hurried bow and "Good morning" to
Huldy, left the room, closing the door behind him. It must be said for
the Professor that he bore defeat with great equanimity, and when he
reached the great kitchen and shook hands with Deacon Mason, who had
just come in from the barn, the casual observer would have noticed
nothing peculiar in his expression.
"Waal, Deacon," said he in a low tone, "did you git the money?"
"Oh, I've 'ranged 'bout the money," said the Deacon; "but I had a talk
with my lawyer, and he said it wasn't good bizness for me to pay over
the five hundred dollars till the store was actually knocked down to
you. Here's that note of yourn that the town clerk endorsed las' night.
Neow, when the auctioneer says the store is yourn I'll give yer the five
hundred dollars and take the note. I'll be up to the auction by
half-past two, so you needn't worry, it'll be jest the same as though
yer had the money in yer hand."
Strout looked a little disturbed; but thinking the matter over quickly,
he decided that he had nothing to gain by arguing the question with the
Deacon; so saying, "Be sure and be on hand, Deacon, for it's a sure
thing my gettin' that store, if I have the cash to pay down," he left
the house.
He went up the hill and turned the corner on the way back to his
boarding house. When he got out of sight of the Deacon's house he
stopped, clenched his hands, shut his teeth firmly together and stamped
his foot on the ground; then he ejaculated in a savage whisper, "Women
are wussern catamounts; you know which way a catamount's goin' to jump.
I wonder whether she was honest about that, or whether she's been
foolin' me all this time; she'll be a sorry girl when I git that store
and 'lected tax collector, and git app'inted postmaster. I've got three
tricks left, ef I have lost two. I wonder who it was put that idea into
the Deacon's head not ter let me have thet money till the sale was over.
I bet a dollar it wuz thet city feller. Abner says thet he met Appleby
on his way back to Montrose, and he told him thet he saw thet city
feller and the Deacon drive off tergether from front o' the bank. Oh!
nonsense, what would the son of a millionaire want of a grocery store in
a little country town like this?" and he went into his boarding house to
dinner.
A few moments after two o'clock Strout could restrain his impatience no
longer, and leaving his boarding house he walked over to the grocery
store. Quite a number of the Mason's Corner people were gathered in the
Square, for to them an auction sale was as good as a show. Quincy had
not arrived, and the Professor tried to quiet his nerves by walking up
and down the platform and smoking a cigar. The crowd gradually
increased, quite a number coming in teams from Montrose and from
Eastborough Centre. One of the teams from Montrose brought the
auctioneer, Mr. Beers, with whom Strout was acquainted. He gave the
auctioneer a cigar, and they walked up and down the platform smoking and
talking about everything else but the auction sale. It was a matter of
professional dignity with Mr. Barnabas Beers, auctioneer, not to be on
too friendly terms with bidders before an auction. He had found that it
had detracted from his importance and had lowered bids, if he allowed
would be purchasers to converse with him concerning the articles to be
sold. It was their business, he maintained in a heated argument one
evening in the hotel at Montrose, to find out by personal inspection the
condition and value of what was to be sold, and it was his business, he
said, to know as little about it as possible, for the less he knew the
less it would interfere with his descriptive powers when, hammer in
hand, he took his position on the bench. Having established a
professional standing, Barnabas Beers was not a man to step down, and
though the Professor, after a while, endeavored to extract some
information from the auctioneer as to whether there was likely to be
many bidders, he finally gave it up in despair, for he found Mr. Beers
as uncommunicative as a hitching post, as he afterwards told Abner
Stiles.
About half-past two Deacon Mason drove into the Square, and the
Professor went to meet him, and shook hands with him. In a short time
his other backers, who had agreed to endorse his notes to the amount of
two thousand dollars, arrived upon the scene, and he took occasion to
welcome them in a manner that could not escape the attention of the
crowd. It was now ten minutes of three, and the auctioneer stepped upon
the temporary platform that had been erected for him, and bringing his
hammer down upon the head of a barrel that had been placed in front of
him, he read, in a loud voice, which reached every portion of the
Square, the printed notice that for several weeks had hung upon the
fences, sheds, and trees of Mason's Corner, Eastborough Centre, West
Eastborough, and Montrose.
It was now three o'clock, for that hour was rung out by the bell on the
Rev. Caleb Howe's church. The auctioneer prefaced his inquiry for bids
by the usual grandiloquence in use by members of that fraternity,
closing his oration with that often-heard remark, "How much am I
offered?"
The Professor, who was standing by the side of Deacon Mason's team,
called out in a loud voice, "Fifteen hundred!"
"Well, I'll take that just for a starter," said the auctioneer, "but of
course no sane man not fitted to be the inmate of an idiotic asylum
thinks that this fine piece of ground, this long-built and
long-established grocery store, filled to overflowing with all the
necessities and delicacies of the season, a store which has been in
successful operation for nearly forty years, and of which the good will
is worth a good deal more than the sum just bid, will be sold for any
such preposterous figure! Gentlemen, I am listening."
Suddenly a voice from the rear of the crowd called out, "T-o-o-t-o to
to-oo-two thousand!"
As if by magic, every head was turned, for the majority of those in the
crowd recognized the voice at once. There was but one man in Mason's
Corner who stammered, and that man was Hiram Maxwell.
They turned, and all saw seated in the Pettengill team Hiram Maxwell,
and beside him sat Mr. Sawyer from Boston.
"Oh, that's more like it," said the auctioneer. "Competition is the life
of trade, and is particularly pleasing to an auctioneer. The first
gentleman who bid now sees that there is another gentleman who has a
better knowledge of the value of this fine property than he has evinced
up to the present moment. There is still an opportunity for him to see
the error of his ways, and put himself on record as being an observing
and intelligent person."
All eyes were turned upon Strout at these words from the auctioneer; his
face reddened, and he called out, "Twenty-five hundred!"
"Still better," cried the auctioneer; "the gentleman, as I supposed, has
shown that he is a person of discernment; he did not imagine that I was
engaged simply to make a present of this fine establishment to any one
who would offer any sum that suited his convenience for it. He knew as
well as I did that there would be a sharp contest to secure this fine
property. Now, gentlemen, I am offered twenty-five hundred, twenty-five
hundred I am offered, twenty-five hundred--"
Again a voice was heard from the team on the outer limits of the crowd,
"Twenty-five fifty!"
The crowd again turned their gaze upon Strout; the Professor was not an
extravagant man, and he had saved a little money. He had in his pocket
at the time a little over a hundred dollars; he would not put it in the
bank, for, he argued, if he did everybody in town would know how much
money he had; so he called out, "Twenty-six hundred!"
"Ah, gentlemen," continued the auctioneer, "let me thank you for the
keen appreciation that you show of a good thing. When I looked this
property over I said to myself, the bidders will tumble over themselves
to secure this fine property'; and I have not been disappointed."
Again the faces of the crowd were turned towards the team in which sat
Quincy and Hiram. Hiram stood up in the team, and masking a horn with
his hands, shouted at the top of his voice, for the time overcoming his
propensity to stammer, "Twenty-seven hundred!"
"Better! still better!" cried the auctioneer; "we are now approaching
the figure that I had placed on this property, and my judgment is
usually correct. I am offered twenty-seven hundred, twenty-seven
hundred; who will go one hundred better?"
At this moment Abner Stiles, who had been watching the proceedings with
eyes distended and mouth wide open, went up to Strout and whispered
something in his ear. Strout's face brightened, he grasped Abner's hand
and shook it warmly, then turning towards the auctioneer cried out,
"Twenty-eight hundred!"
By this time the crowd was getting excited. To them it was a battle
royal; nothing of the kind had ever been seen at Mason's Corner before.
A great many in the crowd were friends of Strout's, and admired his
pluck in standing out so well. They had seen at a glance that Abner
Stiles had offered to help Strout.
Again the auctioneer called out in his parrot-like tone, "Twenty-eight
hundred! I am offered twenty-eight hundred!"
And again Hiram put his hands to his mouth, and his voice was heard over
the Square as he said, "Three thousand!"
"Now, gentlemen," continued the auctioneer, "I am proud to be with you.
When it is my misfortune to stand up before a company, the members of
which have no appreciation of the value of the property to be sold, I
often wish myself at home; but, as I said before, on this occasion I am
proud to be with you, for a sum approximating to the true value of the
property offered for sale has been bidden. I am offered three
thousand--three thousand--three thousand--going at three thousand! Did I
hear a bid? No, it must have been the wind whistling through the trees."
At this sally a laugh came up from the crowd. "Going at three
thousand--going--going--going--gone at three thousand to--"
"Mr. Hiram Maxwell!" came from the score of voices.
"Gone at three thousand to Mr. Hiram Maxwell!" said the auctioneer, as
he brought down his hammer heavily upon the barrel head with such force
that it fell in, and, losing his hold upon the hammer, that dropped in
also. This slight accident caused a great laugh among the crowd.
The auctioneer continued, "According to the terms of the sale, five
hundred dollars in cash must be paid down to bind the bargain, and the
balance must be paid within three days in endorsed notes satisfactory to
the present owner."
Quincy and Hiram alighted from the Pettengill team and advanced towards
the auctioneer. Reaching the platform, Quincy took from his pocket a
large wallet and passed a pile of bills to the auctioneer.
"Make out a receipt, please," he said to Mr. Beers, "in the name of Mr.
Hiram Maxwell; the notes will be made out by him and endorsed by me. If
you will give a discount of six per cent, Mr. Maxwell will pay the
entire sum in cash within ten days; whichever proposition is accepted
by Mr. Hill will be satisfactory to Mr. Maxwell."
The show was over and the company began to disperse. Deacon Mason nodded
to Strout and turned his horse's head homeward. While Quincy and Hiram
were settling their business matters with the auctioneer, everybody had
left the Square with the exception of a few loungers about the platform
of the grocery store, and Strout and Abner, who stood near the big tree
in the centre of the Square, talking earnestly to each other.
The auctioneer, together with Quincy and Hiram, entered the store to
talk over business matters with Mr. Hill and his son. Mr. Hill argued
that Mr. Sawyer was good for any sum, and he would just as soon have the
notes; in fact, he would prefer to have them, rather than make any
discount.
This matter being adjusted, Mr. Hill treated the party to some of his
best cigars, which he kept under the counter in a private box, and when
Quincy and Hiram came out and took their seats in the team, they looked
about the Square and found that the Professor and his best friend were
not in sight.
The next morning at about nine o'clock, Abbott Smith arrived at
Pettengill's, having with him Mr. Wallace Stackpole. Quincy was ready
for the trip, and they started immediately for Eastborough Centre. On
the way Quincy had plenty of time for conversation with Mr. Stackpole.
The latter gave a true account of the cause that had led to his losing
his election as tax collector at the town meeting a year before. He had
been taken sick on the train while coming from Boston, and a kind
passenger had given him a drink of brandy. He acknowledged that he took
too much, and that he really was unable to walk when he reached the
station at Eastborough Centre; but he said that he was not a drinking
man, and would not have taken the brandy if he had not been sick. They
reached Eastborough Centre in due season, but made no stop, continuing
on to West Eastborough to the home of Abbott Smith's father.
Here Quincy was introduced to 'Bias Smith, and found that what had been
said about him was not overstated. He was a tall, heavily-built man,
with a hard, rugged face, but with a pleasant and powerful countenance,
and, in the course of conversation, ran the whole gamut of oratorical
expression. He was what New England country towns have so often
produced--a natural-born orator. In addition he was an up-to-date man.
He was well read in history, and kept a close eye on current political
events, including not only local matters, but State and National affairs
as well.
Quincy gave him Strout's war record that he had obtained from the
Adjutant-General's office, and it was read over and compared with that
of Wallace Stackpole, which was also in 'Bias Smith's possession. Mr.
Stackpole had obtained from the town clerk a statement of taxes due and
collected for the past twenty years, and this was also delivered to Mr.
Smith. Quincy confided to Mr. Smith several matters that he wished
attended to in town meeting, and the latter agreed to present them, as
requested.
It was finally settled that 'Bias Smith and Mr. Stackpole should come
over to Mason's Corner the following Saturday and see if Deacon Mason
would agree to act as moderator at the annual town meeting on the
following Monday, the warrants for same having already been posted.
When Quincy reached home he found Hiram waiting for him. They went in to
Jacob's Parlor and took their accustomed seats.
"Any news?" asked Quincy.
"Not a word," said Hiram, "neither Strout or Abner have been seen on the
street sence the sale wuz over, but Strout has got hold of it in some
way that Huldy's engaged to 'Zeke Pettengill, and it's all over town."
At that moment Ezekiel opened the door and stepped into the shed. There
was a roguish twinkle in his eye and a smile about his lips as he
advanced towards Quincy.
"Waal, the cat's out o' the bag," said he to Quincy.
"Yes, Hiram was just telling me that Strout got hold of it in some way."
"Yaas," said Ezekiel, "he got hold of it in the most direct way that he
possibly could."
"How's that," asked Quincy, "did Miss Mason tell him?"
"Yaas," said Ezekiel, "he seemed to want a satisfactory reason why she
couldn't marry him, and it sorter seemed to her that the best reason
that she could give him was that she was engaged to marry me."
Hiram nearly lost his seat on the chopping block while expressing his
delight, and on Quincy's face there was a look of quiet satisfaction
that indicated that he was quite well satisfied with the present
condition of affairs.
"By the way, Hiram," said Quincy, "I believe you told me once that Mrs.
Hawkins, who keeps the house where the Professor boards, is Mandy
Skinner's mother."
"Yaas," said Hiram, "Mandy's father died and her mother married Jonas
Hawkins. He wasn't much account afore he was married, but I understand
that he has turned out to be a rale handy man 'round the boardin' house.
Mrs. Hawkins's a mighty smart woman, and she knew just what kind of a
man she wanted."
"Well," said Quincy, "I want you to tell Mandy to see her mother as soon
as she can, and engage the best room that she has left in the house for
a gentleman that I expect down here from Boston next Monday night.
Here's ten dollars, and have Mandy tell her that this is her week's pay
in advance for room and board, counting from to-day."
"Waal, I don't believe she'll take it," said Hiram; "she's a mighty
smart woman and mighty clus in money matters, but she's no skin, and I
don't believe she'll take ten dollars for one week's board and room."
"Well, if she won't take it," remarked Quincy, "Mandy may have the
balance of it for her trouble. The man wants the room, and he is able to
pay for it."
Then Quincy and Ezekiel went into the house for supper.
The next morning Quincy found that Uncle Ike had not forgotten his
promise, for he was on hand promptly, dressed for a trip to Eastborough
Centre. This time they took the carryall and two horses, and Uncle Ike
sat on the front seat with Quincy.
They reached Eastborough Centre and found Dr. Tillotson awaiting them.
The return home was quickly made and Uncle Ike took the doctor to the
parlor. Then he went to Alice's room, and Quincy heard them descend the
stairs. The conversation lasted for a full hour, and Quincy sat in his
room thinking and hoping for the best. Suddenly he was startled from his
reveries by a rap upon the door, and Uncle Ike said the doctor was
ready. Quincy drove him back to Eastborough Centre, and on the way the
doctor gave him his diagnosis of the case and his proposed treatment. He
said it would not be necessary for him to see her again for three weeks,
or until the medicine that he had left for her was gone. He would come
down again at a day's notice from Quincy.
On his return Mandy told him that Miss Alice was in the parlor and would
like to see him. As he entered the room she recognized his footstep, and
starting to her feet turned towards him. He advanced to meet her and
took both her hands in his.
"How can I thank you, my good friend," said she, "for the interest that
you have taken in me, and how can I repay you for the money that you
have spent?"
Quincy was at first disposed to deny his connection with the matter, but
thinking that Uncle Ike must have told of it, he said, "I don't think it
was quite fair for Uncle Ike, after promising to keep silent!"
"It was not Uncle Ike's fault," broke in Alice; "it was nobody's fault.
Nobody had told the doctor that there was any secret about it, and so he
spoke freely of your visit to the city, and of what you had said, and of
the arrangements that you had made to have the treatment continued as
long as it produced satisfactory results. But," continued Alice, "how
can I ever pay you this great sum of money that it will cost for my
treatment?"
"Do not worry about that, Alice," said he, using her Christian name for
the second time, "the money is nothing. I have more than I know what to
do with, and it is a pleasure for me to use it in this way, if it will
be of any benefit to you. You can repay me at any time. You will get
money from your poems and your stories in due time, and I shall not have
to suffer if I have to wait a long time for it. God knows, Alice," and
her name fell from his lips as though he had always called her by that
name, "that if half, or even the whole of my fortune would give you back
your sight, I would give it to you willingly. Do you believe me?" And he
took her hands again in his.
"I believe you," she said simply.
At that moment Mandy appeared at the door with the familiar cry,
"Supper's ready," and Quincy led Alice to her old place at the table and
took his seat at her side.
[Illustration: Quincy makes a speech (Act III.)]
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE TOWN MEETING.
The next day was Friday. After breakfast Quincy went to his room and
looked over the memorandum pad upon which he had taken pleasure in
jotting down the various items of his campaign against the
singing-master. As he looked at the pad he checked off the items that he
had attended to, but suddenly started back with an expression of
disgust.
"Confound it," said he, "I neglected to telegraph to those congressmen
when I was at Eastborough Centre last Tuesday. I hope I'm not too late."
He reflected for a moment, then said to himself, "No, it's all right;
this is the long session, and my friends will be in Washington."
He immediately wrote two letters to his Congressional friends, stating
that he had good reasons for having the appointment of Obadiah Strout as
postmaster at Mason's Corner, Mass., held up for a week.
"At the end of that time," he wrote, "I will either withdraw my
objections or present them in detail, accompanied by affidavits in
opposition to the appointment."
Having finished the letters, he went downstairs to the kitchen, and, as
usual, found Hiram engaged in conversation with Mandy.
"You are just the man I want," said he to Hiram; "I would like to have
you take these letters to the Mason's Corner post office and mail them
at once. You can tell Mr. Hill that the papers relating to the store are
nearly ready, and if he and his son will come here this afternoon we
will execute them. I would like to have you and Mr. Pettengill on hand
as witnesses."
Hiram started off on his mission, and Quincy returned to his room and
busied himself with the preparation of the documents for the transfer of
the grocery store, and the making out of the necessary notes to cover
the twenty-five hundred dollars due for the same.
He had not seen Alice at breakfast, nor did she appear at the dinner
table. He had followed the rule since she came to the house not to make
any open inquiries about her health, but from words dropped by Ezekiel
and Uncle Ike, he had kept fairly well informed as to the result of her
treatment. At dinner Ezekiel remarked that his sister had commenced to
take her new medicine, and that he reckoned it must be purty powerful,
for she had said that she didn't wish anything to eat, and didn't want
anything sent to her room.
Quincy politely expressed his regrets at her indisposition and trusted
that she would soon be able to join them again at meal time.
About three o'clock in the afternoon, Samuel Hill and his father
arrived, and Hiram, remembering Quincy's instructions, had found Ezekiel
Pettengill, and all came to the room together. It took a comparatively
short time to sign, seal, and deliver the documents and papers. It was
arranged that Samuel Hill and his father should take charge of the
grocery store and carry on the business until a week from the following
Monday; as Quincy told young Hill that he had some business to attend to
the early part of the following week that would prevent his giving any
attention to the store until the latter part of the week.
Quincy treated his principals and witnesses to cigars, and an
interchange of ideas was made in relation to the result of the auction
sale.
"How does Strout take it?" inquired Quincy.
"I don't know," spoke up Hiram. "He acts as though he thought I was
pizen. Every time he sees me he crosses over on t'other side of the
street, if we happen to be comin' towards each other."
"Well, I imagine," said Quincy, "that your usefulness to him has
departed in some respects, but it's just as well."
"Well," said young Hill, "I can tell you what he said the other night in
the grocery store. There was a crowd of his friends there, and he
remarked that you," turning to Quincy, "might own Hill's grocery store,
but that wasn't the whole earth. He said that he had no doubt that he
would be elected unanimously as tax collector, and he was sure of his
appointment as postmaster, and if he got it he should start another
grocery store on his own hook and make it lively for you."
"Well," said Quincy with a laugh, "competition is the life of trade, and
I sha'n't object if he does go into the business; but if he does, I will
guarantee to undersell him on every article, and I will put on a couple
of teams and hire a couple of men, and we'll scour Eastborough and
Mason's Corner and Montrose for orders in the morning, and then we'll
deliver all the goods by team in the afternoon in regular Boston style.
I never knew just exactly what I was cut out for. I know I don't like
studying law, and it may be, after all, that it's my destiny to become a
grocery-man."
Quincy took Ezekiel by the arm, led him to the window, and whispered
something to him.
Ezekiel laughed, then turned red in the face, then finally said in an
undertone, "Waal, I dunno, seems kinder early, but I dunno but it jest
as well might be then as any other time. I hain't got nuthin' ter do
this afternoon, so I think I'll take a walk up there to see how the land
lays."
He said, "Good afternoon" to the others and left the room.
Quincy then took Samuel Hill by the arm in the same manner as he had
done to Ezekiel, led him to the window, and said something to him which
wrought a similar effect to that produced upon Ezekiel.
Samuel thought for a moment and then said, "That ain't a bad idea; I'm
satisfied if the other party is. I'm going to drive over this afternoon
and tell the old gentleman that matters are all fixed up, and I'll find
out if there's any objection to the plan. Guess I'll go now, as I've got
to git back to-night."
So he said "Good afternoon," and, accompanied by his father, took his
departure.
"Sit down, Hiram," said Quincy, "I want to have a talk with you. Have
you settled up that little matter with Mandy?"
"No," said Hiram, "not yet; I've ben tryin' to muster up courage, but I
haven't ben able to up to the present moment."
"I should think," remarked Quincy, "that a man who had carried his
captain off the field with a shower of bullets raining about him, or who
had pushed forward with his country's flag in the face of a similar
storm of bullets, ought not to be afraid to ask a young girl to marry
him."
"Waal, do yer know," said Hiram, "I'm more afraid o' Mandy than I would
be of the whole army."
"Well," said Quincy, "I don't see any other way for you except to walk
up like a man and meet your fate. Of course if I could do it for you I'd
be willing to oblige you."
"No, thank yer," said Hiram, "I kinder reckon thet little matter had
better be settled between the two principals in the case without callin'
in a lawyer."
Quincy leaned over and whispered something to him.
"By crickey!" said Hiram, "what put thet idea inter yer head?"
"Oh," said Quincy, "since I've had to spend so much time plotting
against my enemies, I've got into the habit of thinking out little
surprises for my friends."
"Waal, I swan!" cried Hiram, "that would be the biggest thing ever
happened in Mason's Corner. Well, I rather think I shall be able to tend
to that matter now, at once. One, two, three," said Hiram, "just think
of it; well, that's the biggest lark that I've ever ben connected with;
beats buying the grocery store all holler."
"Well," continued Quincy, "you three gentlemen understand it now, and if
matters can be arranged I will do my part, and I promise you all a grand
send-off; but not a word of it must be breathed to outside parties,
remember. It won't amount to anything unless its' a big surprise."
"All right," said Hiram, "I kinder reckon Sawyer's surprise party will
be a bigger one than Strout's was."
"Oh," continued Hiram, "I 'most forgot. Mandy was up ter see her mother
abeout thet room for thet man that's comin' down from Boston Monday
night, and Mis' Hawkins says the price of the room is three dollars per
week and the board fifty cents a day. Mandy paid for the room for a
week, and Mis' Hawkins says after she takes out what the board comes to
she'll give the balance back ter Mandy."
"That's all right," said Quincy, "I've heard from the man in Boston, and
he'll surely occupy the room next Monday night. Mandy can tell her
mother to have it all ready."
Next morning about ten o'clock, Abbott Smith drove over from Eastborough
Centre, accompanied by his father and Wallace Stackpole. Quincy took his
place beside Mr. Stackpole on the rear seat of the carryall, and Abbott
drove off as though he intended to return to Eastborough Centre, but
when he reached the crossroad he went through, then turning back towards
Mason's Corner, drove on until he reached Deacon Mason's barn, following
the same plan that Ezekiel had on the night of the surprise party.
They found the Deacon at home, and all adjourned to the parlor, where
'Bias Smith stated his business, which was to ask the Deacon to act as
Moderator at the town meeting on the following Monday. The Deacon
objected at first, but finally consented, after Mr. Smith had explained
several matters to him.
"Yer know," said the Deacon, "my fellow citizens have tried on several
occasions to have me run for selectman, but I reckoned thet I wuz too
old to be out so late nights and have to drive home from Eastborough at
ten or 'leven o'clock at night. Besides I've worked hard in my day, and
there's no place I like so well as my own home. I'm alwus sorry to go
away in the mornin' and alwus glad ter git home at night, and although I
consider that every citizen ought ter do everything he can for the
public good, I reckon thet there's a good many more anxious than I am to
serve the town, and I'm not so consated but thet I think they know how
ter do it better'n I could. But as that Moderator work comes in the
daytime, as I stand ready to do all I can for my young friend here,"
turning towards Quincy, "I'll be on hand Monday mornin' and do the best
I can to serve public and private interests at the same time."
Wallace Stackpole, while the others were talking, had taken a couple of
newspapers from his pocket, and as Deacon Mason finished, he looked up
and said, "There's an item here in the 'Eastborough Express,' Deacon,
that I imagine you'll be interested in. I'll read it to you: 'We are
informed on the best authority that Miss Huldy Mason, only daughter of
Deacon Abraham Mason of Mason's Corner, is engaged to Mr. Ezekiel
Pettengill. The day of the marriage has not been fixed, but our readers
will be informed in due season.'"
"I'm afraid, Deacon," said Quincy, "that's all my fault. I met young
Chisholm last Tuesday when I was over to the Centre, and he told me
something that actually obliged me to confide in him the fact that I
knew that your daughter was not likely to become Mrs. Obadiah Strout,
but he promised me on his word of honor that he would not put it in the
paper unless he got the same information from some other source."
The Deacon haw-hawed in good old-fashioned country style.
"Waal," said he, "young Chisholm tackled me, and said he heard a rumor
abeout Huldy and Strout, and, as you say, Mr. Sawyer, he kinder 'bliged
me to set him right. But he made me a promise, as he did you, thet he
wouldn't say anythin' abeout it unless some other feller told him the
same thing."
"That young man is sure to get ahead in the world; he buncoed us both,
Deacon," said Quincy.
"Waal, I dunno as I know just what you mean by buncoed," said the
Deacon, "but I kinder think he got the best of both on us on thet
point."
As they took their places again in the carryall, Quincy said to Mr.
Smith, "If you can drive to Mr. Pettengill's house and wait a few
minutes, I think I'll go over to Eastborough Centre with you. I'm going
to Boston this afternoon, and shall not be back again until Monday
night."
This they consented to do, and after Quincy had obtained certain papers
and had packed his travelling bag, he left word with Mandy that he would
not be back to the house until Tuesday of the following week, and it
might be Wednesday, as he was going to Boston to see his parents.
When they reached Eastborough Centre, Quincy went at once to the post
office; there he found a short letter from Leopold Ernst. It read as
follows:
"Dear Q:--
"Come up and see me as soon as you can; I shall be at home all day
Sunday. Am ready to report on the stories, but have more to say than I
have time to write.
Invariably thine,
LEOPOLD ERNST."
Quincy then crossed the Square and entered the office of the
"Eastborough Express." Sylvester flushed a little as Quincy came in, but
the latter reassured him by extending his hand and shaking it heartily.
"Is the editor in?" asked Quincy.
"No," replied Sylvester, "he never shows up on Saturdays."
"Who is going to report the town meeting?" continued Quincy.
"I am," answered Sylvester. "The editor will be on hand, but he told me
yesterday that he should depend on me to write the meeting up, because
he had a little political work to attend to that would take all his
time. He told me he was going over to see 'Bias Smith on Sunday, so I
imagine that Mr. Smith and he are interested on the same side."
"Well, Mr. Chisholm," said Quincy, "you managed that little matter about
Miss Mason's engagement so neatly that I have something for you to do
for me. I'm going to Boston this afternoon, and shall not be back until
half-past seven Monday night. I'm going over to see Mr. Parsons when I
leave here, and shall arrange with him to supply all our boys with all
they want to eat and drink next Monday."
"Well, the boys, as you call them, will be pretty apt to be hungry and
thirsty next Monday," laughed Sylvester.
"That's all right," said Quincy, "I'll stand the bills."
"How's Parsons going to know which are our boys?" continued Chisholm.
"They ought to have some kind of badge or some kind of a password, or
your enemies, as well as your friends, will be eating up your
provisions."
"That's what I want you to attend to," added Quincy. "I'll arrange with
Parsons that if anybody gives him the letters B D on the quiet, he is to
consider that they are on our side, and mustn't take any money from
them, but chalk it up on my score. Now, I depend upon you, Mr. Chisholm,
to give the password to the faithful, and to pay you for your time and
trouble just take this."
And he passed a twenty-dollar bill to Sylvester. The latter drew back.
"No, Mr. Sawyer," said he, "I cannot take any money for that service.
This work is to be done, for I understand the whole business, to defeat
the man who, I think, has treated my sister in a very mean manner, and
I'm willing to work all day and all night without any pay to knock that
fellow out. Let's put it that way,--I'm working against him, and not for
you; and, looking at it that way, of course, there's no reason why you
should pay me anything."
"All right," rejoined Quincy, "I should have no feeling if you took the
money, but I can appreciate your sentiments, and will have no feeling
because you do not take it. One of these days I may be able to do as
great a service for you, as you are willing to do for me between now and
next Monday."
They shook hands and parted, and Quincy made his way to the Eagle Hotel,
of which Mr. Seth Parsons was the proprietor. Mr. Parsons greeted him
heartily and invited him into his private room. Here Quincy told the
arrangement that he had made with young Chisholm, and gave him the
password.
"Don't stint them," said Quincy, "let them have a good time; but don't
let anybody know who pays for it. I shall be down on the half-past seven
express, Monday night, and I would like to have a nice little dinner for
eight or nine people ready in your private dining-room at eight o'clock.
Mr. Tobias Smith knows who my guests are to be, and if I am delayed from
any cause, he will tell you who are entitled to go in and eat the
dinner."
The next train to Boston was due in ten minutes, and shaking hands with
the hotel proprietor, he made his way quickly to the station. As he
reached the platform he noticed that Abner Stiles was just driving away;
the thought flashed through his mind that somebody from Mason's Corner
was going to the city; but that was no uncommon event, and the thought
passed from him.
He entered the car, and, to his surprise, found that it was filled;
every seat in sight was taken. He walked forward and espied a seat near
the farther end of the car. He noticed that a lady sat near the window;
when he reached it he raised his hat, and leaning forward, said
politely, "Is this seat taken?"
"No, sir," replied a pleasant, but somewhat sad voice, and he sank into
the seat without further thought as to its other occupant.
When they reached the first station beyond Eastborough Centre he glanced
out of the window, and as he did so, noticed that his companion was Miss
Lindy Putnam.
"Why, Miss Putnam," cried he, turning towards her, "how could I be so
ungallant as not to recognize you?"
"Well," replied Lindy, "perhaps it's just as well that you didn't; my
thoughts were not very pleasant, and I should not have been a very
entertaining companion."
"More trouble at home?" he inquired in a low voice.
"Yes," answered Lindy, in a choked voice, "since Mr. Putnam died it has
been worse than ever. While he lived she had him to talk to; but now she
insists on talking to me, and sends for me several times a day,
ostensibly to do something for her, but really simply to get me in the
room so she can talk over the old, old story, and say spiteful and
hateful things to me. May Heaven pardon me for saying so, Mr. Sawyer,
but I am thankful that it's nearly at an end."
"Why, what do you mean," asked Quincy, "is she worse?"
"Yes," said Lindy, "she is failing very rapidly physically, but her
voice and mental powers are as strong as ever; in fact, I think she is
more acute in her mind and sharper in her words than she has ever been
before. Dr. Budd ordered some medicine that I could not get at the
Centre, and so there was no way for me except to go to the city for it.
Let me tell you now, Mr. Sawyer, something that I should have been
obliged to write to you, if I had not seen you. I shall stay with Mrs.
Putnam until she dies, for I promised Jones that I would, and I could
never break any promise that I made to him; but the very moment that
she's dead I shall leave the house and the town forever!"
"Shall you not stay to the funeral?" said Quincy; "what will the
townspeople say?"
"I don't care what they say," rejoined Lindy, in a sharp tone; "she is
not my mother, and I will not stay to the funeral and hypocritically
mourn over her, when in my secret heart I shall be glad she is dead."
"Those are harsh words," said Quincy.
"Not one-tenth nor one-hundredth as harsh and unfeeling as those she has
used to me," said Lindy. "No, my mind is made up; my trunks are all
packed, and she will not be able to lock me in my room this time. I
shall leave town by the first train after her death, and Eastborough
will never see me nor hear from me again."
"But how about your friends," asked Quincy, "supposing that I should
find out something that would be of interest to you; supposing that I
should get some information that might lead to the discovery of your
real parents, how could I find you?"
"Well," replied Lindy, "if you will give me your promise that you will
not disclose to any one what I am going to say, I will tell you how to
find me."
"You have my word," replied Quincy.
"Well," answered Lindy, "I'm going to New York! I would tell you where,
but I don't know. But if you wish to find me at any time advertise in
the Personal Column of the 'New York Herald'; address it to Linda, and
sign it Eastborough," said she, after a moment's thought. "I shall drop
the name of Putnam when I arrive in New York, but what name I shall take
I have not yet decided upon; it will depend upon circumstances. But I
shall have the 'New York Herald' every day, and if you advertise for me
I shall be sure to see it."
She then relapsed into silence, and Quincy forbore to speak any more, as
he saw she was busy with her own thoughts. They soon reached the city
and parted at the door of the station. She gave him her hand, and as he
held it in his for a moment, he said, "Good-by, Miss Linda." She thanked
him for not saying "Miss Putnam" with a glance of her eyes. "I may not
see you again, but you may depend upon me. If I hear of anything that
will help you in your search for your parents, my time shall be given to
the matter, and I will communicate with you at the earliest moment.
Good-by."
He raised his hat and they parted.
Town Meeting Day proved to be a bright and pleasant one. At nine o'clock
the Town Hall was filled with the citizens of Eastborough. They had come
from the Centre, they had come from West Eastborough and from Mason's
Corner. There were very nearly four hundred gathered upon the floor, the
majority of them being horny-handed sons of toil, or, more properly
speaking, independent New England farmers.
When Jeremiah Spinney, the oldest man in town, who had reached the age
of ninety-two, and who declared that he hadn't "missed a town meetin'
for seventy year," called the meeting to order, a hush fell upon the
assemblage. In a cracked, but still distinct voice, he called for a
nomination for Moderator of the meeting. Abraham Mason's name, of
Mason's Corner, was the only one presented. The choice was by
acclamation; for it was acknowledged on all sides that Deacon Mason was
as square a man as there was in town.
The newly-elected Moderator took the chair and called upon the clerk to
read the warrant for the meeting. This was soon done, and the
transaction of the town's business begun in earnest. It will be, of
course, impossible and unnecessary to give a complete and connected
account of all that took place in town meeting on that day. For such an
account the trader is referred to the columns of the "Eastborough
Express," for it was afterwards acknowledged on all sides that the
account of the meeting written by Mr. Sylvester Chisholm was the most
graphic and comprehensive that had ever appeared in that paper. We have
to do only with those items in the warrant that related directly or
indirectly to those residents of the town with whom we are interested.
When the question of appropriating a certain sum for the support of the
town Almshouse was reached, Obadiah Strout sprang to his feet and called
out, "Mister Moderator," in a loud voice. He was recognized, and
addressed the chair as follows:
"Mister Moderator, before a vote is taken on the questions of
appropriatin' for the support of the town poor, I wish to call the
attention of my fellow-citizens to a matter that has come to my
knowledge durin' the past year. A short time ago a man who had been a
town charge for more than three years, and whose funeral expenses were
paid by the town, was discovered by me to be the only brother of a man
livin' in Boston, who is said to be worth a million dollars. A very
strange circumstance was that the son of this wealthy man, and a nephew
of this town pauper, has been livin' in this town for several months,
and spendin' his money in every way that he could think of to attract
attention, but it never occurred to him that he could have used his
money to better advantage if he had taken some of it and paid it to the
town for takin' care of his uncle. These facts are well known to many of
us here, and I move that a ballot--"
Tobias Smith had been fidgeting uneasily in his seat while Strout was
speaking, and when he mentioned the word "ballot," he could restrain
himself no longer, but jumped to Bids feet and called out in his
stentorian voice, "Mister Moderator, I rise to a question of privilege."
"I have the floor," shouted Strout, "and I wish to finish my remarks.
This is only an attempt of the opposition to shut me off. I demand to be
heard!"
"Mister Moderator," screamed Abner Stiles, "I move that Mr. Strout be
allowed to continue without further interruption."
The Moderator brought his gavel down on the table and called out,
"Order, order." Then turning to Tobias, he said, "Mr. Smith, state your
question of privilege."
Strout sank into his seat, his face livid with passion; turning to
Stiles, he said, "This is all cooked up between 'em. You know you told
me you saw Smith and Stackpole and that city chap drivin' away from the
Deacon's house last Saturday mornin'."
Stiles nodded his head and said, "I guess you're right."
Mr. Smith continued, "My question of privilege, Mister Moderator, is
this: I desire to present it now, because when I've stated it, my fellow
citizen," turning to Strout, "will find that it's unnecessary to make
any motion in relation to the matter to which he has referred. I hold in
my hand a letter from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, whose father is the Hon.
Nathaniel Sawyer of Boston, and whose uncle was Mr. James Sawyer, who
died in the Eastborough Poorhouse several weeks ago. By conference with
Mr. Waters, who is in charge of the Poorhouse, and with the Town
Treasurer, he ascertained that the total expense to which the town of
Eastborough has been put for the care of his uncle was four hundred and
sixty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents. I hold his check for that
sum, drawn to the order of the Town Treasurer, and certified to be good
by the cashier of the Eastborough National Bank. He has requested me to
offer this check to the town, and that a receipt for the same be given
by the Town Treasurer."
Strout jumped to his feet.
"Mister Moderator, I am glad to learn," cried he, "that this son of a
millionaire has had his heart touched and his conscience pricked by the
kindness shown by the town of Eastborough to his uncle, and I move the
check be accepted and a receipt given by the Town Treasurer, as
requested."
"Second the motion!" called out Abner Stiles.
"Before puttin' the question," said the Moderator slowly, "I want to say
a few words on this matter, and as it may be thought not just proper for
me to speak from the chair, I will call upon the Rev. Caleb Howe to take
the same durin' my remarks."
The well-known clergyman at Mason's Corner came forward, ascended the
platform, took the chair, and recognized Deacon Mason's claim to be
heard.
"I have heerd the motion to accept this check, an' I desire ter say thet
I am teetotally opposed to the town's takin' this money. If the
Honorable Nathaniel Sawyer, who's the dead man's brother, or Mr. Quincy
Adams Sawyer, who's his nephew, had known that he wuz a pauper, they
would 'er relieved the town of any further charge. We hev no legal claim
agin either of these two gentlemen. Our claim is agin ther town of
Amesbury, in which Mr. James Sawyer was a citizen and a taxpayer. If Mr.
Quincy Adams Sawyer wishes to pay ther town of Amesbury after ther town
of Amesbury has paid us, thet's his affair and none o' our business, but
we've no legal right to accept a dollar from him, when our legal claim
is agin the town in which he hed a settlement, and I hope this motion
will not prevail."
As Deacon Mason regained the platform loud cries of "Vote! Vote! Vote!"
came from all parts of the hall.
Tellers were appointed, and in a few moments the result of the vote was
announced. In favor of Mr. Strout's motion to accept the check,
eighty-five. Opposed, two hundred and eighty. And it was not a vote.
"We will now proceed," said the Moderator, as he resumed the chair, "to
consider the question of appropriating money for the support of the
Poor-farm."
The next matter on the warrant of general interest was the appropriation
of a small sum of money to purchase some reference books for the town
library, which consisted of but a few hundred volumes stowed away in a
badly-lighted and poorly-ventilated room on the upper floor of the Town
Hall.
This question brought to his feet Zachariah Butterfield, who was looked
upon as the watchdog of the town treasury. He had not supported Strout
on the question of accepting the check, because he knew the position
taken by the Moderator was legally correct, and he was very careful in
opposing appropriations to attack only those where, as it seemed to him,
he had a good show of carrying his point. He had been successful so
often, that with him success was a duty, for he had a reputation to
maintain.
"Mister Moderator," he said, "I'm agin appropriatin' any more money for
this 'ere town lib'ry. We hev got plenty of schoolbooks in our schools;
we hev got plenty of books and newspapers in our houses, and it's my
opinion thet those people who spend their time crawlin' up three flights
er stairs and readin' those books had better be tillin' ther soil,
poundin' on ther anvil, or catchin fish. Neow, I wuz talkin' with Miss
Burpee, the librari'n, and she sez they want a new Wooster's
Dictshuneery, 'cause ther old one iz all worn eout. Neow, I looked
through the old one, and I couldn't see but what it's jest as good as
ever; there may be a few pages missin', but what's thet amount ter when
there's more'n a couple of thousan' on 'em left?"
Mr. Tobias Smith was again fidgeting in his seat. He evidently had
something to say and was anxious to say it.
Mr. Butterfield continued: "Neow, to settle this question onct fer all,
I make ther motion that this 'ere lib'ry be closed up and the librari'n
discharged; she gits a dollar a week, and ther town ken use that
fifty-two dollars a year, in my opinion, to better advantege."
"Mister Moderator," came again from Mr. Tobias Smith, "I rise to a
question of privilege--"
Mr. Butterfield kept on talking: "Mister Moderator, this is not a
question of privilege; this is a question of expenditure of money for a
needless purpose. Yes, Mister Moderator, for a needless purpose."
Mr. Butterfield had evidently lost the thread of his discourse, and Mr.
Smith, taking advantage of his temporary indecision, said, "I agree with
the gentleman who has just spoken; I am in favor of closing up this
musty, dusty old room, and saving the further expenditure of money upon
it."
Mr. Butterfield, hearing these words, and not having sufficiently
collected his thoughts to say anything himself, nodded approvingly and
sank into his seat.
Mr. Smith continued, "I have a proposition to submit in relation to the
town library. I hold in my hand a letter from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer,
whose name has been previously mentioned--"
Mr. Strout jumped to his feet.
"Mister Moderator, I rise to a question of privilege."
"I second the motion!" cried Abner Stiles.
"State your question of privilege, Mr. Strout," said the Moderator.
"I wish to inquire," answered Strout, "if the time of this town meetin'
is to be devoted to the legitimate business of the town, or is it to be
fooled away in hearin' letters read from a person who is not a citizen
of the town, and who is not entitled to be heard in this town meetin'?"
"Mister Moderator," said Mr. Smith, "I am a citizen of this town, and
I'm entitled to be heard in this meeting, and the matter that I'm about
to bring to the attention of this meeting is a most important one and
affects the interests of the town materially. I consider that I have a
right to read this letter or any other letter that relates to the
question before the meeting, which is, 'Shall money be appropriated to
buy books for what is called the town library?' I say NO; and my reason
for this is contained in this letter, which I propose to read."
"Go on, Mr. Smith," said the Moderator.
"Well," continued Mr. Smith, "Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, in this letter,
offers to the town of Eastborough the sum of five thousand dollars, to
be used either for purchasing books and paying the expenses of a library
to be located in the Town Hall; or a portion of the money may be used to
build a suitable building, and the balance for the equipment and support
of the library."
Mr. Butterfield was on his feet again.
"Mister Moderator, I'm agin acceptin' this donation. If we take it, we
shall only jump out er the fryin-pan inter the fire; instead of buyin' a
few books and payin' the librari'n a dollar a week, we shall hev to hev
a jan'ter for the new buildin', and pay fer insurance, and we shell hev
ter hev a librari'n ev'ry day in ther week, and by'm by the ungodly will
want ter hev it open on a Sunday, so thet they kin hev a place to loaf
in; and I'm agin the whole bizness teetotally. I've sed my say; neow,
you kin go ahead, and do jest as you please."
This was Mr. Butterfield's usual wind-up to his arguments; but on this
occasion it seemed to fail of its effect.
The Moderator said, "Was Mr. Butterfield's motion seconded?" There was
no response. "Then the matter before the meeting is the question of
appropriating money for the support of the town library."
"Mister Moderator," said Mr. Smith, "I move that the donation from Mr.
Quincy Adams Sawyer be accepted, and that the library be named 'The
Sawyer Free Public Library of the Town of Eastborough.'"
"Second the motion!" came from a hundred voices.
Strout was on his feet again.
"Mister Moderator," said he, "I move to amend the motion by havin' it
read that we decline, that the town declines the donation without
thanks."
A loud laugh arose from the assemblage.
Abner Stiles had evidently misinterpreted Mr. Strout's motion, for he
called out, "Mister Moderator," and when he got the floor, "I move to
amend so that the motion would read, this library shall be called the
Strout Free Library of the Town of Eastborough."
This was greeted with shouts of laughter, and Strout grasped Abner by
his coat collar and pulled him violently back upon the settee.
"Shut up, you fool," cried he between his teeth to Abner; "do you want
to make a laughin' stock of me?"
"I kinder thought I wuz a-helpin' yer," said Abner, as he ran his
fingers down under his chin and pulled away his shirt collar, which had
been drawn back so forcibly that it interfered with his breathing.
"The question now," said the Moderator, "is on the adoption of Mr.
Smith's motion. Those in favor will please stand up and be counted."
When the tellers had attended to their duty the Moderator said, "Those
opposed will now rise and be counted."
The vote was soon announced. In favor of accepting the donation, three
hundred and one; opposed, fifty-eight.
"It's a vote," declared the Moderator.
A dozen matters of minor importance were quickly disposed of, and but
one remained upon the warrant, with the exception of the election of
town officers. Little squads of the members were now gathered together
talking over the most important question of the meeting, which was the
election of town officers for the ensuing year. The last item on the
warrant read: "Will the town appropriate money to buy a new hearse?"
Mr. Butterfield had evidently been holding himself in reserve, for he
was on his feet in an instant, and he secured the eye of the Moderator
and the floor.
"Mister Moderator," began Mr. Butterfield, "I desire to raise my voice
agin this biznez of unnecessary and unexampled extravagance. What do we
want of a new hearse? Those who are dead and in the cemetery don't find
any fault with the one we've got, and those who are livin' have no
present use for it, and why should they complain? I know what this
means. This is only an enterin' wedge. If this 'ere bill passes and we
git a new hearse, then it'll be said thet ther horses don't look as well
as the hearse, and then if ther hearse gits out in ther storm, we shell
hev ter pay money to git it polished up agin, and we who are livin' will
hev to work harder and harder for the benefit of those who are jest as
well satisfied with the old hearse as they would be with a new one. I
move, Mister Moderator, that instid of buyin' a new hearse, thet ther
old one be lengthened six inches, which ken be done at a slight
expense."
Mr. Tobias Smith now took the floor.
"I am glad that my friend has not opposed this measure entirely, but has
provided for my proper exit from this world when my time comes. I must
confess that it has troubled me a great deal when I have thought about
that hearse. I was born down in the State of Maine, where the boys and
the trees grow up together. I stand six feet two in my stockings and six
feet three with my boots on, and I haven't looked forward with any
pleasure to being carried to my last resting place in a hearse that was
only six feet long. I second Mr. Butterfield's motion, but move to amend
it by extending the length to seven feet."
The vote was taken, and Mr. Butterfield's motion was carried by a vote
of three hundred and forty to twenty-two. Mr. Butterfield sank back in
his seat with an expression on his face that seemed to say, "I've done
the town some service to-day."
The Moderator then rose and said, "Fellow-citizens, all the business
matters upon the warrant have now been disposed of. We will now proceed
to the election of town officers for the ensuing year."
Mr. Stackpole rose and called out, "Mister Moderator, it is now nearly
twelve o'clock, and some of us had to leave home quite early this
morning in order to be in time at the meeting. I move that we adjourn
till one o'clock, at which time balloting for town officers usually
commences."
Forty voices cried out, "Second the motion," and although Strout,
Stiles, and several others jumped to their feet and endeavored to secure
the Moderator's eye, the motion was adopted by an overwhelming vote, and
the greater portion of the members made their way out of the hall and
directed their steps towards the Eagle Hotel, as if the whole matter had
been prearranged. Here, Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, had set out a most
tempting lunch in the large dining-room, and those who were able to give
the password were admitted to the room, and feasted to their heart's
content.
Abner Stiles, impelled by curiosity, had followed the party, and had
noticed that each one said something to the proprietor before he was
admitted to the dining-room. Going up to Parsons, he said, "What's goin'
on in there?"
"Oh, I guess they're having a caucus," replied Mr. Parsons.
"When thet last feller went in," said Abner, "I saw that the table was
all set, and I kinder 'magined they must be havin' a dinner. I'd kinder
like some myself."
"Well, I'm sorry," said Mr. Parsons, "but I cannot accommodate any more
than have already applied. You can get a lunch over to the railroad
station, you know, if you want one."
"I know," answered Abner, "but I kinder 'magine they're talkin' over
'lection matters in there, and I'd rather like ter know what's goin'
on."
"Well, I guess you'll find out when they get back to the Town Hall,"
remarked Mr. Parsons; and he stepped forward to greet three or four
other citizens, who leaned over and whispered in his ear.
Mr. Parsons smiled and nodded, and opening the door admitted them to the
dining-room.
"Well, that beats all," said Abner, as he went out on the platform in
front of the hotel. "They jest whispered somethin' to him and he let 'em
right in. I kinder think somethin's goin' on and thet Strout ain't up to
it. Guess I'll go back and tell him," which he proceeded to do.
He found Strout and some sixty or seventy of the citizens still
remaining in the Town Hall, the majority of whom were eating the
luncheons that they had brought with them from home. Taking Strout
aside, Abner confided to him the intelligence of which he had become
possessed.
"'D'yer know what it means?" asked Abner.
"No, I don't," said Strout, "but I bet a dollar that it's some of that
city chap's doin's. Is he 'round about town this mornin'?"
"No," said Abner, "he went to Bosting on the same train with Miss Lindy
Putnam, for I fetched her down, and I saw him git inter the same car
with her as I wuz drivin' off."
One o'clock soon arrived, and the large party that had regaled
themselves with the appetizing viands and non-alcoholic beverages
supplied by mine host of the Eagle Hotel came back to the Town Hall in
the best of spirits. The majority of them were smoking good cigars,
which had been handed to them by the proprietor, as they passed from the
dining-room.
When asked if there was anything to pay, Mr. Parsons shook his head and
remarked sententiously, "This is not the only present that the town has
received to-day," which was a delicate way of insinuating the name of
the donor of the feast without actually mentioning it.
The election of a dozen minor officers calls for no special attention,
except to record the fact that Abner Stiles, who had cautiously taken a
position several settees removed from Strout, arose as the nominations
were made for each office, and in every case nominated Mr. Obadiah
Strout for the position, and it is needless to add that Mr. Obadiah
Strout had at least one vote for each office in the gift of the town.
The nomination of a collector of taxes for the town was finally reached.
Abner Stiles was first on his feet, and being recognized by the
Moderator, nominated "Mr. Obadiah Strout, who had performed the duties
of the office so efficiently during the past year."
Now the battle royal began. Mr. Tobias Smith next obtained the floor and
nominated Mr. Wallace Stackpole.
"In presenting this nomination, Mister Moderator, I do it out of justice
to an old soldier who served the country faithfully, and who lost the
election a year ago on account of an untrue statement that was widely
circulated and which could not be refuted in time to affect the question
of his election. I hold in my hand three documents. The first one is a
certified copy of the war record of Wallace Stackpole, who entered one
of our regiments of Volunteers as a private, served throughout the war,
and was honorably discharged with the rank of captain. This record shows
that during his four years of service he was three times wounded; in one
instance so badly that for weeks his life hung by a thread, and it was
only by the most careful treatment that amputation of his right arm was
avoided. I hold here also the war record of the present incumbent of the
office. From it I learn that he entered the army as a private and was
discharged at the end of two years still holding the rank of private,
and sent home as an invalid. He is not to blame for this, but inspecting
his record I find that within a month after he joined the army he was
detailed for service in the hospital, and during the two years of his
connection with the army he was never engaged in a single battle, not
even in a skirmish."
Cries rose from certain parts of the hall in opposition to the speaker,
and Deacon Mason remarked that while it was perfectly proper to compare
the war records of the two candidates for the position, it must be borne
in mind that because a man was a soldier, or, rather, because he did a
little more fighting than the other one, was no reason that he would
make a better tax collector.
The Moderator's remarks were greeted with applause, and Strout's face
brightened.
"I am glad to see the Deacon's bound to have fair play," said he to an
old farmer who sat next to him.
"Waal, I guess you're more liable to git it than you are disposed to
give it," drawled the old farmer, who evidently was not an adherent of
the present incumbent of the office.
Mr. Tobias Smith continued his remarks:
"I acknowledge the correctness of the remarks just made by our honored
Moderator, and desire to say that I hold in my hand a third document,
which is a statement of the taxes due and collected during the past
twenty years by the different persons who have held the office of tax
collector. I find during nineteen years of that time that the lowest
percentage of taxes left unpaid at the end of the year was five per
cent; the highest percentage during these nineteen years, and that
occurred during the war, was fourteen per cent; but I find that during
the past year only seventy-eight per cent of the taxes due have been
collected, leaving twenty-two per cent still due the town, and the
non-receipt of this money will seriously hamper the selectmen during the
coming year, unless we choose a man who can give his entire time to the
business and collect the money that is due. This statement is certified
to by the town treasurer, and I do not suppose that the present
incumbent will presume to question its accuracy."
Strout evidently thought that a further discussion of the matter might
work to his still greater disadvantage, for he leaned over and spoke to
one of his adherents, who rose and said:
"Mister Moderator, this discussion has taken a personal nature, in which
I am not disposed to indulge. I don't think that anything will be gained
by such accusations and comparisons. It strikes me that the last speaker
is trying to give tit for tat because his candidate lost at the last
election; but I am one of those who believe that criminations and
recriminations avail nothing, and I move that we proceed to vote at
once."
"Second the motion!" screamed Abner Stiles from the settee on which he
had assumed a standing posture.
The vote was taken. Those in favor of Obadiah Strout being called upon
to stand up first, they numbered exactly one hundred and one. Then those
in favor of Wallace Stackpole were called upon to rise, and they
numbered two hundred and eighty-four; several citizens having put in an
appearance at one o'clock who had not attended the morning session.
The next matter was the election of the Board of Selectmen; and the old
board was elected by acclamation without a division. The meeting then
adjourned without day.
The five minutes past six train, express from Boston, arrived on time,
and at twenty minutes of eight, Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer entered the
private dining-room in the Eagle Hotel. There he found gathered Mr.
Tobias Smith, Mr. Wallace Stackpole, Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill, Mr.
Sylvester Chisholm, and the Board of Selectmen, making the party of
eight which Quincy had mentioned. It was eleven o'clock before the
dinner party broke up, and during that time Quincy had heard from one or
another of the party a full account of the doings at the town meeting.
It is needless to say that he was satisfied with the results, but he
said nothing to indicate that fact in the presence of the Board of
Selectmen. They were the first to leave, and then there was an
opportunity for mutual congratulations by the remaining members of the
party. To these four should be added Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, upon
whose face rested a broad smile when he presented his bill for the day's
expenses, and the sum was paid by Quincy.
"We had a very pleasant time," remarked Mr. Parsons to Mr. Sawyer as he
bade him good evening.
"I am delighted to hear it," said Quincy, "and I regret very much that
my business in the city prevented my being here to enjoy it."
On the way home with Ezekiel they went over the events of the day again
together, and Ezekiel told him many little points, that for obvious
reasons had been omitted at the dinner party.
Quincy was driven directly to Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house, for he had
explained his programme to Ezekiel. He turned up his coat collar and
pulled his hat down over his eyes, as he was admitted; and, although
Mrs. Hawkins's eyes were naturally sharp, she did not recognize the late
comer, who proceeded upstairs to his room, which Mrs. Hawkins informed
him was right opposite the head of the stairs, and there was a light
burning in the room and a good warm fire, and if he needed anything, if
he would just call to her inside of the next ten minutes, she would get
it for him.
Quincy said nothing, but went into his room and shut the door, and there
we will leave him.
As Strout and Abner drove back to Mason's Corner, after the adjournment
of the town meeting, nothing was said for the first mile of the trip.
Then Abner turned to him and remarked, "You ought ter be well satisfied
with to-day's perceedin's."
"How do you make that out?" growled Strout.
"Waal, I think the events proved," said Abner, "that you wuz the most
pop'lar man in ther town."
"How do you make that out?" again growled Strout.
"Why," said Abner, "you wuz nominated for every office in the gift o'
ther town, and that's more'n any other feller could say."
"If you don't shut up," said Strout, "I'll nominate you for town idyut,
and there won't be any use of any one runnin' agin yer!"
Abner took his reproof meekly. He always did when Strout spoke to him.
No more was said until they reached home. Strout entered the boarding
house and went upstairs to his room, forgetting that there was a man
from Boston, to arrive late that evening, who was to have the next room
to his.
Abner put up the horse and went home. As he went by Strout's door,
thoughts of the rum and molasses, and the good cigar that he had enjoyed
the night of the surprise party one week ago went through his mind, and
he stopped before Strout's door and listened attentively, but there was
no sound, and he went upstairs disconsolately, and went to bed feeling
that his confidence in the Professor had been somewhat diminished by the
events of the day.
CHAPTER XXIX.
MRS. HAWKINS' BOARDING HOUSE.
Mrs. Hawkins waited patiently until eight o'clock for the gentleman from
Boston to come down to breakfast. She then waited impatiently from eight
o'clock till nine. During that time she put the breakfast on the stove
to keep it warm, and also made several trips to the front entry, where
she listened to see if she could hear any signs of movement on the part
of her new boarder.
When nine o'clock arrived she could restrain her impatience no longer,
and, going upstairs, she gave a sharp knock on the door of Quincy's
room.
"What is it?" answered a voice, somewhat sharply.
"It's nine o'clock, and your breakfast's most dried up," replied Mrs.
Hawkins.
"I don't wish for any breakfast," said the voice within the room, but in
a much pleasanter tone. "What time do you have dinner?"
"Twelve o'clock," said Mrs. Hawkins.
"All right," answered the voice, cheerfully. "I'll take my breakfast and
dinner together."
"That beats all," said Mrs. Hawkins, as she entered the kitchen.
"What beats all?" asked Betsy Green, who worked for Mrs. Hawkins.
"It beats all," repeated Mrs. Hawkins, "how these city folks can sit up
till twelve o'clock at night, and then go without their breakfast till
noontime. I've fixed up somethin' pretty nice for him, and I don't
propose to see it wasted."
"What are you goin' to do with it?" asked Betsy. "'Twon't keep till
to-morrer mornin'."
"I'm goin' to eat it myself," said Mrs. Hawkins. And suiting the action
to the word, she transferred the appetizing breakfast to the kitchen
table, and, taking a seat, began to devour it.
"Have you seen your sister, Samanthy, lately?" she asked.
"I was up there Sunday evening," replied Betsy, "and she said Mis'
Putnam was failin' very fast. She keeps her bed all the time now, and
Samanthy has to run up and down stairs, 'bout forty times a day. She
won't let Miss Lindy do a thing for her."
"Well, if I was Lindy," said Mrs. Hawkins, "I wouldn't do anything for
her if she wanted me to. She used to abuse that child shamefully. Is
Miss Lindy goin' to keep house arter her mother dies?"
"No," said Betsy, "she's got her things all packed up, and she told
Samanthy she should leave town for well and good as soon as her mother
was buried."
"I don't blame her," exclaimed Mrs. Hawkins. "Where's Samanthy goin'?"
"Oh, she says she wants to rest awhile afore she goes anywheres else to
live. She's all run down."
"P'r'aps she'll go and stay with yer mother for a while."
"No," said Betsy, "she won't go there."
"Ain't yer mother 'n' her on good terms?"
"Oh, yes," replied Betsy, "but the four boys send mother five dollars a
month apiece, and us 
Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mason's Corner Folks A Picture of New England Home Life / Pidgin, Charles Felton, 1844-1923