"Well," said Miss Verjoos, when her sister overtook her, Mr. Euston
having stopped at his own gate, "you and your latest discovery seemed to
be getting on pretty well from the occasional sounds which came to my
ears. What is he like?"
"He's charming," declared Miss Clara.
"Indeed," remarked her sister, lifting her eyebrows. "You seem to have
come to a pretty broad conclusion in a very short period of time.
'Charming' doesn't leave very much to be added on longer acquaintance,
does it?"
"Oh, yes it does," said Miss Clara, laughing. "There are all degrees:
Charming, very charming, most charming, and _perfectly_ charming."
"To be sure," replied the other. "And there is the descending scale:
Perfectly charming, most charming, very charming, charming, very
pleasant, quite nice, and, oh, yes, well enough. Of course you have
asked him to call."
"Yes, I have," said Miss Clara.
"Don't you think that mamma----"
"No, I don't," declared the girl with decision. "I know from what Mr.
Euston said, and I know from the little talk I had with him this
morning, from his manner and--_je ne sais quoi_--that he will be a
welcome addition to a set of people in which every single one knows
just what every other one will say on any given subject and on any
occasion. You know how it is."
"Well," said the elder sister, smiling and half shutting her eyes with a
musing look, "I think myself that we all know each other a little too
well to make our affairs very exciting. Let us hope the new man will be
all you anticipate, and," she added with a little laugh, and a side
glance at her sister, "that there will be enough of him to go 'round."
It hardly needs to be said that the aristocracy of Homeville and all the
summer visitors and residents devoted their time to getting as much
pleasure and amusement out of their life as was to be afforded by the
opportunities at hand: Boating, tennis, riding, driving; an occasional
picnic, by invitation, at one or the other of two very pretty
waterfalls, far enough away to make the drive there and back a feature;
as much dancing in an informal way as could be managed by the younger
people; and a certain amount of flirtation, of course (but of a very
harmless sort), to supply zest to all the rest. But it is not intended
to give a minute account of the life, nor to describe in detail all the
pursuits and festivities which prevailed during the season. Enough to
say that our friend soon had opportunity to partake in them as much and
often as was compatible with his duties. His first call at Lakelawn
happened to be on an evening when the ladies were not at home, and it is
quite certain that upon this, the occasion of his first essay of the
sort, he experienced a strong feeling of relief to be able to leave
cards instead of meeting a number of strange people, as he had thought
would be likely.
One morning, some days later, Peleg Hopkins came in with a grin and
said, "The's some folks eout in front wants you to come eout an' see
'em."
"Who are they?" asked John, who for the moment was in the back room and
had not seen the carriage drive up.
"The two Verjoos gals," said Peleg with another distortion of his
freckled countenance. "One on 'em hailed me as I was comin' in and ast
me to ast you to come eout." John laughed a little as he wondered what
their feeling would be were they aware that they were denominated as the
"Verjoos gals" by people of Peleg's standing in the community.
"We were so sorry to miss your visit the other evening," said Miss
Clara, after the usual salutations.
John said something about the loss having been his own, and after a few
remarks of no special moment the young woman proceeded to set forth her
errand.
"Do you know the Bensons from Syrchester?" she asked.
John replied that he knew who they were but had not the pleasure of
their acquaintance.
"Well," said Miss Clara, "they are extremely nice people, and Mrs.
Benson is very musical; in fact, Mr. Benson does something in that line
himself. They have with them for a few days a violinist, Fairman I think
his name is, from Boston, and a pianist--what was it, Juliet?"
"Schlitz, I think," said Miss Verjoos.
"Oh, yes, that is it, and they are coming to the house to-night, and we
are going to have some music in an informal sort of way. We shall be
glad to have you come if you can."
"I shall be delighted," said John sincerely. "At what time?"
"Any time you like," she said; "but the Bensons will probably get there
about half-past eight or nine o'clock."
"Thank you very much, and I shall be delighted," he repeated.
Miss Clara looked at him for a moment with a hesitating air.
"There is another thing," she said.
"Yes?"
"Yes," she replied, "I may as well tell you that you will surely be
asked to sing. Quite a good many people who have heard you in the
quartette in church are anxious to hear you sing alone, Mrs. Benson
among them."
John's face fell a little.
"You do sing other than church music, do you not?" she asked.
"Yes," he admitted, "I know some other music."
"Do you think it would be a bore to you."
"No," said John, who indeed saw no way out of it; "I will bring some
music, with pleasure, if you wish."
"That's very nice of you," said Miss Clara, "and you will give us all a
great deal of pleasure."
He looked at her with a smile.
"That will depend," he said, and after a moment, "Who will play for me?"
"I had not thought of that," was the reply. "I think I rather took it
for granted that you could play for yourself. Can't you?"
"After a fashion, and simple things," he said, "but on an occasion I
would rather not attempt it."
The girl looked at her sister in some perplexity.
"I should think," suggested Miss Verjoos, speaking for the second time,
"that Mr. or Herr Schlitz would play your accompaniments, particularly
if Mrs. Benson were to ask him, and if he can play for the violin I
should fancy he can for the voice."
"Very well," said John, "we will let it go at that." As he spoke David
came round the corner of the bank and up to the carriage.
"How d'y' do, Miss Verjoos? How air ye, Miss Claricy?" he asked, taking
off his straw hat and mopping his face and head with his handkerchief.
"Guess we're goin' to lose our sleighin', ain't we?"
"It seems to be going pretty fast," replied Miss Clara, laughing.
"Yes'm," he remarked, "we sh'll be scrapin' bare ground putty soon now
if this weather holds on. How's the old hoss now you got him agin?" he
asked. "Seem to 've wintered putty well? Putty chipper, is he?"
"Better than ever," she affirmed. "He seems to grow younger every year."
"Come, now," said David, "that ain't a-goin' to do. I cal'lated to sell
ye another hoss _this_ summer anyway. Ben dependin' on't in fact, to pay
a dividend. The bankin' bus'nis has been so neglected since this feller
come that it don't amount to much any more," and he laid his hand on
John's shoulder, who colored a little as he caught a look of demure
amusement in the somber eyes of the elder sister.
"After that," he said, "I think I had better get back to my neglected
duties," and he bowed his adieus.
"No, sir," said Miss Clara to David, "you must get your dividend out of
some one else this summer."
"Wa'al," said he, "I see I made a mistake takin' such good care on him.
Guess I'll have to turn him over to Dug Robinson to winter next year.
Ben havin' a little visit with John?" he asked. Miss Clara colored a
little, with something of the same look which John had seen in her
sister's face.
"We are going to have some music at the house to-night, and Mr. Lenox
has kindly promised to sing for us," she replied.
"He has, has he?" said David, full of interest. "Wa'al, he's the feller
c'n do it if anybody can. We have singin' an' music up t' the house
ev'ry Sunday night--me an' Polly an' him--an' it's fine. Yes, ma'am, I
don't know much about music myself, but I c'n beat time, an' he's got a
stack o' music more'n a mile high, an' one o' the songs he sings 'll
jest make the windows rattle. That's my fav'rit," averred Mr. Harum.
"Do you remember the name of it?" asked Miss Clara.
"No," he said; "John told me, an' I guess I'd know it if I heard it; but
it's about a feller sittin' one day by the org'n an' not feelin' exac'ly
right--kind o' tired an' out o' sorts an' not knowin' jest where he was
drivin' at--jest joggin' 'long with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an'
so on; an' then, by an' by, strikin' right into his gait an' goin' on
stronger 'n stronger, an' fin'ly finishin' up with an A--men that
carries him quarter way round the track 'fore he c'n pull up. That's my
fav'rit," Mr. Harum repeated, "'cept when him an' Polly sings together,
an' if that ain't a show--pertic'lerly Polly--I don't want a cent. No,
ma'am, when him an' Polly gits good an' goin' you can't see 'em fer
dust."
"I should like to hear them," said Miss Clara, laughing, "and I should
particularly like to hear your favorite, the one which ends with the
Amen--the very _large_ A--men."
"Seventeen hands," declared Mr. Harum. "Must you be goin'? Wa'al, glad
to have seen ye. Polly's hopin' you'll come an' see her putty soon."
"I will," she promised. "Give her my love, and tell her so, please."
They drove away and David sauntered in, went behind the desks, and
perched himself up on a stool near the teller's counter as he often did
when in the office, and John was not particularly engaged.
"Got you roped in, have they?" he said, using his hat as a fan. "Scat my
----! but ain't this a ring-tail squealer?"
"It is very hot," responded John.
"Miss Claricy says you're goin' to sing fer 'em up to their house
to-night."
"Yes," said John, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as he pinned a
paper strap around a pile of bills and began to count out another.
"Don't feel very fierce for it, I guess, do ye?" said David, looking
shrewdly at him.
"Not very," said John, with a short laugh.
"Feel a little skittish 'bout it, eh?" suggested Mr. Harum. "Don't see
why ye should--anybody that c'n put up a tune the way you kin."
"It's rather different," observed the younger man, "singing for you and
Mrs. Bixbee and standing up before a lot of strange people."
"H-m, h-m," said David with a nod; "diff'rence 'tween joggin' along on
the road an' drivin' a fust heat on the track; in one case the' ain't
nothin' up, an' ye don't care whether you git there a little more
previously or a little less; an' in the other the's the crowd, an' the
judges, an' the stake, an' your record, an' mebbe the pool box into the
barg'in, that's all got to be considered. Feller don't mind it so much
after he gits fairly off, but thinkin' on't beforehand 's fidgity
bus'nis."
"You have illustrated it exactly," said John, laughing, and much amused
at David's very characteristic, as well as accurate, illustration.
* * * * *
"My!" exclaimed Aunt Polly, when John came into the sitting room after
dinner dressed to go out. "My, don't he look nice? I never see you in
them clo'es. Come here a minute," and she picked a thread off his sleeve
and took the opportunity to turn him round for the purpose of giving him
a thorough inspection.
"That wa'n't what you said when you see me in _my_ gold-plated harniss,"
remarked David, with a grin. "You didn't say nothin' putty to me."
"Humph! I guess the's some diff'rence," observed Mrs. Bixbee with scorn,
and her brother laughed.
"How was you cal'latin' to git there?" he asked, looking at our friend's
evening shoes.
"I thought at first I would walk," was the reply, "but I rather think I
will stop at Robinson's and get him to send me over."
"I guess you won't do nothin' o' the sort," declared David. "Tom's all
hitched to take you over, an' when you're ready jest ring the bell."
"You're awfully kind," said John gratefully, "but I don't know when I
shall be coming home."
"Come back when you git a good ready," said Mr. Harum. "If you keep him
an' the hoss waitin' a spell, I guess they won't take cold this
weather."